October 13-19, 2003: David Herrle and Elizabeth P. Glixman

week of October 13-19, 2003

David Herrle and Elizabeth P Glixman

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David Herrle

Bio (auto)

David Herrle is a working Pittsburgh writer whose first short fiction collection,  Anywhere But Her, was officially published July 2003 He is the founder and editor of SubtleTea.com, founder and mediator of Castle Shannon Library’s Monthly Muses Writers Forum, and an occasional participant in various art events and readings In 2002 his self-published poetry book, Doomsinger Smiles, inspired the poetry collection he has recently finished for agents/presses: Venus Egmont (Fiction Girl Poems)
Herrle is also currently shopping a 5-part novel, Love Is Blonde, and is gradually working on an epic novel about a fictional woman’s life, Where Are You, Fine-Wine Face?  Groundwork for a collaborative anthology of poetry and prose through SubtleTea is one of the many projects Herrle has in mind at present
He lives in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania with his earth angel, M.

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

Sees Her Ex

She took a drag on her Lucky Strike
squinted held it in
smoke out nostrils
dragon jets
her teeth showing
said “sorry”
I nodded thinking it had been
in her lungs
or even silk inside
She took another drag
squinted held it in
smoke out nostrils
dragon jets
said “there’s that bastard”
the smoke in my face again
this time didn’t say sorry
saw her watching him
flirt with sexies
her teeth hidden
by tight upset lips.

Eve Walks Through the Orchard

Last fall she was high heels over head
hopelessly hopeful
in the arrested moment
stretched over countless hotel
nights with the tallest man she’d ever dated
Chases around king-sized beds
sipping brandy until dizzy
chewed banana smashed through their teeth
and mashing it together with their tongues There’s something ultra-intimate about
swapping sloppy banana with a man
He always said nothing could go wrong in a hotel
until one night the police were in the hall
and they saw something under a blanket
wheeled to the elevator They closed the door
and laughed Horrible, but they laughed They laughed and couldn’t stop
because they were so alive
and they made love like frenzied lions She cried his name like someone
shattered on rocks pleading for help
One night she half-awoke and half-dreamed
that he packed his clothes and tip-toed to the door The next day she called the desk and found
that he had checked out and claimed she would pay the bill She felt ashamed to be naked
Now she walks through the orchard
upturned collar
wind pressing at her back Shed trees frozen like dead women Amused that this reverie comes
to her a year later, crunching over
fiery leaves, she thinks
He wouldn’t need a ladder to pick
the highest apple
She wonders if he’d offer her a bite Or if they’d chew it into sauce and share it in a kiss
But there are no apples anyway In due time, in due time.

Elizabeth P Glixman


Elizabeth P Glixman (Worcester, Massachusetts) writes poetry, nonfiction, and short stories Her work can be seen in e-zines and print publications including Small Spiral Notebook, Snow Monkey, Outsider Ink, storySouth, Pig Iron Malt, Doorknobs and Body Paint, 3 A.M Magazine, Chocolate for A Woman’s Soul II,  Whole Life Times, In Possee Review, and Muse Apprentice Guild

The following work is Copyright © 2003, and owned by Elizabeth P Glixman and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

The Creator

In his yellow glory Amen Ra
wakes the land 
each day
above and around the Nile River
Amen Ra brings happiness
to infertility
with melted snows 
and flooded rivers

He inherited this job
from a mother
whose gardening skills
won her a prize
at the country 
It is hard to tell when she lived
or if the story is real
for she was a woman creator
and not much is known about Eve
except the rib

The land after death and in-between is hidden 
in pyramids 
and ancient letters 
the solar disks
the plumes
the eagle’s head
the goat
The hand of Amen Ra
is invisible
No one can decipher
the complete 

It is five o’clock
Amen Ra is pleased with this day’s work
It is good
He boats across the red and violet western sky
in his creaky ship 
to sleep the peace of a labor well done
Tomorrow he will
bring dawn to men
laboring in the fields 
who bow to him
at days end
and proclaim him the creator of all
in the darkness

Published in Snow Monkey

Voices At Night

Do you want him dead?
These were the words I heard before sleep
when all I wanted was a lullaby Brutal words arrived in my ears from the dark hall
Whose exit led to the back door,
Where I could see stars and pine trees
Through bullet proof square pieces of glass
Last month when it snowed
crystals larger than moth balls,
there was a fight
Blood red in the snow,
In the backyard with the stars and the trees
next to the door with the glass, where all is visible Enraged fists and clenched teeth were dim
In the shadows of the moon
It was all about laying actions down on the line
About money
It was an f you fist thing
Hidden in trees in the yard White powder in brown bags
Money, dark as a boy’s skin
From the window I watched. 
The strange hand movement that was their kiss
felt sweaty in my palms Between these boys was victory
They hugged
I do not understand their language
Those do you want him dead words sleep with me,
I am afraid to hear past twelve midnight
when the murder words slid under my door,
From the hall where the stars do not live,
I remember the moon’s face, shining bright
And the red lines of blood on the boys’ arms

It is night, no words appear in the hall I tell the cow in my lullaby to jump quickly over the moon,
There are brown bags that daylight will seize

Published in Tough Times

An Invitation

I am planning to make love to myself in the middle of Main Street this Tuesday at eight a.m My angel, my devil, my woman will be there in view of all You are all invited
Pretending I am acting but knowing the truth I will kiss my lips reflected
in the mirror of the crimson puddle on my right where soldiers died for peace and mothers cried in shame Their lips, my lips walk on another face in another universe

In hallucinations of golden sands I will toss through the granular mounds of my mind
sifting and sorting, telling the terrorists of history to go away You are not welcome here My feet will hit cement near the city’s plaza, moist blankets of sun burnt sugars
cover toes, legs, a belly softer than dust, and a limb that was left from the last war
I will roll on the sidewalk No one will see anything but passing traffic A person at the bus stop glances blindly, not aware of reflections His mirrors are covered with cloth so heavy
the sunlight is gone from his eyes Moaning Crying In isolated fulfillment
I will laugh in surrendering pain
Roll down the hills of childhood in grass stained pants
and clothes my brother never wore At the bottom I will rise
peacefully and fall towards the mountaintop
Everyone who can see will clap at the performance, leave his or her name in the guest book, and search for their own mountain to climb
Published in Skyline Literary Magazine

Cast Iron Pan Speaks

Harsh weighty overcast cooking pan
cajoles me in the electrified heat Flushed with burning, he is glowing,
demanding the removal of all fans Energy quantifies time No need for coolness
Breakfast Lunch Dinner Yoked circle chicken gift
condenses codifies Crispness is an option Completed Steamy swelling tomato
sauce ionized by cooking

My expertise is exactness Exhilarate my leaden edge
Notch my sweat in degrees,
Slowly grease my grace Lead me to satisfaction The stainless steel-protruding spatula
Is my icing Scraps Tingles Releases my iron will Removing rusty resistance Ignites I love the pain in my pan

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