week of October 9-15, 2000
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Anthony Seidman lives in North Hollywood with his wife and son He has published work in Cider Press Review, Poetry International, The Bitter Oleander, Hunger, PDQ, The Bloomsbury Review, Sulphur River Literary Review, Luna, Oyez, etc His first book, On Carbon-Dating Hunger, was published by The Bitter Oleander Press.
The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Anthony Seidman and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.
Making The Pact Outside Chihuahua
It was a bus stop, and past midnight
at a 24 hour diner with smoke
basted on tile walls, and vats of pork
boiled in red chili sauce I stepped outside; light sped towards
me from stars & supernovas A rust-
flavored wind stirred cobalt clouds,
lightning cracked the night, struck
where sky meets earth, where black
touches black, and becomes neither.
With my tongue, I lick blue on this page I paint herds of clouds, words heavy as bison, and a hunger for meat on rainy days When I do not stretch the skin of the horizon, I peel oranges, and listen to the traffic of this city without trees But when I write I see the woman who hides behind the sun Birds come back to me, fish dart in my song, and I dance in a greener light while feeding on yellow colors
To My Tongue Secreting Heavy Icicles
The brightest murder of crows
stain this splendour
of petrified milk The page turns a shade paler
The blackest spurt of doves,
harboring what skies
submerged in a mug of ale,
does not undo
the knotted cables of heat,
as ovaries blossom
the horned sun expected
a gall bladder to stink like cod
The baldest eagle
whose crag of ripped granite,
wolf-fang of a false herbivore,
does not portend
brighter words where
currents are gorged with plankton
But I in my green hour
when word and skin meld,
am but a tortoise
who pushes a sea with his beak,
and, a mild success,
munches kelp at
the dregs of a bluest voltage.
The trees on my street have stretched their arms, and dust, after a night of sleeping on roof-tops, now scurries in the streets Where are the children who splashed courtyards with blue songs? Where are the soccer balls and sandals? Last night I heard the children as I read the prose poems of
Miguel Angel; I tried to write, but an oil slick choked the tide, and the only kelp I tasted was in the fist of a drowned man surfacing at midnight. The children are all in school; even the dust has migrated But the purple tint of smoke and memory leaves the taste of hickory on my lips Take this daylight dipped in acid, but not these soluble words I hoard verbs from the sharks that circle above me.
Doug Holder is the founder and editor of the Ibbetson Street Press of Somerville, MA His poetry has appeared in the Boston Poet, Doubletake, American Poetry Monthly, Boston Globe, and others He holds a M.A in Lit from Harvard University, and teaches a poetry workshop in Newton, MA.
The following work is Copyright © 2000, and owned by Douglas Holder and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.
The Climb To The Top
As he claws his way to the top,