October 14-27, 2002: RJ McCaffery and anonymous

Bio (auto)

RJ McCaffery is a poet of temporary residence, currently living in Athens, GA A graduate of Providence College, he holds a M.F.A in Poetry from Sarah Lawrence College He has published two books, Chaos Theory and the Knuckleballer and The Hymnal Week; his third, Anchor Ice, is due out in the spring of 2003 His poetry and essays have appeared in such publications as The Norton Anthology of Literature’s web site, New Books, Ploughshares, The Cortland Review, Crania, The Alsop Review, The Free Cuisenart, Terrain, Conspire, Masthead, Moondance, The Melic Review, Octavo, The Blue Collar Review, and The Alembic When not restoring vintage 3-speed bicycles, he putters with several web-related poetry projects; many under the aegis of Eye Dialect, a literary publication which he edits with Kristina Van Sant and William Norris Anyone who wishes to discuss the Red Sox or poetry (and the fine line between them) is welcome to mail him.

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

Newport: The Lepers Play Volleyball and, mostly, they’re good; bump and set to spike – a blur of bronze arm and the ball zings down They’re contemporary lepers, cured; the mycobacterium leprae scourged out by a new drug cocktail Baby-kissing safe but lepers still – irreversible nerve damage, some with splinted hands or special shoes After each play, like reflex they pause to scan limbs, make sure they (and friends) have no unnoticed cuts or scrapes; a well worn first-aid kit waits with their duffel bags Soon, there will be no lepers at all, no nerveless fingers – stumps or locked claws, nasal cavities – bloated lumps, patchy scabrous skin, ulcered joints and bones and eyes gone blind, milky Soon perhaps, no colonies, forced camps, shunning of the sick, the ugly When they leave (not even half-way to their Pawtuxet Valley Tour bus) the groundskeeper her fingers in thick shrubbing gloves daintily picks the forgotten volleyball from sand and deposits it in the nearest plastic trashcan. The Magician’s Assistant Across the stage, a pair of legs exactly like your own down to the greasepaint smear on one knee thrash from a box The magician counts off seconds with a flourish of dripping saw blade; above this all, phosphorus flashes as the gorilla disappears from its welded-shut cage The magician, she’s irritable, wants to run more than one trick at a time Lately the stage’s been a litter of false bottomed trunks, flying knives and iron masks Of course she forgets magic is not saying it is so, but that a grown bird beats from a cracked egg The saw toothing through – nothing without the miracle whole But who are you to argue your small theory? For all your lace and sparkles, your thumby hands can’t manage to flick a coin up your sleeve or even hold a sedated rabbit still Even now, as the box’s halves join, as you unfold your bent body out, begin your stiff sidestage bow, the children screech loudest at the blood on the blade the magician flags over her head as if it were special – as if we all had something else in our veins. Painting Speech Art of the letter comes slower than speech – tongue between teeth, you grip the bulky pencil, learn to close your Os, leave enough space in the e, brake the lower halves of k and h before the dotted line Serif buttressed or stripped bare – you suggest the shape of sound with ink, which is pigment swirling in water, dyes bonded to oil You’ll sketch with pencil, brush, stylus or pen (reed, quill, plastic) or press it in wax, or carve in something harder, to last Silent eye – as you learn the shapes of these fluid tools, do not forget – the soft puff of articulate lips, tongue dancing thrrrum the tooth shivering ooooh. Postcard from Upstairs Reads “The weather’s fine here” – Upstairs Now that it’s spring, I haven’t heard the pipes clang as you whap your sole against your radiator’s regulator, nor have I heard your evening curses, percussion of implements in mixing bowls and the crescendo of pans clattering into your sink as yet another omelet goes awry In fact, it’s been rather quiet lately, and I wonder if your excitable dog is dead, kenneled or has been educated Its been weeks since I’ve abandoned playing The Clash at full volume over his yapping, since five minutes later I’d just hear The Dead Milkmen echoing back How is it we’ve never met? I’ve often thought you might be the blonde with the terrier, whom I saw one day reading Keats in the laundry room, and for that alone, never called management, even during your midnight Valentine’s Day bash – all those hard paired high heels clacking though I suppose, in an odd twist, you could be the matron with the poodle Why are you home alone recently, always by six, in for the night? I flip the postcard; a picture of Roman storied-apartments recently excavated from under a volcano’s flow Bright frescoes, some ledges, little clutter, plaster cast from an ash hollow, a gecko drapes his underbelly over a pear in a wicker basket In the corner, a ladder leads up, out of the photo It’s so quiet What message are you sending? Danse of the Bag Boy With a foot-shift and sway from the conveyor to the gaping bag (raised eyebrow asking, “paper or plastic”) his hands pluck and twist, flip the canned palm hearts clear of the grapes, layer in, sedimentary, the boxes of frozen produce, the pot pies, the insulating dry goods The uninitiated might say it’s like algebra, or dance, or that he is ordering force: Noah allotting the saved, Moses parting your groceries – what could such a man want, beyond something more than six an hour, and a ticket out of your shitty little town.

anonymous

Bio (auto)

Information about the author has been removed per the author’s request

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

The City is Beautiful This unbeliveable September sun falls over the faces of apartments And skyscrapers And I am sitting there with Emily down in the West Village looking at these buildings turn orange in the evening light and I think that war is certain and the world has never been more mortal than it is now and there is nowhere to run There is just this this city just this September day. Endquote Last night, last night in the wetness of a summer storm Last night when finally the sky cleared and the clouds rose Last night the New York skyline lit up & shone for the last time as best it ever would Tonight it is diminished A city lacking endquotes those southern bookends the great parantheticals that made you think: Here we are, invincible. In truth, I was far from lonely In truth, I was far from lonely I was with Em and with Em I am never lonely Em is not definable in the Girls of New York Manual: There is no place she would fit in She is broader than here, a morning star Sapphire eyes I see her face Sapphire eyes and scar. That’s the way I want to die That’s the way I want to die Up late drinking wine and going wild on some keys writing like black steam Then, in an exalted state Of je ne sais hey I’ll make a run for the steps A quick trip A little bit of pain Then blackness, sucked back into the circle The last lingering emotion not pain, nor fear Elation From your own words suddenly born immediately generating heat.