February 23-29, 2004: Jim D. Babwe and Andrew Peterson

Jim D Babwe and Andrew Peterson

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Bio (auto)

Jim D Babwe lives in Encinitas, California—the last best old-school So Cal beach town He is barely tolerated by the local Full Moon Poets and members of the 101 Artists’ Colony, where he photographs a wide variety of events, including concerts and gallery shows In a recent development, he has shocked his family, friends, and acquaintances by seeking gainful employment with any company in need of technical writing and/or desktop publishing skills.

The following work is Copyright © 2004, and owned by Jim D Babwe and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

California Disappears California disappears like things we thought we knew– open space, the horizon, a local store, a house on the corner, people who used to live in the house California disappears, but it leaves behind formerly treasured objects: a Rambler American in the front yard– broken windows, rust, no tires; an incinerator in the back yard– concrete, heavy iron, a chimney; and, look at this, a bomb shelter– The door’s lock breaks We descend a few steps, and it’s too dark for comfort, so we walk to the 99 cent store for a flashlight The beam sweeps past a switch, and the lights, with your help, go on We find instructions, survival guides, aspirin, cough syrup, antibiotics, iodine, morphine, codeine, atropine, Brylcreme, Prell, Ivory, Crest,  Vicks, Dristan, Jack Daniels, red wine, white rum, a record player, nine volt batteries and a transistor radio, a bundle of pamphlets titled “FALLOUT,” National Geographic, and a framed newspaper article The headline reads: KNOW YOUR ENEMY A small photo of Fidel Castro scowls next to a story about missiles and Florida I’m already photographing cans of Spam, packages of dehydrated food, a wall poster– JFK superimposed on an American flag You sit on the couch, open a Saturday Evening Post “Look at this,” I whisper You catch the jar of powdered orange drink “Astronauts love this stuff,” you say I sit next to you, and without prompting, you remove your blouse, turn and ask for help with the clasp You snore me awake, and before I open the door to check for sunlight or moonlight, you say, “Wait “

Andrew Peterson
akpeterson79@hotmail.com

From Loretta Lynn Lane Bus Loretta Lynn Lane You want to be friends A stone wall You left me cold & alone in September An open field On the bench by the lake where we necked in August A red barn Ducks quacked up to us, mistook my laces for worms Nature approved of us, then First Period Biology The average human tongue is two inches long You are eighty-five million, eight-hundred-fifty-three-thousand, eight-hundred-twenty-two tongues away Answering phones for a lawyer on the twenty-fifth floor Smiling Not thinking of me Second Period Pre-Calculus I draw sine/co-sine waves on expensive graphics calculators & cheap no 2 pencils w/real gone erasers, so none of my mistakes may be erased, among which I am considering: my cowardice, my conscience, & you Third Period French “Oui cest vous “ “Non! Non! Non! Je N’en Connais Pas La Fin! Je N’en Connais Pas La Fin!” Fourth Period Programming An impersonal mass e-mail, protesting C.B.S for not airing an anti-Bush ad It’s not your righteous, leftist, save-the-world politics that irks, but that I’m 1-in-50, unrecognizable from co-workers & cokeheads who’ve never seen your pierced heart-peace sign-green dolphin tattoos or tasted your metal tongue ring When Danielle e-mails, she always writes my name Fifth Period English Once, I was too scared to give myself away the way I gave myself to you, afraid to reach inside my chest, afraid I’d find nothing but a balled up newspaper bleeding words into veins Hall “You do-do-don’t feel you could l-l-ll— me but I feel-feel-feel-feel-feel y-you-you-you-you could,” sings Paul Simon on my scratched Graceland Can’t you see you are just like me? We were both born on Planet Earth Sixth Period Study I had this dream last night about losing my teeth That must be phallic to Freud, that fucking freak Seventh Period Government You told secrets on Loretta Lynn Lane, our fingers & legs like winter branches, tangled and bare: You cancelled a tennis lesson, got an abortion You used to snort cocaine, but don’t admit addiction That would imply you were not in control Bus I take back what I said on strawberry banks of Piscataway River “I-I-III th-th-think I’m ff-f-ff-fall-fall-falling in l-l-lll— with y-you-you you” spoke my scratched heart Intangibles & Impatients turn to snow A red barn I smoke cigarettes, curse your name An open field Too weak to strike a match You say: a disgusting habit But you used to do it, too A stone wall I always thought you were scattered as the clouds Cigarette ash A forest burns Loretta Lynn Lane.