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


week of April 30-May 6, 2001

Scott Wiggerman and William Cooley

click here for submission guidelines

Scott Wiggerman
swiggerman@austin.rr.com • http://swig.tripod.com

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.


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.


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

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.


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

Subscribe to our weekly Newsletter: