November 27-December 3, 2000: Jenny Sadre and Kurt Nimmo


week of November 27-December 3, 2000

Jenny Sadre andKurt Nimmo

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Jenny Sadre

Bio (auto)

Jenny Sadre is a poet livin in Chattavegas, TN she has appeared on the Poetry Super Highway twice in the past She is currently hostin Barnes and Noble’s monthly open mic in Chattavegas and is strugglin through grad school.

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

In Simple Terms

the fur on the stomach of a kiwi
feels like his beard two days without shaving,
but i have no strong bond with kiwi
it only evokes the stuff of him
and trigonometry is easier to understand
by far

by the dust on my little red driving gloves
i can see what he’s made of–
deep bass notes and wide sighs he only dances to meringue music
and only after he’s had his first glass of red wine for the night
he’ll laugh
because i only dance to the sound of his voice
i’m convinced the french jazz singer, sade, is his sister his mom’s a beautiful white woman,
like a dove
she speaks french sometimes
full of grace his father is a brown writer with long fingers
that don’t know how to play the piano so brown though,
like the first walnut to fall onto the ground in august
and he hands me a shilling each time
we meet
never knowing where i’ll spend it
or why he’s always insistent on placing it in my hand–
never allowing his fingertips to land on my palm
i tell him every time
i am capable of scarring from this and he rolls over on his stomach,
scratching his chin.

Flowers Will Save Us

i picked poems for you,
shapes of gerber daises and flecks of sunshine i picked poems for you,
arranged them in a vase,
and played your favorite song twice
because two times is enough to hear one song over
and two reminds me of paris
and the days before the rage the months before the two word sentences
through seething teeth before the months became big and pregnant
and were then years and we’re miles away from the daisies
and miles davis–
musician to the only jazz cd so called idiot jazz lovers own and shouldn’t he be worth more than that?
more than the cliche token jazz musician?
shouldn’t it be a crime?

i picked poems for you,
shapes of fluffy clouds and little puppy dogs i picked poems for you
and made a rope of gerber daisies,
of o’keefe tulips,
hoping the rope was long enough to reach you clutching you in a tight squeeze,
my rope of daisies, my boa constrictor,
holding you and bringing you to me,
to home,
and all the unmoved furniture the unmade bed,
left exactly how you left it all,
two drawers closed and one left open,
taunting me, teasing me,
saying,” he’ll be back to close me “
shouldn’t it be a crime?

and nothing stops
breathing miles still blows on his token cd
in some trendy apartment
in some trendy city
drinking red wine
nothing stop
i picked poems for you i pricked myself on the thorn
and the thought of the one open drawer and paris shouldn’t still be standing,
doing jumping jacks in my face,
reminding me of you
shouldn’t it be a crime?

Not Moroccan

lisa gayle tollett, left, is crowned miss teen usa 2001
by jessica myers, right, miss teen usa
saturday in clarksville, tn thought that might make your coffee sweeter
this morning that may fill in the gaps,
and this putty might be thick enough now if not–
i’ll play you pasoor–
a persian card game you know nothing about loser takes all the shit
that’s become like the weeping willow tree
in my flat texas front yard firmly planted in rich houston soil,
firmly the roots are smacked deep down,
unable to budge
from this and every thing can’t just be transplanted roots are sensitive extensions
of stuff you can’t understand
but, perhaps, if i worked harder with you,
if i began from the end and came around
to the beginning end to start
taking us apart–
bolt by bolt,
until my cheap $2 wrench
on the last bolt one step away from
5 seconds from
ringing the door bell
and introducing myself for the first time
and yes, in a way i’ve accepted that you’re not from morocco and no not everyone from morocco is as pretty
as that actor in HIDEOUS KINKY but it wasn’t really about him,
it never is that simple
i wish i had met ghandi
before i met you perhaps then i’d be more forgiving
of your ignorance
and that of your orion’s belt theory:
airplane lights lined up just right,
night after night
and the carrots that you planted beside my front door
might not taste as sweet
without you here,
but they help my eyesight–
morocco being closer than i thought.

Kurt Nimmo

Bio (auto)

Kurt Nimmo lives in Las Cruces, New Mexico His fiction, poetry, reviews, and other assorted writings have appeared in the small press over the last three decades He was nominated for three Pushcart Prizes for both fiction and poetry In addition, he is a web developer and photographer A selection of his photographs can be viewed at Passion 4 Art He currently co-edits INTERWEAVE (ZINE) with poet Elaine Thomas.

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

She Runs Water

in the kitchen she cranks the spigot all the way up
and then jumps on the telephone and talks
to somebody she has not talked with
in a very long time I sit in the other room listening
to the water run it runs for a long time worried about the water I get up and go in the kitchen water pours out of the sink
and down the cabinet and all over the floor I turn off the water I go back in the other room
and sit on the sofa and stare at the wall from the sofa I hear the television I cannot see it but I can hear it
and her laughing on the telephone
and that is more than enough a serious voice on the television warns me
about Pakistan you see they have these bombs
and now missiles and they hate the people to the south
the millions and millions of people in India the Pakistanis hate the Indians and the Indians hate the Pakistanis
and both have these bombs the Chinese sold them missiles
and the Iraqis hate the Saudis and Iranians
and fish swim deep in the ocean and eat each other
without malice or manners or anything but small fleshy brains
programmed for consumption this is our condition water on the floor fear and feminine hygiene spray funeral plots and granite tombstones she hangs up the phone why’d you turn off the water
she screams no reason I respond
and then I look at the wall it is a nice wall
flat white the color of fresh milk before

bacteria attacks.

There is Noise Everywhere

and I can’t write when I go downstairs to get the dog food
Pam has on her bike rack
she’s saying something to Iris
about the goddamn gangbangers I look over
and see two guys
with parka hoods pulled over their heads
straggling out in traffic cars slow and beep at them I stand in the doorway and glare at them motherfucking worthless gang ridden trash
I say and Iris looks at me
smiles she sits on a red chair
outside the door of the nameless bar
below our apartment on the first floor this neighborhood is over run by gangbangers
and crackheads
and drunks
and homeless guys
with three teeth who beg for quarters street noise rises
up like a storm cloud of children screaming
car woofers vibrating loudly
bad mufflers
diesel truck engines
people fighting and cursing
a vociferous tangle of sounds and irritation
and the ceaseless bleating of humanity I can’t write I can’t sleep worthless gang ridden motherfuckers
I mutter again and Pam looks at me
and Iris smiles she knows she hates them in three days I will load up a budget rental truck
with all my stuff and drive across the nation in the desert I will be able to sleep
and maybe write.

Available Credit

one dollar last time
I used the MasterCard it was denied tried to buy a used book
on the history of sex
people are embarrassed
when the clerk
with card in hand and says

sorry but you were declined
it does not bother me
if the masses know I am maxed out on the card
and unemployed
likely the only connection
between me and television-
mongering masses
about myself again
about my
credit card
spread my ego
like the common cold
all over communicable surfaces
other day
a nameless poet disparaged me
for spreading my ego
all over the place
so selfishly
as if unified empirical self-consciousness is wrong
as if
Giovanni Gentile was amiss
when he

self is a pure act when expressed in written language
the self as an object
like say a maxed out MasterCard
until a clerk returns
and says

the bank has declined
I get in Lainie’s old car
crank it over
to need
new tires
will probably have to pay cash.

God Particles

apartment complex
has six
tenants have
inserted wood sticks
in the windows
to prevent
illegal entry
room units
facing each other
across a barren courtyard
with a gnarled
mulberry tree
parked in the lot
no Patek Philippe watches
on the wrists
of the mostly Hispanic
Feadship yachts
here in the
evening I scan
the Las Cruces Sun-News
for employment
material handlers
management trainees
line cooks
accounts payable clerks
I have spent
a large percentage
of my life
manual laborer
cabinet builder
truck driver
computer jockey
as I
out the front window
at the mulberry tree
it occurs to me
I have
little to show
for more
thirty years
conventional wisdom
tells me I need to
work harder
save for a McMansion
in the hills
five rooms
with a stick in the window
is all I strive for
older I get
the less material things
I desire
can’t take it with you
they say
in the end
there will be no
Rolls Royce Corniche Convertible
or Ebel Beluga wristwatch

my disembodied
working its
inevitable way
back to

god particles.

Couples Get Content

says and
they begin

and pudding
and ice cream
and macaroni and cheese
and steaks with crinkle fries

she says
is what happens
as couples



I listen to her
one after another
cookies in my



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