week of August 12-18, 2002
Leigh White and Camillo DiMaria
BECOME A POET OF THE WEEK
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Leigh White
leigh@p11.com
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 Bachelors 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 dont 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 paintingI dont know if this is a compliment
or an insultIt 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 cdSlight 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 showsfor half a second, its anytown u.s.a its 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 memichael 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 subjectsthese things scare me:
cream corn, clown statuary, murals with dolphins and you.
Camillo DiMaria
Letmethinknow@aol.comBio (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 QueensHe 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 professorThe 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 handto protect us
from the drizzle
as we tightly hug& kiss
on the boardwalk
loosen, then glanceat the waves
& distant ship lights
in the murkI wonder if her wrist
hurts, then I ask if she
would like meto hold the black
umbrella
upwill
it’s walking out the door
and into the streets
that’s harddraped on the futon
feeling like my immune
system’s shotpeering into that brass
knob
visualizing the opaque
people
I’ll encounterit’s walking out the door
going through those streets
to meet with youmy first foot
on the stoop
that instant
when the air
attacks my entire bulkthat’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 onthen down the stairs
to open the laundry room’s door:he did unplug the iron!