November 18-24, 2002: Dina Hardy and T.L Stokes

Bio (auto)

Dina Hardy is the author and illustrator of the small book Grocery Shopping with Roy Lichtenstein from Spout Graphic Press  Her work has been published in the ‘Beyond the Valley of the Contemporary Poets 2001 Anthology’ and ‘Inscape 2002’  She has also been accepted into an anthology of paradelles, RUNES magazine and Mischief, Caprice and Other Poetic Strategies (Red Hen Press)  Dina began writing poetry in the late 1990’s when she participated in Idyllwild’s Intensive Poetry Workshop  Since then, she has featured at many venues — including the Cobalt Cafe in Canoga Park and the legendary Beyond Baroque in Venice  Dina lives in Burbank, CA

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

Plastic Wrap He brought his dreams in his lunch  Every day his mother packed a box for him  Slipped in the one about going to Harvard, getting his MBA, selling stocks His mother packed each dream in a zip-lock bag squeezed the air out, so they wouldn’t spoil   She laid them carefully into the boy’s metal lunch box  — rust proof, with a very professional, masculine Scotch plaid design The boy loved lunch period  Couldn’t wait for the bell  Rushing down the hall, sliding into his seat, he sat next to the same girl day after day  She, too, carried her dreams wrapped in plastic  The two of them unsnapped their boxes and promptly swapped their dreams For the boy wanted to be a ballet dancer and the girl had one helluva head for economics  They relished this time when everything was so deliciously easy. Stitching Up the Past El mundo es un pañuelo, “It’s a small world ”  Spanish, Lit: ‘The world is a handkerchief.’  Grooved pie, pt v slang, to leave The past is a handkerchief he irons, folds four times, then tucks into his breast pocket  Hours-old coffee varnishes his tongue as he swigs  Constant humming from the fish tank  By the door, a cat sleeps nose open to the threshold, the smell of wet earth Outside, rain dances like oil on a fajita skillet He pats down the lump of fabric over his heart, feels picket fences and lemonade on a day hotter than this one, perched on a porch swing, on Spencer Avenue in Batchelor, Louisiana, about to pop the question to Sharon Barron  That was a beautiful day  That was the worst day of his life, but in captivity, goldfish stop growing when they reach four inches   They expand three fold if they can escape domestication  Really, it was a relief she said No  So, he grooved pie out of the south and settled west because that’s where the sun sleeps and he needed the light Mira, chico, there was nothing left to do but buy a bible Blind eyes of time, thick with cataracts and the sharp focus that comes with news that your first love has died  He feeds the fish with memories, turns the cat to air, leaves, and crosses paths with Diana, his neighbor, who was Sharon’s best friend in college, because after all, it is a small world  She was the one who broke the news to him this morning, now declares, Any doubts you may have will disappear early next month, as if this cardboard wisdom will transform the pain into linen El mundo es un pañuelo, he thinks  His car embraces him while the rain plays jazz on the windshield   The corners of his world have been unraveling for awhile, until now, he convinces himself, now as he weaves into rush hour traffic to retrace the creases of the last forty years. Bacchus You think life is all jazz and easy conversation breathing through an open window as you pluck another grape from the bunch in your fat fingers   Flesh upon lip and roll the orb across your tongue as if eating the Earth  Even as a child you smiled, said, more and again   I Get Along Without You Very Well, croons Billie Holiday I know she’s lying A bottle tipped empty, another uncorked, glasses raised to friends’ first house, news of first child, promotion I want to forget I’m renting, single, unemployed  We’re listening to Lady in Satin, she’s intoxicating and I’m beginning to feel the booze mixing with blood, numbing thoughts that I’m not immortal like you But I’m glad to be unhappy as the room slips like fingers playing jazz piano  It’s midnight four in the morning and oh my god, Bacchus, I cannot feel my teeth, cannot say your name   What have you done to my tongue?  Slurring, back sliding down the wall to the floor to the cool linoleum against my face Bacchus — your name means twice born Within you lie the bestial and the sublime  The music ended a long time ago but I can’t hear the silence over the blood pounding in my ears   Curled in the fetal position in this kitchen by the dishwasher I sleep, and wait to be born again. Dryer Needs If dryer won’t operate check the following If dryer won’t operate check the following Won’t start, won’t heat, won’t dry Won’t start, won’t heat, won’t dry If following dry operation won’t check, the dryer heat won’t, won’t, won’t start Attention, if you forget to clean the lint screen Attention, if you forget to clean the lint screen A tone will sound when the screen needs cleaning A tone will sound when the screen needs cleaning If the tone, the screen  Forget you, screen lint! When cleaning to attention, clean sound needs a will If you’ve checked above, dryer needs servicing If you’ve checked above, dryer needs servicing Turn off dryer, clean screen, do not remove sticker Turn off dryer, clean screen, do not remove sticker Do remove clean screen off above dryer If you’ve not checked sticker servicing, turn dryer needs Forget attention  You clean above clean, when cleaning won’t do  You’ve checked the will   If lint won’t screen, if tone won’t sound, check the needs  Needs not  Won’t start   Screen, screen, to operate dryer  Dry!   If following sticker servicing, turn dryer, remove dryer  The heat off.

T.L Stokes
pongee7@yahoo.com

Bio (auto)

The author lives in Washington state on the edge of the Snoqualmie River
which is quiet this time of year holding up mirrors to catch the leaves on By spring it may take over the town She is usually out walking Bogart a young english mastiff He is a favorite for the employees of Ace Hardware who demand that he come back every week so they can see how much he’s grown The author has published work in The Ancient Wind Press, Comrades, Stirring, The 2River View, Poetry Super Highway, Ludlow Press, the Golden Gate Raptor Observatory “Baskets for Birds” program, etc , honorable mention in the 2001 Virginia Adversaria Poetry Competition, with upcoming work in The Junket

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

park street in winter the woman lives under the holly tree dresses up in the old prickly leaves every morning sheds them by afternoon you can hear her singing at least twice a day like a single mocking bird sometimes I cry or laugh depending on her flavor sometimes I hold back my hand afraid she might stitch me to the hem of tears that keep falling green then brown and crisp you could sweep them to the side let the grass up rattle her enough to get her inside again conversations with the wind all night fingernails scraped the glass the wind pushed his shoulder against the window and from my sleep I whisper go ahead, sneak through the cracks– I will open the mud room door and throw you out my window is strong enough go try the neighbors they leave their’s open I let the wind in through the front door the other evening his face looked so familiar could have sworn he was someone I knew he followed me from room to room I tried to silence him with the hair dryer even that wasn’t adequate the wind being who he is trickster arrogant fool one thing now I remember about the wind after he gets where he wants to go he leaves in a hurry as if he left the stove on at home or he can’t stand the transparent skin he dwells in or to see in the lamplight exactly what he’s been playing with I go back to sleep the doors are bolted the windows anchored to their beds there are no chalices here to pour himself into finally he will blow himself out four words in brown shoes old brown shoes a quarter from the thrift scuff cement skins in the alley he wipes a hand across his face fingertips stinging with October’s lick as if to hide the kisses of too many slim-necked bottles gifts of roses like frostbite on cheeks what a subtle lover he takes for loneliness like little purple flowers I found climbing in the arms of the holly tree by summer opened red eyes of nightshade it’s a shame there’s no map for migration he thinks to himself eight miles past hunger standing in the crowd of a train wreck he doesn’t know what hit him in the shade of the corrugated stink-and-spillwater is something white with strings for lacing under the beautiful moon of baby’s chin bonnets edging holds his eye hard tears squeeze from the grit of a man who’s no minority there’s hundreds just like him waiting to be rescued drowning while picking up cashews slow like diamonds into a cup of old baby lace in the language of paper umbrellas there is another way to say it I see circles floating from upsidedown faucets perhaps that is the only way to say something even too difficult for seven year old lips to form the words like ships she sets sail like little paper umbrellas you have to be careful not to rip they open and close like breathing and if she could say the right words blowing softly in between perhaps they would sail dandelion seeds into the dark set paper lanterns tipping across the part of the pond of her mind she erased