February 7-13, 2005: Sue Turner and Alex Braverman

week of February 7-13, 2005



Sue Turner and Alex Braverman


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Sue Turner
ngraham@echonyc.com

Bio (auto)

Well and widely published, online and off, Turner has been writing/watercoloring since 1996 when her left brain turned right and dislodged gainful employment She shares her Coeur d’Alene, Idaho residence with a showy Betta named Puppie and a nameless robotic vacuum
Visit Sue on the web here: http://www.sueturner.homestead.com/

The following work is Copyright © 2005, and owned by Sue Turner and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Forty-three Miles North of Soul

Shucked by his coyoté
he dares the desert
prickly pear and knife-edged grasses
ocotillo spines pinch pieces
from thinning khaki trousers
He scratched for the trip
with a guide
greed and dreams high-fived
illegal entry, the last illusion
Crinkled eyes burned by sun
branded by timeworn laughter
he wears optimism
a crown twice the size
of his ubiquitous cowboy hat

On the promised side
he passes potters’ fields
dust drowned rows
tidier than life, where death
is marked by a white rugged cross
no olvidado, not forgotten.


Dead Cats Don’t Bounce

The pool surface
wrinkles with post-dawn zephyr
blurs the tranquil bottom,
where a stiffening cat rests
I double blink,                          
count nine, scan the sky
a raven may have dropped
that fuzzy beast
to crack bones, prepare a feast
but no
.the ravens rip
weather-stripping from my door
they have no need for food
the neighbor dogs refuse to quit
gnaw the new morning
shred it to bits like a novel toy
in the road a car grates to a stop
throbs like a freshly broken finger
the El rumbles
.moves
day’s migration amid skunklike fumes  
feisty hummer stabs a red silk rose
I imagine wings on worms
work my way off the deck
plant my feet in woolly thyme
and breathe familiar fragrance
count to ten, scan the sky
the rigored cat remains.


Widow’s Walk

No Where to turn
in the canyon narrows
fallen straws
coat the shade
cloak the ashes of sage,
uncured by crushed leaves
from black-green creosote,
ocotillo’s red nectar
doesn’t sweeten
the bone of chaos
that simmers in the echoes
of cracking camel backs The urn grows weighty.


Alex Braverman
alex@bravermans.com

Bio

Birth sets off events, generalized as “life”, and subdivided into “childhood” and so on My childhood, decorated by pediatrician mother, deemed deep associations between didactics and disease: Grimm groomed mumps, Pushkin banished pangs of chicken pox, Dickens caused measles
Geography was always prominent Born and raised in Lithuania, immigrated to Israel at 18, in the middle of the Yom Kippur war Israel offered Hebrew University of Jerusalem and the Air Force I enjoyed and graduated from both
Ten years later – South Africa, Mandela, and English language They asked me, “Why South Africa?” If I moved to Australia they would have asked, “Why Australia?” Only if I were to move to the USA, no one would ask a question, as if it is the most natural thing to do – to move to America Sixteen years later, I gave in and moved to America It was easier than answering the same question
Having lived on three continents for over ten years apiece, within the cultures as diverse as the Slavs and the Zulus, I have accumulated a bagful of curious experiences, of which I will tell you none My stories are entirely work of fiction, retold by the participant and witness in the immediate proximity, never a bystander
My downfall, and the most annoying quality, is living in obscurity, instead of being a famous dead person.

The following work is Copyright © 2005, and owned by Alex Braverman and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Bob

Bob gets horny twice a day
yearning dampness of his Marge,
slender arms to hold his tool,
red Corvette in his garage;

winks at gals (he even pinched one),
asks his doctor for Viagra,
chases Marge around the counter,
in the kitchen loves his Margot
He’s the man! The fastest comet,
he’s the devil from Waikiki,
but at the age of eighty seven
Marge is wondering, who is he?

Sometimes she remembers fondly
three-score years of tender loving,
but, alas, when she is lucid –
Bob’s consumed by his Alzheimer’s.

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