March 25-31, 2002: Laura Winton and David Hopkins

week of March 25-31, 2002


Laura Winton and David Hopkins


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Laura Winton
fluffysingler@prodigy.net

Bio (auto)

I am poet, playwright and performance artist in Minneapolis, MN I publish the literary magazine Karawane: Or, the Temporary Death of the Bruitist, which features writers who perform their work I have performed my poetry and poetic theater & performance art extensively throughout the Twin Cities, including the Walker Art Center, Weisman Art Museum, First Avenue Club, and many festivals, open mics,etc as well as at LadyFest Midwest in Chicago last year My work tends toward surrealism, with the belief that poetry, of all the literary arts, has the most in common with visual art and has the ability to retrain our brains to think creatively and in a nonlinear fashion and consequently, to rescue us from our personal and social doldrums My personal website contains poetry, prose, performance art, and manifestos: http://www.fluffysingler.homestead.com

The following work is Copyright © 2002, and owned by Laura Winton and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Lost Summer

Rain follows me wherever I go I pull clouds behind
me on sky-high kite strings Lightning
curls my hair, locks rolled in
cumulus curlerseverything
I touch turns to storm:
soccer fields into swimming
pool mudholes, lakes, stagnant
mangers birth mosquito cities;
roads wash
out leaving me
no way home
and children tick
worthless days, counting
backwards lost bicycle hours and home
runs unhit Grey is the backdrop
to heaven, a channel off
the air, shows canceled into
white fuzz and all
because
I cannot stop
raining.

Ten thousand

Someday I will be worthy of my ten thousand ideals
cast off my puny small gods and their
incense dances their
silent lotus supplications I will
learn to speak
in your tongue with gifts of understanding
great visions your dreams become mine
I will build you
tall monuments and skyscrapers
from children&Mac226;s blocks with bumps
and ridges prefabulated where
pilgrims once swung an axe Always you demand the impossible the
counterclockwise moment before apology Some day I will cease to live in present tense to speak in first person to
sit finally inside the quiet house watching for shadows
beneath the door.

Holy Laughter

I make up words so no one
understands me, speak in strange prophetic
alphabets, learn hieroglyphics to feed you
from the bread crumbs left behind my itinerant
trail tonight I can form
no sentences into poems no scribbles into words
I wear buffalo fires on my sleeve cave-carved suns melt into papyrus
and disintegrate under the weight of ink and graphite and stories slip
off my tongue roll onto the floor ecstasy is my
sacrament, holy laughter my gift of the spirit I do not prophesy
and no one contradicts me I do not talk of
albino buffaloes and empty sulfur canyons I laugh
with my eyes closed mutter alphabets strange
and prophetic I prove the intersection
of parallel lines with my cackles, a siren song
unanswered vision unintelligible brain cut into
spheres and spheres again and spheres again
words and thoughts amble orphaned through synapse mazes
to no where I laugh with my eyes closed I do not
prophesy and no one answers

Lucid Waking

I dream with my eyes open
forget nothing, even in sleep This bed is not my own,
a stranger’s head imprinted in the pillow
Forgetting nothing, even in sleep,
moments flicker violent like candles behind the breeze,
a stranger’s head imprinted in the pillow,
your legs and torso carve a downy hollow
Moments flicker violent like candles behind the breeze,
struggle against extinguishment Your legs and torso carve a downy hollow Someone’s been sleeping in my bed
Struggling against extinguishment
to remain lucid in waking,
someone’s been sleeping in my bed
stealing pictures from behind my eyes
I remain lucid in waking
stealing pictures from behind my eyes This bed is not my own:
I dream with my eyes open.


David Hopkins
dehopkin@faculty.ed.umuc.edu

Bio (auto)

My name is David Hopkins, and I am a current English faculty member with University of Maryland University College, European Division in Bamberg, Germany I hold B.A.s in English and psychology, M.A.s in counseling and psychology, and am currently working toward the Ph.D in psychology with the University of Nuernberg in Germany I was the winner of the American Counseling Association’s spring 2001 national student essay contest Other than that, I have never published

The following work is Copyright © 2002, and owned by David Hopkins and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

The Sermon

Once I stood outside a locked door
Pounding to get in while I listened
To my son being mauled by a dog
When the door opened his 8 year old
Ripped open lips puckered downward
As he sobbed while standing stiff and paralyzed, too
Scared to move less he step on a land mine
On the way to the hospital I did
My best to wipe his wounds,
And then held him helplessly to by breast,
Wishing I could nurse him
Unable to, I instead stumbled over
My training as a crisis counselor, ìAre you feeling
angry at the dog?î

He stopped crying, looked up, 
And wrinkled his face in shock,
As if I had just suggested that Santa Clause
Is not real

He said shaking his head, “Noooo, I know him “

With both pride and envy
I bought him a giant medal of chocolate
Wrapped in Gold.

Squinty Eyes

Intent in the mirror
Hard at work on
Too pale skin needing
Shade and jewels above
The eyes;

Coaxing hairlines longer,
Stretching smiles,
Waxing and cutting with careful strokes
Like a lottery winner who canít
Read the numbers
Water wondering of wine.

Sacred Heart

There’s a feeling
That comes in the
Middle of the chest
Like a comet through
The back stopped by
The breastbone It burns there in
Orphan beds,
So many at
Once like
Shooting stars Glows there
In moments just
Before fighting,
When speech is
Distant, when
Familiar faces
Look to each other
For courage,
When the possibility
Of foreign feelings
Of immediate death
Come with pummeled,
Distant glowing bomb
Songs, growing louder
And brighter until
Their heat overtakes
The kernel of light,
Leaving one free
To do
Whatever, whatever, whatever.

Special Announcement

This weekend marks the deadline
for getting over the terrorist attacks
and for getting on with our lives Every American has been assigned a
PIN number with which they are to log-on
to a secure website of the Federal
Department of Emotional Maturity,
where they will take an on-line standardized
test designed to assess the state of their
grieving process Anyone found to still
be grieving will be further assessed by
a special team of experts on tough-mindedness Those found lathargic in moving on with their
responsibilities as citizens will be issued
a blue card identifying them as citizen-defunct They will then be sent to a special supportive
community in a southern Texas where they
will undergo a revolutionary treatment protocol
called the “Broad-jaw, big-brimmed,
Johnny-Wayne-Rational-Emotive-pragmatic-kick-some-ass
counseling for terrorism recovery ” Because of the
high number
of individuals expected to need this treatment,
HMO’s across the country have united in concern
over who will cover the cost The government,
however,
has assured those tax payers who are unable to
afford the treatment that the cost can be worked
off by shoveling shit at the President’s private
Ranch.