March 21-27, 2005: Sheila Waller and Adam Kane

week of March 21-27, 2005



Sheila Waller and Adam Kane


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Sheila Waller
swaller@sdot-yam.org.il

Bio (auto)

My name is Sheila Waller, currently finishing up a thesis on the ancient book trade, as well as teaching in Israel Life is a kibbutz near the old city of Caesarea.

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

Identity

Looking for a nomen, not a name
Befriended, once,
by distance:
where ancient reeds brushed up the shards, anonymously inscribing dried umbilicus
with new songs of titled puff
But yesterday,
I was pierced
by a
stranger’s face
gone blank
A plinth of ash ground down to  
hostile sounds,  whispering what we nomens never recognize
as nameless self.


85

The sun is down
So early is this celebrant to catch the star he drinks lechaim one day before
Birthday?

Hardly!

Not  day nor birth he celebrates but with a table set with new French wine, French cheese and salmon bought by daughter gone this morning he gathers us around Son, mother, and almost 85  sit down to eat and drink and eat
We have no stories, mother, son and ancient celebrant Football scores, new cable, English sport, a book marked sweat and grease from all the salty pink of flesh we have consumed, the unspoken-ness of history ebbing into our son’s smile
Youth finds forgetfulness quite funny when not despising progenitors of faulty genes he has escaped
Returning home, alone Son goes to dog, poor beast its bones were bruised by being old and heavy –
too slow to see the car.


War Posters (Their posters)

Shady faces torn from their poles, ripped from their staples,
shredded into dust imprinted by the boots and shoes that licked them

Wagging jowls yellowed by custard gas
sweetened by the curds of insults and history – oozing the nauseating slime of deceit


Adam Kane
doubtlike@hotmail.com

Bio

ADAM KANE was born,1972 in Sydney, Australia to Northern Irish Immigrants In the mid nineties Kane moved to Los Angeles, California and worked in numerous bars and on building sites and lived in cheap rooms in both Venice and Hollywood Restless and dissatisfied Kane travelled the U.S and then Europe, Britain and Ireland writing and recording his experiences with a disposable Camera He published his first stories at the age of 23, and his Photographs have been exhibited widely He currently lives in Belfast, Northern Ireland.

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

letters passed down through the colonies
and delivered to my flailing sanity

splintery cryptic language
falling from my eyes
and onto these pages
from memories,
adjacent verbs
that make me recognise
that a time arrives
when you must
look further within self
to realise that
it is more simple and virtuous
to die young
in a car wreck
than to bleed
translucently
from the gut
age 65 or 70
having lived a purple lie
I remember hard now
when I was 23
and living in a small room
in venice living off beans and corn bread
drunk everyday by 11
lonely
half mad
I used to receive letters
from females in Australia
(place of birth and childhood)
that I hardly knew
or had met twice,
declaring solidarity to me
claiming
my vigour and honest brevity
I used to take these letters down to the beach
with a bottle of port wine
and take off my shirt and shoes
and lie flat on my back
in the California sun
burning drinking that port wine down
and reading those letters aloud
always finding something
mildly humorous or
significantly interesting
in their words
and wondering what I had said
or done to these females
so far away
sending these hot words
down through the colonies
words laced with want and need
like a refugee
separated by an ocean,
those girls with all the strength for me
so far away,
me drunk on the beach
clutching those letters
being ridiculed by the bums
and madmen the tourist,
looking at me like I was a rapist
because I was young and drunk and
reading aloud
and becoming conscious of it all,
the attention
from the bums and the madmen
and the tourists
and the young females in Australia immediately
becoming sick of the sand,

sick of the blue sky
and sick of the world feeling that I wanted out
but knowing I was already finished soon after the letters stopped I never replied
maybe that was why
life was taking care of
what was left of me I’d return home
and my landlady
would be on all fours
cutting in the turf
for a new location for a Tulip
to die I’d walk by without saying a word
and check the mailbox “desperately empty”, she’d say the corners of her mouth turned up
with lucid mockery
her face playing 35
but her complexion savage with bitterness
fabricating a declaration of 50
I’d walk on in
closing the door quietly behind
and look at the faded calendar
hanging by a nail with that relentless
Californian sun falling all over the place,
and my buttermilk semblance-
I’d laugh for all the answers
were passed over to the sane
or fare from the reach
of my simple grip.