March 2-8, 1998: Laurel Ann Bogen and Jenny Sadre


week of March 2- 8, 1998

Laurel Ann Bogen and Jenny Sadre

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Laurel Ann Bogen


LAUREL ANN BOGEN is the author of several collections of poetry and short fiction, including the recent THE LAST GIRL IN THE LAND OF THE BUTTERFLIES, which was published by Red Wind Books in 1996, and FISSION, which is due from Red Dancefloor Press in 1998 She is literary curator at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art and poet in residence at the Pacificus Foundation in Los Angeles A respected teacher of poetry and performance at such institutions as the Writers’ Program at UCLA and Beyond Baroque Literary/Arts Center, she is a member of the poetry performance troupe, NEARLY FATAL WOMEN, (with Suzanne Lummis, Linda Albertano and Anna Homler) which toured the state of New York last fall, playing at a variety of venues including the Knitting Factory in Manhattan, Cornell University, the legendary Moosewood Restaurant and “Poets On The Air” on WNWK-FM in NYC You can find other poems by her at SPOKEN WARTHE OPEN ENDED IT and on the Bakunin/Coyote Literary Arts website or in print literary magazines and anthologies including The Chiron Review, Pearl, Yellow Silk, The Herman Review, THE MAVERICK POETS, GRAND PASSION: The Poets of Los Angeles and Beyond, BETWEEN THE CRACKS: An Anthology of Kinky Verse, A PASSION FOR SHOES and STAND-UP POETRY: The Anthology She lives in Los Angeles and conducts writing workshops with interested students via the internet as well as in person.

The following work is Copyright © 1998, and owned by Laurel Ann Bogen and may not be distributed or reprinted in any manner whatsover without written permission from the author.

Dodging My Past Like a Gumshoe

Lone footsteps shadow spinster
a man’s hand
in a black kid glove
the past floats
dead fish
on a stagnant pond
memory curses desire

Three Years Later I Still Send Anonymous Postcards To You

3 years gone
I scrawl a message
30,000 happy new mexicans greet you
you never took me
my 1966 buick
my gene wilder fan club card
my famous los angeles poet t-shirt

but let me tell you this:
I have lived for you
each month
as on the 17th I write
“having time here
wish you were wonderful”
messages written with blood
as each month I send
a jagged fragment
of some ill-conceived dream
that finished my girlhood as swiftly
as my parents’ bedroom door locked
at midnight

it is all done with precision
red print on white card
I choose deliberately
Roy Rogers on Trigger
a fitting tribute
to another outlaw
I want to say
that it doesn’t matter —
this vigil —
but when you pace hallways
holding on against a fear
you can’t name
a fear
that shakes you
from your sleep
only to realize you were awake
all along —
then you know it does matter
it matters that once
each month
there is the memory
of something as tenuous
as a possibility
as real as this poem

The Night Grows Teeth

The night grows teeth
through curtains
under blinds
the women undress
unroll stockings
they sit painting toenails
a subtle mauve

The night grows teeth
a tribal dance
the steady pads
of footfall and drum
he stands at the window
chest bare
and listens
she circles his back
the night grows teeth
with soft sucking kisses
he unclasps her beads

the night grows teeth
it lurches like a madman
with bad intent
it holds you down
it silences you with its heavy hands
it opens you up with its hot breath
it dares you to dream

I know about the night
I whistle myself into waking
I’ve fashioned arrowheads from stone
the night grows teeth
it demands retribution
leather straps
and burnt flesh
I paint my face
with yellow ochre
I carry a knife between my teeth

Brand New Dandy

the First Time I read JANE EYRE
I was 14 and I thought Mr Rochester was grand
and of course there was poor
proud Jane
and I suffered great indignities


but that was OK really
it was in the end ANYWAY
love triumphs over injustice
this may sound (all) (Too Much) mental
but darling that’s how my cortex
it can explain
how we come to this place
humbled by life
only to find
our gothic hearts discreetly rustle against time
refashioned brand new and dandy

For The Love of Strawberries

during strawberry season
my father would plant them
in small clay pots
working in the garden
the dirt of 70 summers
on his hands
my mother would bend
over the stove
steam rising
would preserve them
sugar, strawberry, pectin

strawberries common as the sun
strawberries winking in the summer breeze
Saturday’s confetti
the milkmaid’s tidbit
I eat them all
red berries red

Detective Supremo Meets Her Match

It began as a clandestine affair
too hot not to cool down
and I’m not talking centigrade
we were stumbling in hotels
discovering each other like penicillin
still, when the heart sputters
everyone is suspect
even you
as amiable and dapper
as Nick Charles without a hangover
while I rummage through your purloined past
for the stink of duplicity
sure I’m paranoid
but I’m paid to be
checking for fingerprints
a useful disguise in any event

I consult the stars
old men and bookies
they all say the same thing:
keep straight and carry a lightbulb
you arrive at my doorstep
silver bullet roses
and a 200-watt glint in your eyes


a chill season
of separation and divorce
stills a single star
illuminating the frost
as we feast this termination
our greetings and closings
bump into each other
like neighbors
awkward with the pulse
of intimacy
erecting fences
we stifle familiarity
with additional layers of habit
and the diminution of light
continues at a flicker
our slow burn

The Day I Had the Terrible Fear

The Big No sits on my chest
and I think I’m only 46
but the invitation remains
Hi ya How ya doin
have some coffee and some pie
have a serrated bread knife
I cannot name it yet
it squanders my daylight
black familiar coin
of the psycho trade
I remember it each time
it leaves me crouched
and flinching
still I brazen
fate and furies after
a fashion
The Big No is indiscriminate
it doesn’t care that I’m a Famous Los Angeles Poet
it will erode everything
it takes away the words, man
it takes away the words

This Woman Feels Rectangular
— for Timothy Purpus

We are two points
on the same line
equidistant from love and regret
I fold these words in half for you
seal the edges of the gift
it is a ritual still
as you smooth the creases gently
they are as plain
as the times we lived in
simple words like friend
and history bloom on your lips
they flatten my angles
into a round curve
that meets end to end
without breaking


It has been haunting me for months
made from clay and slivers of glass
stuck with bits of lace
my name pinned on its paper heart

it will not breathe
except to sigh don’t leave me
its eyes milky with accusations
how does it know
I cannot take it with me
dragging it like a bad leg
or packing it in a hexagonal box
with my favorite hats

it holds me here
The Lady With The Veil who says
you will starve to feed me
tear up tickets to London, Lisbon, Venezuela
for tomorrow I will make you god
or keep you in your place
all I promise are miracles
tomorrow you will own
what you thought you could not own
love, talent, fame
I am what you don’t want
to see in the morning
when you’re unable to move
writing your way out of your life

The Essential Dr Frankenstein

In the absence of life
there is life
he pulls the thread through
birth, death, gratitude
unwraps his small favors

it is always this
weaving substance with air
calling out for hope when there is none
the clutch of skin
the pulse insists
a spasm of body and blood

he sews the flesh like cloth
and gives it form
meat and breath
each stitch binds his Child to Man
and yes, it will live without him
with a presence of its own
his monster, his poem
his handicraft: a generated thing
compounded of rupture and dust

Jenny Sadre


Jenny Sadre is a 20 year old poet livin’ (sorta’) in Chattanooga, Tennessee her passion and everything that is anything to her is poetry she is currently in the studio recording her first spoken word ep it should be due out shortly after.

The following work is Copyright © 1998, and owned by Jenny Sadre and may not be distributed or reprinted in any manner whatsover without written permission from the author.


black hawk crowman
black hawk crowman
stompin his feet
over my head
on top of my bed
more cheekbones
than his daddy
black hawk crowman
yours and mine
country tis of thee
sweet land of trail of tears
of thee i sing
black hawk crowman
i meet you
and you move just like the feather behind your ear
not really
stompin his feet
over my head
on top of my bed
more cheekbones
than you your mommy
black hair
black hawk
who tells me with his black feather hawk head
out the window–
‘i’m mexican too’


just some other day
we saw
ginsberg and corso
black and white
boots and belts
and brains
oh, mama
these boys know how to move
in black and white
boots and belts
and brains
that would make every firecracker
under my bed
holler and cry
from pure jealousy
just some other day
we saw
ginsberg’s ghost
red and blue
boots and belts
and words
oh, mama
just some other beat

Asheville Again

and i was nervous for you
my one time flingloverpoettibetanbuddhist
and you up there with july shoes
that would rest by the hotel door in anytown, usa
i was anygirl

and i bought white flimsy cotton made of nothing
but clouds
for you
my one time flingloverpoettibetanbuddhist
and i love your voice on my back olive and spanish
nervous for me


said only one boy to me
he like the way my mouth
when i write

said this boy to me:
you brushed your teeth downstairs from your top lip
a little brighter

said only he
that he liked the way my eyes mad
when i write

say he:
you lined your ardell dimestore cheapstore eyelashes up
just right

said only one boy to me
he like the way my poem
when i sleep
said this boy to me

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