Poetry Super Highway
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Week of July 5 - 11, 1999

Jerry Reynolds and Sarah Kobrinsky

BECOME A POET OF THE WEEK
by e-mailing a few of your shorter pieces or one long piece to me
ALONG WITH a bio of any reasonable length. (Include what city you live in)
It's fun, it's easy, it's free. Impress your friends. Impress your mother.

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POTW@PoetrySuperHighway.com



Death of a Mauve Bat! | Sinzibuckwud! | We Put Things In Our Mouths | A Man With No Teeth Serves Us Breakfast
I'd Like to Bake Your Good | Stolen Mummies| Brendan Constantine is My Kind of Town | Up Liberty's Skirt | Feeding Holy Cats | Mowing Fargo
I'm a Jew, Are You
| Lizard King of the Laundromat
| I Am My Own Orange County | Paris: It's The Cheese | Poetry Super Highway
Rick's Bookmarks |
Cobalt Poets | E-mail Rick | Upcoming Readings | Who The Hell Is Rick

 

 

 

 

 

Jerry Reynolds
jerry.reynolds@worldnet.att.net

Bio(auto)

I spent the first half of my life growing up in the South, but now I'm a middle-age guy happily living with my family in Spokane, Washington. I started submitting my writing about five years ago and published a few pieces, mostly in ezines. My records indicate that as of this date, I've made ten bucks. Still, I consider myself a writer, though I never mention it on loan applications.


The following work is Copyright © 1999, and owned by
Jerry Reynolds and may not be distributed or reprinted in any formwhatsover without written permission from the author.


From Texas

where Long Horns slobber milky green,
staring at fences for horizons
and rattlesnakes shed diamond back boots
for two stepping on Saturday night,

Hurricanes spawn mad sisters
to spin across the cotton fields
between black derricks, mocking religion,
bowing rank heads for crude blessings:

brown children, laughing in Spanish,
playing as still in Mexico,
slowly withdraw from a double-wide,
Texas displayed point of view.


Shrew

Too old to play Kate,
though understanding
passion better now
than any woman
betrayed by a boy,
or portrayed by girls
standing in the wings,
memorizing cues
to be swept away
as curtains fall.


Shore Leave

blasted amid parking meters
lighthouse warning flags expired
stormy sea-legs buckle
on the heavy swelling sidewalks
dead-man floating the rummy gutter
from the curb crew-mates call,
"MAN OVERBOARD!"


The Lesson

The shovel sliced the easy dirt
and cut the worm in half.

I stood beside the shallow hole
and thought about the worm.

I knew I'd been forgiven by
the meanest thing on earth.

I thanked the worm and William Blake
and turned the earth again


Nuts to Fruit

Coconuts are creepy,
like huge-hard-hairy spiders
without legs.

But bananas are cool.
They look squeaky but they're not,
unlike grapes.

And raspberries are sly,
good for leaving fingerprints
on shirt tails.

A pomegranate sucks
like a big ball of fisheyes
or frog eggs.

Figs are just too yucky,
looking like droppings laying
in a pile.

Some apples are all right
but you've got to check inside
for brown spots.

Oranges are too messy,
just like a pesky grapefruit,
spitting stuff.

Cantaloupes are stinky,
with insides like a pumpkin,
only worse.

Watermelons are weird.
Eating one is like eating
hot pink soup.

Tangerines are tricky.
cause no one knows what they are --
or should be.


Sarah Kobrinsky
funktrousers@hotmail.com

Bio(auto)

Sarah Kobrinsky is currently living out of her car. No one knows where to find her. She was last seen in Los Angeles with her sock monkey, Silver Johnnie. Normally this Canadian resides in Fargo, North Dakota. Eventually she will have a degree in Anthropology. She is a Sagitarius with a flare for fighting bulls.


The following work is Copyright © 1998, and owned by
Sarah Kobrinsky and may not be distributed or reprinted in any formwhatsover without written permission from the author.


Poem for a Pink Flamingo

..........(for Dan and Silver Johnnie)

This morning I saw a pink flamingo
bathing at the base of an American flag.
I saw it fall from its only standing leg
and drown in a pool of neon and wet cement.
My darling, my dearest sock monkey,
tonight I feel like a giant centipede.
I could stand on top of anything.
Like these Hollywood hills, I could look down
and brush off every asshole who ignored
my North Dakota plates and gave me
the finger on the freeway today.
I could even walk on water.
I think I'd start at Venice Beach
and launch myself into the Pacific Ocean.
With all these legs, you'd figure some of them
would have to stay on land anyway,
to hold me up. Yeah, I can do anything.
I'm not sorry, I have had my heart
in its armoured car since I left home
who knows how many days ago now.
This morning, after I packed up my sunburn
and my cervix, I told you I was leaving.
I was so certain I was leaving.
But when I got in my car I heard the beach calling me,
I heard the girls calling me:

Come, watch us burn,
watch how we've learned to keep ourselves
from going completely
short of breast and bottom heavy.
Sweetheart, it's easy, it's easy.


I love those sixteen year old girls.
I love their perfect skin, their endless ambition.
And their legs, so many long slippery wet legs.
I could walk with them forever. Forever.
But I can't. They always start singing me
that god awful song, selling me each note
as if it was a greeting card or an accessory.
It makes me want to paint myself pink.
It makes me want to kick off my shoes,
stand on one leg,
and dive like a disease into the ocean.

My darling, my dearest sock monkey,
this morning I wanted nothing more than home.


Dave and Alissa at The Blood Bank
................(A Love Story)

Alissa Cutter gave blood
every two months
for three years
to newborn babies
with terminal diseases.

She quit smoking at 21
and took up knitting
for no reason other than
she was bored
and restless in her addiction.

One day at the blood bank,
Alissa met a man named Dave
who gave blood
for no reason other than
to receive a free HIV test
and a Band-Aid in bold print.

At 21, Dave went to jail
for writing bad checks
at every grocery store in town
to feed himself.
He was broke and bored in his life.

At the blood bank,
Alissa and Dave discovered
they were both O negative,
the universal donor,
and decided they must
go out for dinner.

Alissa wore her favorite
sweater, the one
she made out of scraps
from the blankie
her grandma gave her
when she was born.

Dave wore a T-shirt
with short sleeves
to show off his Band-Aid
and his devotion
to the maintenance
of the human race.

At the end of their date,
Dave walked Alissa to her front door.
He leaned in
to sneak a Good Night kiss
but stopped suddenly.

"I would kiss you," he said,
"But I have a mouth sore."
He turned his face away from hers
and looked up to the moon.

"That's all right," she said
as she took his hand in her own,
"I have a mouth sore too."

The moment was bright,
the moon was all wrong,
and with their kiss,
their boredom was lifted.


This Hollywood Siren
..........(Another Love Story)

This Hollywood Siren
gave her breasts
to a museum.

She would have given
her golden locks
but she sold them
to a company that made
paintbrushes and wigs
for cancer patients.

She would have given
her gold teeth
but she traded them in
for cash at the end
of her career when
she couldn't even get herself
into a lousy commercial.

The curator mounted her
breasts on the wall next to
a plaque with her name
and a brief history
of her life in the movies.
But is she really dead?

Did she donate her breasts
from her death bed
or was it from
her kitchen table
over coffee and cookies?

And what was that first thing
that launched her
like a bomb
into absolute stardom?