December 2-8, 2002: James Carraway and Prasenjit Maiti

week of December 2-8, 2002

James Carraway and Prasenjit Maiti

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James Carraway

Bio (auto)

The author resides in Novato, California, where the valley he greets every morning welcomes him with golden hills and deep sky, redtail, coyote, great horned (at night), vulture, and sometimes wild turkey, (not to be mistaken for the whiskey) scraping their wing feathers on the asphalt like a washboard player, and silence James is an actor in film and tv, a voiceover actor, musician, and writer His poetry is sometimes like the music he plays: compelling, raw, sweet, moment to moment, honest, no bullshit He says there isn’t time for it to be any other way His poetry has appeared in the anthologies, The Long and Winding Road, Between Darkness and Light, and in the reviews of Ancient Wind Press and I Would Thou Were Hot or Cold Review, and has two poems on the CD’s, Sound of Poetry, and Poetry of the Millennium As for credits, James says, ” just keep doin the work, the credits’ll find you”.

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

I Brought You a Barrel of Knots

You can always tell the
temperature of a city
by its walkers

And get out where
its alright to be out

Settling into now
scratching the day
off my scalp
letting the talking thought set
with the sun and flakes of feeling
the itch satisfied

What the fuck are we doing
in this belly over belt country
sucking time and counting change
amidst honks and closed windows
on our coffins on wheels

is up tonight

I wonder if they have a parking problem

Morning Sacrifice

I awaken every morning
feeling myself rise through layer
after layer of sleep and darkness
breaking into pale light to see
you being fucked by another man
your warm, wet lips around his cock
hands squeezing your tender throat
that you give away now
as he rams deep and hard inside you
not uttering the words careful, careful
seeing your ass in the air, holding
the back of your couch as he drives
deeper and deeper, your voice urgent
fuck me, fuck me, calling out his name
the last time we were on your couch
fucking through blood, and my tears
and it not being the same anymore
seeing you spread his cum over your tender flesh
clean him, smiling with the grin of a child pleasing
feeling your familiar, awful emptiness
Every morning it is the same deep sadness
there in my mind half awake
your legs open, being spread with thick
thighs and broad shoulders of their repeated
I am tired
Of seeing your open lips of betrayal
of hurting
of the sadness
of feeling dirty inside like oil soaked dirt
tired of warm tears that sting
tired of anger wading through feelings like quicksand
of the love I feel for you returning me to you
of who you are
and what you do
tired of not exciting you anymore
tired, not from being old, but that you see me that way now
And tired of not knowing why
I am tired of you
Of being the sacrifice for you finding yourself.

Prasenjit Maiti

Bio (auto)

Dr Prasenjit Maiti from Calcutta, India(1971-) Print credits include 2River View, A Hudson View, Blue Collar Review, Brittle Star, Brobdingnagian Times, Carillon, Circle, Concrete Wolf, Diner, Famous Reporter, Fire, Green Queen, GW Review, Harlequin, Hermes, Homestead Review, Janus Head, Konfluence, Micropress Oz, Monkey Kettle, Nightingale, Nomad, Page 84, Paper Wasp, Parting Gifts, Peeks & Valleys, Phoenix, Pocketful of Poetry, Poetic Licence, Poetry Church, Poetry Depth Quarterly, Poetry Greece, Poetry Scotland, Promise, Pulsar, Quercus Review, Rattle, Red Lamp, Reflections, Skald, Skyline, Solo Survivors, South, SpinningS, The Journal, WinterSPIN Writers’ Muse and Xtant Dr Maiti has been widely published in electronic journals as well in the UK, USA, Canada and Australia His CD-ROM credits include Heist and Shaken-n-Stirred: Poetry from the Far Corners

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


It was an afternoon
when she walked out of our lives
leaving me to savor our dinner
cold and alone
like a heartless collation


angst and afternoon
i savor our dinner
collation turns cold
stutter and sorrows
pastels like evening
eyes are closed


Allow me teach you
an old trick or two
You take your woman
in your arms like eggshells
and you tell her
what sex is all about
She may not be aroused
then you are to fall back
on your memories
and do nothing else

What about a woman

without trappings?
What about walking along roads
that are no more?
What about my women
whom I do not meet anymore?


Let us go away
from all our women tonight
women are like wastelands
let us caress the fields of joy
where the haystacks groan
and the memories of our
lovemaking are rife with agony

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