July 23-28, 2001: Lissette Alonso and Chris Limbach

Bio (auto)

Lisette Alonso, 26
Miami, Florida

Currently I shuffle paper for a living in one of many big buildings in Miami Some day I hope to be independently wealthy, so that maybe I can find time to do more than eat and sleep I’ve recently began studying to become an elementary school teacher after taking a few years off to reproduce I’ve written since I can remember, and it hurts me when I can’t I’ve had work published on-line by Gumball Poetry, Red Booth Review, and Premiere Generation Ink.

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

Women Who Eat Parsley Eve did it Did you actually think an apple could bring God to fury? Her knowledge was a pungent sprig uneaten at the edge of every plate The taste of earth was green against the back of her throat which had been chaste until that first bitter swallow And after they lost their garden, she’d gather it on Fridays when the moon was waxing, and cleanse herself in warm parsley baths She kept fresh stems in a vase at her table, and fed it to her daughters in stews when they married Yet her daughters now, snub its green curled leaves, send it away on dishes sticky with egg yolks, not even attempting a nibble to buffer the odor of garlic as they walk out of restaurants with their heads bowed,  blissfully naïve and never really knowing that pure biting tang of truth. Longing If I were a moth I’d be dead Half life interrupted by the brilliance of a halogen fixture somewhere in the steam of a late night barbecue You’d be the light, candle flicker winking, drawing me in with your faint fickle gravity and I, as moth poster bug for depravity would crave this death like a morsel of chocolate or a drip of honey, your electric pulse, drum beats in my insect ears singing my name like a serenade conjuring me within. Flying Another obsession just strolls in and again I am stupefied, spellbound by a boy in blue jeans and a ball cap that hints at a city I’ve never seen But I could go there,  man would I go Shrug the job and the car, empty my savings and get my seat to NY,  travel with the single polyester dress I’m wearing and the dog eared paperback I find tucked between the crowded airline seats One of those true crime hash-overs people only read when they’re flying, between roasted peanuts and their whispered prayers to the gods of safe landings There I’d be licking salt from his fingertips and wondering how I’d existed until that first wondrous take off.

Chris Limbach
shepproudfoot@hotmail.com

Bio (auto)

Chris Limbach is an old fart (36) from Bay Shore, New York.He lives there with his fiance (Dorothy) and his pug puppy(The Swami) He stays up too late on school nights but he always gets the job done He’s been writing for a number of years and was a past featured poet of the week in February/March 2000 He was most recently published in “The Blue Collar Review” in April 2001 and may put out a self published collection in the near future.

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

Davis To you nasal twanged Grizzly Adams I lend this biased ear to your political spiel that Nixon obsession your oscillating stance on Palestine For you lumber prowler nimble galoot cumbrous in East Maine Wood here is that big fat pizza A side of curried fries and lunch, twenty five minutes after brunch Hear you clumsy chatter foisting pomes of “John who smokes but does not choke ” Do you recall your coarse concise alliteration? I think it went “Fucking fuck fucker fuck?” You told, wan cleanser of kibbutz hencoop, tall tales regarding those commie chicks and their lack of pubic grooming.Bullshit! You confessed to witnessing nothing Listen: time and space are short, an honest rendering of true you impossible–Ignatius Reilly, Private Pyle? No not some cartoon buffoon! not you, my friend. Boom The high life shattered glinting in smoke gray sky light a border of dowdy corona sparkling shards of malt liquor chandeliers surrounds the perimeter of inelegant husk The couch sits off kilter evicted, a fabric pear textured colored utilitarian tan Shiny tanned dirty tanner Another witness to the NASDAQ jollies Sat on in transience Witness to gin and juice monologue Crack vial diatribe methadone sorrow cushions ripped by crank Divan, sofa, you have no Ass to call your own the cushion farts of the neighborhood mock you easy Chair, love seat No easy seat on easy street No love from the couch on Second Avenue And Brook Street. Poet’s Pity Party Drowsy husky morning after murmurs emanate from a pile of tangled sheets twisted comforter Six hours still strangers Your poems she mutters Boy Poems She loves me not poems Pissy poor me poems Inticately crafted devices of seduction Crumble apart in her care as if flimsy Tonka Truck knock-offs Faint streams of sunlight crease thru the blinds Staining tan shag I tug on the comforter with hope of burrowing She pulls back, laughs with faux weepiness Bleats Oh poor me poor me my heart is in your hands Boo Hoo Boo hoo hoo hoo Well, Dear, I sputter, Poor me got you to share this bed last night Yeah, she giggles, and now it’s like, Poor me! Miss Dorothy I see similiar laughter and truth in her sweet brown eyes, the same in the family portraits from her childhood Her smile is larger now,unforced,adult and infinitely sexier Sometimes as she sleeps, with pillow as halo I stare at her, picturing the child acting in a story she told; her at seven or eight years old with younger sister clad in caftans and bed sheets hoop earrings and bandanas Gypsies they were, pulling a rust red wagon that carried a soccer ball enveloped in tinfoil, knocking on neighbors doors offering fortunes for small change These days dressed in scrubs on the shit shift she sees the future diagnostic her crystal ball EKG a blood gas tarot pulse ox as palm reading toxicolgy tests the tea leaves She gives an honest reading with truthful sweet brown eyes.