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week of August 14 - 20, 2000

Frances LeMoine and Kai Robert Nygard

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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
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Frances LeMoine
dotkom@worldnet.att.net

Bio (auto)

My name is Frances LeMoine. I live in Merrimack, NH. Originally from New York (Bronx and Brooklyn). I am currently employed as a "cataloger" for an auction, writing item descriptions,

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


The Approaching Eclipse

Spring's excess brings to mind
the fading imprints of your perfect teeth
in my shoulder,
new tattoos and
your bourbon skin.

Our legs cross.

I lean in and
you follow.
Like a looking glass.

You watch when I look away.

Your eyes crawl to the ceiling and
mine fly to the floor.
The soft rhythm of your fingertips
echoes
my mindless tapping.
I lean over and
you move in.

I imagine
the faint click of your teeth against mine.

The timbre of your voice appeals to me,
like a small, white church in an endless desert
with its promises of saturation.

I know that dreams of you,
of me,
of plums
and of eclipses
approach.

How long before your perfect teeth to my shoulder and
your weight becomes familiar?


Whistle

I saw you.

And lately late at night
I've been listening for the
slight tap tap taps
of small stones against this window
and watching for
you there
below, looking up,
eyes open like parasols.

And me
looking down,
eyes open like a train whistle.
Here I am.


Fortune

Her gypsy's eyes counted the change in my pocket.
She&Mac226;d say a prayer for my confusion.
"Whatever it's worth to you," she said.
Seventy four cents fell out.

She told me:
the sun's a subway token
the moon's a quarter for the phone
and a telescope is a ladder to your window.

A gypsy's truth is so much cheaper than exorcism.


Exiles

Heaven's in flames,
sparks sputter and spit;
blinded angels groan, hold their noses
and leap in our direction,
some drowning in the wakes of shooting stars.

Hell is afflicted with
injured immigrant angels
in the dark
on the dole
in the way
and raving in the language of neglected medication.

Wailing scabs form whispering scars
and with the salve of prayer and alcohol
become suggestions.


Inconceivable

A thorn in the ointment,
extracted by blunt logic,
the weight of their whims
will crumble you,
sever all cords,
then feed you
to a hungry ocean,
clotted with other inconvenient creatures.

Your time will not come.
An impending memory,
you are untimely.
A run in a stocking,
a pothole,
six blocks out of the way.

You are a bad tooth,
an intrusion.

Your extraction,
once healed,
will clear the highway
of barriers and hitch-hikers.

You will never learn about thorns.
Or logic.


Kai Robert Nygard
kainygard@yahoo.com

Bio (auto)

Norwegian, based in LA. People can add their own blablablas about the poetry. Will return to the Cobalt Cafe open reading in Canoga Park, California at the end of August, so people should get off their fat asses and drive there. (Bonus, there's a pub next door) Needs to find a place to go to graduate school....AND A JOB!!!!! Anyone can offer me one at any time.

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


Rebirthday Girl


Slender fingers sliding down
The edge of a reprinted picture
And up her black dress
As soft lipstick touches
Cover her neck like brutal hands
From forgetful ex boyfriends
And as gin tasting index fingers hook
The garment of unlocked guilt
Leaving open the unfulfilled potential
Of egg and bacon afternoons
She feels the remains of their first kiss
Moving up the back of her right leg
And into her somewhat sober soul
Letting out sounds hidden behind doors
And inside short dresses
While erasing the blackened memory
Of long sleeve shirts and
Tylenol mornings.


Remembering

Sitting on my second hand couch
Smelling of cats, though I have none
Smiling at the slowly warming beer
Forgetting what I was supposed to do
Before falling asleep again in ten hours
But remembering to put on sunblock
In case I think of it and leave my couch
To go further than the fridge
To get a beer, or to go to the bathroom
Or to my bed, smelling of cats,
though I have none.
Looking at my table for clues, but coming
up with empty bottles scattered around
to imitate a party that I think I could think
I went to, but too hungover to remember
If I did or not, but freaking out about the
Girl that must lie in the next room
Smelling of cats, though I have none
But I look at the next to last beer
Empty as cat smelling apartments and
My thought of what I was supposed to do
Walking over to the fridge, getting the
Last beer, wondering where my pants are
As I open it and look for them under the cap
And in between emptying sips on the way
To the living room, smelling of beer
Though I have none, but finally remembering
What I had to do today.


A public place

I would buy me a beer
if I was you
to waste the night away
and regret living in the morning,
just to forget, for a moment,
what happened today
I would buy me a beer
if I was you
to build up enough courage
for me to walk up to the lady
with the dark dress, high heels
and inviting eyes
I would buy me a beer
if I was you
to numb the pain
before I take the long walk home
to an empty fridge
and a broken mattress
I would buy me a beer
if I was you
to taste the golden colored lager
on the tip of the tongue
and in the bottom of my heart
I would buy me a beer
if I was you
so we can sit here
and become the friends we never
should have been
I would buy me a beer
if I was you
because I would know
what you had to go through.


LA sweetness

Burnt present, burnt past
Sitting by the pool in the overcast
Shadow and waiting for the sun
Feeling whisky, tasting rum
From the wet spot on his hip
Spilled from the bottle in his grip
Held like a hand, soothing touch
Of fired water, not such
A drowning victim as Phlebas
Once was, but rather one to pass
Out drunk just for fun
Feeling whisky, tasting rum
From the third bottle had
Saluting statesmen and a dad
Seen once in a Kodak
Picture from the back
Of a place overlooking a pool
Like this little spot, a cool
cut corner for some
Feeling whisky, tasting rum
On morning breaths at noon
While falling too soon
On the job, on the ground
Off the wagon that he found
Next to the home of his dreams
Nightmare living that he seems
To forget alone in the rum
Feeling lonely, tasting the son
Left for an overcast place
Hiding the tears, saving his face

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