October 11-17, 1999: Bridget Gage-Dixon and Scott Ferry

Week of October 11-17, 1999

Bridget Gage-Dixon and Scott Ferry

Bridget Gage-Dixon


I live in Jackson, NJ and have been writing for as long as I can remember I spend my days raising my three small children and my nights working slowly toward a degree I have published twice before in the e-zines Poetry Tonight and Avalon.

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

The Apology

He is careful now
not to meet my stare
body leaning up against the counter
fading sunray breaking through the blinds
cuts a mask of light across
across his dark face
and the raindrop that has woven its’ way
through the roof, 
down past the rotting insulation
breaks the silence as
it drops into the old
copper pot on the floor
sending waves across the sitting water
that crest against the metal sides
and are pushed back toward the center
as he walks toward me
I smell the mix of diesel and sweat
that has formed beads across his forehead
sweeping one arm across his brow
and the other around my waist
he presses into me
and despite myself
I’m smiling
as the rain beats against the roof
and another drop
plunges toward the copper pot.


Beneath the wooden bench
the limp, torn petals
of a pink flower
bear the imprint of a small sneaker Cigarette butt stained with red lipstick
lies beside a plastic soda bottle
crushed and cracked
and only feet from the container
marked in big white letters “Please Recycle”
I dig my toes down beneath hot sand
to the dark, cool dirt below Laughing children run past
giving flight to dormant sand
as mothers rocking strollers
chant reprimands and directives Creeping clouds obscure the sun
stealing the shadow from a little boy
who flails his arms frantically at the loss
Geese keep pleasant distance
from the children throwing week old bread
salvaged from dark cupboard
in their direction They swim hastily to it
stretch regal necks to seize it
then retreat Turning from them
I reach my hand beneath the bench
recover the trampled blossom
brush tiny grains of sand from the marred petals
and tuck it into my hair.

Scott Ferry


First of all I won’t blow up a Levitz near you I’m sure of it now My name is Scott Ferry and I grew up in Huntington Beach,  CA I swam quite a bit as a young lad, memorized the black line on the bottom of the pool, burned out Went to college in Santa Barbara, memories of which come back to me more and more every day Then I became a high school English teacher, probably more for my parents than anything else A bad idea I moved to Seattle,  met a freak such as myself and we will soon be married I study Chinese Medicine now A good idea Oh yeah, I write poetry and got published and stuff (Blue Satellite, Spillway, Seattle Review,  Crab Creek Review) I write to keep the furniture nightmares away Hey, maybe I will stick a needle in you at one time or another (your back hurt?)

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

The Horny Superhero Who Really Is A Villain

After watching the woman I want
slip outside the bar with another man, 
I grip my beer with superhuman force
and try to look mild-mannered
I ask my friend Diane about the guy,
“Do you think he is kind of slimy?”
She says, “Yes, he sneaks around
lookin’ for it all the time He tried to hit on me, even though
I think it’s pretty obvious I’m a lesbian “
So then I realize why I don’t like him,
why he pretends he listens
instead of listening, 
why his words are webs I see him as a tattered Spiderman
sticking unsuspecting damsels to his groin
with unclean strands of talk Inside an alcohol comic strip
I see myself as another superhero:
“Anti-Horn-Dog Man”
or “I’ll-Save-You-From-Sleazy-Sex Man ”
I wear green and blue nylon
and have wings on my head like Apollo I walk into my intended’s bedroom gleaming, 
a comic strip light shooting from behind me
into the darkened room I sense the evil one on the ceiling, 
webs woven to all four corners He is eyeing her in her bed, his lips slick
He snaps his head towards me, shaking She is asleep so I call out her name, 
arms poised on my Anti-Hormone Belt She opens her eyes and looks up at the ceiling She shrieks silent film screams
until she looks at me in the doorway
her eyes puddling with gratitude and lust And just before I manhandle Spiderman
and pull his mask off
and all the cop helicopters land on the roof,
I hear a voice from beside me
“I don’t think she’s who you are looking for
anyhow, Scott ” My friend is right So I take another gulp of beer
and slam the drawing board shut, 
smashing a spider and its prey.


when my Grandmother Downes
was dying, she drifted in
and out of consciousness
her daughters
stood by her bed, sat
stood up again
looking into their mother’s face
which turned from side to side
shaking no to a transparent emissary
on the other end of her eyes
grandmother ordered
her daughters to pack her suitcase
she asked the nurse how the bed
would fit through the door
when it was time for her to go
then she grew lucid, smiling
as if her husband
had just asked her to marry
and she had answered yes
which seemed impossible
because he had died 15 years before
my mother asked her
“is Papa here?”
grandmother nodded her head yes
yes and the television snapped on
by itself, filling the room
with urgent noise
and color
“no logical explanation
for it,” the nurse said
as she whisked out noiselessly
my grandmother
allowed her eyes to close
repeating resplendent
vows to the young groom
in the doorway

After Seeing the Art of Julie Paschkis

In the paintings
.basins and rivers steep
.the curves of canvas
and ghosts with boar’s faces
.and long harpy hair
sling ringing the water’s lost glare
.under the skin Children hang upside down from
.supermarket guiderails and peel
grapes on the banks
.of bamboo rivers .And always under the water
are the sleeping people: a lady with roll-
.down eyes swinging us
.in her roots, a nude swimmer
wearing our limbs, 
.an acolyte with ether
fingers and an egret’s neck;
.such nimble bodies .We create
immeasurable distances
.between what we say
and how we dream

Above ground we begin to forget
.the talk-along whispers
.under our beds, 
.we forget that the Prince of
Arabia’s hip-bones are buried under the
.rubber tree
.in our backyard

.It is only when we are asleep
that we remember that our insides
.are filled with caves, 
.pushcarts full of sasquatch
.Our eyes roll as they rub
.against the words we are frightened of, 
.our deafness, and the blue-mouthed
.people we will hear
.as our hearts beat down to zero.

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