February 28-March 6, 2005: Marina Lee Sable and LaDonna Witmer Willems

week of February 28-March 6, 2005

Marina Lee Sable and LaDonna Witmer Willems

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Marina Lee Sable


Cold steel The digital pulse
of a sterile room Tubes, drips,
the carefully measured
systole and diastole Machines keeping you alive
Does your mind flash back
to the time of the crash?
The slow arc of flight,
your arms turned wings A bird flying through the air,
colliding with tarmac,
like a broken vase
displacing water
and scattering petals The endless flow of blood
and shredded flesh
Sirens Your life
dripping in glass beads
onto the ambulance floor
Are you lucid in your dreamscapes,
roaming through uncharted lands?
Or is it just a vacant lot,
an accidental flight
into the dead zone
and you its undead inhabitant?

Conjure Woman

Armed with a glue gun,
she wraps the skeleton
cross of twigs
in a body bag of sacking
embalmed with moss,
twine noose pulled tight
around the neck
shaping the head
She hums as she paints
arcane symbols
across the belly,
swirls and curlicues
of a black grimoire’s text
sinking into the fabric
like germs
When the dark moon rises
from the grinning skull,
she lights a candle
ensconced in graveyard dirt
A voodoo witch
conjuring revenge
on an unfaithful lover,
she slides a pin
into the pliable face A dagger right between the eyes.


heated atoms
split too quickly

the wild surge
into metallic meltdown

fuel rods shattered
coverplate blown

the lethal load
flung from the core

a deadly flower
patterning the sky

twisting ice crystals
into hot glass rain
that falls to earth

a dormant demon
in a mutating sea
of recessive genes

LaDonna Witmer Willems


LaDonna Witmer lives and writes in San Francisco She finds the fog inspiring She enjoys cheese and red fingernail polish She thinks that people who put the model of their car on personalized license plates are ridiculous She collects metal lunchboxes and zombie bunnies She’s trying to grow her hair out She daydreams about becoming a suicide girl She believes her dog is telepathic She has a callous on the middle finger of her right hand (the one she uses to flip off offending motorists) She calls the callous her “writing bump ” She is convinced that Johnny Depp is the male version of Angelina Jolie She is addicted to Diet Vanilla Coke and striped knee-high socks She never drinks her recommended daily intake of water Sometimes she has to write just so she can breathe
Ladonna is the author of Shedding the Angel Skin: Selected Poems
Visit LaDonna on the web here: http://www.ladonnawitmer.com/

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

Bored Now

I’m waiting for the perfect question
the one that will turn all the tumblers
and set your secrets free
I’m waiting for a sidewalk stranger to
scream my name from across the street
I’m waiting for a warm rain
I’m waiting for the darkness to
get domesticated
I’m waiting for a window
to open into an entirely new world
I’m waiting for her to find her own goddamn bootstraps
I’m waiting for the apocalypse
to arrive with a blinding flash, with a roar (I expect it to come from behind )

I’m waiting for my pen
to stop bleeding
I’m waiting for a subtle knife
I’m waiting for that
geriatric smell, for the
sudden onslaught of age
spots, curlers and paper skin
I’m waiting for him
to send a good, long look
in my general direction
I’m waiting for her
to shut the fuck up (I’ve been waiting for quite awhile )

I’m waiting for the sleeping
pills to fail
I’m waiting for this, too, to pass
I’m waiting for a train
that runs beneath the ocean
I’m waiting for permission to scream

I’m waiting for the wind
to blow me over (I’ll know, then,
that I am thin enough )

I’m waiting for the phone to ring
with voices from beyond the grave
I’m waiting for him to come on,
to come on strong
I’m waiting for an occasion
with a dress code (Any
excuse for a tiara )

I’m waiting for a microphone
that’s loud enough
I’m waiting for them to start playing my song
I’m waiting for the voices
in my head to say
something nice
I’m waiting for the right time
to tell you it’s all gone horribly wrong
I’m waiting for the medication to kick in
I’m waiting for him to
give me a reason to stay
for the encore
I’m waiting for her to blink
so I can finally make my escape
I’m waiting for a slow, slow death
I’m waiting for the
paint to dry so I can
peel it off again
I’m waiting for flu season
to live up to the hype
I’m waiting for fair play to turn about, already
I’m waiting for the
oxygen mask to drop
so I can show my rebel
colors and put yours on first
I’m waiting for tall
black boots with just the
right amount of swagger
I’m waiting for more men
to start wearing makeup
I’m waiting for her to make good on the threats
I’m waiting for the Christians
to say they’re sorry (I’m
waiting for icicles in hell )

I’m waiting for my state
to secede from the union
I’m waiting for the Big One
I’m waiting for my
so-called-life to get
an NC-17
I’m waiting for the sun
to burn out altogether
I’m waiting for a crime of passion
I’m waiting for him
to give me a reason
to give a shit
I’m waiting for the pop
stars to die off
I’m waiting for her to make a mistake
I’m waiting for inspiration
to strike me down,
to strike me dead

I’m waiting for a mission to
mars, a ride to the moon, an
entirely uneventful spacewalk
I’m waiting for him to
admit that he did it
I’m waiting for something to hold on to
I’m waiting for the reunion tour I’m waiting for something to prove
I’m waiting for shock treatment
to come back in vogue
I’m waiting for a ghost to materialize
I’m waiting for the
endorphins or amphetamines
whichever will make this all worthwhile
I’m waiting for it all
to go on sale
I’m waiting for my dog to speak
I’m waiting for a
burning bush A still,
small voice A cloud, a
dove Some kind of sign
sent from above
I’m waiting for my eyesight
to fail me completely while
turning left at the light
I’m waiting for the flavor
of the month to be mine
I’m waiting for reality to get less entertaining
I’m waiting for her
15 minutes to finally
I’m waiting for Jesus
to get interesting again
I’m waiting to get contagious
I’m waiting for the final
bell to toll so I can
gather my skirts
and run for the door
I’m waiting for a confession
of depression
that has a happy ending
I’m waiting for proof of spontaneous combustion
I’m waiting for the check to clear the room
I’m waiting for the bittersweet
to get a bit sweeter I’m waiting for the afterglow
to burn a bit brighter I’m waiting for the dark horse
to lighten up
I’m waiting for you to get the joke
(This could take awhile )

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