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

week of July 23-28, 2001

Lissette Alonso
and
Chris Limbach

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Lissette Alonso
LAlonso@AVBORNE.com

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.