April 1-7, 2002: Cliff Hightower and Kelley White

week of April 1-7, 2002


Cliff Hightower and Kelley White


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Cliff Hightower
c_hightower@hotmail.com

Bio (auto)

I’m a journalism major at the Univeristy of Tennessee in Knoxville I have been writing since I was 13 I am now 27 The majority of my work is in prose, but over the last five years I have started writing poetry The majority of my work tries to take a journalistic style using minimal language

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

Oceans

Pops rolled out of here about a week ago,
and I found myself missing him
like some kind of gay superman Not that I’m gay or superman,
but it must be nice to roll down the hills
driving a brand new Lincoln,
white with custom leather seats
and a stereo that didn’t work He drove to see the ocean,
and I was left in my oceans
Maybe he’ll do it again
and this time I’ll go We’ll head out of Knoxville,
I-40 East, windows rolled down,
cruising like pimps We’ll cross the mountain,
hit Asheville, N.C and the local
Dairy Queen drive-in
and order chocolate shakes Somehow my shake won’t be cold
and I’ll have to slurp it down like
a glass of chocolate milk
Maybe I’ll raise hell,
and he’ll raise hell,
and we’ll raise hell together,
Because the times they aren’t changing,
We are Halfway there I’ll see a blonde North Carolina girl
and I’ll aspire to get her in my bed Pops will aspire to get her into his heart The times aren’t changing We are And when we get to the ocean
I’ll know it’s not the end of the rail for this
locomotive line we call friendship
We’ll walk out on a pier
And see the ocean Maybe it’s blue,
Maybe it’s a gray,
Maybe it’s pitch fucking black,
I don’t know
He’ll sit down I’ll sit down beside him A whistle will cry
then I’ll sit and wonder if it’s a freighter,
but imagine it as more What I don’t know That’s for me to find out And when I do Pops will be romantic I will be realistic Together we will be drawn into 
a hip carma that only friends can share It’s like a sutra of the sunbowl A goddess of our whims Maybe Pops doesn’t understand me,
and I don’t understand him But at least we have a whole ocean to piss in.


Kelley White
kelleywhitemd@yahoo.com

Bio (auto)

I was born and raised in New Hampshire, have degrees from Dartmouth College and Harvard Medical School, and have been a pediatrician in inner-city Philadelphia for the past twenty years I write to survive, returning to poetry when I found myself an unwontedly single mother of three after a very difficult divorce a few years ago I started sending work two years ago with very modest goals (I hoped to have a half dozen poems published by my fiftieth birthday in 2004) but have had somewhat surprising success, with more than 700 poems accepted or published by about one hundred and seventy-five journals
Check out Kelley’s manuscript
At The Monkey-Feast Table and her personal website here: http://www.geocities.com/kelleywhitemd/

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

untitled

Trash Day
I bundled fidelity
in a plain brown bag
and threw it
in the dumpster; I bagged
your promises, your old love
talk, hopes I put a stack
of family values
in the recycling bin I flushed marriage and shut
the bathroom door I set wishes and forgiveness
out on the sidewalk Maybe
somebody will find
something useful
and carry it home.