February 3-9, 2003: Linda Rosenkrans and Anthony Watkins

week of February 3-9, 2003

Linda Rosenkrans and Anthony Watkins

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Linda Rosenkrans

Bio (auto)

I am a poetess and fictional short story writer residing in Los Angeles My publishing credits include works in Abby’s Realm, Deviant Lit, Eidos, KungFuOnline, The Nocturnal Lyric, Our Journey, Prometheus,Scriberazone, Suzerain Enterprises Undershorts, Unlikely Stories, and Updare.

The following work is Copyright © 2003, and owned by Linda Rosenkrans and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Bed of Roses


Being a Eucomis nana
She’s never planted

Several harvests later
She experiences a gray period
With Botrytis blight

Being the diseased bushes
Who warned her
To stay away
If the humidity
Rise relatively high,
And to
To stay away
If the temperature
Fall below normal

“Oh,” she says, ” the dead roses were right “


My stomach is growling
I just spent my last 60
on a 100

to replenish
the dried bugs
sleeping dormant
inside my brain
First things first
you know,
I’ll worry about
feeding my
empty garbage can
The phone rings ” Hey “
It was him,
my nurturing connection
disguised as lust
only suitor
who simply addressed me
with a non committal,
“Hey “
As in
hay for his horse
or for his jack-off ass,
I’m not sure which
I needed him
to trip forgetful organisms
into thinking
I was human
Human is
Human does
or something like that
He arrives at my door
we thrust gapping orifices
clicked shallow wind chimes
and hiked up one another’s mountains
After smashing along
silky walls of grape
my stomach growls again
for unconditional attention-
like the kind
an occasional rain shower
might give to a parched
Mr heads for my barren refrigerator
opens it
shuts it
” Worthless women!”
He leaves
My stomach cries in abandoned agony
Brain bugs falling asleep again.

Personal Assistant

A nobody
For a somebody
A Professional slave
For a modern celebrity mistress
Running menial errands
Such as cleaning up after
Her shit
And kissing her Ass
(With a smile on my face)
I pretend like her shit
Don’t stink And if I don’t Well then,
I guess I’d be out of a job
Looking for another
Billion-dollar buttress
To lick.

Anthony Watkins

Bio (auto)

I have been at various times, and am still for most of the following: poet, construction worker, used bookstore owner truck driver, local and over the road custom budder of pecan trees, pig farmer salesman of house plants, cars, home remodeling services, Pepsi products & advertising publisher and editor of a literary quarterly Abundance-A Harvest of Life, Literature & Art Born in Jackson, Mississippi in 1959, I have lived nearly half of my life in Alabama and the other half in Florida I grew up deeply religious conservative and am now an agnostic liberal active Democrat

The following work is Copyright © 2003, and owned by Anthony Watkins and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

When I Win the Lottery

When I win the lottery I shall drive a Roadmaster
I will drive it into the small towns, like Marvel and So So
Like Lucedale and Earl and Society Hill and Stanton
I will drive it into towns so small I have to drive
For at least another hour just to eat a hot meal
You might wonder at my choice of automobile
It is certainly not the sexiest car ever built
That might be the little Fiat Spider that resides
Uncranked and uncrankable forever in my garage
Its beauty makes me cry, but it does not run

The Roadmaster is not the most dependable car
That might be my little Nissan pickup finally stilled
After four hundred and two thousand miles
And there are certainly cars more fitting a sudden millionaire
Lexus, Lincoln, Caddy’s and Rolls, or Janis’ Mercedes Benz

But I shall drive a Buick when I go to the cities along my path,
Be they New Orleans, Miami, Atlanta, L.A , St Louis or New York
For I am forty-three, and though I would have spat on such a boat
When I was half my age, the roomy Roadmaster glides smoother
Than any other descendant of Henry Ford or John W Lambert

So I shall float gently down the expressway or round the twisty lane
Into my old age on the softest ride I can find.

The Way the Cornbread Promises

The way the cornbread promises, while still in the oven, 
The way the little piece of dead fish looks like the deed
To a corner lot in heaven,

The pointless stories about the trips we took in the pickup
Three hundred thousand miles of sweat of after the A/C went out,
How come they build a truck that goes to the moon and back
And then around the world six times
But the A/C goes two months after the warranty?

How come a dad can talk to his teenaged son
So easily at eighty miles an hour
But when they get home they go into their rooms and never speak?

I sit in the garage and think of fish, 
Of little boys growing into men, 
Of hot sweaty miles blowing by, 

And the only thing I am sure of
Is that I am getting old


As sad as an Emmylou Harris song, 
As melancholy as a Sunday night
And as obvious as a box of condoms, 

She was gonna break his heart, 
And wudn’t nothing you
Nor I could do to save him

It was a runaway heartbreak coming down
Like a drive by shooting, 
‘cept none of us bystanders
Were even close to innocent

Innocent had long since packed up
And move to the suburbs.

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