May 3-9, 2004: Joseph Veronneau and George Henson

Joseph Veronneau and George Henson

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Bio (auto)

My name is Joseph Veronneau and I reside in Burlington, Vermont I’ve had poems appear in such publications as Poet Lore, The Aurorean, Blue Collar Review, Hidden Oak, RFD, Parnassus Literary Journal, Typewriter Voodoo, The Kept Writer, American Dissident, and many others I run a chapbook publishing company under the name Scintillating Publications, and have published 5 titles since starting in 2000 I enjoy all types of poetry, from slam to modern free verse, my heart has them all Any poets interested in having manuscripts reviewed for possible publication may submit to me at: Joseph Veronneau, 21 Russell St , Burlington, VT 05401 Please send about 5 poems as a taster My email address is: mustiis@aol.com

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

Brain Spasms The psychiatrist is paid to care sheepish lighting sets the mood; he wants to know what prompted me to get out of bed today and I tell him it was to come here and see him We reflect dilemmas around for a bit trying to figure what kinds of things warrant my attention and why I give it so freely A heavy curtain drapes the window He smiles his paid smile right on cue in the midst of my provoking his mind to quiver, to think about his own half-silence until a truthful thought ripens. Upon Finding My Submissions Under The Editor’s Bed It is dusty and dank down here; the land of low priority in these payless stacks Subscription money temporarily disregarded because the envelope looks the same as all of the rest Bugs are bitter down here trampling one over another, some try the edges of envelopes; digging their teeth in with all their might, searching for the conclusion This humble stack in which I sit bleeds feelings, experiences gone awry, temporary beauty sifting in assembled lines However busy the lifestyle contains the reply, their defense will be down, as I appear a rare beauty of sorts.

George Henson
Loco4Lorca@aol.com

White Guilt He pushes the dust mop with robotic-like precision, first up one aisle, then down the next, deep wrinkles carved into his swart skin, eyes that tell of the shame that white men have never known, his bulging knuckles wrapped around the long mop handle, knuckles swollen perhaps from arthritis or years of manual labor, perhaps broken from countless fist fights, perhaps with other black men over card games, or perhaps against white men, fighting for his life or honor.  A new cap tops his close-cropped hair that matches his salt-and-pepper beard, more salt than pepper, while his overalls bear the trademark crease of freshly-laundered clothes that perhaps his wife picked up at the cleaners the night before on her way home from cleaning someone else’s home in Highland Park.  Perhaps she works for a white family with children in Ivy League colleges like Harvard or Brown, children whose diapers she changed, whose bottles she washed, whose tears she wiped when they fell out of the red wagon that she pulled on carefully-manicured lawns in-between washing the lunch dishes and fixing dinner His eyes look down, perhaps ashamed of the menial task he so responsibly carries out, perhaps lost in thought, counting the days until Social Security will allow him to retire, perhaps worried about how he will pay this semester’s tuition for his youngest son who attends community college, perhaps counting the minutes until he can eat lunch, the fried chicken that his wife made the night before, the home-made biscuits with butter and honey, the peach cobbler stored with love in Tupperware Or perhaps his mind is clear and the only one thinking is me, as he pushes the dust mop down another aisle at Kroger. Unanswered Questions I walked into church, knelt, genuflected and sat As I prayed I thought about the faceless congregant who sat in the same pew the week before I imagined he was tall and able-bodied, masculine in his gestures, with Mediterranean features and Italian clothes Did he pray in silence or in a hushed whisper? Did he listen intently to the homily, or did his mind wander? Did he recite the Creed and the Mystery of Faith? Did he take communion without confessing? Where did he go after mass? Home? Lunch? The market? Was someone waiting for him at home, naked and supine? Did he make love to a woman or another man? I left church with these and other questions unanswered I drove home, masturbated and ate lunch alone. Ashamed Ashamed she sits with her back to the street, waiting for the 401, her monthly pass in hand and her weekly paycheck in the Elaine Turner Faux Crocodile tote that her employer gave her for Christmas, a gift that cost more than her weekly wage: Ashamed to face the Lexus that traverses the carefully-manicured street in the neighborhood where she washes clothes that she could never afford, prepares the daily meals in the cookware whose name her separate-but-equal education never taught her to pronounce; Ashamed to show her face to the woman who could never comprehend the lines that 60 years of struggle and backbreaking labor have carved into her once-youthful, ebony skin that she’ll clean with Noxema before going to bed at midnight, but not before cleaning her own house, fixing tomorrow’s meals for her family, and soaking her swollen ankles in the Epsom salts that she will buy on her way home at the 24-hour pharmacy; Ashamed that the woman who stops at the adjacent intersection, who just got a facial at a day spa, might see the white nursing shoes she wears to protect her calloused feet, sore from standing 14 hours on marble and parquet floors, and concrete sidewalks, from walking to and from bus stops, six blocks each way at 5 am and again at 7 at night; Ashamed, she sits inside her Lexus that cost more than she paid her maid in the last three years, hiding behind tinted windows, tapping her Manolo Blahnik Keyhole Mule (that cost more than the Elaine Turner Faux-Crocodile purse she gave her maid for Christmas last year) against the brake as she stops beside the bus stop where her maid waits for the 401.