week of April 26-May 2, 2004
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Tonya Kelley resides in her home state of Connecticut, after a stint in New York City She is a writer of poetry, stage plays and short fiction Her work has appeared in such publications as Skyline Magazine, Dicey Brown, Jill: A Magazine For Women, Promise Magazine, Electric Mayhem and Subtle Tea She released her first book of poetry, Unsexy (Wasteland Press) in early 2003 and has recently completed her second collection, Melodrama.
The following work is Copyright © 2004, and owned by Tonya Kelley and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Back again Back to the city Back to the dire
Necessity of evolution and hustle and full frontal nudity
We crawl down the numbered, house-less
Streets and curse our shoes and our
Blisters and our over-sized bags filled
With the crap we think people care to hear
We sit with our coffees and our lattes and
Our pretense and discuss our solitude
And our genius and our hair colors, loud
Enough for tourists to snap our picture
We are alive and post-mortem and
Everything lurking in designer closets We
Are seductively transparent and whine about
Our parents who never hugged us properly
We are indigenous to this area and feed
On the subway plankton and gossip columns,
Cooked up at the Kosher Raw Diet Deli,
Served up by a struggling international banker
We keep the wind conscious and the skirts
On sale and the economy balancing on its bound
Toes We dress like geishas for the right corporate
Lawyers and the boniest drag queens
We pledge allegiance to our stock market love
Affairs and take night courses Our kisses are with
Tongue and cheek and come with free coupons
For two-for-one dinners and abortion clinics
We are a hung-over Los Angeles, a bundled-
Up South Beach, a more fashionable Hartford
And a Kentucky with no-smoking signs We are
The top-secret chapter of the New Testament
We are hiding in our news and our casseroles.
We won’t knit a scarf or whittle a branch into a
Flame or a tulip We teach dolphins to write
Poetry and children to catch the finest tuna
Back again Back to the city Back to where we like
To wear perfume and revel in our enigmatic perfection.
You handed me
The life of Roald
Dahl It was summer
In an Ohio bookstore.
Hot and sweet on the
Twisted verse Come
To my ugly, dark
Language that never
Really loved you Your
Watch, your glasses bake
And I’m white ñ a picnic
Blanket and razor-like wit And scared of the tan
Death of a Cincinnati day.
Lay with me
To read a screen and a
Nursery rhyme A screen, a scream, a peach,
A crocodile and no room on
The bed, no time
For souvenirs and pictures.
Just let me go home Get
My bags Feel your
Way on the walls to a trust in
Send the directions on a
Wire and the
Hours of operation.
You were the
Best thing I could have lost, and did
So quite successfully.
Tom Peterson lives in Bradenton, Florida (just north of Sarasota) He is a poet at night and CPA during the day He was born in Fargo, North Dakota.
The following work is Copyright © 2004, and owned by Tom Peterson and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
in nothing there are
no ripplemarks nor is there
a chair to sit on
did she leave because
I’d forgotten her birthday
or was it the gun?
road trip haiku
lines on the highway
divide a kingdom’s crumble
on the dotted line