March 15-21, 2004: Kenny Klein and Daniel A. Olivas

Kenny Klein and Daniel A Olivas

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Bio (auto)

Originally from NYC, I travelled the United States in a van for 15 years playing music at Renaissance Festivals, clubs and debutante balls I currently work in LA for a nonprofit that puts on musical programs in LAUSD schools, I play music at bars and fairs, and I record CDs of original music I have been published by anyone who will give up in frustration at my repeated submissions
Visit Kenny on the web: http://www.drak.net/kennyklein

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

Girls I Knew When I Was Twenty Damn, the girls I knew when I was twenty We ran in packs like careless, hungry wolves Taunting the boundaries of our dizzy, man swarmed city The come and go of faces on the IRT Crowding the uptown local at Astor Place I don’t remember the shrill of car horns Or the ambulances shrieking down Second Avenue No, I remember the dense quiet of Thursdays Sitting on a stoop on Saint Marks Place Or the cool marble of hallways in August As the girls answered the doorbell in bare feet Nineteen, and Seventeen, and tag-along Sixteen Ruling the world from a park bench in Washington Square Of course they had names; Kate, Michelle, Annabel, Sarah But I knew them by scents, by movements I learned from them of the softness in all women The glance up from down turned faces, the stirring Of legs in skirts, with knees clasped while sitting Boy-cut hair, held in plastic barrettes, Dyed black as city soot, or snowy platinum Held with pomade in cunning twists, or spiked Liked barbed wire, or soft bangs covering eyes On hazy afternoons in autumn cafes, sitting Legs crossed, conversing like giggling scholars, Their eyes would dart like cats prowling Seeking mice, or mates, as their thoughts took shape Annabel’s dark eyes, or Kate’s slate blue And Michelle’s that were soft with delicious brooding Freckled arms pushed a comb through bleached hair Legs in ripped tights and combat boots Antique dresses in pastels, or vibrant green, As green as the park in joyous June Sometimes I would drop some little thing A comb or my wallet or a punk band badge So I could maneuver in the thing’s recovery To bring me nearer to the scent of musk Or lavender Or the rustle of old crinoline, aged fabric Faded by time, forgotten, then salvaged and loved Again, as only a girl of seventeen can love: Adoringly, recklessly, with fervor, abandon A dress Smoothed, stitched by supple fingers grown Deft with plying marbles, with cupping secrets Whispered through pomade caked hair A dress from a forsaken thrift-shop shelf, newly shaped To the curves and freckled secrets of Tag-Along Sixteen All I know now of desire and heartache, and I know Much, of recalling the scent of lavender and musk, All I know of how I ache when, in bright Autumn, A breeze plays with a skirt, a freckled woman Smoothes her hem, clasps restless fingers, Looks, eyes bright, through falling hair, and smiles, All I know of conversations in marble floored cafes Where the waitress speaks no English, and girls whisper, I learned when I was twenty, from girls Whose softness and lavender wasn’t meant for me.

Daniel A Olivas
Olivasdan@aol.com

King He tells me that the thrill is gone It’s gone for good, he growls He should know because he is the King My man B.B Even when my own marriage is just fine, thank you very much, he makes me remember (a time long ago) when I was still single and hopping from one woman to another like a bee in a garden When the thrill slipped away, silently, without a noise, I would shake my head and remember B.B ‘s words The thrill is gone But you push on because there is always another thrill out there in the cool Los Angeles night And if you’re lucky with the stars glittering for you and only you, the thrill will stay and you will sleep the sleep of tired children The King knows this And in his noblesse oblige, he tells us, in his way, that this is life. Crossing the Border It is now a sport, great fun, a diversion from your work-a-day grind Hunt the mojados-“wetbacks” just doesn’t sound humane, now does it? – as they run across the border from Mexico to the great state of Texas Help the border patrol (though they deny wanting help, poor overworked bastards) by lining up your pick-ups and jeeps (American-made, of course) and shining your headlights bright and revealing towards the scrub, towards our neighbors to the south Share a nice little Jack Daniel’s with your buddy and keep a lookout for a family or two, crouching, lurking, hoping for a better life Cock your rifles, but never aim at ’em, just blast a few warning shots up into the star-filled, moonlit night It is a beautiful evening, redolent with desert life, just waiting for them to cross the border. Georgina S Francisco is a Friend of Mine Georgina S Francisco is a friend of mine, and she is very particular about two things: cheese and Margaritas “Cheese,” she purrs, “must be strong, sharp and sweet, like dulce “ She leans into me for emphasis “¿No?” she says through a red O of a mouth “And there is only one way,” she whispers, “to make a Margarita “ I wave her off, my eyes bulging with excitement, and tell her about my latest Google search where I unearthed the most remarkable Margarita recipe that includes a bottle of beer Georgina’s eyes narrow into mere slits, and she spits out a disgusted, “Feh!” Before I can say more, she stands and looks down at me with disdain “There’s only one way to make a Margarita,” she sneers “And it does not include beer “ Georgina turns on her heel leaving me desolate with nothing more than her perfume’s scent and her rebuke’s sting Georgina S Francisco is a friend of mine, and she is very particular about two things: cheese and Margaritas.