June 7-13, 1999: Juan-Beauregaard-Montez and Robert J Savino

Week of June 7-13, 1999

Juan-Beauregaard-Montez and Robert J Savino

Juan Beauregaard-Montez


Juan Beauregaard-Montez is a Chiapas Indian guerrilla living in exile in
Europe He submits his work through his agent Lind Call of the Tampa Group
founded by Duane Locke.

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


Marjuna was a woman of realities She would hold my hand
As she invented subterranean gardens,
Immense flocks of white birds The moon rested in her breasts,
As a memory settled upon itself for eternity She danced with the nude persistence of absence Silence escaped my lips,
Become a comet that knew no grave She, a llama ewe on the edge of Salang Pass,
Paused with the whiteness upon all white Time spiraled into itself, begged for the cold, 
Clear water of the Amu-Darya Tiny pieces of sunset fell from her eyes,
Two hands reached into mist Returned with a small, white mountain rose, 
Thorns wet with fresh blood.

Petrolina, Fifteen Minutes Till Midnight

I had grown accustomed
To drinking Portuguese Port wine alone
At a small table outside the Café Purlita
Where I could gaze across the blackness
Of the Sáo Fransisco River
At the auric lights of Jaziero de Bahia,
The place of cranberries and Chilian red wine I can no longer recall
When I last crossed the Sáo Fransisco river
Can not recall the unknown desires
That led me to the midnight ferry Those desires, neither sinister nor benevolent,
Led me away from the beautiful city, Jaziero de Bahia My mind was possessed with an incredible strangeness This strangeness demanded that I cross the river at night I joined the Brundello Sosá Compania de Comedios Musicalé
As the front man who arranged all the shows
Ahead of the travelling troupe In all the thirty years that I worked for the Brundello Sosá Compania
I never saw a single show,
Never laughed at single, staged joke Ferry lights cross the table,
Caress a locket that holds strands of curled, cranberry hair I order another bottle of Portuguese Port wine, some bread and butter.

Robert J Savino


Robert J Savino resides in West Islip-Long Island, New York He is a Bank Officer by day and a Poet, otherwise His work has been published in a number of periodicals from the Babylon Review to the Haight Ashbury Literary Journal.

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

Night Visitor

White sheets
lie waiting,
naked for love
I feel tense There are others
more eloquent
Freshness freefalls,
spreads awkward,
shadows scramble
I style re-style
her silk ink hair
across the white sheets
Gypsy words
spill from my lips,
as I peak
She responds It feels good,
a figure formed
A trampoline quarter
on tight sheets, finished,
cold coffee waiting.

Aerial Bombs and Bananas

I remember a child’s morning,
slices of banana dropping
one after another
from the knife in mother’s hand,
snow covered flakes displaced
I remember mornings of ‘ 68,
green bananas falling
through silence, crispy rice
fields saturated in yellowing
milk of unmeasured thought
Today is different
but still the same No more banana wars,
just the empty bowl.

Treasure of Age

The old man enjoys reading Blake,
believing the road to excess lies
in wetting his windpipe with wine
in the urn-tipped style of Dionysus
and spewing a wordspray of wisdom
in quatrains,
fumbling the final four lines
So many nights he falls asleep
in the chair,
wallowing in those same guttural groans,
echoes of voices
bouncing from closed doors in his mind
Halfway to dawn
struggling from chair to toilet,
wobbly on his Achilles heel
he spouts the blood of his sins
Memories erased,
scattering to dust in morning moans.

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