July 29-August 12, 2001: Loic Dobecka and Barbara McEvoy

week of July 29-August 12, 2001

Loic Dobecka
and
Barbara McEvoy

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Loic Dobecka
loic-dobecka@operamail.com

Bio (auto)

Loic Dobecka is an attorney living in Chicago, Illinois.

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

Words for Latecomers to the City

Disregard the falling bricks, often followed by water coolers
And media equipment Passers-by shall remain calm Outside of one’s apartment, it is advised, never
Wear red clothing or carry a cell phone An aura of tobacco smoke,
The perfume of unease,
Speeds one’s passage through the ranks
And barriers Abandon all eye contact,
You who dare to walk our concrete halls.

Three Seasons

–September–
Dreaming of red medicines seeping into my lungs,
Breath becomes sound,
Then sound becomes vision I see the stars speak of decaying sovereignty,
Spray vomit on my bedding
–February–
At a museum of modern art, two students of law
Balance shoes on pond-ice Words float by:
A carp bound in electrical wire
Dreams of tea leaves,
Of tendrils of tobacco smoke
–July–
Shreds of plastic wrap litter the carpet Suddenly startled, Red Ogre awakens in a dim apartment,
Lobs an ashtray through the window glass Torrents of orange city-glow
Gush over arms and face.

Innamorata

Body to body, I am not shy,
To press my mouth to your mouth,
To bite the pulp of your eye.



Barbara McEvoy
bjmc@qwest.net

Bio (auto)

I live in Boise, Idaho and attend Boise State My poems have appeared in Cold Drill magazine, The Arbiter, and will appear in Readers Quarterly fall of 2001 I am currently working on an BA in English.

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

Irregular Memories
300 River St , Boulder Creek, CA 1976

Shh,
please, my head is a tee pee
full of drummers
and my eyes burn from
the fire in the center
of the triangle I can barely make out
the blue god dangling from a nail
Is that Krushamopeda cooking up
some tofu stew?
She reminds me of a gypsy
with all those rings on her fingers and toes,
from belly button to nose She’s strung together like a chain link fence
I heard Chuckadara got
hit by a car riding his
skateboard on Highway 9 Funny, he said he was off
to see the world
only an hour ago Bummer
Did you see Steve Walters
out there in the garden
tending his leafy greens
and talking to bugs? Says
they understand
I’d have never guessed
he’d be the one to steal
kitchen knives and bury them
among the redwoods
Or that one day, long after he disappeared,
I’d see him digging trash for a meal
on the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk He was the only one I knew who
could catch steelhead with bare
hands.

untitled

silk and skin
folded into

brushed cotton
bleached, rinsed by rain

coasting

window draws
swollen sunbeams

whispering steam
rising slow

going home