April 1-8, 2001: Frances LeMoine and David Acheson


 

week of April 1-8, 2001

Frances LeMoine and David Acheson

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Frances LeMoine
frances_lemoine@yahoo.com

Bio (auto)

My name is Frances LeMoine I live in Merrimack, NH Originally from New York (Bronx and Brooklyn) I am currently employed as a “cataloger” for an auction, writing item descriptions,

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

Like Somber Pendants,

bras and panties hang from a shower rod

No rain from the radio,
weathermen must be sleeping or
in another town

Knots of fog march in, 
with muffled trumpets,
a parade of bad news

And up there, 
squeezing through,
folded tight,
a stubborn token of sun
pokes its holes

Too orange leaves peek out
with the trickle of blue sky

timed lightbulbs wink asleep

Bras and panties gone,
the weatherman takes a smoke break
More leaves, thirty five colors

For weeks later
less leaves,
dirty colors
the surprise of cold like Sunday;s coffee

Squinting, the sun is high and white
scarves and hats scurry by
coats are clutched like hands in traffic

Later darkness
with its empty avenues,
leftover leaves flying past
with shiny candy wrappers

Rand-McNally moon
tonight, a poorly lit
miniature sketch in the sky
The Indians had a name for every moon
I am at a loss

Leaves leaving
summerís on vacation
with a fugitive autumn

another winter with
indoor lighting and
outdoor biting ice
to slide across

til April

Solution

Memories hunt me
like a paid assassin’s hands
Blessed alcohol.

Actor Dream

We sit in a pile of
shifting leaves,
still, 
then his feathery whisper:
lean, low, a sponge
for a dreamís ebbing focus
His rustling murmur:
“I’ll be there when
the day is up,
you know, 
the room on Moon Street The one glimmering green
like your eyes “

He drew a black marker
from a my pocket,
arranged his name
on the shoulder of my
yellowing shirt
“Here’s the marker,
you’ll want to write it
again later,” as his voice
swaggered off
Waiting on Moon Street,
beneath that olive glow,
dawn wiping away all sleep,
the day’s blare moments away
Four tears slipped
in single file, 
lingering at cheek then chin,
the M smeared
A weeping hulk
wading aimless, 
the whisper missed, 
miscarried,
I cough,
and awaken

Longing.

Season’s Spilling

i can feel the season
spilling all around now
the wind is waiting
just up the street
i watch for flying leaves,
then swaying street lights
and restless garbage

the kitchen squad is okay,
they sometimes nod
oatmeal’s good most days
the shelter crew,
they’re trying to make
points in heaven
i’d rather be out here
than help them get in
those smiles of theirs
ain’t volunteering

park on a bench when the sun is out
walk, eyes on the sidewalk
looking for what shines

the season is spilling
that wind is seeing red
beat it to gratings,
subway johns
and tracks
the rats don’t mind
but the bedouins do
the third rail’s getting crowded
their fugitive eyes
sniff out your pocketís stock
in a blink

lost that bag a while ago
my brother’s number
a stamp
a social worker’s business card
a can of pop-top meat
a scrip, a doctorís name
a bar of soap, a mitten
part of an oriental paperback
that lined my shoes last year
and three good rags
i wish i had that book right now

the season is spilling
socks are soggy
my nose is running and
the kids all skid away
on the grimy ice and

i hide behind the dumpster
when the wet wind punches hard
old guy froze to death
in there three years ago
the pint in his pocket
had hardly been touched
i drank to him all morning

and when i dream
i dream of my mother
sheís folding sheets
she glows a little
and she smiles

the moon makes no difference to me

White hospital room bed

gray and black wires proceed
from the insides of elbows,
ankles,
bluish wrists
Wires connect the sleeper
to a maze of gears and motors

Nurses don’t wear white anymore
They wear what they please,
except for their stethoscopes and
clogs
all the nurses wear clogs

machinery blinks loudly
heart rate, respiration,
levels
she sleeps through
the busy-ness of maintenance

thick, clear tube,
a chute,
links lungs to
the in and out
the out and in
drumming and flutter
of these current events

thin neutral needle in the
roof of her palm
plastic bag above her dreaming head
staff of life slips through
a slim highway
feeding her sleep

eyes open,
umbrellas in wet fog
another nurse with stethoscope
morphine and clogs
thuds thumps into the room

patient nods in rejoice,
winks in thanks
and thinks
of sleeping dogs


David Acheson
dacheson@chapman.edu

Bio (auto)

David Acheson is 22 years old and lives in Fullerton, California His work can be found in many of his notebooks.

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

Four Circle

squatting ten feet before a fencepost,
regret in your breath,
and your hands cupped ready
to dig the world’s biggest ditch i still can remember the crevices in her palms,
a tiny map of a world spinning
on its axis, only much slower than before
the PLANE CRASH while they searched i sat inside,
staring at a sandwich
feeling the sun burn
through the blinds four days later i sat on your bed
sprinkled with napkins and bloodstains
that looked like a field of
fake flowers while the director called for a
crane shot,
music faded in the composer gave a cocky smirk i let it sink into the
moist pits of my mind,
and waited for the next
one to go.

Hitting Low Notes

it happened today-
when i read about walking catfish
being the most apparent forms
of evil today, when we looked from
the balcony,
our backs arched like parentheses,
and stared at it all going down
a stack of throats,
each one labelled with its
particular function and you,
you put your arm around my waist
and belted out how it all looked like
an endless field i struggled to agree,
but bit my tongue in
an attempt make things
simple again.

12:29 Traffic

12:29 traffic
hits you in the stomach, 
ribs,
and face my hand plastered over
a list of unsurprises i watch you impatiently set
your watch for one last
meltdown
and believe it,
it sounds so alive
that i taste it
and the juices of the alarm
run down my chin
onto all of the
objects in the
mirror 12:29 all of it NOW
hands up right now.