May 26-June 1: Denise Noe and Jim Guess

Week of May 26-Jun 1

Denise Noe and Jim Guess

Denise Noe


Denise Noe has been published in Webdreamers, The Humanist, Georgia Journal, The Brookhaven Buzz, artisan, Chrysalis Quarterly, Exquisite Corpse, Circuit Traces, Metis, ‘Scapes, The Gulf War Anthology, Light, Musk Gland Sally, Wicked, The Stake, Attitude Problem, The Arizona Unconservative, The Village Writer, Paper Bag, Catalyst, Gray Areas, Nuthouse, The Pink Chameleon, and other places
Her major interests are dinosaurs, the ape-language experiments, and social welfare issues, though not necessarily in that order

The following work is Copyright © 1997 and owned by Denise Noe and may not be distributed or reprinted in any manner whatsover without written permission from the author.

A Killed Girl
(Previously Published in 1993 in a piece of zine)

Only nineteen years old
A woman
But also a girl
An Arab
But also a woman
A princess
But also a person
One person
Only Mi’shal
A woman
But only a teenager
Nineteen years old
She will never be twenty
A Saudi Arabian
But also herself
& finally only herself
Killed for his vanity
Bones & blood
Massage his ego
Prince Muhammad
Man of honor
Blows his nose on
Human tissue
Rests his ass
On rigor mortis
Fine cushion
For a righteous killer
On a corpse Muhammad
Wipes his brow like a
Pale, thin words placed beside
Terror–her heart
Only hers
Hammering, hammering
stomach sick,
trembling, sweating Words fumble
upon her sobs.

Pat Nixon the Public Pat Nixon
(previously Published in The Arizona Unconservative)

Hating it, she waved & smiled
Pat Nixon Plastic Frozen Like you were a doll pulled out of the fridge on the way to the fish sticks Can you imagine a woman like that ?

and they
Covers water
thru which life is



Dropping eggs
Hearing smelling
Biting and eating life still living as it
Thrashes and squirms in pain as it is
Savored in the mouth of other life ?

who could guess
Stiff whiteness on a
polar bear
Protecting the
Viscous and
The blood of an animal
Of a special sort
Of a special sort
Carnivore ?
But in public Pat Nixon was always the public Pat Nixon the public Pat Nixon
Embarrassed and ashamed and grieving the public Pat Nixon was still the
public Pat Nixon
But the public Pat Nixon

Called Cerebral Palsy

in bondage
to life
no appealing the
of the
called cerebral palsy

the sentence of
shakes and
shivers and
called cerebral palsy

yet moving
in the
of the special
called cerebral palsy

moving for
no reason, to
no rhyme
that is the joke
for the
that is the
on the string
of the chaos
called cerebral palsy

the sickness
from self
still the self
inside the shaking
and plans
amid the shivers
feels the sun
hears the songs
moving through the
called cerebral palsy

over the
mathematical earth
a planet which
makes way
make way
for the person-quake-
person who
the bondage
most peculiar
called cerebral palsy

The White Cane
(A previous version published January 1994 in the now-defunct The Arizona Unconservative)

The white cane is a sense organ,
not an eye, 
for its possessor is not Cyclops,
so greatly gifted
Tap, tap, sweep, tap,
no color is realized
no horizon, no sky
not even the light

The white cane is a sense-organ
Tap, tap, sweep, tap, it tells
a continuing tale of
curbs and corners, cans and trees
the white cane gives a street
and then a wall

The white cane is a sense-organ
Tap, tap, sweep, tap
The white cane gives the world
to blind people
and blind people
to the world

The white cane is
a magic wand but magic most
though its value is infinite Tap, tap, sweep, tap
it is magic of blind people
its synonym: necessity

Pfc E P G.

Elvis Presley Guitterez

Private First Class Elvis Presley Guitterez

White stuff (teeth, bones)
Gold (tags, ring)
A handful
Elvis Presley Guitterez
Closed, a fistful Sack, scissors Half-a-foot cloth
Folded twice,
Elvis Presley Guitterez
First Class
Elvis Presley Guitterez
had a closed-coffin funeral

Jim Guess


Jim Guess edits Black Cross Magazine along with the charming but deadly Erik Jensen Issue #3, “Poetry Sweatshop”, is due out soon As well, I have two chapbooks in the works, titled “Verbal Eyesore” and “Hidden Agenda Illustrated” I’m the guy you see at the laundromat, staring at the girls while they fold their underwear I wrote my first poem when I was eleven, it was called “Fuck-a-doodle-dandy” & I probably could have published it, but my mom threw it away & I forget how it goes

The following work is Copyright © 1997 and owned by Jim Guess and may not be distributed or reprinted in any manner whatsover without written permission from the author.

Anal Sex with an Art Major

She was as dichotomous
as a Taoist contemplating
a half glass of water,
by day a camouflaged terrorist, 
covertly operating in the struggle
for non-penis equality,
at night, in my bed,
pleading to have her face lacquered
with seminal varnish and
demanding to be referred to
by all variations of derogatory metaphors
that I could muster for canines,
prostitutes or vaginas
However, the first time
I attempted to pound her up the butt
with the elaborate apparatus,
she escaped with much
contortion, wincing and
a wholehearted whimper
that left me feeling as guilty
as a retired runningback
I extolled to her
the socially alternative implications
of the act she denied me,
explained how great artists
always had to know suffering
and that all the cool girls were doing it
The next day
she wouldn’t make eye contact with me
as she exited my apartment
with diarrhea
and a vow of rectal celibacy
on her lips
Months later,
my answering machine crackled,
“I want you to fuck
my tight little shit-hole!”
But the first rule of art
is to leave them
wanting more.


You wanted to talk to me on my level I wanted to look down your dress My gauge is set no higher than that
of the sixteen year old pimple pickers
that you castrate daily
with your clever tongue
and unshakable faith in your ass I’ve just had a decade of practice,
learned to feign that my interest lies
in what a fresh breasted girl has on her mind
rather than what’s tingling in her jeans You worked so hard at being cool
for someone whose, ten years unaged,
face you wouldn,t have offered to spit upon
if he were dying of thirst Time lends perspective
like a sadomasochistic loan shark,
now I can peer with x-ray accuracy
through your riot grrl, anarchy cheerleader crappuccino You’re no different,
just the uniform has changed You’re one of the special people,
accept it,
it’s your destiny
and you can’t cop an attitude with your destiny Once you figured me out,
you were rightfully appalled
at my immaturity and deceit,
but ten years from now you’ll look back
and wish you’d been
my fuck-toy.

In Defense of Drew Barrymore

My friend Mark,
who, like all Christians,
is slathered in good intentions,
but about as perceptive
as a dead fish in an oil slick,
imparts this wise phrase unto me,
“Yeah, she’s pretty cute,
but she’s too trashy for me “
Of course, if she ever so much
as looked in his general direction
he’d more than likely
drop a load in his shorts
faster than a monkey on Ex-lax This shining knight, delusional Superman
bullshit comes from a man
whose definition of a relationship
comprises e-mail amorations
with eye-straining, pizza-faced
net bunnies or mouse diddling
modem masturbation with
cyberspace crossdressers She gets the Mary Magdalene
treatment for a variety of unrepentant sins
of such high moral violation as
daring to bare her breasts on Letterman
to the tattoo on her thigh,
traits I always admired in a woman,
but unworthy of a man
who is searching for a heifer
in baggy sweats to bake him
gingerbread men at Christmas,
attend all the fuckin, PTA meetings,
and never suck his dick Well, thanks, but no thanks,
I’d rather follow ET’s strategy
& hide out in Drew,s closet,
but it won’t be my neck that’s
stretches itself stiff.

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