September 29-October 5, 1997: Lindsey East and Borb Ludner

week of September 29-October 5, 1997

Lindsey East and Borb Ludner

click here for submission guidelines

Lindsey East


Lindsey East works and lives in a holographic universe, enjoys a good bagel from time to time and struggles with his love for caffeine

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

Love Letter
(to be read aloud in Brooklyn cab driver accent)

My tongue bled
When I stuck it in the food processor
But I’d do it again
For just one kiss from you
My lung dried up awful quick
When I set it on the table
As a sacrifice to you
And my right eyeball
Healed in only fourteen weeks
With partial sight recovered
After I stabbed it with a pencil
In the honor of your name,
My sweet Honeybun
When I took a bath
In 35 gallons of nitric acid
And my skin peeled off,
I thought about how I would do it 100 more times
For only a molecule
Of an old dried up scab
On your floor
I would chop my head off
And feed it to your Doberman Pinchers for food
For an electron

Under a house
In a state near your state.

My sweet Petunia,
How do I love thee?
I could never count the fuckin’ ways
Help me bust out of this piss-hole joint —
This time, I promise we won’t fuck up
Love and shit,

Tall Boy

I once knew a tall boy He was not very small I used to think, “Dang He’s not tiny, but tall “
He was pretty much the opposite of small As far as small goes Man, he was tall There’s no doubt in my mind that he was tall Because an airplane flew by one day
and chopped his head off And it fell a long, long way That’s how I knew he was tall.

Being Mold

When I talk to people, 
I like to pretend I am mold I’ll often wear green shirts and pants,
And smear guacamole dip all over my face When the other person I’m with says,
“Hey, are you being mold again?”
I sometimes respond
By wrapping myself around a loaf of bread
And make this noise
That I would imagine mold would make:
“Gzzzzhhhhhh Gzzzzzhhhhhh “
After a while, the other person usually goes away I usually pretend I am mold for another hour or so.


One time, in fourth grade, 
I tried to sharpen a seven foot pine log
in the pencil sharpener The teacher gave me a spanking
And I laughed Then he said, “I’ll show you!”
And he pulled out a switchblade
And he cut off my ear Oh, sure, they stitched it back on and all,
But I never tried to sharpen logs
After that day Just pencils.

Borb Ludner


Robert D Ludden is a semi-retired pipe organ technician in Illinois, and in the past has worked as a public school teacher, and as an announcer in radio and television He is a graduate of Hamline University in St Paul,
Minnesota Interests in addition to poetry include the fine arts, meditation, spirituality, and peace and justice causes.

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

Hunters and Gatherers

If reason serves
And desperation cancels all,
Then we do vacillate when
Each seductive choice demands
An answer now Though it be wise,
Fulfillment cloys and man would seek an end
in vanity or pain .and to the end of day
Fight off the windmills in his mind
Strike out from home!
Well-armed with hunger, loyalty and zeal;
Sense in the snow of that forboding forest
The beast awaits .a moment’s agony becomes
A postponed memory beyond the feast; see
We are hunters all .will be, by God,
So long as lust for life prevails!
And that poor moment comes at midnight Pleads its cause too late,
One tear alone will fall, and dry
On one distended belly
Another time with baskets on our arms,
Our sickles sharp to clear away unwanted husks,
Impeccant fruit our goal,
And urgency to harvest ere the advancing rot
Corrupt its sweetness It’s righteous labor, so we say,
For we did plant and tend the growth And we did dike the riverbanks,
And times there were when we did die
In the insistent flood
Birthed by art and sustenance,
Our labor takes its toll on reason A choice, no choice at all if by demand And twenty-thousand years of academia
get filed away in untouched envelopes,
and set on fire by such emasculated flame
as our perception of desire
Do not propose an unforgiving conscience To beat our breasts is vain enough
To satisfy the pompous cur .a little while;
In vain enough, to send us screaming
Through the woods in quest of palliative
that one can never find
The shot is heard, and truth forever begs The basket, filled, and hunger rages on An end is not a choice, for all to end
Seduction laughs at time, and births itself And now it is for us upon this tiny stage
To play the role of deity and for the moment
Save ourselves, by choosing to create
the choice alone.


I bring you fire as offering, my love;
Its fever both a warning and a tribute pure No flame can emulate the heat of my desire For in my touch burns only ecstasy
We share, yet flesh of one is fused from two–
And in the very act, I press it home
And in its roaring blast, a benediction
to our love .no dross remains
To foul its wake,
For what is left is love immaculate,
And ours alone to chill

The Dream Rider

The play is in our heads, and when its nodding audience
lets go, the cast will never sleep, for as the headless horseman
finds his road always to reach beyond the pounding hooves,
this circling serial may yet not die with death It sets its pace to greet the awakening,
or flashes back, or holding up its time
until another dawn, might then slough off
the most intrepid cavalier, or find itself his victim Discontinuity, stuffed into the glass
as though by fate, might then create no time at all .or no criterion
to measure it
We sleep, we wake, and always it is there
and never owned An odyssey of dreaming
bears the scars of self uncovering
and scarcely lets us know but in another dream,
as if a tattered leaf were floating on the stream
and paused against an unseen rock until another force
would send it on with shape askew from battered rest And then in crumbled state, each particle the fragment
of a hologram, it finds its destiny –to change its universe
It’s not for weeping, seeing as we will such microscopic
shards Go trample them without a care They still reflect the light of truth
and bear our substance underneath A misty curtain visions valkyries behind,
who rising now above our heads will scream in triumph
at the slain, or fade as rapture captures loss Still we must ride, though we perceive but that we will We would do well to sweep the plain with eyes alert Our mount will not fatigue .this trail of fantasy may blur
our vision, true, but only for a time, and speeding past another mark,
the path beyond is wide and open, and the posthorn calls us forth
to endless day.

Subscribe to our weekly Newsletter: