June 2-June 8: Judith Gorgone and Darren Johnson

Week of June 2-June 8

Judith Gorgone and Darren Johnson

Judith Gorgone
judith@shore.net

Bio(auto)

Judith Gorgone is a designer and illustrator, who specializes in the area of consumer products, with strong background in Product development Her vibrant colorful graphics and whimsical illustrations appear on a wide variety of products, including greeting cards for the Museum of Modern Art New York and Unicef Worldwide
She hold a BFA from MA College of Art Has exhibited her design work work and lectured in Japan and Korea and New York

She started writing poetry after her first trip to Korea Fascinated with Asia she eventually moved to Japan in 1994-where she breifly studied Shodo, Sumie and was first introduced to Haiku Her Haiku can be found at Haiku Moon: (haiku .more poetry)

If you would like to see more of her poetic work you may visit her color and
verse website at :
http://www.geocities.com/paris/8870

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

winter

It’s winter now
Grey, flat, devoid of sun
Dry brushed trees line
The monotone sky
Your gone and I
Can’t feel the depth
Just the distance
I bundle up tight
In primary overclothes
That can’t brighten
Or protect me


Catch stars

I catch stars that fall
delicate as milk weed seeds
carried by fragile air
and make wishes on them

sometimes I cup them
within my hands
and watch them disappear
like melting snowflakes

or blow gently on them
like wondrous bubbles
watch them sail away
and hope they’ll float back


lifetime salad

She squirreled away
her ninety some-odd years
now it lay piled in a trash bin
their emptying her cabinets
and cooking up a lifetime salad
of century old things
Monopoly games the foster kids played
cages that were homes to her beloved birds
war letters from her husband
buttons falling to dust
from her favorite hand sewn dresses
all tossed together
with the neighborhood garbage
it’ll be eaten by the Monday disposal truck
defecated into the landfill
to decay crumble like her bones
there’s no one holding on
to Mrs Browns lonely old memory
they’re sweeping the house clean
they’ll make it like new
soon they’ll be saying
Who used to live there anyway?


Ghost

I heard from a ghost
of a lifetime past
eery revival of emotions
I’d masked

So happy to hear
that old friend that had passed
so sad to remember
that friend I had lost

It brought me to tears
cause thats where we went
all those days and those nights
in heartache spent

Should I cry or smile
as I can’t help but reflect
on that friend that I loved
and lost with regret


FIRE

fire
your passion rages
burning
destructive in its glow;
infiltrating
its smoke smoldering
dusty molten ashes;
settling soot
in the hell of my heart


Heart and Seoul

Oh Seoul, heartbeat of Korea,
Shaped like it’s ginseng root;
Bi-bim-bop, bulgogi*,
I whiff such strange smells
Seeping in and out of Namdaemun**
An everyday splendor of vendors;
As I pass-by your karaoke bars sing to me,
Your ancient lions smile at me like Cheshire cats;
I’m caught in ocean waves of silk-haired Asians
That spew from your underground walkways,
Black, like volcano lava from Mt Namsan***
Tranquil time in your templed sanctuaries
Brings me back a certain peace that I see,
In the eyes of your Christian and Confucian souls;
Oh Seoul, I ponder in wonder and awe
As your fourteen million gush past me;
Staring, bowing, curious of my Caucasianess
I Contemplate whether I’m really different here,
But your voice tells me we are all the same
* bi-bim-bop, bulgogi: national dishes of Korea
** Namdaemun: South marketplace
*** Mt Namsan: South mountain in seoul.


loss

blown out by sudden wind
like a weak candle flame
this tragic sudden end
where shall I put the blame
the loss of my dear friend
such emptiness attained
how will this loss transcend
more questions still remain
what faith can I expend
what knowledge will I gain
how can I comprehend
all I feel now is pain

Darren Johnson
rocketusa@delphi.com

Bio(auto)

Darren Johnson, 27, from Greenport, NY, is an assistant sports editor and writer for an international newspaper called The American Last year he won the New York Press Association’s “Writer of the Year ” Johnson was also recently hired as a part-time report writing professor at Southampton College and he edits the popular underground lit-zine Rocket Press, established in 1993 and aimed at “the aimless and/or ostracized,” Johnson says

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


Jazz Poems-a chapbook

[all poems are untitled]


Martha told Jimmy
that I was coming
over for the
Jazz Fest
this weekend
“Great,”
Jimmy told me
via e-mail “I’ll be lubed
and ready to
go “

“No,”
I replied “It’s not like
that

“Cathy’s com-
ing-&
she’s bringing
croissants “


I met Randolf
in Herkimer
when I was
on scholarship
and he was
on probation
It’s not like
Randolf’s a
purposeful
neglectful
father
I just told
him (at the
time) that
Cassie once
mistaked our
infant for
tuna salad
and we
hit it
off splendid!


Crystal told me that
the secret to a
long life was
to have
a clean one
I thought about
it then forgot
about it and
had two drinks
with Margot
at the go-go
club
“Jesus,” Margot said
in the hotel room later
(unsatisfied)
“It’s become a use-
less appendage,”
she added.


“She’s batty,” Louie said
of Shana to my mother “And I have no regrets “

That was when I came
in and my mother
was cooking soup
“I’ll let you know,”
my mother scolded “That my daughter
is in the top fifth
of her grade “

“And instead of water,”
I added “You should
be giving her
Dom Perignon “


Just when I thought
that Katie was
getting pretty
something tragic
would happen
like
Earl punching her
lights out
last night
“You pussy,” I told
Earl as I
crunched him
over the head
with a brick
He then went
into a relapse;
remembering that party
in ’89 when
she’d drank a
40
and spread herself
panty-less
on his mom’s
picnic table
“I still hadn’t
released that
sexual anger,”
he cried as
I hugged him
Katie convuls-
ing in
the corner.


Gina told me that sometimes
over breakfast, when the food
is steaming up my glasses–
eggs and ham or bacon
and eggs hot off the
skillet with melted butter
on toast and coffee black–
she mentioned that I could
easily be mistaken for
just anyone


Kelly confided that it wasn’t
God that created the universe
Nor was it Allen, the dentist,
or George, the chiropractor,
or even Randolf, the
oil tycoon More or less,
she stated, I’d prefer it
if He kept a lower profile
than those three schmucks.


Jackie-and Aimee-told me
yesterday-that –
just as if I had something:
“You’re losing weight “

Not that I was interested
in either of those two
ho-bags.


Cari bet me double that
I had more doubts
than previously explained I took her bet on
the condition that –
if she were right –
she wouldn’t make
me go through with
it.


I asked Jaime
what the meaning
of X-mas was

he had two tusks
coming out of his
cheeks
He answered broad-
ly, “God is the
meaning of
all life,”

which really
perplexed the
waitress


Bethany told Angel that
I wasn’t ready yet for
the burdens that come
with age
“Like impotence,”
she said,
smiling.

Not that Bethany|
(nor Angel) could
hold back the
door when my
pecker came a-
plunderin’!


Genevieve told Martha
that I shouldn’t
talk to Ernie
anymore

(not that Ernie was
a sub-par
leader or a
pain-in-the-butt performer)
but that I
was a subversive
a holder of
fantasies;
and for that I
should be scoffed at
Ernie shouldn’t
be brought down
three notches,
she told Mandi.


Johnson told Adler
that the sales
reports were
a-spinnin’!

Grasping for his
calculator Adler
typed –
“With these figures
January might
be our
Boom Month!”

And, in fact,
Johnson bent
over for the
bookkeeper –

pulled up his
plaid catholic
school uniform
skirt.


Douglas sidestepped my question
and assumed that I was
staring at the bulge in his
pocket
It’s not as big as you think,
you know, he
said Cuz you’re a
big thinker-a grand
schemer-and I don’t
want your expectations
to be balderdashed.


I’m not a character in
your production
I told Quinby

cuz I didn’t like
his shirt, and
I didn’t like
his production.


Jazz is what
told me to do
that It was
a pop;
it was a bang
It was a
hot scat
piece spittin’
all over the
microphone

as I pounded
her face
into the
velvety
floor.