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week of October 2 - 8, 2000

Richard Denner and Christina Misite

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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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Richard Denner
rychard@sonic.net

Bio (auto)

Is this the same Richard Denner who invented the clarinet? No, that was Johann Sebastian Denner. Probably a relative. Known to sound off in a reedy fashion, he was raised in Berkeley and Oakland, California, but after the fairytale 60's, he lived many years in Alaska and Washington state. Proprietor of Fourwinds Bookstore and Cafe in Ellensburg, Washington, he turned this institution over to his son and then connected with Tara Manadala, a Tibetan Buddhist Retreat Center in Colorado, until he was called back to the Bay Area to care for his elderly parents. Now publishing chapbooks under dPress logo, he also has an idyllic job teaching poetry and collage at a Waldorf School within walking distance of his family home near Sebastopol, California. You are invited to visit his website http://www.dpress.net

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

Waterdownstone

for Heidi

We compare our scars
and talk for hours.

You sit, I spin.
Love looks through love.

You want your plan to work,
your luck to change, a miracle to come.

You laugh with the thunder,
circling the moon.

You see backlit cows
hanging upside down in the sky.

You ride the wind
making dandylion wishes.

You try to flee but return
sealed in a green cell layer.

Even we, even so.
The candle burns, the candle burns.


At the Fourwinds

At the fourwinds
we enter the bourn
that true friendship is.

The table tilts.
We orbit the sun and moon,
body, voice and mind.

This is bubblegum, you complain.
Where are the dirty feet,
the fish floating belly up?

The table tilts.
No killing the monkey in the hall
or the worm in the rotten wall.

Now mild and restrained,
now wild and unreined,
we talk, and our words make light.



Christina Misite
ILikePez55@aol.com

Bio (auto)

Christina Misite is a 19 year old new england girl who recently packed all her belongings into six boxes and drove cross country to san antonio, texas, where she now lives with her significant other and their cat. she's currently going to school as a psychology major, but simply adores reading and writing poetry as often as she can. more of her work can be found at her website, "the cornerless tomorrow": http://www.dork.com/tinaphobic/first.html

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

in a name

people call it
san antonio, they
call it
san 'tone, they say
san 'tone is so hot
this time of year.
they never
think of their
ancestors, breathless
in the face of god and bloodshed,
praying to the saint
of lost causes
with dark eyes drinking
in this ample land
mesquite sapplings edging
a spectrum of sky, clouds
crowding in like orphans to tumble
over one another,
stumbling into a
dumb beauty

which cracks skulls
like war, seeps into minds
trying out the sound
for the first time on
lips dry with reverence and sun.
oh yes, they say, oh
we'll call it--
saint anthony


our cabinets

sung of rain through tightly
packed forest
and deep down roots stretching
to earthly core
while cranking down
assembly lines, cut
and sanded into uniform
ity in uniformed grey
buildings which
shellacked the senses
out of them, these
unfeeling corpses so
................wooden


ode to a plum

bold against my
slip of nose my
slip
of lip.
crimson juices sliding
away under my
darting tongue. tart vibrancy staining
my petal fingers and chin

golden center fleshing out
to full blazing red
glistening, gleaming
under taut, dark skin

deep purple, almost foreboding almost
blackandblue, but
not bruised, just ripe,
just
awakening--

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