June 8-14, 1998: Alana Mae Alcott, Cara Johnson and Matt Gilboy

Week of June 8, 1998-June 14, 1998

Alana Mae Alcott, Cara Johnson and Matt Gilboy

A special three person week featuring teen poets.

Alana Mae Alcott
pinktutu@cox.net

Bio(auto)

.Biographies are usually misleading So I will stick to the facts and let you get on with your reading I am a young gal (16yrs) from Oceanside, California use your imagination to create the rest of me.


The following work is Copyright © 1998, and owned by
Alana Mae Alcott and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

From a Whisper to a Scream (a duet)

Between sighs and coffee Back aches and an insignificant ‘I love you’

Boredom lingers on my tongue
and he can sense ( can he sense it? )
it in every syllable, every vowel (comma)

Resisting the urge to verbalize thoughts
that i would say and could say,
but will not say
just to prove that i don’t need to scream
to vent my anger
Should say in spite of where the gesture might lead
Enhancing another angle
One point perspective becomes two
I measure the breaths for rhythm
measure the blinks
conscious stares
Compare actions to reactions
My actions more inventive His becoming more vicious
as i study every area of space
(the space in which i will draw up blue prints)
and begin to rebuild the wall

Whisper to a scream (Resting for sleep)


untitled

Trying hard to make the )my( words softer Only
words that exit my mouth don’t understand what soft is
‘Blunt all the edges, untangle all the knots’

Truth It’s not like it used to be WORDS
words sdrow
dorws EXCUSES
sowrd
osrwd

Cover up the scars Cover up my scars My truth with survival and
“o-yes, yes yes I am fine”
(Where is protection when you need him?)
Scars like the one 543 (stepNother) branded on my left breast
Deeper though -right hand over your heart- (ready? Begin)
Trying to make things right
-what’s wrong?-
Nothing Well It’s just (5 minutes) Nevermind
You know It’s like prison
when i can’t say what i want to say
because
i might hurt
S O M E O N E

The eyes
They reveal it before you can even question yourself
whether or not it’s going to become a mistake
It’s already given and then taken
Offense I am not playing a game though I have no rules I can’t run faster than you and I’m NOT going to try I won’t let myself win I may let you If your lucky.

Losing energy Losing circulation
Losing socks
Losing my marbles Losing you Losing myself
I am passive It’s your turn.


untitled

Mama’s been running with some truck drivers
delivering junk to 27 states
called in sick from her job as my mother
ever since i’ve been waiting for her to heal

Packed her suitcase and headed out for the desert
says she’ll be back soon
her hands hands holding mine
Crying trying not to feel

Mama’s been running with some truck drivers
delivering junk to 27 states
called in sick from her job as my mother
ever since i’ve been waiting Waiting.


Cara Johnson
carebear@interisland.net

Bio(auto)

Cara Johnson is 14 years old and from Friday Harbor, Washington She loves to write, mostly poetry and obscure stories So far she hasn’t done much to speak of, but someday she will be either famous or will die and then become discovered (so you may wish to print this page)


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

AAA

Broken Cars dead
side of the road they sit
waiting for the AAA Gods to appear

It Hurts Not that the car no longer
moves
problems can be solved
Why don’t they stop?

The people keep on
moving
did they notice we need Help!
What happened to love your neighbor?

I’m your neighbor.


untitled

what was it she said?
cause the pain eats at your soul
oh, you better off dead

she’s working all night
hopes to drink the day away
on the streets you might

see her walking round
no love came towards this baby
she born in a pound

in a small res town
complains about the white man
they tore her life down

we say forget it
we conquered you long ago
this girl can’t forget

oh you better off dead
cause the pain eats at your soul
yes, that,s what she said


apples feed the hungry

Love not loving
Fear is fearing
Heater stealing heat
Boredom is bored

what’s the world coming to?

Worlds orbit
around bright suns
with flags flying but
apples feed the hungry


Matt Gilboy
raamindasu@aol.com
http://members.aol.com/Raamindasu/dahjoint.html

Bio(auto)

a short bio??
hmm, im about six foot 145 pounds i have blue-grey eyes and “cinnaberry” tinted hair im only a senior in high school as of may ’98 but im going to graduate in a week im not going to talk aobut myself anymore, “Puisque je suis en train de tuer, autant continuer” hmmm, the webpage my friends and i do is pretty dub, but its fun .

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

Mr Wendle’s Cleavage

John Wendle has boobs that he won’t share
Yet though we hardly know he has such a pair
Our minds are impaired
by thoughts of what might be there


Tenise Has a Butt

tenise has a butt
she has a very nice butt
it’s not too big and its not too small
and she doesn’t like
the antichrist at all

the antichrist stays
in the hallway she stays
talks to Nate for to assimilate
i have no more words
that i’d like to state


Danielle’s Got Legs

oh,
danielle’s got legs and they drive us mad
long and lean, beautifully air-streamed
posture wild, folded petite and mild
graceful Danielle, manner of a child

stickered and colored, highlited pretty
ambitious citra of parking lot
-> incomplete


Loch

(I love this word)
it vibrates
in flem
through my throat
it swims
maybe “k”
j’aime* “ackgh”

*= I like, but j’aime is only 1 syllable


Happy inn out of here

rollick and frollic, miss and dismay
dissect a pig, and recycle the hay


LOF

rob me, drive me, to extinction
ill live on the freeway
in a box

junk me, junkie, in my bedroom
my wallpaper is cor-
-rugated


One of Emporer Shih Huang Ti’s Bodyguard

I have ice cubes in my pocket
my breast pocket is full of ice
i put it there quick on purpose
it keeps me cool from drafty hats
detail of the raised relief of my bed
( I ) won’t disappoint, satisfaction guaranteed
.we like to look at you
.we bok at you
.you smile
.we become warm


[unfortunately, the title is a drawing of four bottles that are joined at their bases]

in dreamy sleep a burlap flannely mantook a shower
in his shower he held a fore-fold bottle of hygiene
his porcelain doll timewise aligns against him as he cleans
his pensiv’d screenplayer hand poses and chalks his board
shaepoo- he pokes jestful at his rented thought of departure
conditioner- lady liberty this thought of such an adulterous sinbad draj
bottle 3- noch racht DAAHHH, noch, noch, NAUCHT!
bottle 2- resolute and hardcock, he gets out for him to wok
dried and walked he longs but to see cheeks to speak
he finds only her face when they spite in dis-hippie
their freckles but sad ruffy filters of gauss for their light skin
there’s only a note of rented union and he’s disappointed
left by a telefidget for washing to long
the beardy man then laughs at himself and his frajjubous player king
birds then kill them both