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

week of June 7-13, 2004

Peter Schwartz and Corey Elizabeth Habbas

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Peter Schwartz

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

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

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

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

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


Born and raised along the Southern California coast, Corey spent a decade as a painter and photographer before she gave up those mediums for the pen “They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but I felt the textures of words more than I could feel the textures of my paints,” says Corey Her articles, poetry and short fiction have been featured in Newtopia Magazine and Myriad: A Creative Arts Journal
She continues to write poetry and short fiction from her Long Beach, California home

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

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
next to metal, but
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.

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