une 17-July 7, 2002: Angel Perales Luke Buckham and L.B. Sedlacek

week of June 17-July 7, 2002

Angel Perales
Luke Buckham
L.B Sedlacek


click here for submission guidelines

Angel Perales

Bio (auto)

Angel lives in Studio City, California and works for KCBS Channel 2 News in Los Angeles He is a graduate of the North Carolina School of the Arts and has worked for Hard Copy, Entertainment Tonight, and Paramount Pictures He has one collection of poetry, Brown Recluse, and is working on his second volume, Long.

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

Johnny Bland

The twenty-eight year old
actor pulled me aside on the set
and showed me a list of all the girls
he’d fucked
43 with first and last name,
(14 were actual long-term girlfriends,
whom he dated a month or longer,
those names had an asterisk by them )
19 with first name only,
11 and counting of half-remembered
encounters with forgotten names
The girl at the bar in Las Vegas The girl he met hitchhiking in Big Bear The girl from Venice Beach The girl that was the friend of his buddy’s
girlfriend up in San Francisco The dark-haired girl that took that acting class The girl on vacation n Australia The girl on vacation in Acapulco The girl (who flashed everybody on the boat)
during spring break in Lake Havasu The intern on the set of “Wendigo” The black chick that lived in the corner
apartment for a month The stripper from The Underground Club The time he went back home and fucked
the little sister of one of his ex-girlfriends,
what was her name? Tina or Tammy or,
oh, I just remembered Tanya, better put her
on the other list
He beamed and he said that pretty soon
he’ll make another list of all the girls he
has kissed and not fucked or had just
fondled and not kissed or just touched
their breasts or fingerbanged them
through the pants or just blowjobs
I kept a bland face and nodded politely
and quietly said “oh” and “really?”,
and “Ha!”, and “Lake Havasu?” and
blandly put the hood of my jacket
over my head and looked around
and rubbed my hands together
and put out an imaginary cigarette
on the ground with my shoe
I did not want to be amazed or shocked
or self-righteous or disgusted or
incredulous or share a ribald story Well, did you ever do one on the sky ride
at Disney or on the back seat of her
parents’ Lincoln Continental while her
father was driving? Huh?

No, I kept myself small and disinterested
and smiled at his list and raised my eyebrows
and nodded politely and kept my face bland
and he put his arm around me and exclaimed,
“Johnny, isn’t life grand!!?”

And I,
I did not answer,
for I,
I was much,
too much,
much too much
ashamed that I
was older and had
written out
a much shorter

Studio City

I saw two celebrities shopping today
inside the Bed, Bath, and Beyond
in Studio City
Omar Epps was buying a shower massager
and Elizabeth Shue was looking at picture frames At one point they were both standing
next to each other in the homemade soap
section, ignoring each other pointedly
just like the rest of the Hollywood
conscious shoppers Even the experienced
checkout girl only offered a professional
The celebrities in Studio City always
come out the day after a good downpour,
when the mist is still drizzling and
their respective productions have been
rain-delayed once again They have had
some time to sit at home and ponder the
different ways to make their lives even better Omar is not satisfied with his water pressure
when he takes a shower and Elizabeth has some
mementos she needs to display for posterity
Still, they wonder what they could have said
to each other as they drive over the slugs
and the worms in the puddle-strewn streets
of Studio City and the wiper blades sound
harsh because the day is beginning to dry up
I bought a sturdy umbrella and the checkout
girl did not offer me her smile because she
knows that it rains every day in and out and
outside and inside of my apartment nearby.

Luke Buckham

Bio (auto)

i live in a very hot non-airconditioned attic, with my girlfriend and her pitbull, lucy, in the middle of a dying industrial city called schenectady (NY), which does not live up to its delicious name we do not pay rent, so technically we are squatters, but so far the eviction police have not come to take us away hopefully they will, soon, and force me to move back to the country here, when i walk out my door, all i walk on is tar, and all i smell is filtered through a screen of smoke

current post-bukowski poetry (not that it’s his fault, as he was a very passionate original), with occasional exceptions, has gotten too smug, casually conversational, self-conscious, and cynical to be even slightly interesting i want it dead

i would like to have an artistic life like that of miles davis, always shifting styles, always experimenting, staying 10 steps ahead of the curve, if there is such a curve anymore not for my ego but for my unsatisfiable hunger

because of the temperature in my aforementioned attic, i usually write naked, and hopefully the spirit of my comfortable, guiltless nudity comes through in my words

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

alone at a table, across from you at your favorite restaurant
the best thing that can still happen to a man
is for him to become an alien in his own country
how was i supposed to pilot this weird car
back and forth to a job behind a cash register
and ignore the scream of god
making the sky burn red through jet exhaust and neon signs erased
and concentrate on cash?
i was chipping ice from the doorstep of a demonic factory
making sure that the men who i quietly hated
wouldn’t slip and break their backs
on the way into their acceptable hell
hung with intestine-painted tarps
when i turned to the sound of the sky opening for me
and cranes and airplanes turned in the frozen distance of my vision
the grass stopped withering and sprouted green again
and the owner of the factory came out
with his eyes like the aisles of a pharmacy
his skin having become the plastic that his workers made
and told me to keep my eyes on the ground while god howled
and my tears landed on his boots
melting through the steel toes and into the weary skin
my hands went limp on the shovel
that was struck by an earthquake within the metal and the wood
sheets of tan metal loosened their screws
and the tar streamed with rabid kittens
the peacful froth of their cloudy mouths inviting my skin
but still he turned
back toward the screens that made a numbered waterfall of his face
and my arms dropped through the winter wind behind him
grasping for the dead moths weeping tombs & pyramids inside his wallet
i spoke to his back as he descended through
the windows filled with wire
and subjugated electricity
a whole nation contained in his spine and unpunctured hernias
asking if he had already wrapped his children in newspapers
and sent them off to the public-school hallways that lead nowhere
i left my clothes on the bed of the one who comforted me
and forgot that my nakedness would frighten the rest of the town
the hotel room swallowed my identification easy as an aspirin
the sheets wrapped up around my many false names
and the town became a swamp
the billboards crossed by vines
still i sat on dusty barstools
twitching at the rasp of gone voices
between cracked windows unable to breath
the stagnation of the air left behind
and the waitresses insisted that the tourist season was in full swing
but the only person i’ve seen in weeks was in my own mirror
and he is becoming a strong midget
with steel plates welded over his sensitive areas
whirlpooling down the dilation of his own pupils
as the sink drain becomes the roar of an airplane engine
as the medicine cabinet is emptied into the night
and the vines suck their grapes into raisins before i can make wine
i tunneled under the river
waters dark as a trash-bag
and found where my grin had been buried in the sand
and loved a living person instead of a legend
and lifted my hands past the many spiderwebbed windshields
of deaths that were supposed to be careful
the tar leaping up through my feet
like termites tired of wood and wanting flesh
it’s not so bad, man
so what if the poets are all chattering nervously about health insurance
and the movies screens airbrush the apocalypse
it’s kinda funny if you put tape over your nostrils
and let your eyelashes turn to barbed wire
pushing your tangled vision into an armchair
and watching the senators the singers the athletes the disc jockeys and the marines
all trying to trample your soul
on a field of dead grass that they won’t let you fertilize
relax and let her come out of your rib again
and run her hands through your hair like the river before the freeze
before the last drop of water turns
to orange steam in a labelled soda-can
telling you that not every lover
is in a window of the same fleeing train

L.B Sedlacek

Bio (auto)

Sedlacek, L.B Publisher of The Poetry Market E-zine Chapbooks include: “after Graceland,” “The Cat and the Carroll A Deering & Other North Carolina Poems,” “Alexandra’s Wreck” (published by Kitty Litter Press) Poetry publications include: The Lummox Journal, Facets Literary Magazine, Lutheran Digest Magazine, The Artermis Journal, PKA’s Advocate, Anthology, Stray Dog, Doggerel, The Paumanok Review, The Horsethief’s Journal, New Works Review, The Brown Critique, Outstretch, Feelings of the Heart, HazMat Review, Poetry Life & Times, The Odeum, Portals, Carpe Laureate Diem, Romantic Hearts, The Oak, The Guild, Blue Collar Review, Beggar’s Press, The Sidewalk’s End, Improvajazzation Nation, Unlikely Stories, IdioM, Starry Night Review Literary E-zine, Red Owl Magazine Recent articles & fiction include: Bovine Free Wyoming, Delasaint’s, Charlotte Observer, Life Insurance Selling, Fluffy Fables, Frugal Simplicity, Frugal Moms, The Outer Rim, The Unlikely Unknown, Legions of Light, Penny-A-Liner, My Legacy, Writer’s Choice, Ascent Magazine, Duct Tape Press Visit L.B on the web here.

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

Adopted by a Highway

Black coils of wire
wrapped round my toes
motherless feet walking barefoot
under light blue sky
twisting blades of grass
with heavy heels
cracked, dry, raw
leaving a bloody trail
for the snakes to follow
among balding Blue Mountains
(of North Carolina)
amid waterfalls of tears
dried up now and completely vanished
like beef jerky wrappers
decaying on the Appalachian Trail
left in the rush
to meld black tread and asphalt
to spit out jolts electric
cuffing my hands, my toes
to a machine
leading me to wonder
if I was adopted by a highway
would I have good parents.

Fresh Quilts and Cold Milk

Fresh ice, cold milk,
Use / refill canisters of natural gas
that probably seeps through the cracks
no matter how secure the seals
welded and molded by cracked dry hands
that shake from age and motion
of wielding fire and metal
as a ripsaw tearing through wood
lined and drawn into patterns
when pieced together
in their puzzle schemes
turn into sofas, chairs and tables
with imported parts from China
even though they carry a ‘Made in the USA’ label
that weaves blue ink into white cotton —
a blanket supporting the whole town
sagging some when it’s wet, stiff when it’s dry
bleeding red into patches
complementing the quilt
with threads of fast food, discount marts, and gas stations
like this one offering sodas, ice cubes, 
and gallons of fresh cold milk –
all for sale to whomever’s willing to pay the price.

Car Interiors

A new face at the window is
Unexpected, but welcome
As steaming hot cocoa
Or imported tea or soft
Cloth comfort and bucket seats
Taking cruise control for
Granted, neglecting mileage,
Avoiding oil changes
Or the same old arguments
About why some live in
Mansions while others
Sleep in cars

Subscribe to our weekly Newsletter: