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week of February 28 - March 5, 2000

Chris Limbach and Judith Pordon

 

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Death of a Mauve Bat! | Sinzibuckwud! | We Put Things In Our Mouths | A Man With No Teeth Serves Us Breakfast
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Chris Limbach
Sferbrains@aol.com

Bio (auto)

My name is Chris Limbach. I'm from Bay Shore, New York. I'm 35 yrs old, a part time student, part time EMT, full time janitor and not nearly as pissed as my poems seem to infer. Been writing for a few years...about 15....the first sent was from 1993, with revisions on the fly, the second was from Feb 2000 and the third was from a space I do not recall. I once wrote jokes for Gilbert Gottfried...seriously...one episode of Up all night..hardest 4 bills I ever earned. I guess thats it...oh wait...I obviously am bad at following instructions and am always making life harder for myself. Oh, I am also in love.

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


Midnight, My Eat In Kitchen

So many
weapons utilized
in our war;
sharpened tongues stabbing
verbal bombs dropping
shrapnel shreds
emotional jugular.
...Pain is the food in
the trough,
pigs for anger
we are,
when white flags of situational
love
are rended useless.
...If the most we can
achieve are
imitations of
squawking menstrual
cockatoos
perhaps we should give
the neighbors a break
and keep things at a simmering growl,
circle the coffee table
like pitbulls
with a bellyfull of gunpowder.


Insipid Judge

Shouts from
images
poetic revealed
as direct fever dreams;
mere truth to you an
impossibility.
There are no cries
from Bethlehem
coal mine mangers
from the
shadowed corners
of Victorian hedges
no absolution
thru
slogans
fitting
your lapses...
...introduce
...yourself,
are you capable?
can you take
that pause
...that breath,
that thing
one does
...between
action and thought?


Kid?

I had laser beams
shooting out of my eyes
from the back seat of a Ford
cutting down mileposts
telephone poles
sawing houses into halves.
Terminal living room rug
boners for Marilyn Munster
Tina Louise
Boo Boo
Bear.
Spat ever-growing
spit bubbles
with farmer wife grandma
at her roadside vegetable stand,
my grandfather growing
huge moles
on his leather back
shirtless on a tractor.
Fascinated with
assassination,
George Wallace getting popped
my first conscious
political memory,
leading to every library
book on Kennedy
and King
swallowed by my laser beam eyes.


Judith Pordon
PVPoeta@aol.com

Bio (auto)

Judith Pordon divides her time between San Diego, California and Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. Her poems can be seen in The 1999 Austin International Poetry Festival's Anthology, Buffalo Bones, 2River View, Agnieska's Dowry and ForPoetry.com. and are forthcoming in Recursive Angel.


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


Just One of the Guys


Considerate, mannered, endearing. A doll-like
class act, gourmet macho tenderloin.

A sleek salsa Texan wrapped in slang,
two-stepping, with a well-placed grind

and an easy smile. His bicep tattooed with hearts,
advertising muscle.

Ready to taste others' good credit
or make a slender exit.

Sacrificed on the nourishment of provincial
contentment. Unfractured by complexity.

A substantial risk for companionship abroad,
but oh how enticing to be with.


Built

He arrives late
as if he is the center of the world.
His time the only time.

With massive stone shoulders,
feet twice the size of mine,
solid legs and a bull neck

that rests his brain
on a firm foundation,
he is built to build a city.

He brandishes a scar,
a nail shot through his thigh.
"Missed the house frame," he laughs.

Clenching his doublesized fists
when angered,
his opponents retreat.

"I never feel afraid," he says.
Inside the fortress of his hug
neither do I.


Fast Track

In the USA, flowers
have racetracks inside.

Their pollen is spit out
upon manicured lawns.

Vegetables shrink in fields,
cry quietly,

knowing they are genetified,
tasteless remnants

of their lushious
predecessors.

They miss their old
brown spots.

Even the worms
stay away.