July 17-23, 2000: Nanette Rayman and Tom Walborn


 

week of July 17-23, 2000

Nanette Rayman and Tom Walborn

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Nanette Rayman
RaymN902@newschool.edu

Bio (auto)

I am actress living in New York I had a scholarship to Trinity Rep Conservatory and I studied at Circle in the Square in New York and the beloved Peter Thompson
I am a “returning student” in Writing at The New School University and I recently received an “honorable mention” in a fiction writing contest in California.

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

You Really Don’t Expect

As I return naked to the birdshit window
there will be no one to see me dissolve Promises of pink elixir, fuschia pomegranate toxins
to soothe my February soul
are the cement fixers you hold out to me I, unlike all of you, did not complain
that the manna given was tasteless,
tasteless as a trailer park
May I bring my face to the audition?
Mosaic heads flowing over the oak tables,
Stormdazzle reversed, people of no taste
judging me; you’re too talented, too pretty,
You won’t fit in, the others will look bad,
Very bad You really don’t expect them to rise up
to your level Well, do you??????????

Now, at the bottom of the wind, hosed orchid sagging
Looking for any sperm that might arise,
Your chartreuse jealousy spreading my marrow
On the below the poverty Graham cracker
Any way to pay the rent for these walls
Incarcerated in time,
I wait for the end Do not bring your face to the funeral.


Tom Walborn
twal127@email.msn.com

Bio (auto)

Tom Walborn
Delmont, Pennsylvania (think Pittsburg)
travelling machinist

This was an actual event I witnessed and the woman died as a result of a careless driver though I didn’t know this person we shared a love of motorcycles, I wrote this for her

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


crash

a skid a crash the slow
motion sound of broken glass
in an instant
a life will pass
I, the observer can identify
can relate
can’t fathom
how a moment a second the slow
motion mistake had occurred
in a pool of her own blood
I thought how absurd
the guilty stood puzzled, weeping
the victim lay twisted, bleeding
as I drove by
I asked myself
why can’t we look at where we are
why