November 30-December 6, 1998: L.S. Shevshenko and M.I. Blue

Bio(auto)

L.S Shevshenko was born in Tomaston Georgia and grew up on Macon Georgia’s infamous south side His father is Native American Indian and Irish and his mother is Russian At the tender age of twelve he witnessed his uncles’ murder and started writing and at twenty-two watched his brother die from a gunshot outside a nightclub where he worked He’s ridden motorcycles and fought for biker’s rights for most of his life and has been published by Easyriders Magazine,  Nebo, Nightshade,Deathrealm Magazine, Dream International Quarterly and appeared in many other journals, small presses and even appeared on television Shevshenko has won two awards from the Georgia College Press Association and has two chap-books ICE HOUSE and RoB Amsterdam He is currently working on a third and writing a novel His web site is: http://members.tripod.com/~shevshenko

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

as doe ran wild in the woods

everything was folded
put neatly into
small bags and
set inside the truck
cranking up
driving a short distance from
the house
I then pulled into
the roofing company drive
while getting out
I extracted the articles
then went inside and
stoically asked for my ex’
the secretary, smiled
went into the back
my girlfriends boyfriend
(the owner) emerged
smiling
” I see you have something for US”
he said, “her clothes “

smiling back I told him
“Yea-
since you can sneak her off
take care of her and
her hotel room in Conyers
I felt you should take care of these too “
Handing them to him
I then turned, walked away
and quietly wished them
all the luck in the world.

shooting the curls

you sit across the room
in subtle reckless behavior
basking naked to a window’s sun
as these finger tips
softly spank your mind
you told me
it aroused you
that you were
a voyeur
blushing at times
watching me make love
to the millions in the net
half my age
older women, often stare
they’re caught-up in
their controlled conditioning
those antiquated ways
their looks
cause you laughter
as you gently rub these arms
lovingly
Here
there is no color, or time
in your eyes I peer
deep into your mind
you stoke the fires
allow those thighs to part
inside the wave
I ride
shooting the curls:
the internet
can wait

Wish- (for her)

Often, I ponder
where she is
without a call
without
some news
I am, forlorn
distressed
has she gone
in some wreck
been taken
by the darkness
or some keen blade
-been sprayed from a corner
to an early grave
the smoke rises
this cat purrs
as our clock ticks
amongst the blues at the window
clouds dance
beneath the stars
one falls and
all I can do
is wish.

the Stuck Mojo Show at Liz Reeds Music Hall

some one
had me guarding steps
leading to the stage
(for no money mind you)
and in front of the band
were animals
colliding
tossing others into
the air
and the floor was shaking
and the crowd was swaying
and bouncers were like midgets
compared to most
and it was hot
muggy
rank
and the smell of sweat was
everywhere
and there were women there
with protrusions ashardasminds
someÖ you could’ve hung keys from
they were pushed together, like poems
and over music
a three hundred pounder hollered
“I WANT TO DIVE INTO THE CROWD!”
So I let him
and as he filled the air
everybody parted
from the insanity that fell
as the band played on.

M.I Blue
unclueblue@mail.earthlink.net

Bio(auto)

m.i.blue recently self-published a short informational pamphlet called HOW TO BLOW UP A CHURCH and has written for magazines with names like Future Sex, Damage, Ball, Bakunin, and that caffein-spastic coffee journal Cups His most recent credit is an erotic piece published in the Rhinoceros Press anthology: NOIROTICA2: PULP FRICTION.

blue has been performing in and producing spoken word shows in San Francisco for 10 years and worked with writers like Exene Cervenka, Carol Queen, vampire Danielle Willis, Don Bajema, and recent-tour-mate Deke Weaver His latest effort has been a two-year ongoing spokenword/ performance/cabaret Sunday-After-Church series known as Wordfuck that one critic called “a cross between NPR and Cybergasm” and which has been kicked out of one S.F venue,  gone on the road to Long Beach, Vancouver (by virtual telecommunication hookup), San Diego, Seattle, and the Albuquerque Poetry Festival,  and been produced (by blue) as a local S.F cable-access tv show.

This year he co-produced, with Hank Hyena, a tape featuring the best writers working in the S.F spokenword scene: MOUTH, featuring Beth Lissick, Juliet Torrez, Justin Chin, and a host of others .You can call him “Uncle Blue”.

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

The Hidden Aspect of Clouds

“come on!” billy exhorts his sister “i just wanna see ” creaking open the door and slipping into his dads’ and moms’ darkening bedroom like an awestruck worshipper sneaking into the house of god.

it all seems so immense, so well-appointed, so adult the enormous bed a barge, the closet door like pandora’s box, the matching nightstand altars his sister is sucking her thumb in wonder and holding on to the edge of his t-shirt with one wet hand “look!” on the waxed surface of the pine bureau, reflected in the vast mirror that hangs over it, beside the hyper-hued photograph of dad and mom beaming in their wedding best: a jewel box filled with mom’s pearls and brooches, earrings and zircons .a pewter dish full of dad’s coins and tieclips and keys “w-ow!” patty reaches out to touch the cool pearls as though to pet a scared stray kitten the picture of his happy father makes billy smile, too he reaches into the coins and pulls out a penknife,  unclasps it, closes it, then puts it back in the dish, reverently.

“billy!” his sister urges they listen, breath held, as their mother’s dopplering singing voice, downstairs, moves from one room to another past the stairs, then silence again.

excited, opening slowly the drawers one by one to look inside,  to feel inside the clean handkerchiefs and laced underthings,  the socks crisp shirts, soft pants .at the bottom of his fathers’ sweater drawer another box.

“don’t, billy !” patty says, but he’s already pulled the heavy cigarbox out: ROI-TAN .he’s already lifted it’s faded lid inside: khaki memories black and white photographs of dirty smiling men in uniforms “that’s dad!” the son says in wonderment the weight is under the photos the checked handle of the massive gun feels like grapnels on the palm of his hand pulling the weapon clear of the cigarbox, it’s heavier than it could possibly be “l-o-o-k!” he points the piece toward his anxious sister, whose eyes grow large and pale as though projected by the big gun onto her face “put it back, billy ” she whispers, but the gun wavers in her face for a moment, his mind is already somewhere else, he isn’t paying any attention to it anymore when suddenly he lets the .45 drop heavily to the rug, puts it down to pick up something else from the box dried fruit, it looks like, strung on a loop of tarnished copper wire billy can see it in one of the photos, around his father’s neck,  and puts it on, beaming proudly.

“look, patty!“
it’s a necklace of ears.