October 27-November 2, 2003: Andy Baron and Luke Buckham

week of October 27-November 2, 2003



Andy Baron and Luke Buckham


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Andy Baron
nklunch@hotmail.com

Bio (auto)

My name is Andy Baron I live in Houston, Texas I write poems.

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

Upon Learning the Details of Anne Sexton’s Suicide, I Fall Asleep

and dream
a girl’s voice
haunting me:

“after they die,
the dead go on

breathing “
I am shown
their calm faces,
grey and quiet
as wet clay
I am shown
a chest growing,
shrinking,
growing
The child
taunts me madly: “I
told you so!
I told you so!”

Every year,
nearing her birth-
day, Anne fantasized
the end of awful-
the arrival

at God I awaken, still
night, and death
is everycolor- sandcolor,
mecolor There is

no other But the dark
ocean is alive-
the black sky,
star-glittered
My knees are bent My feet are still My breathing steams
I tighten the oars
into water and flex
my boat forward
through the sea This is

the happiest rowing These are
the cleanest strides Exercise, that’s all One two one two
A voice again
only now it’s new:

“As you approach me,
I approach you “


Luke Buckham
aworminmywall@hotmail.com

Bio

I have recently moved to a weird little place called Keene, NH, where most of the citizens seem to live by New England poet Robert Frost’s declaration “good fences make good neighbors I am in chronic disagreement with this idea–I think that good doorways make good neighbors Hopefully someday I’ll write a line good enough to cancel Frost’s and make this area less frosty People must learn how to be friendlier or we will all die of loneliness
Sometimes I write poems

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

while she sleeps

Tonight the streetlights of a mute planet
are stretching their arms through our windows
trying to cradle you My body isn’t big enough Little whirlwinds of sand and leaves
play on the sidewalks like disintegrating children. 
Streets appear and disappear
in the blink of traffic lights and imitate infinity Past the boundaries of our crumpled town
Past the yellow arms that stretch through our window
Past the useless newspapers that never make a dent in reality
Blowing under the bridge to be eaten by the river,
Tyrants plots to overthrow tyrants,
feeding off the boredom of each other’s impossibly predictable cruelties,
and all I want to do is crawl
into the harsh silence of your hair and die
I don’t ever want to hear a newscaster’s monotone again
telling me in bland language that the air that surrounds your sleep
is going to be sucked out without a voice
by a missile or a meteorite And I’m tired of seeing my old friends
turned into robots by other, older robots I would kill the gods to make you smile
I wish I had never read that boring book
about the end of the world Now the orange digits of the clock
blink at your naked body like hungry animals
that have never bothered to eat You’re a cherub surrounded by gasping machines,
and I’m so tired that the moon squats
like a sumo wrestler preparing for his fat battle
on my forehead every time that I lay down
in your shadow that drifts quickly across the sheets
in a prism’d assault of sightless headlights. 
I don’t want these nightmares
to make their homes in your body. 
Last night when we were on top
of each other in the pushing air
I thought I felt a lump in your breast. 
Nobody on earth has ever deserved cancer,
but there it is I would kill the gods to make you smile. 
None of the so-called great religious texts
have ever described the way a girl looks
when she sleeps on my helpless bed. 
So I can’t trust a word they say. 
But do I remember meeting Jesus once,
late at night sitting on a park bench in Philadelphia. 
We didn’t have much to say to each other. 
I was on my way to a dance club
and he was on his way to the cross. 
I asked him why the so-called great religious texts
had never gleefully described god’s obvious handiwork
in the shape of your ass I told him that none of the psalmists
ever sang about it They were too busy
pleading for the teeth of their enemies
to be shattered in a sandal-clad kick He was too worried to answer me I tried to cheer him up, but his frown
was like the shadow of ocean waves,
crashing constantly but never into a smile,
and he kept saying to the empty, granite air,
“I don’t know what’s going on in the heavenly offices. 
I just wish I knew that this was going to be enough to satisfy them ” 
I told him that we never know
if what we do is going to be enough for anyone,
and tried to get him to come dancing,
but he said there wasn’t time There’s never enough time. 
Even gods can’t seem to conquer this problem. 
Now he hangs so quietly on his cross,
and we hang noisily on mine
I’m going to watch you sleep
until the furniture grows into my body,
and I become a part of your stationary dreams. 
Ambulances push the summer air
into whooshing fragments outside,
and you turn over with the funeral procession of youth      
already making its way across your face. 
I want to stop the wrinkles from forming
prematurely around your eyes,
but your spirit is too old for your skin. 
It keeps pushing its way out And we’ve done things in this room
that would make all the angels
stare in amused disbelief,
the action of our bodies has made us older. 
The church steeples and radio towers
lean into our windows with blank eyes
in fields of spiritual static
to see what we’ll think of next
Someday I’m going to walk out on a high cliff
above this mechanical city that is a false god’s wristwatch
and burn all the documents of our existence in the same fire Then we’ll be together without all these names I’ll watch the birth certificates
and botched marriage licenses,
the senseless pay-stubs
and the insurance forms
that can’t save anything worth saving,
glide off my fingers like limp birds
above the over-organized world
to be eaten in that fire, and the flames
will no longer make their homes in my nerves. 
On that day there will be no more gods and devils,
just you and I making love above
a field of crushed stars
and hollowly-singing beerbottles
that our guardian angles threw
when they got drunk on their watch,
grinding our mortal symetry
into disgruntled music on the rocks.