March 12-18, 2001: John Buchanan and Jimmie Arnold Sanchez


 

week of March 12-18, 2001

John Buchanan and Jimmie Arnold Sanchez

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John Buchanan
mettee@lemoorenet.com

Bio (auto)

I am 34 this month, because, at 40, I decided I didn’t like the way things were going and thought I might as well try some of those testosterone years over again I love poetry I take my medication fairly regularly
I live in Hanford, California, where we have an ongoing program to discourage our multitudinous crow population from “socializing” Last week the blew my telephone line away with a shotgun That has nothing to do with the poem I don’t think Last time I checked, it was about writing.

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

The Pea

Machiavelli has put a tap
on his own telephone,
when he picks up
little metallic Ferris wheels burst to life,
frenetic gray winter flowers spinning
like the grim grinning palms
of the hawkers making
the walnut dance
in the crypt of the midway,
late, when the local moon’s rube pockets
are inside out empty,
he listens,
a fist
with wide red eyes
to the naked dialogue,
fingering it gently
here and there,
and here,
looking for the least
bit of
secret unrevealed
insinuation,
analyzing
the marked protrubance of verb
where it meets the waxing flesh
like a white whale breaching, 
the craned flow of a noun as its
delicate pale curve softly slopes
to meet the suddenly shock
of coarse bristly adjective,
seeking, seeking,
adverbs dart into alley shadows
when they hear
his wingtipped auricle approaching,
tap-tapping through the fog,
punctuation scurries helter skelter
into damp dirty holes
like wharf rats,
pronouns kill the lamp
clank home the dead bolt,
cork  the kids,
from off of the oily black harbor water
jaded freighter whistles randomly belch and moan,
their echoes black popcorn rising
wet winged and chronic 
that limp across the sky
gathering about him
like a murder of crows,
descending listless, 
hoarse voiced and cranky,
whores so worn so depleted
they can only turn a buck
under the fish eyed glare
of an eclipse he studies,
sipping his coffee cold
from a chipped scrimshaw,
sweet with Cain sugar.


Jimmie Arnold Sanchez
impotentphoenix@hotmail.com

Bio (auto)

Jimmie Arnold Sanchez was born in the Philippines but was raised in and around LA and is now a proud Valley girl He is currently a 4th-year sociology major/queer (LGBT) studies minor, waiting for UCLA to either kick him out or graduate him He is horribly terrified of both options, so he’s buried his head in books of poetry.

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

Twilight

I exist
In the space between the flash of lightning
And the roar of thunder
One one thousand Two one thousand
I exist
In the breath after achoo
But before blessing,
Before the bomb blast
But after the bomb-drop,
When the sound is sucked away
And the still silence is so shrill
It can maim
Three one thousand Four one thousand
I exist
In every Hollywood blockbuster
When the bullet has been released
But has not burst the beating heart
Of any and every terrorist, alien, spy, and mafioso
Five one thousand Six one thousand
I exist
In the screech of brakes
Before a bus explodes
And in the instant before the
Last exhalation of a dying man
Seven one thousand Eight one thousand
I exist
In the pause
Between the I and the do,
Between the I and the love and the you,
In the space
Between the eye and the hurricane
Nine one thousand Ten one thousand .

Butterfly

When my finger is behind my tongue,
You can’t hurt me I become invincible I become a rock
When my finger is behind my tongue
When I reach down inside myself,
I can pull out the bad parts
And make myself whole again When I reach down inside myself,
I become invincible
When I swallow my finger,
I swallow my tears–
I swallow my fears My dreams become real–
I can no longer feel–
All my wounds start to heal–
And the only fucking thing I have to do is
Kneel
And swallow my finger
When I jam my finger down the back of my throat
And vomit all over the porcelain bowl,
I am tickling my inner child Come out and play Come the fuck out so I can play
When I ram my throat
And spit blood into the water,
That is just my heart bleeding
Into my cauldron I am making a love potion
Just for you
I am bent I am bent over the toilet I am bent over the toilet
Because I am bent
When I am licking my finger with the back of my tongue,
I am giving you the best head you ever had And I blow my wad when you do
When I start to retch,
I am no longer wretched I am no longer the person I used to be And I can come out of my chrysalis
And fly I am as light as a feather I am as light as a tear
Making ripples in the water
Of the porcelain bowl
When I start to retch
Over the porcelain bowl,
I can buy back my soul I am taking control,
Reaching out for the goal,
But it’s taking its toll When will you give me
My goddamn parole?


blue

(the first line is from your blues ain’t like mine, a novel by bebe moore campbell)

your blues ain’t nothing like mine your blues are blue but my blues are so blue
they look black
from here, from
here from there,
from down on the ground
and up in the air no,
my blues ain’t nothing like yours my blues are dark blues yours have too much white in them they can never be as true blue as mine your blues are so white
they get light,
they get light,
and they float to the top
of the heap in a fight
against my midnight and i?
i sink to the bottom
i am blue
because i am black and blue
because i am brown my daddy’s black and my momma’s white
mixed to turn me blue
and you?
and you, why are you so blue?
when’s the last time
you turned black
into black and blue?
and are you
too yellow to stop it
even if you wanted to?
just bow your head,
and look away,
pretend you heard nothing,
and cough
i am turning grey
being blue;
being black and blue
cuz of you you’re too yellow
to be golden.