March 1-7, 2004: T.L. Stokes and Angel Uriel Perales

week of March 1-7, 2004

T.L Stokes and Angel Uriel Perales

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T.L Stokes

Bio (auto)

T.L Stokes lives in the mountain region of the Pacific Northwest Her work has appeared in The 2River View, Stirring, Ancient Wind Press, Pierian Springs, Ludlow Press, Taj Mahal Review, Comrades Press, etc Upcoming in Snow Monkey by Ravena Press and a few other places.

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

A Length of Phone Cord

I’m holding another bowl of worry The white roof sinks down on lids
I’ve propped open

while out the side window
I hear the band throwing warm breath
from horns into the rising fog,

like wavy hands
around rows of field lights
The sky is lit in creams
If you knew how lost I am
you’d come running and talk
until we figured it out of me
You phone, we talk Actually I do, complaining a length of phone cord
from here to California
I want to lay my head in your lap We figure it’s hormones and it all makes sense
so we laugh at the strangeness of living
between the Pacific and the moon;

one moment I’m a nest of red clouds
and lullabies,

the next, a puppet
hanging from the abalone above us
in the purple night
The mastiff and the deaf cat play The sound of everything is too big,
I’m hungry for quiet
Peace comes only when monsoon
begins to drop her red petals.

Angel Uriel Perales


Angel Uriel Perales is a journalist and poet originally from Rio Piedras, Puerto Rico His most recent publications include poems and short stories that appeared in the San Gabriel Valley Poetry Quarterly #22, Palabra Productions “Every Poem Is An Idea” Anthology, Palabra Productions “I Love Your Poetry” Valentine’s Anthology, Emerging Urban Poets Fall 2003 Anthology, Poetry Super Highway, Poetic Diversity, The Thinker, LitRave, Framed and Open Street Review He has written one collection of poetry and lyrical prose, BROWN RECLUSE (Rumrazor Press, 2002, 97 pages) and is at work on his second volume, LONG. 

He has worked for Hard Copy, Entertainment Tonight, and Paramount Pictures He currently lives in Studio City, California and works for a network affiliated news station in the Los Angeles market. 

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

Merry Christmas, Mr Hemingway

So the writer steps
out unto the curb
to kindle a lung
in the city of lights,

not Paris, never Paris,

just another urban vanity
in the endless series of
conscious similarities
Well, maybe Paris
seen in the dull sheen
of seasonal gloom,

handmade toys and
silken scarves,

festive boughs
sagging over
speckled streets of
honking cars,

a fine gray mist
envelops eyesight,

pantyhose perception,

fogged-up lenses
suffocate a viscid
postcard vision

of electric Christmas
trees glimmering and
sparkling on windowsills
and rooftops like numerous
sprinkled tiny Eiffel towers
don’t believe,
maybe this Paris
is my Paris or yours

truly, the sidewalks
endure the same scars
of the ragged rabble,

dust the same soot
from crumbling chimneys
Incinerated carbon residue
settles like dandruff snowfall
over hunched up shoulders,

the ashes to ash of continual living,

the black breath of industrial air,

the unfelt pulse that binds
those faces created for murder
in the banks, the factories,

time squandered gossiping
in restaurants,

machine lust polished
over burnt oil,
opium incense,
flaked rust,

offered by the malicious
masochistic Magi
Fidget on the corner and
smoke a lung, Mr Hemingway,

the men of action dance
the flirt of death,

the writer genuflects

the genuine bullfighters and
the women of the Tarantella
flaring a ruffle of skirts and
flashing bandied legs
for the leap of the tarantula
and the snap of the tempting
red cape
All is memory in the dearth of winter
Scarce photographs remain:

Poor Julian kicks up his feet
with crazy Zelda,

ornaments hang haphazardly
behind them in their favorite
holiday pose, a full library
to their left
Celebrating what results to celebrate,

the repose in the eye of the storm,

the stillness between two cataclysms,

sea bass gulping for air
in a mud puddle,
not so much a generation lost as
left stranded by the Gulf Stream
and all things eternal,

the immortal sanguine fisherman

caught deftly by a journalist’s
terse laconic hand,
a tough prose,

an ink and paper rose
Which will not survive intact,

the young banderilleros thrust
stilettos into the withers of
bleeding knuckles

already usurped in scabs
of criticism and praise,

not what you meant to type at all
The false nobility
of a fake Nobel summons
you to Ketchum,

true speech waxes profane,
true love fucks pornographic,

Emerson and Thoreau lied to you,

these lights cast from these cities
spill over and transcend into
your sacred mountain,

dragon fire,

a perverse jetliner aurora
streaks across the northern skies,

a tinsel of torment,

even blind Tiresias
gets blinded by the rapidly
encroaching glare,

and the gleeful are dazzled
by this brilliance of ignorant
hope and wish peace on earth

on earth, in Spain,
a horse in Guernica, 
Goya’s soldier up a tree in Madrid
A legitimate measure
of a learned span,
an ambulance in Italy,
first love in Milan

prior to the opal opulence
that book-ends with the whores
and the profiteers of a liberated
Paris, the original city
of continual luminance
Key West callused fingers
that can no longer write
A lifetime of priceless
possessions seized
from a finca in Cuba
Feigned interest in phantom
Nazi submarines
and six-toed felines,
a legacy and myth,
your legend longing
for the deep darkness
dreaded no longer,

disdainfully desired
Do not fret, Papa Hemingway,
here is my Christmas gift to you-

My pen,
not as agile or nimble as yours,
I cede to you with all
the aplomb of the poetaster,

a homage from the homespun,

when the words dry up,
and cannot be recalled,

when language,
becomes my last
treasonous deceiver,

when the vinegar crusts and festers
in the self-inflicted wound

and I laugh at such absurd metaphors,

I will stomp out this cigarette
on my corner of my city beneath
the luster and the splendor awash
in the harsh agonizing grainy
spleen of communal existence,

my accumulated hell of halcyon nights,

I will slouch off towards Idaho,
much sooner than you ever thought.

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