August 2-8, 1999: Audubon Dougherty and Doug Tanoury

Week of August 2-August 8, 1999

Audubon Dougherty and Doug Tanoury

Audubon Dougherty
hellobon@yahoo.com

www.homestead.com/audubon/home.html

Bio(auto)

Audubon Dougherty loves to write and has been doing it from a fetal stage Her work has been published in three different literary magazines from Emerson College, several internet magazines, and is posted on her own homepage She has been active in several writer’s groups and is currently a member Herword Writers, a women’s writer’s group based out of Boston She’s spending the summer writing poetry, satire and other creative content for mybytes.com, a website scheduled for launch in August.


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

Public Displays of Affection

Little miss watch-I-liked licked
the tips of a redhead’s lips, I think
they were engaged But all along the red line
it went on:
smack kissing and hissing
laughter, standing
in the same spot They made the train so hot
This is why I don’t like PDA–
all the fun flushes away
when people touch and tug
all tongue and teeth and hormone
for an audience of strangers It’s
dangerous, because if I
were an inhibited
big strong guy I’d stomp my
muscled, loveless way
to him, and her, thin-skinned
and say (quite loudly, in a whispered boom):
“Jesus Christ, just get a room!”

A woman wormed
across from me, while three
lesbians ignored One jumped
when the train pumped, and bumped
the kissing couple Said,
scuse me, mind if we
get by?
But through three stops
nothing stopped til tender
tips of fingers folded tight
and led each partner out I just don’t get what love is all about.


Staying Over

You are pregnant
under my blanket
of off-whites and old sex You grow new youís
with arms and legs
and attitudes You grow
from the inside out
as I grow out of you In the morning, the sickness
begins: first and last
with the realization
that this is not routine,
that our nine months
ended in ten and by eight thirty
youíll be out the door,
just another friendly sleepover Can you hear my inside screams
screaming, hey you,
what are you
doing in my bed?
What am I doing with you?
We had a child once called
Confusion who grew up too fast
and ran away with Resentment How dare you now
sit fatally fertile
under my cold comforter I’d rather glimpse your face
sideways from the window
of an airplane to Mozambique
or lost like thick dust
in an urban crowd we both try
to fight through but can’t Turn around, you’ve got places to go
and so do I.


Doug Tanoury
dtanoury@ix.netcom.com

Bio(auto)

Doug Tanoury grew up in Detroit and still lives in the area with his wife and three children
Doug has been published by The Pittsburgh Quarterly, Eclectica,  Poetry Magazine, Agnieszka’s Dowry, Savoy Magazine, Zuzu’s Petals,  Pif, The Blockhead Journal, Swagazine, Kimera and others
Doug is exclusively an Internet poet with the majority of his work never leaving electronic form However, his work is featured in a new book by Funky Dog Publishing: “Athens Avenue-A Collection Of Poetry”
The greatest influence on Doug’s work was the 7th grade poetry anthology used in Sister Debra’s English class: Reflections On A Gift Of Watermelon Pickle And Other Modern Verse, Stephen Dunning,  Edward Lueders and Hugh Smith, (c)1966 by Scott Foresman & Company.


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


Salome Dancing For Herod

If I was in the great hall
Of the palace
Watching Salome dancing
For Herod
I too would marvel
At movements
So erotic and executed
With animal precision

Her heaving breasts
Swaying pelvis
The white waves of her skin
Moving in soft undulations
Across her abdomen
And I smile knowing
That the king and I
Are both drunk with dance

And the beat of the music
The rhythmic flashing
Of bare thighs
Naked belly
Awaken the pagan in me
Who knows that lust is to love
What poetry is to prose
A sensual awakening of sight and smell
And sound and taste

And I would swear too
At that moment that the bounce
In each breast
Was worth the heads
Of a hundred prophets
And is more moving to me
Than the words
Of all the holy men in Judea


And I Am

And I told her
Matter of factly
That indeed I am
A poet of naked breasts
And that umber nipples
Centered in amber aureoles
To me are pupils
And Irises that serve
As windows to the soul

And I went on to say
Confident and self-assured
That I am too the bard
Of the bare thigh
That to me is nature revealed
Tan like the underside
Of sycamore leaves in fall
Softly wild and untouchable
As a sleeping doe

And I concluded by saying
That I am a lyric that can versify
The plump lushness of
A pale ass
In still-life form
Like so much fruit
As if it were a honey dew melon
Sliced in two and resting
On the kitchen table


At The Waldorf

At the Waldorf
Where desserts are done in art deco
And abstractions in chocolate
Twist in many shapes
Everything is golden

The lobby a cathedral
Large and brightly lit
At a table draped in white linen
Like an altar prepared
For solemn High Mass

I study the ceiling
Done in Greek revival
Where reliefs of nudes
In white plaster
Resemble marble

At the Waldorf
Where words are whispered
Like prayers of the devout
At an altar
Draped in white vestments

And in gilded murals
On Peacock Alley
Where I see a sugar-coated sunrise
Over the rundown landscape
Of the far eastside


August Rain

I remember an August once
When I could talk to him
But didn’t and each word unspoken
Rested like a brick on the silence
That lay thick as a layer of mortar
And grew into hardness between us

These day’s I think of him
Mostly when rain falls in gray sheets
With a soft hiss as droplets
Paint the pavement with color
Of an overcast sky and collects
On the road in pools in brought to full boil

In summer storms with the
Sound of thunder on my skin
I recall in the air’s smell and
The wind cool in my hair
An August once when rain fell
In mortar gray hardness on our silence


Habeas Corpus

Years from now when I am gone
And you sit at the kitchen table
With people who never knew me
Show them this so they will know

That I was touched and slightly
Giddy with the silly art of poetry
That to me was harmony and
Melody floating everywhere

They should know too that with
Eyes and nose and mouth and ears
And every organ that ties us to the world
That I love you and it grew and multiplied

Like fission in the nuclei of cells and
Was carried in corpuscles speeding
Through capillaries toward lips and
Fingertips and other body parts

That celebrate a passing touch

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