December 28, 1998-January 3, 1999: Elaine Thomas and Jerry Reynolds

Bio(auto)

Elaine Thomas currently lives in Indianapolis, Indiana, with 2 Siamese cats and a computer Her poems have appeared haphazardly in such places as the Paper Salad Poetry Journal, In Your Face,  pLopLop, Paramour, and various online zines including Thunder Sandwich and idiolect.

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

context

no passage surrounds
that which is said we are sitting at a
dinner party, your
tawny hair has grown
long upon your neck
and the next thing you
say makes no sense:

nothing your lips
move to accept the
rim of the glass, I
try the spinach salad
drizzled with sweet
and sour sauce
– delicious-and since
this is not the place

to weave sense into
meaning, we leave
well enough alone, 
timing arrivals and
noting departures, the
interruptions without
which we couldn’t
begin to say.

age matters a little

not so much
the 19 yrs
as the fall
I took in
broad ripple
my ankles
wobbly in
high heels
and how you
knelt beside
me asking
“are you
all right?”

later you
told me you
were afraid
someone
inside one
of the trendy
restaurants
would think
you pushed
me down

but I was
afraid to get
up because
when I was
15 I sprained
my ankle and
it felt a lot
like what had
just happened

as it turned
out I was okay
more shook up
than anything

but it was when
I put my arm
through yours
that I felt
like your
mother

effect, later

it creeps along the walls, this softness which is not light
but which is, illuminating your face in profile, its
imagined lines, drawing you in no great detail, just a

simple sketch of you, penciled on the paper of my mind a rush of openings, all the doors and windows hurrying
to unlock themselves, but why? for what purpose?

endings turn into beginnings, and nothing matters but that
you touched me or will touch me or are at this very moment
touching me, in this softness which is not light but which is,

a habitual light, organized around you, poet at a distance,
dust motes circling your long hair, between your teeth a
rose, or the imagination of a rose, the last one, falling

at my feet to fall again, over and over the same rose falling,
a repetitive dream sequence, while this softness creeps
along the walls, illuminating your face in profile

Jerry Reynolds
jerry.reynolds@worldnet.att.net

Bio(auto)

I’m a guy living in Spokane, Washington I’ve had a few things published,  but I’m reluctant to say where because most of those magazine are now out of business and you may be superstitious “Rainbow Man” is still in the archives of Word Salad and you can checkout some of my stuff at the storyteller at: http://www.willmaster.com/thestoryteller/

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

Thinking of Humanity

I sat me down to expound
within the realms of poetry I played the sage and stained the page
with these observations of my kind:
.bent in the middle
.and fuzzy on top —
.usually

Excuse Me

I opened the lid to an underground pump
.and in the hole was a spider and a frog I knew I was intruding, but I couldn’t
.help myself The tension was exquisite.

Serves Me Right

I thought it was an old, shriveled up heart I picked it up for a closer look
.and the demon jumped down my throat Serves me right What did I need with an old, shriveled up heart?

Rainbow Man

like the rainbow
trout on a bank,
colors fading
after gasping,
the breathless stare
says it all

Waving At Strangers

Driving by a graveyard,
a stranger waves
from deep within Now I wonder who
that could be? Someone
like me, years from now,
waving at strangers?

She Flies Away

She flies away because I let her
circle and sing and disappear I share her cage of open sky
so every morning she returns
I’d clip her wings but I know better,
she can’t love me without flying.

Solitary Girl

Solitary girl,
swimming out of season
beyond The Devil’s Churn,
where are your companions?
on this cold August day
between Alaska and Mexico

Bouquets

sonnets of blind privilege
offer insights in counted syllables
from wasted days without measure
leisure inspired similes
like painted roses
fall from borrowed volumes
read in the shade
as the gardener works
spreading manure for bouquets

Seedy Side

I’ll take my seedy
side with poetry
and Long Island Iced Tea
.just sit it on the table
.by the pool, Charles
.and bring me my
.Bukowski

What Lies Below

Floating in my face,
right between my eyes,
on top of my cresting nose,
an iceberg pimple warns the world:
beware what lies below
.but it’s just a little zit,
.no deeper than a threat,
.with only a pinch of danger
I can hear them gossip now,
those unblemished friends of mine, 
conferring on my behalf,
speculating over chicken bones
and the rims of tall Lattes
.I squeeze that canker on my nose,
.feel it throbbing in my toes
.and consider going back to bed
But if I hide this thing inside —
undercover with curtains drawn,
brooding on this perfect day,
it will grow enraged and gather head
for making war on my vanity
.No! I’ll air this ruby sin,
.let the world turn and grin —
.and beware!