July 19-25, 2004: Marc Awodey, Scott Malby and T.L. Stokes


week of July 19-25, 2004

Marc Awodey,
Scott Malby
T.L Stokes

the judges of the
2004 Poetry Super Highway
Poetry Contest

click here for submission guidelines

Marc Awodey

Bio (auto)

Burlington, Vermont poet Marc Awodey is also a visual artist, art critic, educator, and a past Poetry Slam Nationals haiku champion His poetry has appeared online since 1995, and has been sporadically in print publications since 1980 Literary credits include Writer’s Journal, Humanitas, The Vincent Brothers Review, Poetry Motel, Defined Providence and many others His books New York a Haibun Journey (WPC-Minimal Press 2003) and Telegrams from the Psych Ward and other poems (WPC-Minimal Press 1999) are both available on Amazon.com He has also published many chapbooks, and all of those are out of print.  Awodey recieved an MFA in painting from Cranbrook Academy of Art in 1984.

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

Do not go

Do not go
where I will go
as geese ascend from rain lit roofs,
and fallen portraits 
.snowy cinders
fill the city’s square
a porous souvenir
.of .what .never .was
and likely could have never been-  
this laughable
imagined thing
If I have lingered like a cough
if I have loitered
on the hope of meeting you-
please look the other way
.While .you were .here in mind,
.I ground my ink .to cut 
black glyphs into a mountain face
and knew
.you thought
you labored near the same-
.I knew
it is not well       
for anyone to do this thing,
.I should have warned you-
.you .down
unselfishly offended you
instead we spoke of nothing
.but the brightness
.of a day
.Do not go
.where I have been-
to the devil’s el train
under steel palm trees-
.do not see
.what burns my eyes
what melts on a sad continuum
.and the rot
of insignificance
.Please don’t be
so madly keen
I pray you see a vicious dog,
disgust, the gut and not a flame
of burning chakra wheels
the holes that bleed 
.to kiss
each rising
.solar .tongue  
.of bloodless mercy,
a greasy sky
a glass of gin
.the .setting sun           
Do not go
where I am lost to go-
epistling on hoar frost 
defaced I comb a matted maze
of brain brine window, so my
everyday a green eyed ocean-
green eyes pray
that you will find
.a precious nautilus shell
to hear,
and if you even smile to dream
to go where I have gone
may you never find me
live this poem
.Do not look
too closely at my dust
my book my ghost 
dear friend,
.my friend a rose
just kick me in the head
let me swing like a Judas fruit
.a rake
for you must never go  
.where I have been.      
.Do not hear
what I have said
should I dare to elegize 
upon my truest lie    
.dear .friend 
.please do not go
where I’ve had to go
Do not
draw near
where I


back down here
to memorize
your sounds

at River Rouge
sweat muscatel,

and motor oil,
sunken junk

at River Rouge
I am a husk            
of blue crayfish
and sunken junk

bulldozer tires-
my insides out
a carmine flag

I am a husk  
of blue crayfish
signs of the times   

assaulted tan
my skin insides
a carmine flag

high on
the phrases
of your slang
Signs of the times
assaulted twice
mad tracked flesh

sweat muscatel
and motor oil
high on

the phrases
of your slang
I thumbed

down to memorize
your sound.

White Crane

The olives have ripened and wrinkled into slumping claws,
siphoned clouds linger over crummy scabs
.the boulevard is not so quaint
this time of year, late spring. 
.Waxy roots dive to drink beneath steel caged linden trees,
as a splashing taxi cab jostles toward the wet
underbelly of a burned out block behind the museum where we once met
but i could never understand
Let us see
just how little we need to comprehend Let us recuse ourselves
from the ordeal, as we
.now .bent like box elders confess all
despite our knowledge of the crime
Perhaps it was a hoax? say nothing- but of course i will be interrogated drooping, his flaccid jaw was slapped against nylon ropes and questioned questioned questioned questioned My head is full of thugs I know nothing
.about .poetry .It’s not .about .poetry it’s about pealing off layers of TE Deums and dunes and flying like a white crane over Lake Michigan, to a place where his beard may grow no longer That is what made the scales fall from my eyes Or was it gazing into HER Byzantine strands wrapped round creamy .graceful .pillowing hands I- but to dream of it fanned out over a sea of azure lawn it’s about doubt about that piggish slander, that lust and the blood stained Grand Canyon too- red dust, a gleaming hot meander it’s about more than one loss you see? a flick of the knife
down to a fetid soup bone marrow,  o.k but tomorrow
.my .name is already typeset onto their black and goldenrod .Gotterdammerungen .broadsides 
i speak of we- and you, and you
.and .this is the ground, a grizzled land
.chalky, wasted, relentless hues dunes .a banged up ear
.sun set poppies .the freshwater sea’s .icy .cold nipples ennui surveys my half way latitude, yellow .sleeves .i glide .glide .bereft 
of any creator or creations
.or .remnant inch of snow on the iron ore-   
i am my own dumb creature, decayed, and shrink wrapped
.within a dented lisping din .condemned for .unknown .transgressions 
.and so my back is pressed .against their bricks .and i am needing  
.to say .and needing something .to say about what needles .me .400 verses of meaningful pleas yet 300 more units of insulin 
.all at once .something .about .someone’s .lies .fare .wells 
“a fine day .goodbye .it was a very fine day” .and at the time 
.there were three, then one, then two, now three .again I’m sick of it Every monument is futile The seroquel helps a little, but i swear,
not nearly enough
.Your Volkswagon disappeared too quickly
.My tears arrived too slowly

Scott Malby


Scott has been featured on numerous sites, in anthologies and collections both in the U.S and abroad He has a poor memory and quirky sense of humor Honesty, compassion and caring represent examples of his foibles If something isn’t fun he won’t do it He lives in Coos Bay, Oregon, a fishing community on the Central Oregon Coast He is an essayist, columnist and reviewer as well as poet Currently, he is in the final planning stages regarding a new small press imprint New work will be out soon in Wounded Pulse, The Other Side of the Ragged Edge, Muse Apprentice Guild, Dream People, Blaze Vox and other places.

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

From the land of crooked smiles;
a series in progress

a From the land of crooked smiles

I told you before, it’s crooked You weren’t listening It’s twisted I steal pens from banks, paper
from the unemployment office And I don’t suffer from a hostile
world I’m hostile because
the world is suffering, my flaws
never the wiser for being under
the wing of all discovering light What crops of tears I have yet
to harvest What moments of joy
to realize What contradictions
to ponder Morning excites me
Commencement Address

Friends and students bring your wine and bread Let us revel in that lonesome city of lost ideals,
of deserted colonnades, streets paved in rusting
cobblestones, each stone a rock our minds threw
against the status quo and when or if enlightenment
ever comes we shall see who drowned in blood,
was declared insane or eulogized posthumously A poetry of ideals is a form of erotic love, a yearning
for what is not, a recognition of the spiritual separating
who we are from all we might be, leaving us unsatisfied The heart knows what mind does not Each can exist
without the other but at what cost?

Lowell’s spiders bow from their webs of easy chairs
reading the Encyclopedia Britannica straight through
like a novel and what they remember most is what
somebody else has written about, scholars out of office,
bobbing for apples in a vat of rotting cheese
The power of naming

Make up a name, any name, say, Lust Lust did this and Lust did that I met Lust
slumming We went to lunch Lust laughed I paid When lust barks I pant like a dog Lust smells like a bouquet of eels my nose
wrinkles round The shape of Lust is a viola
played between my thighs Lust crawls
slowly out of warm beds Lust is a blond,
Nordic woman Lust is that waiter, the one
with long legs bussing the table of lost souls Lust tells lies I can’t help but believe in Lust is a blind riveter A scar on wounds A laughing buffoon A stammer, a drool You see, it all starts with a name But what
if it wasn’t Lust but Pain instead, or Love
or Greed, or Joy What would happen then?

d A heart attack

This landscape of cramped room whose hand
wraps you in itself and squeezes till breath
heaves and eyes pop like a startled humming bird,
identity hanging on a heart throb

of time flashing, whispering, nodding, drowning
as if you’re carried closed wing into the singing
yard, the uncomfortably familiar so close, out of reach,
mixing up the critical mass of your fear
In Normal, Illinois

We do not accept unsolicited submissions That awesome girl next door is a lesbian You’re overqualified for the job we have in mind.

T.L Stokes


T.L Stokes lives in the Pacific Northwest at the base of a mountain pass, in a small white house with a teenager, a dusty cat and an English mastiff named Bogart Nudged to the right of the porch is a rhodie the size of a tree, all curves and thoughtful from spending ninety years in the same place It makes everyone else in the neighborhood feel young
Previously published in Ancient Wind Press, Ludlow Press, Comrades Press, UK, the 2River View, Stirring, Pierian Springs, Golden Gate Raptor Observatory, Gin Bender Review, Circle Magazine, Taj Mahal Review, India, Words on Walls, Compassionately Stoneground Books, NY in the book “Everwar Blues”, Poetry Victims, etc Currently in 2River View and soon in Snow Monkey by Ravena Press.

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

More Than Working Girls

Hawks guard the opening of night,
wind sends its voice across the roadway Two crows crawl across the sky
Lost women rise in clusters pale and sad,
call to us in cordless songs
and broken branches
They slip under the moss at our feet We follow dogs and sometimes find them
After dark I thought I saw an owl’s face
and felt something like a passing finger
on my shoulder
Four more are found and slowly collected The short man watches
How sad this day of triumph Some say with the second burial comes peace I think they ask for that, small penny of a wish–
someone hold your bones
Each family will hold them,
bury their faces in memories, knowing
where their daughters went missing to,

all the rest is pain
The closing of coffins A final sweep of scotch broom
heavy come spring
The women line the roadway, white as fog
spreading its face on the river
They will stay until the last song
lifts between firs
whose sap hardens in the brown leaves
They walk all the roads now, I see their faces They walk close to each other like sisters
If the wind could speak we would ask them directions In spite of silence they point,
look towards the river’s black eyes,
to slopes, blackberry vines,

all the sleeping places,

where we could plant flowers Let them grow into the hills,
down rough gullies;

open our hands and let the petals fall,
without sound like fingerprints,

over the river that was never green

.dedicated to the young women
.who were victims of the Green River Killer

Black Linen Eclipse in Threes

In Snoqualmie it is spring,
the purple iris comes a little taller
above green spray, watercolors,

small bulb tongues
Last night we talked on the phone I looked from the north window to the sky
thinking we have too much of everything
Too many clouds sink the shadow
we waited for, cover the bright shell
above our heads

perfectly aligned with the earth
and a plate of embers
on the other side of the world
There were no clouds in California
You drove up Novato hill to describe it all to me,
you held the great shell over your head
pointing to earth’s linen edge,
a gray garment
dragging across its abalone face
I couldn’t see it
The darkness here
was mostly just the night,
coming as it does,
a slow hand over the eyes, 
like falling fabric,
its silence and blindness
we take for granted
While in Mahaweel,
we trade days for their night,
inked forms of black angels
stand like crows along the horizon,

townspeople lean on their sorrow
at the grave,
a great wound in the dry field,

there is not enough of anything
except bones,

except white skulls
at what remains of the moon
.previously published in Stirring

Journey of River Stones

I am long way away in fog,
in rain,

letting fingers draw circles in the river
I don’t watch,

for my search of pebbles on the edges
of its bed

lets my eyes wander Among gray clouds
It is a purpose, this sadness
I have come to silence
like the holy land,

on my knees With gladness at the welcome
though the weight of my arms

makes me stagger
Here, let me lie for a time,
chant for me.

On Any Given Day

Seattle Post-Intelligencer
Wednesday July 16, 2003

Grandma Patty remembers Sierra Sky Hixson,
posts Happy 11th Birthday in the announcement
section of the local paper

that Clarence picks up
and shuffles open, he leans back
and reads, “Forest Lawn Columbarium,
niche w/companion vase $950 (206) 935-5882
He thinks about Mary glancing at the mantle
where the only dust in her life remains
Eh Mary–you want the niche or shall I have it,
and you have the vase?”

He knows she’d never go for anything
called Columbarium and besides, Jack said
he’d loan him the boat next Saturday–

then he gets lost for a while dancing with Mary,
the scent of her neck–

then stands in the boat as the sun leaves
pink songs above his head, the lid in one hand,
over-turned vase in the other
“Such strong hands ” she always said
And it feels like he’s pouring the fire from his heart
and the last touch of her fingers
sinks into gray smoke waves
He thinks he may have breathed in
a little of her, and opens his eyes

still hanging onto the newspaper.

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