February 15-21, 1999: Steven Adkins and joja

Week of February 15-February 21, 1999

Steven Adkins and joja


Steven Adkins
stimso@mail.sulphurcanyon.com

Bio(auto)

A young unpublished poet, he finds his energies constantly directed away from his primary goal of being alone to write — with a fridge full of beer, a pack of smokes, and some “psycho-root” as his only companions (A dog, Imp, is also allowed in this idyllic place) Currently his “other” work can be seen at the Laughing Lizard Cafe — collage, painting, assemblages, clean dishes — and at the Gas Station Theatre, where he is directing his own adaptation of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s short, macabre tale “The Birthmark” Both venues reflect the vibrant artistic community found in Jemez Springs, N.M where he resides
A one-time rabid Associationalist, a writer of strident manifestoes,  he now finds pleasure in humbler pursuits — guns, high explosives,  hummus and Pavement albums Trespassing is of course a given He earns his keep as a housepainter, a dishwasher, a roadie for Circus Flora, and thru mail fraud He hopes that no one mistakes his poems for communicating vessels No His are little more than echoes in a valley; echoes the reader is invited to examine in order to de-cipher the original utterances.


The following work is Copyright © 1999, and owned by Steven Adkins and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

The Shell

Placed by ant-people
Upon the roof of the underworld
The vast ancient islands
where the Dwelling Place of Eagles
and the Big Foot mirror one another
across vast oceans of sky
Clouds those mellifluous mariners
Scud faithfully midst 360ø of sun
And five days in the mouth of the night-viper
The Dank gullet of chaos fear and confusion
Pranks prayers and quavering eyes to the stars
And a feast upon coming out safely
Muskmelons, elk meat, turkeys, and corn
Adorned with blue topaz a tear dropped from the sky
Upon a cracked earth whose fissures are thirsty mouths
Macaw feathers, obsidian
.seashells
Young pilgrims to the primordial
.sky island
Where the memory of the pounding surf
.is etched into the rockfaces of old
.warriors
Clouds those diligent skyships
Pass shadows upon the juniper, the
pinon, the ponderosa, and the aspen
.newly green
.strangers to the shell of the sea
It recognizes an ancient connection
Cross filaments of time quavering in the cobweb wind

When cactus flowers spread unfortunate wings
To catch the flat blue spark of the sky
Eagles cry, 
Screes over pinon flumes
Sacred scars where rivulets flow
Titanic talus the ship’s sunken prow
Rivers flow to seal it over
Washes of pebble above and below
It is and was and will be
An echo of Vulcan history
Making due with time
So manifold and un-changing
The animal is gone
But the shell remains
And removed quickly by this hand
An echo calls out .let it stand
.let it stand

These vast ancient islands
With coastlines drenched in blood
The sea meets the sky and becomes land
And oxygen the fuel of hungry fires
That burn off the kelp
And boil the fishes
The animals are gone
But their shells remain


Wed

Random start of arbitrary end
.An elephant drawn by a semi –
.professional .truck Afear’d of the motion of the wheels
Stains on my wobbly table
Draw the page
.Drawn into life
.By a semi-interest
.A half-hearted cock-a-doodle-doo
Mornin’ come quick < roosters cry
Midnite-the wee hours
.Parade by and I am disinterested
.Death creeps in
.And I rue a misplaced
.word, stroke, balance
Random start of an end determined
.by a glad cessation
It is more God-like than God
.More universal than creed
It is being here, now
.w/o intentional reference
.to white-hairs printed on
.brown paper grocery sacks
The sacks themselves a joyous
.abstraction
from trees

I am not forlorn
.but profoundly sad
Random start I here will end
Across the table from the poet
.without worry —
.A counterpoint to
.my self
(Which deludes itself w/ gratitude)
.I am here
Indifferent
.Obscuring myself
Oblong
.Oblique
A tantrum on two legs
Confused
.Confounded
.Conned
In love w/ my faults

Seismic tremors upon the
.geography of my cranium
– broken
.An eggshell
.A fragile thing
with adjectives which shout
“No adjectives!” many years
later when they face the firing
squad, for no reason;
Beloved, for a passion unresolved
.resolution here
.end
Random end of an arbitrary start

joja
j0ja@yahoo.com

Bio(auto)

Joja lives works and drowns her sorrows with pen ink and bandwidth on the planet Earth, but remains open to all other possibilities She has also appeared in the “Canadian Jewish News”, “Ravage”,  and has just been accepted to the Apples&Oranges Oranges&Apples (http://www.aopoetry.com) site and the _Will Work for Peace” anthology She publishes the semi-regular “BlueMo0n” anthology and is, to date, one of only two members of the Decadent & Degenerate Jewish Art Web ring.


The following work is Copyright © 1999, and owned by JoJa and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

He Who Eats Mud

He who star gazes
may find comfort in the gutters

He who dives into the water
will learn to navigate another world

He who freezes heart
sacrifices to the thaw

He who has a nameless foe
fights everyman

He who speaks to the dead
will never be heard

He who loses the war
shall never be hurt again

& He who eats mud
can never be starved


Sangria

Hot-me Spicey Flowers in the blood
Poppies

I saw a kiss from the bus window
.Full spanish lips
.passion’s salsa

Red dress-Roxanne, Red-light Amsterdam night
.Its in your blood
.Is your blood simple?

Like passion, for this there is no cure
When you woke up from the War
.remembering blood
.drinking red-eye
.Me reading you super*incomprehensible*Bukowski*anti-logic, i knew:]

Hot-tea Spicey Flowers in the blood
Poppi


Katusha, mon amour

As we first kissed,
i saw Purim, firecrackers
noisemakers, dreams

(and) i thought that
love and rockets was
something which only
.we
understood

As the world
turned about us
i sat very still in disbelief

and in one of those
amazing revolutions
i lost you
in the boom and smoke of
Katusha, mon amour


    2jewish / ~ 2jewish
    (To Jewish Or Not Too Jewish)

    That’s what they gently (gentilely?) suggested
    .to certain, now deceased, members of my
    .family @ The Institute of Genetic Biology
    .and Racial Hygine

    The English may be “so nice”,
    .but the Germans are so very clean, no?
    .Ja, alles
    “If I am not for myself ,” Rav
    .Hillel left me that not behind the toilet
    .Which is why i am Jewish -for the
    .Free Stuff
    There was, somewhere in an old shul, a
    .great miracle misinterpreted as
    .being about light .Leon Trotsky and i understand,
    .it was about revolution
    and the price of oil

    .Still the price is dead Macabee’s

    I’ll fight any war, because our Hillel
    .continues, ” .If i am not for others,
    .who am i?”
    (I don’t know )

    Too2to Jewish
    .generation2generation
    .Even Steevie’s girlfriend took note
    .in x-mas present earrings and
    .Santa sweatsuit she denounced me
    @ Future’s Bakery while the old
    .men in brown shirts remembered
    .the proverbial “good old days”
    .in the country she studies the
    .language of

    .To2too prove the fact, i screwed in my horns]

    “If you will it, it is not a dream”
    .Hertzl His kids died in haShoah .When the UJA plasters it across a
    .city, i think they imply “bequeathment”
    .Steevie and i spray painted 25,000
    .posters in orange, “No, it is a will “
    .Steevie knows how to read the signs.


Orange means Everything
(my sign)

2B or not 2B
.which logically means “both”
“If you build it they will come”
.which is used to sell everything from
.tzatchkees to majour appliances to Viagra(TM)
.G0d bless Madison Avenue!
.What would .il be without you?

Outside Macy’s in wild-eyed, rabid
.hatred Mohammed’s little angel
.points 2 me, “jewISH!”
.Because you are LIKE a Jew”
“Is this like a ‘practicing Catholic’?”
.i reply as i genuflect
“If not (moshiac) now, 
.when?”

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