November 20-26, 2000: David Louis Maini and Roy Frisvold


 

week of November 20-26, 2000

David Louis Maini and Roy Frisvold

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David Louis Maini
DavidMaini@aol.com

Bio (auto)

My name is David Louis Maini I was born in 1963 at Providence, Rhode Island and I am currently living in Las Vegas I love the written word in all its forms .

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

Wine

Heavy oak table
over-full ashtray
sad music drenches my thoughts
Blue black light drowning in smoke
so many memories
too many thoughts
empty bottle wails
stained blood red glass
Vacant heads utter noise ancient and dank
ghastly shadows converse…
We never talk
deny the self We never talk…

Summer Night

Red black sun entombed in the wasted desert Dark gold earth pale blue moon
reign over the Neon landscape Father across Mother sleeps
Storm of a thousand evenings rage
windsong of desperate heat blows I dream a secret dream Morning keeps a watchful eye I dream a secret dream .

Bloodied Nose ’72

Schoolboy stands against brick wall
Waiting to be picked,waiting,nervous,waiting At last he is called!
Second to last he is called Shy Schoolboy takes the field
Visions of Glory fill his eyes
At last! To belong!
Angry ball cuts into the frightened sky Terror replaces all other emotion With Human Viciousness
The ball strikes home Blood flows,tears swell,dreams are shattered Game over for a lonely Schoolboy.


Roy Frisvold
royfris@mindspring.com

Bio (auto)

Roy Frisvold lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico He has self-published two chapbooks of poetry, “Squirms in Radiance” and “Wyvern,” and will soon publish a third, “Video Creek Road “

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

Raven, At a Railing in Utah

Shivered up
from Halloween winds
and fins and hoodoos of a canyon,
he landed,
then was stoic to meet me
I watched his wings tuft as he held
a pink brick pylon and completely
absorbed his own shadow He stood with more

“stood”
than the anchored rails,
his right
eye obsidian,
his bill the black
onyx stylus
given by Thoth A scrip-

bag of feathers at his throat held
the gaw, gawd
sound
in a break in hail–
all gaws his witness
of erosion as

home The camera sifted through my hands,
dusting new hailstones with black facets.