March 5-11, 2001: Laurel Dawne Mattingly and Linda Goin


 

week of March 5-11, 2001

Laurel Dawne Mattingly and Linda Goin

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Laurel Dawne Mattingly
xx1972@webtv.net

Bio (auto)

My name is Laurel Dawne Mattingly, and I Live in Canyon Lake, Texas I have been writing as long as I can remember I have only recently begun submitting my poetry for publication, and have had one poem published.

The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by Laurel Dawne Mattingly and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Goat Men

Down
down the dirt road
came two sharp faced fools
Loud offerings
profferings of assistance
issued from cruelly shaped mouths
Morons emitting a spitting black bleat
goats dressed as humans
are looking for meat
Run
tell the village
the goat men are near
hear their sounds
pounding down down the dirt road

I Am You

I’m a slimy olive
drowning in your glass
I’m a broken wine bottle
lurking in the grass I’m the little girl
at whom you made a pass

I’m a dirty insect
crawling on your floor
I’m the intellectual
you always seem to bore
I’m your dear, dead mother
the one you call a whore

I am this
and so much more
I am what
you can’t ignore
I’m your conscience
knocking,banging
begging
at your door

Hot Spot

Nasty waxy painted lips
desperately smiling
twitching for tips An eclipse of one’s self
occurs every night
right here in this place
made of flashing black light The barman pours hurt
straight from the can Hands placed on parts
that ought not be bare Hair stands stick stiff
in the smoke thickened air Broken wine bottles
visit the grave
of each patron
who stays
past
last call.


Linda Goin
info@goinhome.com

Bio (auto)

Linda Goin is a dysfunctional middle-aged woman living-for the moment-in Schaumburg, IL She has no idea how she got there She’s a writer, an artist and an anarchist She also wonders why people find it difficult to get along with her Otherwise, she’s perfectly at peace with her menopause.

The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by Linda Goin and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Color Reel

Your letter is chromatic Just a brief bridge
between red hot words
and pleas of orange you
coming to dinner?

Garland of sensual hues
at your entrance A prismatic round
to dwell upon Knock
for valued schemes
Your technique is skilled I can’t
erase your green Secondary thoughts
bare primary roots Dinner Plates of blue.

Summer School

You abandoned what you formerly believed
in back of that York Street garage You left chicken wire and wood frameworks,
skeletons of sculptures shaped full
stature only in your head You said,

“Do you remember when I crushed those oats
into flakes, mixing them with grass
and toilet paper in the double sink?”
Yes, I do You spread the slop out
on the brick walkway to dry Hot stuff
The sex was better between us after
your feeble confession My sorrow
was your brush dipped in acrylics Bright
paint drying quickly on contact, even
in that hot, humid air No room

for mistakes, but we made them anyway You swore you would fix the worst ones
tomorrow Paint over them with a fresh
coat of emotion Another half-baked
project gathering dust Cobwebs

attach themselves, protein-like catalysts
for chemical reactions You sit
with a cigarette, staring at your shoes I ask what you’re thinking and you breathe
one word, hidden in smoke “Grace ” Oh,

we’re like rows of keys on pianos Another art form requiring patience
and many hours of practice Homework By the time the leaves begin to fall,
we’ll be masters in all the fine arts.

Dreams Lie, Still

What if I married a man
who understands and admires
Rush Limbaugh? I wonder if
the full fabric of this man
is a kilt (past tense southern
of an indescribable
act)? What if he wants to drink
juice, and my needs are for five
fingers of scotch?

I just don’t know My heart lies
horizontal on a bench,
deciphering Fodor’s books
on Australia There are faint
lines of demarcation Time
zones I can relate to this Look at the water! A lot
of real estate waving names,
years between shores
Scotch and juice Mirth and madness
This mural is painted through
the generous donations
of dead dreams and sour hopes Age has a way of drawing
walls with no names, no numbers,
no hopes, no way to get there
from here Sleek grass grows down
under my feet.