October 16-22, 2000: Fritz Reinhart and Adrienne Lee


week of October 16-22, 2000

Fritz Reinhart and Adrienne Lee

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Fritz Reinhart

Bio (auto)

Born 1945, Milwaukee, Wisconsin and have been here and there since then I design lighting for music and dance and live and write and work in Cuers, France My global address is: Lat: 43deg 17min 05sec North Long: 06deg 06min 03sec East.

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

3/4 of Morning

This here is a song about Sinistral Street
Practiced smiles
Rusted rows of doorbells
Inflicted pleasure
And Red-Cross stores

The topless bottles shatter
In filthy gutters strewn
With used-up hats
And single empty gloves
Of once fine leather

The friendly taverns wink
Filled with spiraled eyes
Burnt lunch in the far corner
And high-heeled short-skirt sighs

Folded in a doorway
Damp and filled with fright
Cannot sleep, can’t wonder
Only wait

For there’s fine stew in the storefront
Just across the street
Except for Thursday mornings
People have to have days off

So you sit in conversation
With a widow that you know
Lives four doors down in cardboard
With a diamond in her nose

People talk and study
And try to find our songs
And frown and write in slim blue books
The reasons that we’re wrong


The maps of heaven change
As surely as our own
No room left now for mermaids
Or graven places called unknown

The four rivers are lost to knowledge
Dragons are no longer named
Wind has quit its corners
And the serpent has since died

We used to speak of pointed hats
And eyes of blade-bright blue
Chrome crows and polished ravens
And spots upon the moon

Or fine enemies with languages
That sound like driven nails
Or the one night of October
When time is seen to fail

Now the story-telling candle wavers
When trying to recite the tale
Of things that haven’t been yet
And won’t be back again

At the Indiana Roof

Carefully chosen from selected hops
These tripled-tongued trumpets
And burnished slide trombones
Echo across waxed boards
Filled with circled skirts
And shouts of go, go, go

Socked feet slap the time
Punctuated with sticks
Forlorn horns are emptied
Just before midnight’s click

Tip-toed dancers
Steeped in champagne
Underneath the glittering ball
Sharing sly winks
Picking up shoes
Shuffling off to muted dawn

Red River Valley and Western

The whistling leaves
Struck down by thunder
Smashed upon the rails
By eight foot driving wheels
Leave colored dust
And a disappearing wonder

The pennies that were left
Cannot be found

Adrienne Lee

Bio (auto)

My name is Adrienne Lee I am currently a Junior at the University of South Alabama in Mobile, Alabama I have been previously published in Comrades e-zine and the online journal “Disquieting Muses”.

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

Poem for my Stepson

I try to forget you when you’re not here Your books are in boxes and your toys are packed away I collect shredded evidence in sleeping hours When we first met you were only two
New Mexico is one thousand, six hundred and forty two heart beats away My phone is shaped like a pocketknife and I use it to remove
small, boy-shaped splinters When you left you were only six
Your voice has settled into the furniture The dog sniffs it out and I hear it running from room to room It smells like wet earth and seeds It sounds like far off thunderstorms
Miscarriage is the loss of a child I am cramping and bleeding “You are too old for me to bathe,” I said “We need this time for memories,” you replied You are only eight
The imprint of your tiny body is fossilized in my womb When I die and they excavate my caverns they will find you there A deep, child-shaped bowl
worn smooth by water.


When my mother’s oldest brother
went to Vietnam,
she prayed he’d die there Not throwing himself on a grenade
or taking a bullet for a friend,
but face down in the mud Flesh swelling from wet heat
and insects Bone fragments from his open skull
grinning like a moist Jack-O-Lantern

He returned home
head shaven, intact Turned out he mostly played cards
and got stoned over there And maybe drunkenly shoved his way up
a prostitute’s skirt from time to time
or rubbed his stubbled chin on the smooth back
of a young boy Either way, he could shoot better, cussed more
and started growing marijuana in the back yard
So Jesus assured my mother
that getting knocked up
was her best chance for escape God seconded that opinion “Mom, meet Dad”
She moved out with a womb
full of me and a belly
full of anger I was born nearly starved
from living off salt water and fire
for nine months

Unlike most things
fire doesn’t dilute when divided It still burns It stretches It grows And it infects all those
who come in contact
with its twisted, screaming
lips “Mom, meet baby”

The eyes of the crucified roll skyward Impossible to see the wounds
we hold closed with clenched fingers Hard to be concerned with my grandmother
drying reefer in the kitchen
while my grandfather digs tiny graves
for the casualties of war.



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