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week of August 12 - 18, 2002



Leigh White and Camillo DiMaria


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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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Leigh White
leigh@p11.com

Bio (auto)

I was born in the sea of polyester and blue eye shadow known as the Chicago suburbs in 1966.  At 6 months, I was dropped as a baby (which explains many things…no time to go into that now).  I possess a Bachelor’s degree in Communications with an emphasis in Advertising from California State University Fullerton and have worked as a graphic designer, copywriter and marketing executive ever since.  The company I work for is called p11creative.  It is a graphic design firm – www.p11.com.  I read my first poem in front of an audience at the Laguna Beach Brewery in 1998, had my first feature in 1999 (Club Mesa-Costa Mesa, California).  I have since featured at the Gypsy Den Costa Mesa, Gypsy Den Santa Ana, The Ugly Mugg, Alta Coffee House and Sacred Grounds.  My World War II poetry is in the permanent collection at Florida State University as part of "The Institute on World War II and the Human Experience"  (the foundation was set up by NBC anchorman Tom Brokaw who authored the best selling book, "The Greatest Generation."  My first love is fine art.  I paint every day.  I like my Van Halen with Roth and not Hagar.  Home is Costa Mesa, California.

The following work is Copyright © 2002, and owned by Leigh White and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

.

Candles don’t necessarily make you a whore

Mark Kostabi paints my portrait
and includes my actual facial features
He says they are industrial enough to stay in the painting

I don’t know if this is a compliment
or an insult

It makes me gushy like Bavaria

The zen garden is missing a rake
However, I do have a plastic fork
and a tenaciously stubborn mission statement
Inspired by anyone who ever threw like a girl
Or bought the Journey ESCAPE cd

Slight of hand to hand combat over the telephone
Makes me crumble into fetalness
The thorns are not unexpected
They are like mattress tags
and cannot be removed under penalty of the law.

The heat rises
Hovers in my second floor apartment
I have been waiting
So long
For a condescending gay black man
who uses sarcasm like a knife
to work as my receptionist
but he never shows…

for half a second, it’s anytown u.s.a.
it’s alright.

Then,
I look down
at the manila I.D. tag
tied around my toe
And I wondered what happened to me…
What happened
to me…


michael stipe is a bad ass:  part III :  clichesville

theft prevention is on my mind
it has come down to this
indulging in the most purgatorial of subjects

these things scare me:
cream corn, clown statuary, murals with dolphins and you.


Camillo DiMaria
Letmethinknow@aol.com

Bio (auto)

Camillo DiMaria was born in Brooklyn, grew up in Queens, and now lives in Long Island. His parents and their parents were born in Sicily. He writes poetry, paints, photographs, and creates music. He is a member of the Local
Writers Union in Manhattan and a member of the Fresh Meadows Poets in Queens.

He recently edited their annual anthology called "Freshet." He has gone to Riker's Isle, Creedmore Mental Facility, and PS. 115 in Floral Park, to read his poetry and discuss art. He attended Hunter College in Manhattan. He works
as a waiter in a diner, but plans to be an English professor.

The following work is Copyright © 2002, and owned by Camillo DiMaria and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.


second date

she holds the black
umbrella up
with her tiny hand

to protect us
from the drizzle
as we tightly hug

& kiss
on the boardwalk
loosen, then glance

at the waves
& distant ship lights
in the murk.

I wonder if her wrist
hurts, then I ask if she
would like me

to hold the black
umbrella
up


will

it's walking out the door
and into the streets
that's hard

draped on the futon
feeling like my immune
system's shot

peering into that brass
knob
visualizing the opaque
people
I'll encounter

it's walking out the door
going through those streets
to meet with you

my first foot
on the stoop
that instant
when the air
attacks my entire bulk

that's always been hard.


tautology of truths

he did unplug the iron. he did.

shook it off
and continued to zoom
away from the premise.

so if he did
why was the house burning,
then burned down
in his head?

turned the car around
and skidded on a curve.

the house outside was as he had left it.

maybe the fire was just starting.

he moved through the little vestibule
to find the cellar lights on

then down the stairs
to open the laundry room's door:

he did unplug the iron!

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