May 22-28, 2000: Corinne Bailey and Tom Gossett

week of May 22-28, 2000

Corinne Bailey and Tom Gossett

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Corinne Bailey

Bio (auto)

Corinne has been writing poetry and lyrics on and off for the last 25 years She lives in a small town in the Sierra Foothills called Cameron Park, not too far from Lake Tahoe, California She has two children who keep her from writing but inspire her at the same time.

The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Corinne Bailey and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Loring Hill

First time the dream came,
our home was being transformed Dad had already been banished
from our average family,
Mom was moving walls
and adding redwood decks
in celebration
She had just taken Billy
to Boy Scout camp
at Pepper Tree Grove,
once a beautiful canyon
now a haunt for drug addicts I was momentarily alone,
the construction crew
knocking out familiar walls
Dreaming, our white wagon
(Pontiac, blue interior)
steered up steep Loring Hill,
sharpest incline I’d seen,
Bro was in the back seat
probably picking his nose,
I was near the rear hatch,
singing some 70’s tune
Suddenly, the hatch opened,
I flew out, unnoticed by nose picker
and distracted parent
The car disappeared around a corner,
I was at the bottom, looking up
So you know, I ain’t crazy (yet),
but this dream disturbs memories,
coming now and again,
reminding me I’m still
that little girl
rolling down Loring Hill.

Tom Gossett

Bio (auto)

I am a native of the Chicago area I grew up in the suburbs but lived in the city proper for 12 years While in Chicago, I worked briefly as an actor I left the theater and earned a BA in Philosophy from Loyola University In 1997 I moved to California I currently live in Oakland and work in San Francisco as an insurance underwriter I’m 33 years old, married with a 14 month old daughter My poems are published on the web at The Site of Big Shoulders and at my own site The Uncooked Paperwork
The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Tom Gossett and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Black Trousers, Black Shoes

Waiters are small mean men
Driven by fear and greed
Watchmen stand and wait
They aren’t allowed to trust you
Cashiers and clerks look at the clock,
Look at the door
These footsore proles will gossip with you
On their way to night school

#9 Ashland

I won’t worry
.as I pass through your neighborhood today I’ll assume those behind me
.are also to work
.and I won’t look back
The Most Dangerous People
.are asleep at eight A.M Desperate bearded convicts
.do their damage at night They lie down before the sun rises,
.a mongrel and a frightened woman beside.

My Fickle Friend, the Solar Winds

Without a voice, the machine doesn’t work There are lights and appearances
But no real functioning
The device waits for input from related sources,
Sources related to the original creator
At moments, there is recognition and a response The communication is stored, labeled The earnest machine blinks and clicks
Anticipating a moment of attention from its master This is real pleasure
I have raged, pounded the keyboard
Thrown things and cursed the Chicago Transit Authority
Despite sleep deprivation, headache
And the combined inconveniences of Marriage and the CTA,
There grew in me an optimism, anticipation As if the problems of boredom and privation were soon to
be solved I began to twitch as my temples throbbed
I worked with incredible efficiency at my repetitive,
numbing assignment The clicking of the keys is a code, a message of the
marvelous within me But still a code
Soon everything must change, don’t you think?


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