May 2-8, 2005: Adam Shechter and Pedro Rivas

week of May 2-8, 2005

Adam Shechter and Pedro Rivas

click here for submission guidelines

Adam Shechter

Bio (auto)

I am a local Brooklyn day laborer who writes poetry at night.

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

Dear Zeiky

If I could invent a livable space,
I would make a rent controlled studio
Out of the Upper West Side’s sweeping
Apartment buildings, Endow this hole with
Cash from Social Security Income,
With these very words I would write
Into the clay, my own feces turned gold
Yet, it would be a confusion that my mother
Shit me out, rather than let me go, to walk
With the prize of my own creation,
She has not, still
In that Heaven I would have
Once had a best friend
by the name of Ezekiel,

A close family relation would have shortened the name to the infantile Zeiky
If Zeiky’s fate was unknown,
I would still day dream that he might be dead
Maybe alive, And
When I recovered from such primitive internal thoughts,
Then I would feel known I would talk to him as if he was really
In the room
Like a soft teddy bear
On my cheeks
Fine wool in my ears And whisper with
Wet Parchment lips
Brought to life with elegant moaning,
The only water possible hoisted up
Esophagus, and I would scream

I would call my memories out to him
Pleading with him to remember
How we once sang
And screamed, coarsing punk blues, wailing melodies High above the world on the fourteenth floor
In his bed room, in fact not far from
My improvised nest
I would ask him about the asylum,
And he would not answer, Still
I would summon idealized misrepresentations
For what it was like for us
A sight of mystical vacuous tar, A
Spatial rhythmic prayer room suspended high up in the West End Avenue air. 
And it would be like I was living in my rent controlled studio
Because I actually did spend time in a room on the Upper West Side
Like an unknown celebrity seen by my own pubescent excitement
And there would be truth, that
We called out in orgasmic yelps
that fell cleanly on rhythm,

No, but we never fell cleanly on rhythm,
It was all a-rhythmic, atonal for us
Then I would get nervous
and not be sure if any of this really happened
But it would be okay
Because I could feel my dick in the present movement of my pants
And it would give me a warm reassuring feeling,
As I kneaded it like cookie dough,
Then I could comfortably retreat to the intellect
And make forced broad sweeping statements
To provide internal grandiose conquest over
Envisioned stages like a Roman battlefield, but really Sheeps meadow in Prospect Park
But even more so the truth would be my stomach now dominated
By these poetic hands, I would speak of intercultural fusions that never happened
Between me and him, Two children listening to
Tom Waits with a whiskey bottle and very large egos
Egos like thousands of years? Egos with gaping holes
Leaking the necessary life all over the floor
I would announce to my sucking thumb
Speak with him in the auditorium of stomach,
Heart beating into cock mind excitement

On Reading

I prefer to read books
By people who are dead If their brains remain active,
The electrons carried by the
Thoughts of their Living Cells
Create an electrical interference with
The stability and transmutations
Of all printed letters, thereby
Obfuscating their eternal meaning,
Indeed, the truth of an author’s
Words can not be found until
He is deceased.

Feelings derived from the Park Slope of the 1980’s

No matter how much my stomach turns,
No matter how much the earth turns,
Park Slope is not Brooklyn,
And the Beastie Boys are not Rappers,
And the sun exploding in the winter sky
Like John Coltrane playing the saxophone
With brilliance only left alive in my text
Based ears I walk along 8th Avenue to
5th Street is always threatening to intersect
With 7th Avenue 525 will be my next
Lottery number drawn as I walk up the steps
An old vinyl record turns with my father’s
Skinny wrists pretending to hold an Uzi,
Making machine gun noises If I do not
Put the key in the door these Brownstone
Streets will gently be swallowed up by the
Sinai until the sand burns a hole in the
Ukranian jagged veins of my eye map
Blinking, my right retina trapped in
The sight of a suicidally depressed man who hates me
More than himself in a prison cell on Riker’s Island.

Pedro Rivas


I am 23 years old, attend Houston Community College in Houston, Texas I like staring at the sun and running with scissors I am lazy and good looking, quite possibly too good looking.

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

Someone Will Cry

When his father died,
nobody wept One long silent pause-
empty respect
Not one of us knew of the
phone call at night or the
long lonely road
he chose for himself,
driving 16 hours,
wondering whether to mourn or
pretend; remembering everything
his father wasn’t,
had this made him better for us?
or for others? So when his own time comes,
someone will cry
My father arrived,
as the casket was closed He drove the longest and furthest
to make sure of this.

Subscribe to our weekly Newsletter: