June 7-13, 2004: Peter Schwartz and Corey Elizabeth Habbas

Peter Schwartz and Corey Elizabeth Habbas

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Bio (auto)

I am a world traveler who holds a B.A in Literature and Creative Writing I have works published in or pending with: Anthology, Poetalk, Writer’s Journal, Barbaric Yawp, Curbside Review, Red Owl, Transcendent Visions, Via Dolorosa Press, Muuna Takeena (Finland), Poetic Hours, and Zillah I was chosen for distinguished achievement by the International Association of Paradoxism I am also a proud member of the Academy of American Poets.

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

rain myth with deadlines and a reverence for fountains he waited for his difference in the old way dwindling out of necessity into position determined by idolatry and marvels advancing towards the dispensary like a germ for another examination of the fiddlehead another assent by the unburied he referred to this stage as “fieldwork” his last occupancy pressed and navigated stunned and decided his twinges darkened his hardships became a supplement message a cachet his world nullified by a delicate sill made capsular a rift of the same the drainage of octaves applications and notices into the lacuna *he was forever indebted to his love of fountains, his hatred of deadlines attack of the lizards blinking night-day-night-day this is the world from inside a lizard grim, undetermined, expensive function with a tail flicking tongues in a saurian babylon growing dryer-hotter-dryer-hotter the further south one goes the deeper the regurgitation zombies in lazy uniforms reduced scaly miniatures of their original intentions tiny vampires of the sun institutionalizing the void for their owners these perfect pets sardonic toys, desert vegetables cold-blooded, secondhand chameleons, iguanas, geckos, gila monsters, and deadly komodos, all perpetrating the fraud defending the universe it was no ghost he was the moon’s little soldier right at his post protecting his sector from the alien empire as protector he must be ready to fire with a real laser gun he can defend everyone in the universe for nothing could be worse than an alien invasion a secret mission for just such an occassion how he listens to the night for the blip of a spaceship his tracking device nicely fit to his hip as an agent he knows this is how life goes this constant staying up on one’s toes but now as his mother turns off the light he thinks “Dare you to face me out there in the moonlight “ and the alien replies, “Yeah right “ carpus (a letter) sweet fragility, how thorough your costume appearing in a dress of undressed perennials seemingly bruised then scattered about you are cipher / vapor / ether or a gaggle of harum-scarum the whirligig a chambermaid to a valentine for a tryst in the midst of christening rain however you are the great destroyer of brick and terrazzo the magistrate of love and hate jostling with cryptic myopia forever secondly a plywood to then a trough for with no referee in between you are the mars of yourself a red herring left-handed on a trail of blank candies with the misunderstanding that might be part of the recipe / the antidote

Corey Elizabeth Habbas
iccana@yahoo.com

Poor HAL I cried for HAL when he and Dave aimlessly wandered through the stars, no comfort, no breath, and out of sorts No mind quite as stable as the artifice nano-technic river, some may argue; stable and some have automatic theories on why we are, in comparison, amoebas of chaos simpletons next to metal, but trickery Illusion of calm hides the thundering momentum of our insecurity I dreamt of HAL; poor circuit-board and silicon, programmed on caffeine and acid jazz, so much like a river, creating from our mirrored reflections Through our hapless inventing we win medals for these mixtures of disaster recipes, HAL’s mind no different from a blueprint in crayon No methods yet of keeping our virus from him. Exhibit at the MOCHA Your art is like an avalanche of cinder although it literally is It picks up my idea like my thoughts are children and slaps it with a white glove and laughs excessively at a joke I have not yet said I walk away Artist, you are always one step ahead of me. Combat Artist in Love Your decorated chest hardens like cement, that if I were to throw a fist, aim it at your heart of India-Ink in hopes of shocking a muscle into submission I could undo in one blow that which had been painted by the Tatoo Master who follows the circus around your parade If my fist were steel or a better alloy your rock aorta could crumble blood paint against my chisel, using engraverís forgery to etch my name in your heart.