August 12-18, 2002: Leigh White and Camillo DiMaria

Bio (auto)

I was born in the sea of polyester and blue eye shadow known as the Chicago suburbs in 1966  At 6 months, I was dropped as a baby (which explains many things…no time to go into that now)  I possess a Bachelor’s degree in Communications with an emphasis in Advertising from California State University Fullerton and have worked as a graphic designer, copywriter and marketing executive ever since  The company I work for is called p11creative  It is a graphic design firm – www.p11.com  I read my first poem in front of an audience at the Laguna Beach Brewery in 1998, had my first feature in 1999 (Club Mesa-Costa Mesa, California)  I have since featured at the Gypsy Den Costa Mesa, Gypsy Den Santa Ana, The Ugly Mugg, Alta Coffee House and Sacred Grounds  My World War II poetry is in the permanent collection at Florida State University as part of “The Institute on World War II and the Human Experience”  (the foundation was set up by NBC anchorman Tom Brokaw who authored the best selling book, “The Greatest Generation ”  My first love is fine art  I paint every day  I like my Van Halen with Roth and not Hagar  Home is Costa Mesa, California.

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

Candles don’t necessarily make you a whore Mark Kostabi paints my portrait and includes my actual facial features He says they are industrial enough to stay in the painting I don’t know if this is a compliment or an insult It makes me gushy like Bavaria The zen garden is missing a rake However, I do have a plastic fork and a tenaciously stubborn mission statement Inspired by anyone who ever threw like a girl Or bought the Journey ESCAPE cd Slight of hand to hand combat over the telephone Makes me crumble into fetalness The thorns are not unexpected They are like mattress tags and cannot be removed under penalty of the law The heat rises Hovers in my second floor apartment I have been waiting So long For a condescending gay black man who uses sarcasm like a knife to work as my receptionist but he never shows for half a second, it’s anytown u.s.a it’s alright Then, I look down at the manila I.D tag tied around my toe And I wondered what happened to me What happened to me michael stipe is a bad ass:  part III :  clichesville theft prevention is on my mind it has come down to this indulging in the most purgatorial of subjects these things scare me: cream corn, clown statuary, murals with dolphins and you.

Camillo DiMaria
Letmethinknow@aol.com

Bio (auto)

Camillo DiMaria was born in Brooklyn, grew up in Queens, and now lives in Long Island His parents and their parents were born in Sicily He writes poetry, paints, photographs, and creates music He is a member of the Local
Writers Union in Manhattan and a member of the Fresh Meadows Poets in Queens

He recently edited their annual anthology called “Freshet ” He has gone to Riker’s Isle, Creedmore Mental Facility, and PS 115 in Floral Park, to read his poetry and discuss art He attended Hunter College in Manhattan He works
as a waiter in a diner, but plans to be an English professor

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

second date she holds the black umbrella up with her tiny hand to protect us from the drizzle as we tightly hug & kiss on the boardwalk loosen, then glance at the waves & distant ship lights in the murk I wonder if her wrist hurts, then I ask if she would like me to hold the black umbrella up will it’s walking out the door and into the streets that’s hard draped on the futon feeling like my immune system’s shot peering into that brass knob visualizing the opaque people I’ll encounter it’s walking out the door going through those streets to meet with you my first foot on the stoop that instant when the air attacks my entire bulk that’s always been hard. tautology of truths he did unplug the iron he did shook it off and continued to zoom away from the premise so if he did why was the house burning, then burned down in his head? turned the car around and skidded on a curve the house outside was as he had left it maybe the fire was just starting he moved through the little vestibule to find the cellar lights on then down the stairs to open the laundry room’s door: he did unplug the iron!