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

Sue Turner and Alex Braverman

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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.

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.