June 20-26, 2005: Jim D. Babwe and Scott Malby

week of June 20-26, 2005

Jim D Babwe and Scott Malby

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Jim D Babwe

Bio (auto)

Jim D Babwe went to the University of San Diego, San Diego State University, Long Beach State, Chico State, Cal State LA, Cal State Northridge, Stanford, UC Irvine, UC Santa Cruz, UC Berkeley, UCLA, USC, Azusa Pacific University, and the University of La Verne, where he experienced enjoyable visits to the bookstores at those locations He attended classes and graduated from Cal Poly, Pomona The bookstore there is like the others—expensive He currently prowls the streets of Encinitas in an attempt to build his image as a mysterious entity among common citizens The main problem, though, is that his running shoes squeak when he walks This makes prowling difficult Consequently, the mysterious part becomes almost impossible—especially at the grocery store.

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

All Seven Letters

Zany and quirky 
resulted in ruthless and reckless Ecstatic provided the opening for excoriated;
jovial was followed by jeered
Laughter led to lips and service,
and in the heat of competition,
the pedantic became frantic,
the frantic, pedantic
The exotic blamed the erratic
and the erratic
blamed the mundane
The adamant defined the emotional
as fanatics, who denied the condition
to defend their position
Volume rose
as the garrulous quidnuncs
quibbled and bickered
For the other campers nearby,
intended vacations descended from elation
to frustration with the late night
ruckus from the local verbivores
When the syllabically infused
agreed in word,
but in action refused to cut the noise,
someone summoned park rangers,
who launched a laundry list of linguistic warnings
into the obsessive compulsive Scrabble support group
Rapidly, the purveyors of expansive etymologies
and lovers of lexicography conceded,
and placed their debate on hiatus
By averting a more extensive fracas,
they avoided the looming intrusion
of frazzled or fettered feelings,
and mutually managed to massage their knots
to smooth present problems into prophetic desires
designed to help them acquire
better sets of letters
At someone’s suggestion they attempted
to shift from the controlled crossword contest
to the less time-consuming task of tic-tac-toe
The transition was far from effective
The word-focused folks found themselves
distracted by the pushy, me-first attitude of x
and scornful of the hopeless resignation of o.

Scott Malby


“I am a nobody Treat me as a solar myth, or an echo, or an irrational quantity, or ignore me altogether “-James Murray

Scott Malby lives in Coos Bay, Oregon.

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

Wild Blueberry Pie, part 2

.“I’m the poet of White Horse Vale, Sir, with Liberal notions under my cap.”
-Tom Brown’s School Days

Hell bent is Now and Tomorrow showering me in kisses of blood, I spit back at the temporal
stream, licking my lips, tasting the flavor of wild blueberry pie

From the left of center and back again this is my consciousness in the guise of the Pariah King,
a general disappointment as I see it, curiously happy, 

out of darkness made rejoicing in each moment that kills itself and like an orgasm bringing me
to my knees life becomes a narrative of exploding nerves

exploring the capitol of Altered States without a reason, indistinct nor will it ever be complete
nor explanation follow until back into the mud I go and of the first crime who can say

was it in the birth or death of life? Smelling salt, pacific coast highways, intricate caloric mental
calories of illicit strangeness, 

mud larks or stirrings or Aesopian fables removed from ruin and washed in joys till I sing
like a lobster in a boiling pot buttered by chance and hefty as bliss

My daddy was skinny My mama was fat She liked lean He liked fat The anarchy
of my imagination my umbilical cord of hope, 

a rascally orphan conning you out of your spare change as I hitch hike my way on borrowed
wings bearing the weight of the truth that not being true

to yourself is equivalent to killing yourself and when melancholy comes dressed in dreamy

curiously coming to me gleaning to connect in the face of and against all odds favoring dreadful
disconnections and somehow miraculous perception lifts itself like a great white whale

speaking in tongues imperfectly balancing the color of its fleshy song to my thirsty need,
I wonder what a woman really wants and what any man can expect

when like a five clawed dragon at his sumptuous feast we penetrate into the mist
of the multistoried cosmic wind

to drink till clean again we come again to know that all flesh is parchment, its own mortuary
shroud In the presence of the manna of life, my madness calls out to madness

as I blunder my way, slipping and sliding to a hopeful conclusion, wondering to myself
is it so bad that a man’s father was born to be overtaken or a woman’s father

to be adored? Is it a crime to measure death in feet? Better to grow crazy inches at a time
or all at once? Wrapped in the dubious husk

of life’s sushi, neither spider nor moth I’m both I don’t dream anymore History has cured me The present is nightmare enough I must like being dizzy

Of life, death and the soul, their truth is the noose hidden inside the Devil’s laughter But for wishful thinking there would be no philosophy

Stitched like a lemon in the pouch of my skin, I grin, moving along as fishy as a salmon
leaping the falls toward Oblivion.

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