November 23-29, 1998: Clint Margrave and Jennifer Havener

Week of November 23, 1998-November 29, 1998

Clint Margrave and Jennifer Havener

Clint Margrave
idiot91@worldnet.att.net

Bio(auto)

I am 24 years old, I live in Anaheim,CA I have two chapbooks one called The Devil Made Me Do It and one called Salute the Wreckage I have been published a few times in the Chiron Review and another mag called Haggard and Halloo and have really just recently have begun to really start sending submissions.


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

The Lonely Hunter

this small cricket
I have listened to for months
must have worked its way
out of a drainage pipe,
lost its head in the
garbage disposal,
broke a leg or been
challenged to a duel
somewhere, because now
this house is quiet And though there were times
when I wished to smash
the little bastard into a
thousand cricket pieces,
or moments spent
hunting him down with a
fist and a paper towel,
I cannot help but notice
the absence of him now;
like hiccups that have suddenly
disappeared, or a neighborhood
dog that has been silenced,
or the way I felt this morning
when I threw on an old sweatshirt
and pulled from its tight sleeve
a broken strand of your hair.


identity crisis

If you must get me
at home, it’s 714-434-0674
or if you’d prefer to
reach me at work then
it’s 562-799-0486,
officially they’ll know
me better as 227
but don’t try sending
any mail because that
only goes to 261 in
the city of 92836
And if you’re from the
government, well then
you might know me better
as 558-75-1156, or the
Department of Motor Vehicles?
then I’ve slipped in as A6567983
But the bank still knows
me best as 0856211738
and the credit union even
better as 6420907429, but
I wouldn’t bother checking
either of these places
because most of the time
all you’re going to find
is a balance of 0
Anyway—hope to hear
from you soon, in the
meantime I’ll be heading
down the 405 in my white
5g26189 trying to make
some sense out of this mess
that started on 7-1-74.


gravity

love
peel the skin
from these bones
clench a fist
around this vestibule
caress these tired muscles
tie these veins
into little knots
place your lips
along this jaded spine
for I have seen flowers
die with more dignity;
I have watched bullets
rush through armies
more gently;
I have seen acid
dissolve flesh
in a more delicate manner
and as we lay down
amongst these filthy sheets
let me kiss
your sour lips,
let these fingers
brush over
your pale white skin,
let this sun
forever set
across your naked back
for I have known
no escape,
no great white horse
to ride on,
no roof to keep
us covered,
no stones to throw
or pills to swallow.

Jennifer Havener
killyou@borg.com

Bio(auto)

Jennifer Havener; drowning in nothingness, waiting to start college in ’99 From Vernon Center, NY.


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


Dust And Demons

Dust covers the shelf,
my hands
and my heart The letter you wrote me
to tell me to leave
you,
this apartment,
sits alone,
right where I left it I couldn’t bear to take it with me,
you couldn’t bear
to throw it out
I touch it,
gently, angrily New tears mingle
with old stains You called last night,
beckoned me to come And I, still your slave,
abided You said
“Just because I’m never alone
doesn’t mean I’m not lonely “

Your ghost haunted me since the day
I walked out I came to exorcise you
The crinkle of the paper
echoes in this silent hell I read, again, the words you wrote
to make me hate you I memorized them They have been repeating in my head
for 2 years
“I want you gone
when I get back “

Now you call me back here You pray to God,
and then to me
to ease your conscience, your loneliness He won’t,
and I can’t –
I have my own demons to drown
The rooms of our life together
have become black
with dust, and pain It is empty here And you are dead without me I know this by the way
you reach out for me now,
in regret, and desperation It is enough And I take your cigarette
from your shaking hands,
and touch it lightly
to that note, glaring white
in the blackness,
and walk out,
never looking back.


Ariel’s Birthday Letters

Kneeling on the grass
with our legs barely touching,
shockwaves zapping even so books in hands,
voices rising Sylvia for me,
Ted for you
Poems of tragic love,
old ghosts and
suicide She died for him And maybe he died with her,
but he stayed
to raise the products
of her womb
The rain starts,
still we stay Wet pages,
matted hair
With every word from every poem,
we get a little more wet,
and a little more in love
We worry not about
ruined books,
or ruined lives the poems reveal We worry only about
how close our hands
and heart are coming
Books closed,
hands entwined We walk back to your apartment You put the books on the heater to dry,
and wrap yourself around me,
my own personal blanket,
and whisper
softly
that you love me.


Seconds

Watching the time pass by the seconds 1:30 a.m ,
and i can’t do this anymore Waiting for you to come home,
drunk, most likely,
and enter into me,
my protest on my lips
demolished by your kiss
Jason said that you don’t deserve me When I asked him who did
he looked at me like you used to He said nothing,
and I said nothing
You walked in a moment later,
and he retreated to his
apartment across the hall,
which might as well have been across the world
You took one look at the painting of him
(because I sometimes pretend to be a painter),
and shredded it, against my sobbed objections,
with the pocket knife
that I bought for you last year
I could almost feel Jason
pressed up against his door,
listening for signs that
I am not okay But I always am.