May 23-29, 2005: Maria Lupinacci and David E. Howerton

week of May 23-29, 2005



Maria Lupinacci and David E Howerton


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Maria Lupinacci
agni614@optonline.net

Bio (auto)

Maria Lupinacci is a 2003 Pushcart Nominee whose work has been featured
in Dark Moon Rising.com, Erosha-a literary journal of the erotic, Point of Life.com, Lily-A Monthly Online Literary Review,  readingdivas.com, Tryst, VLQ-Verse Libre Quarterly, and the up-coming anthology Cosmic Brownies-The Sun Rising Poetry Press Her poem, In the House of Subjectivity was selected as the Second Place winner in iVillage.com’s Fourth Annual Poetry Slam 2003, followed by her poem Mounting Trepidation as Third Place winner
in iVillage.com’s Fifth Annual Poetry Slam 2004
Ms Lupinacci is a Certified Massage Therapist, Reiki Master and an Integrated Energy Therapist who currently resides in Trenton, New Jersey.

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

Trigger Points

It has been weeks
since I sprained my ankle,
the bone is still buried somewhere
beneath the purpled skin,
my practitioner has informed me
I’ve a fear of moving
forward: right ankle–
father side, she tells me
in a hushed tone
as if it were a secret
between her
and my body, one I am
yet to be privy to–

I nod my head, still
.I disagree You see
my shoulder has been killing me,
the left shoulder There, nestled
beneath the blade is a knot,
a giant knot, the mother of all knots
pinching and poking
its attempt to keep my arm
from functioning
properly A fragment perhaps,
a piece of tissue, hardened
and pressed into the spine,
torturous and unnerving–

She will find it soon,
douse it with cedar oil
and knead her fingers deep
into my skin, she will ask
.How long has it been this way?

I will say–
It has been weeks;
.it has been always


Because It’s Almost June
(for Cristina)

And you haven’t come home I don’t remember your death,
not the way I should,
the way a woman remembers
each detail, each mark,
the way hands move
or the language they speak
Mondays are like this;
they ghost the weekend
in your form–a moon plucked
from the sun,
black circles painted on white skin I pray:

in mantras,
in the morning, in secret–
I see your face
between syllables,
within tones–
C and G resonate
the perfect Om,

at the beach the waves drift
in and out,
cast shells at our feet
and wash away the night before I could fix a drink now,
light a cigarette in your memory,
and forget
that it is Monday–

it is like this.


David E Howerton
souphard@foothill.net

Bio

David is a part time programmer and live in the American River Canyon outside of Auburn Ca He’s done some landscaping sign painting cooking and made jewelry to pay the bills He lives a rather quiet life His wife and he live with a cat who’s bossy He has three adult daughters and one granddaughter His hobbies include type design, soapstone carving, walks in the woods, collecting dragons and a growing library of Science Fiction books and Computer Manuals.

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

didn’t know anxiety attack

Woke lights off
couldn’t find you
almost panicked
heart pounding
flipped light switch
started to get up
you walked in
from bathroom
pretended
.nothing wrong
in darkness
hand touching
can’t sleep.


dirty car going for a drive

Crumpled yellow-brown leaves
cover car seats
try and brush most away
sticking to just about every part of pants Ants stake out domains
each wanting
different part of car,
just glad they can’t cart it off Shouldn’t leave food
on front seat
attracts unwanted helpers
that don’t understand
why you don’t want them in your car At least
this week
everything isn’t covered
in cobwebs.


Doesn’t care how

Night, doesn’t care
how you mourn But dig deep there is
plenty of strength that
will carry you across While despair rages
hammering at your soul
beating where it’s tender Don’t give up
you’re strong Despair whispers to you
late at night carried on
silence looking for a way in,
will drag you into pain Night doesn’t care.