week of August 12 - 18, 2002
Leigh White and Camillo DiMaria
BECOME A POET OF THE WEEK
click. here .for. submission .guidelines
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 Bachelors 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 dont 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 dont 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
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, its anytown u.s.a.
I look down
at the manila I.D. tag
tied around my toe
And I wondered 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 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.
she holds the black
with her tiny hand
to protect us
from the drizzle
as we tightly hug
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
it's walking out the door
and into the streets
draped on the futon
feeling like my immune
peering into that brass
visualizing the opaque
it's walking out the door
going through those streets
to meet with you
my first foot
on the stoop
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!