April 30-May 6, 2001: Scott Wiggerman and William Cooley

Bio (auto)

An active member of Austin’s poetry scene, I have published in dozens of journals, such as Paterson Literary Review, Entre Nous, Illya’s Honey, Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, Limestone Circle, eNteLechY,  RE:AL, Black Buzzard Review, Café Review, and modern words I have edited four well-received poetry anthologies for the Austin International Poetry Festival, di-verse-city (1997), di-verse-city too (1998), très di-verse-city (1999), and 2001: a di-verse-city odyssey (2001) My first full-length poetry book, Vegetables and Other Relationships, was published by Plain View Press last year I also serve as the Poetry Editor of Austin Writer, the newsletter of the Texas Writers’ League.

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

Spring Again Yesterday’s lean oaks shivered in threadbare coats of wintry browns and grays Shrubs shrivelled on a dingy quilt of second-hand leaves and litter We fidget for change Like time-lapse photography, foliage appears overnight Leaves emerge in minutes Yards infuse with a green innocence Ivies hie across empty paths, draw breath up trunks of trees Tiny green fingers unfurl in every arc and crook; branches quicken with emerald flakes Newborn fronds burgeon from shadow, sojourn purely toward light Our own limbs respond with warmth: legs extend on tips of toes, arms stretch skyward with joy Heaven must be green as spring, fresh as unblemished grass. Seduction His face is carved with fictions Long lines of scabrous lies define a skilled duplicity where honesty is a hostage His darkling eyes promise a cosmos, reflecting less than they conceal Impassable as a fanged panther, they prey on fabrication His lips speak in enigma, fashioning phrases full-bodied as wine, dripping with blood-rare juices, while his tongue darts deep in ambush His chin is sleek and slippery; his neckline, a sharp cleaver The dangerous knot of his Adam’s apple protrudes like sin is wedged there, or perhaps a scrap of your heart. A Simple Plot I don’t need this garden for survival, but I do need to stand in the dark, feel the water splay off my thumb, a cool stream raining from the end of an open hose I need to ease myself to the earth, graft at the end of the day. Omnipotence Seedlings, tiny green planets drawn like compass points in the same diurnal direction, imperfectly lined up in an ordered microcosm In this universe, I am god, master planner, wielder of life— all the terrible responsibilities a higher power should possess If the seedlings don’t flourish, bear fruit, or grow straight, should I withhold their water, yank them out like some vile weed, burn them, hate them, ignore them? Not an angry, but a benevolent being, I love the hopeful lives, tiny necks outstretched, green tongues shimmering toward the sun.

William Cooley
fakepopart@hotmail.com

Bio (auto)

William Cooley is a 22 year old writer from Kelso, Washington He has been writing for 7 years, and is pursuing a PHD in poetics with the intention of teaching the craft at the college level.

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

Crescendo A firm handshake and cianide in your morning coffee Sleepwalking through infinite math equations Revolution on the cover of checkout line tabloids The rhythmn of steps out of sync with words in head Which come out in the worng order again I swalllowed bitter pills with holy water Turned websters inside out Meaning was nowhere to be found I searched through fire Beneath brimstone Threw Baby Jesus out my 13th story window Just to see if he could fly He couldn’t So I thought i’d see if I could I hit my knees begging St Mary painted on a mexican liquor store window Salvation screamed my true name As a result I have a healthy fear of flying in astral planes I’m going home I cooked benediction into a liquid state And shot myself through the pearly gates Where the angels are fishing for sin And the apostles are armwrestling over who will be king Chrome City-Verse 1 Perhaps in some small way I am king Walking in reverie of the future Burning in 6th ave wonder Where little girls with death adder ponytails Beg for a drop of wine to cleanse their wounds Where blue paper cranes fly in haphazard figure 8’s Under clear expansive skies Where we dance a fake waltz to a contagious orchestra Playing the forsaken ballad slightly off key Perhaps in some small way I am free Assimilating myself into a perfect cirlcle If I can decieve them with my symetry The air I breathe might seem like home Perhaps in some small way I am king Ruler in this city of chrome vengence Where steel raindrops smash glass streets