February 24-March 2, 1997: Victor Infante and Circe

week of February 24-March 2, 1997

Victor Infante and Circe

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Victor Infante
nimue@ziplink.net

bio:(auto)

Victor D Infante ran “The Near Infamous” Poetry on Thursdays at the Java Garden in Huntington Beach, CA for nearly two years He currently resides in Worcester, MA, where he is busy writing prose for Next , Omnivore & Worcester Magazine, in addition to hawking his new book, UPSTART, and raising his pet ferrett,  Kallisti He has developed an irrational fear of Ed McMahn.

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

Valentine’s Day (for Maggie Woomer, my Great Grandmother)

Perhaps it is best if I begin
in the middle
with her last words:

“Stop drinking all that beer
and come down here
and get me “

This much
is what I know is true:
that she was born in Ireland,
on Valentine’s Day,

that she’d be ninety two I think this February
It bothers me that I’m not sure
America becomes a promise
best unanswered to most;
but the young,
just old enough to walk away,
forget the werewolf nestled
in the fairy tale, and so it was

that every East Coast street
reflected aging accents, I
replay recordings in my mind,
reset a brogue my lips
refuse to duplicate
Twenty-four years
of the same conversation:
“I Love you”
“I’ll pray for you”
“I’m not long for this world “

and I reply
“I love you”
“I’ll say my prayers”
and
“You’ll outlive us all “

I can replay the words out loud
in perfect duplication, 
I can wrap each word in
Celtic knotwork tight
around my heart
to make them real;
chant them like a ritual, perhaps

if I start
at the beginning
it will make more sense
but I
know nothing of the docks,
the boats,
the statue in the harbor
with a torch held high
against the darkness
like an Avalon
This much
is what I know is true:
that she
was born in Ireland,
on Valentine’s Day,

and I
can hear her voice reverberate
across my skull, like it
is part of me
I know
if I could hear love’s
speaking voice,
it’s diction would be hers,
such things, for her
were absolute
This much
is what I know is true,
that she
had married, maybe,
just too young,
to a good man,
with, perhaps,
a few too many faults,

who, maybe,
worked too hard,
who, maybe,
drank too much,

I wish
I were more certain;

but I know
that brogue could set
the Pittsburgh bars
to trembling,

that there was never
any argument
when he was summoned home
Some people say that I’m
a bit like him, although I know
he died
of too much smoke and alchohol
these things
which I can never quite relinquish,

and I know
that if I had one choice
of attributes from ancestry,
I know

that I’d tattoo her strength
across my wrist, so deep
that ink would mingle with
my blood and flow
through my heart
to my head where I can hear
the brogue that reminds me
of who I am,
and where I come from
Perhaps it is best
if I end
in the present;

with my history
painted
on a map of the world,

with the beasts
of America
kept pacing in the distance,

and the understanding
that I, like they,
are of this land,

that they,
if only for this,
are blameless here;

that this passing,
for once, 
is the order of things
Perhaps it is best
that I end with a beginning;

this much
I like to think is true:

That I’m a good man,
with, perhaps,
a few too many faults Whose lucky enough to have found
a woman strong enough
to love me anyway
I wish you could have met her Maggie You would have liked her
I know that when the night falls I can fall asleep
with her beside me, sure
that she is stitched across
the knotwork of my heart,

and that the strength I gain from that
is a bit of you
that has outlived you, that it will
outlive us all, 

this much
I like to think is true:

That I
now understand
your final words.

Circe
thecirce@outwest.net
http://home.earthlink.net/~thecirce/index.html

Bio(auto)

Born & raised in Dallas, Texas John Wayne has been published in Red River Anthology, Stagecoach International, The Rio Bravo Bulletin, and many other journals that have gone under for reasons beyond John Wayne’s poetry His work strives for meaning, but mostly comes off as a gunblast Such is the way of the cowboy Such is the way of John Wayne.

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

bio(auto)

I am one of the newer performance poets in the L.A area .I have only been writing seriously for 2 years .publishing for one I do all kinds of subjects .but I am pushing the erotica theme as it gets me noticed, and gets me asked back to do more readings and in turn will generate sales of my cd due out later in march hopefully I play daily to fans on the net .with a couple of chat rooms on dal.net and another on anothernet.

I have studied under mike carlin of the emerging urban poets workshop .where he convinced me to begin performing.

My first book “Aphrodesiac” is at Sam’s Book City, and also the Reader’s Edge in Montrose The next one “The Angels’ Dance” is waiting on illustrations .and the third “A Gremlin Lives Here ” is ready to illustrate.

The first cd .I mentioned already and there will be a sequel .called “Seduction” for cd-rom in the planning stages now.

Combustion

i find i’m doing a slow burn
sitting here thinking of you the moist heat
rising
simmering waiting so wetly
for you
knowing
that
when you arrive
mmm
spontaneous combustion!!!
sending
such sensuous sexual sparks
lighting my world here
on fire!!!
thinking that those
with asbestos hearts
will never know the perfect pain
of the burn
will never feel the rage of passion
i have
or the exquisite ecstacy
we share
and they will be left
unsatisfied
here on earth
with their impatient yearnings
while we shall fly free
amber ashes
in the wind
smoldering still with such heat
consumed in the love
forged in the flames
from each time you set your fire to me