March 22-28, 1999: E.C. Archibeque and John Durler

Week of March 22-March 28, 1999

E.C Archibeque and John Durler

E.C. Archibeque


E.C (Carlye) Archibeque is the editor of the biyearly journal Fuck This Shit; coedits the femme centric journal 51% with fellow poet Michelle Ben-Hur; and is a regular reviewer of poetry and music for the independent magazine Sic Vice & Verse Left to her own devices she collects cats and videos pausing only to eat Mexican food; when the world intervines she works 9 to 5 and does her best to obey traffic laws She has been published in Blue Satelite; Scream While You Burn and Social Anarchy issue 19 Her latest book “Live! At the Cobalt” has done little to change the world.

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

The Mulbury Tree

I don’t know if I identify
with Vincent, but I would
like to have served him
onion soup
with homemade bread
as he rested
beneath the Mulberry tree
before capturing its soul

I came upon it by chance
like first death
or last love
and I wept
for the thick darkness of it, alone
in the sunny room of the museum
because, like death
it was everything
and nothing all at once.

Where? Where?

a woman without a man
is noticed more by herself
than by others
the constant nagging
where? where?
she will search behind couches
and under the bed

inspect bathrooms
and pill bottles
will stand as still
as the gaze of a cat
ignorant of all but the prey

“Where is he?” asks Sylvia,
head in the oven
“Gone, gone,” replies Anne
between breaths

Sylvia Plath Was a Goddess

Men always want a goddess
They dig through the dirt and peat
for a ring of stones
in the shape of a woman
Sylvia Plath was a goddess,

She set the milk out
by the children’s beds,
before laying her head
on the gaslit alter
of her cold English flat Her husband miles away
in the arms of a woman
made of peat and stone.

John Durler


My name is John Durler, I live on Long Island in New York, I am 57 years old, hold a BA and a MA in American lit.

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

Smoking Dreams

When you smoke your dreams in a hamper
getting high in the dark
there is only you to share them with
as they burn to acrid ashes in your eyes
You peer through the mesh to see
sun on the rim of the toilet seat
rainbows on soapy mirrors
and the shining porcelain tub
that promised but never delivered
one hundred percent clean
when you scrubbed skin raw
You bow your head and scream into the drain,
pray no one hears your naked shame
You look up to see the hamper open,
cringe at discovery,
but it’s just a pair of smelly socks
caught on the edge
to give you pause not to scream
or whimper but stop breathing
long enough to realize you can’t
You pound your temples
jump out of the hamper,
run to your bed, squeeze under it
and dream an angel speaks to you
while your picking her wings off
trying to shrink her to manageable proportions,
and your heart loses it’s rythm heaves, swells to explode,
and drains to a pasty salted slug that
has a stale smell of faded rose
petals folded in a love note that
tells the tale of ending loss
Love left a while ago You weren’t paying attention.

Bird Song

I look to me to find my way to who I am,
I do not like what I find
I dream of candlesticks not yet burning,
see great furious fires in ice
I feel a chill in a bird’s song,
plug ears,
look out my open doorway,
drop crumbs, inviting the bird in
pecking my kitchen floor,
I grab it by the throat,
.feeling wing bones,
.feathers soft as dandelion puffs,
.able to fly free,
as I never could
I look into black bulging eyes,
.feel the rapid heartbeat, and say

“Never trust mankind “

I know my power, open my hand It blinks,
peeps E sharp,
.and flies out the doorway
Later that night,
ears unplugged
.the bird’s song cuts through the night,
.shatters my windows,
tears down walls and roof,

and I stand in the sky—

.falling, falling.


When someone opens the lid
and light pours in
.you blink a blink so long
when you open your eyes
you see black
Out of the black a single note chimes


yet echoes in the dark
until you hear it in your heart
a thousand beats later,

ears no longer able to listen
to so delicately fine a tone
Even a dog’s ears cannot hear it,
but your heart can

by the tonal strobe of your soul
.so sensitive
.to the sound .

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