June 10-16, 2002: Lauren Ashley and Summer Rogers

week of June 10-16, 2002


Lauren Ashley and Summer Rogers


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Lauren Ashley
Astraea181@aol.com

Bio (auto)

I’m Lauren Ashley — a Creative Writing major, and lately I’ve been splitting my time between Syracuse, NY and a city just east of there that holds the illustrious honor of being the arson capital of the United States I’ve been published in several local/national publications and was a finalist in the William Faulkner Creative Writing Competition in New Orleans in 2000.

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

Hard Love

This is a kiss
Veracious
To segregate lust from
Something we have not named.

Your dream is to walk
On water
Not as someone holy
But as someone who does not
Understand the limitations
of the feet.

There is one perfect circle
Scratched into my forehead
I put it there
to remember
The pain of remembering
everything
But the scent you left on me
Through old books I conjure you,
The muskiness, your flesh a
Dusting at the back of my throat Words are antiquated Sweat articulates desire I feel it at my neck
But the scent itself is tasteless.

My dream is to walk
On fire
Not as a transcendentalist
But as a woman
Burning with the pain
that justifies her.

In truth
This is a kiss My lips part
To accept it.


Summer Rogers
stuckonwritersblock@msn.com

Bio (auto)

Summer Rogers’ (from Maywood, Illinois) goal has been to transfer her imagination and energy into activities, events, and discussions with generations X, Y, Z Besides passing along wisdom from the beat and beat up generations, she is a community organizer, youth mentor, and substitute teacher in Chicago Summer is a Loyola University New Orleans graduate and former intern of the New Orleans Review and New Orleans’ OffBeat Magazine

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

Jane Doe

The world is comprised of grids
Shaded regions separate half

The silver lining whose gleam is too bright for metal
Eyes is accused of shining beams
Where darkness is meant to fall

Wrap her in cloth; package her in a box
Put her on a shelf and only think of her

litmus test

Life as real as TV broadcasts pleonasm
Trendy narcissism speaks louder than quiet thrift store scrutiny

For what initially seemed empowering, naive followers multiplied
And trailed after goods that advertised the millennium

Believing the other side was green
Reality was blown into little pieces

Walking the soul, like the dog
Gentrifying the neighborhood the same

Puffed smoke from their cigarettes between channels
Routing their threaded profile towards achievements

With billboard poise, wife beater tee shows muscle
Sweatshop grief mutely endures

Capped-tooth smiles disguise two-piece vanity in show tune happiness through
Psychic sex phone cords, installing that lost kindergarten confidence in the receiver

Greened pupils watch love ignite orgasms as
Duty merely genuflects

Reggae twists lock into peepholes of ecstasy
Holding open their orifices

As silver-plated rings gleam turning fingers
Into malignant sticks doused in stardust

Painted spirit is peeling at the ends of moral weight
Hidden between sheets of acidity

bilingual

nine stories high nine generations deep nine
strands outside of my head
hummed questions and quiet response
information station and murmured details

invisible dedication and blind amour
leather paper and glass steel

hot, back-browning sun fading into artificial air
endless fields turning into a closed wall

fluorescent eyes glimmer like light peeking through slanted horizontal blinds

blinking people display or expose

me, I self
black, period running
my ancestor
black, period running

I would like to thank capitalism, Europe, I haven’t forgotten about you
“manage the intelligentsia”