November 19-25, 2001: Scott Wannberg and K.R. Copeland

week of November 19-25, 2001

Scott Wannberg
K.R Copeland

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Scott Wannberg

Bio (auto)

Scott Wannberg fell head first out of a hayloft during an obstreperous barn dance and I guess you could say he was birthed by the dobros and mandolins of hope in this unsteady verbal world we call Earth his body, like all other poets, gathers dents during the course of the ongoing, but we are still, musically, in the game

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

new poem, for the workshop

i turned on the light even if it tried to bite me
i climbed the sky even if it wasn’t graceful
i heard screams in the happy hour
i came awake, i came at home
i turned my heart toward the soft shoulder
i began to sing all the vowels and consonants of yes
the harsh rain tried to wipe me up
but i had come to play
and i roared my middle name in a language
that one day maybe i will be able to figure
but right now
the music of creativity
tugs my life
toward the ongoing fire
of possible

i bring you my toy trains
i bring you my jazz drums
i bring you my one and only soul
for what it’s worth
all the moments
line up in the alley
they want my autograph
but i’d rather have theirs

Oh Yeah, Oh Yeah

Fred Flintstone spreadeagled and done in for good
warned me to sing the good traffic jam
So here I yodel, baby
with the current time nothing but flames Come along and fix the faucet
Come along and mend the fence
Shot myself shaving
Now I need to get convinced
In my elastic voodoo
In my five and dime halo
I came fumbling
I came into the scene
and became Oh Yeah, that guy, Oh yeah

Oh Yeah, Oh Yeah
when the ice becomes your momma
and the feedback machine goes insane
Stay away from huge televisions
they will dampen your underwear
Cross your heart when the lunacy calls you lover
Cross your chimpanzee

Had myself a dog and he said I know it all
I took him to the park and he made me see
In my elastic tutu
In my time of shame
See me lightning
See me brave
My heart is a dance floor
and I got time for your feet,baby
My heart is a dance floor without end
and I got time for your heart, baby

The Monster

The monster just got a PHD
let the glib freedom bells ring
the I Told You So chorus is slipping into their costumes
the story tellers are weary
they have told their stories way too late into the morning
and their tongues just cannot hold
a cold front may or may not be moving in
maybe it’s moving out
tire irons of love will still find their homes
in the sweating hands of hopeful on and off again dreamers
a couple of miles ahead the new amusement park glitters
a new ride lives there
they call it Waking Death
oh let me try that one, you cry out
for too long i have been Sleeping Life
but Waking Death! That must be something musical indeed
The monster just got a brand new car
it goes around the bend every now and then
lock up your favorite daughter
write a bestselling expose of just what it is you think you feel
the slipping rocks ahead just might find your favorite part of your head
call me collect if you see God
he was last seen hitching toward the coast
uh oh
I didn’t say which coast, did I?
let me try one on you
let me see your heart smile
the doctor said we cannot stop the paranoia
the doctor said we cannot sing your tune
The monster is all over my cable TV right now
i do everything i can with the remote to change this behavior
and my remote is just too remote to do anything about it
call me collect if God sees you
you were last seen running away from some condition
uh oh
I never said what that condition was, did I?
let me snuggle up close against you
there just might be a campfire near here
even if there isn’t any camp
the monster could be Bing Crosby crooning in your left ear, baby
the monster could be your long planned on vacation
the monster could be any one of us
the doctor swears he cannot find his golf clubs
the doctor says he cannot dance
uh oh

K.R Copeland

Bio (auto)

K.R Copeland, Chicagoan, is a semi-reclusive literary ingenue, who prides herself on brevity and versatility Her work has appeared in umpteen publications all over this mad, mad world, including, Seeker, Moxie, Fresh, Comfusion, The Dakota House Journal, Niederngasse, Snow Monkey, Offcourse, The Highland Poetry Journal, Collective Insanity, and, The American Muse

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

Perpetrator At The Pub

A mock heroic scoundrel
in a modish hounds tooth suit
is wooing all the women with his,
“I-could -care- less- ness”
and his machiavellian stance,
but honey, he’s not foolin’ me none,
no, he’s not foolin’ me,
because I know his bulging wallet
boasts a sock.

Three Squares

I eat the ridiculous
for breakfast
the impossible
for lunch
and the unimaginable
for supper
I then go to bed
full of nonsense
and things
I cannot comprehend


A cluster of
industrial strength merriment
(absent in my adolescence)
awkwardly sprawls
across the lawn of my adulthood
tickling me with
it’s myriad of green things

The Biggest Star

As delicate as a concrete block
as graceful as an ape,
the world-renowned 300 pound
bow legged ballerina
always stole the show

Train Of Thought

My mental state
Paces the gate
Of trepidation
Anxiously awaiting
The rapid train
Of change
Which it will ride
Well into the night
Down predetermined tracks
To a far off town
Termed “Certainty”.

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