November 13-19, 2000: Larry Colker and Jeff Heath


 

week of November 13-19, 2000

Larry Colker and Jeff Heath

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Larry Colker
lunada1@home.com

Bio (auto)

Larry Colker lives on the edge of Los Angeles (and of North America) in Palos Verdes, CA, where he labors as a contract technical writer His poems have snuck into many of the finest LA-based literary journals.

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

Ambivalence

I knew you wanted me to be your Paris
(get it right this time, the apple business)
but I could only be your Amsterdam,
where earth and water commerce equally,
where it is best to be amphibious
You said you would not kiss a salamander,
however lush its skin .would not abide
anything “amphi;” I would have to choose Maybe it will be better for us apart,
though I will miss you in the fragrant silt.

An Anthropologist Gazes Into His Lover’s Eyes During Sex

All our ancestors did it doggie style
until some deranged or dim-witted male
tried to take a mate from the front
It might have been an accident Imagine her initial look
of revulsion and alarm How did it catch on?

This must have been before articulated speech-
did she return to her sisters in the tribe
and gesture
ohmygod
ohmygod
ohmygod

It must have taken ages for anatomy to catch up,
as the mammary glands swelled
to resemble the protruding, cleft rump,
which until then had been the main attraction Having created the male’s resistance to change,
Nature must have known he’d need a sign:
This Side Up
But how did they learn what to do with their eyes?

Apologia Pro Sua Velveeta

It may be I descend from ruminants,
Disposed to graze and rest, graze and rest,
And digest, and digest,
And digest, and digest
(Deliberateness in all things is no virtue:
To wit, in wooing, too plodding a pursuit
Can hurt you )

To stand beside the fence while others pass
May not appear to you like happiness
Or like a life at all, but I confess
My dreams so far surpass
What I could hope for from reality
That in the end you must imagine me
Happy munching grass.


Jeff Heath
jeff-h@WEISSINC.COM

Bio (auto)

Jeff Heath is a poet living and dreaming in West Palm Beach, FL He is a regular reader at the Dead or Alive Poets Society and the Underground Coffeeworks Poetry Slam which are housed at opposite ends of a busy downtown street He recently made his theatrical debut in the poetic play Manchild and is currently working on a book of poetry entitled American Drug Poems He and his wife, Kimberly, were both cats in their former lives.

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

Three towns down America

I One
I stood at the edge of America,
three towns down from its northern border,
waiting for packages of marijuana
to be delivered from Vancouver I stayed for a week,
under cover,
fighting the subtleties that bring about
recognition,
with a young couple, more educated,
than I Their home was modest,
there was a greenhouse
attached to the east side
filled with sage, salvia divinorum, mint,
various other plants, herbs,
a small plot of hemp,
enough for fibres, lamp oils, seed for birds Further on, there was a lake,
a small beach, a number of well-built
benches and tables painted in old
reds and greens Also small chairs coloured with blues
mirrored on the lake I took a pebble from the beach,
skipped it across the water By the time it reached the center,
sank into the bottom,
unspoken ripples floated across the surface,
pulling memories back to the shore
to meet me

II Two
Memories are the dictation of training:
The majority of runners are teenage boys
in search of quick dollars The border between America and Canada
is nothing more than a ditch Officials are not necessarily bought,
as along the southern borders, just scarce For twenty minutes’ work and sixty to eighty pounds
of labor stored in black bookbags,
a kid can make almost a thousand dollars,
and the man behind him can make a hundred thousand And anybody in the Pacific Northwest will tell you:
British Columbia pot is the best So the deal is: we supply the Mounties with helicopters
in exchange for extradition The choppers see in infrared, well enough
to watch a couple having sex in their own home They sniff out the growhouses What does this mean to me now?
Nothing not anymore-
I don’t think so anyway It’s hard to separate memory from fact All I know is that I’m leaving It’s a sick trade We use to pass this around for free

III Three
sleep : morning

IV Four
plain, grey on dark cloud
filtered light :
the sky rising up to meet the sun
as pre-dawn birds
sing an elegy to the night An illumination? A thought, an idea,
a rise into another
waking hour I stepped off the edge of America,
into a separate country I watched it trailing away
in the side mirrors of automobiles that driving past:
A car on an overgrown lawn,
it’s own rusted wheels
bringing it to a stop.