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week of December 17 - 23, 2007



Donna Pecore and David Breeden

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Donna Pecore
donnapecore@yahoo.com

Bio (auto)

Donna Pecore aka dizd, captain erotica & most recently calls herself D. R. Pecore to encourage continuation of her education (middle name Rae.)

Donna graduated Columbia College Chicago 07, started “Poetry in the Round” edited & contributed to their anthology “Word Curves.”  She won the first Alma Stuckey Award, 06, placed in the 06 Frieda Stein Fenster contest. Donna’s work was in CCC’s on line journal, “Reservoir Dog,” the Alumni mag. “Demo Four” & the CCC’s Hokin Center installation “Word 2 Word” spring 07. Other credits: “Best of Chicago Poetry,” “Best of Chicago’s Open Mike, V-2,” “North Central College Review”-06 & 07. She belongs to the Albany Park Journal of Ordinary Thought writers group & was in “JOT's” journals four times, has five self-published chapbooks. Participated in “JOT’s” 06 & 07 Humanities Festival & Chicago Tourism’s “Art of Play” 07, presentations. Donna accidentally found poetry at Weeds in ‘96 & her first publication was an online zine called “Poetry Victims.” Recent work can also be found at Chicagopoetry.com and in the summer 07 online newsletter “The Solitary Plover” which honors Lorrine Niedecker. Donna has read at a variety of venues (Beach Poets) but is proud of being a part of the Clothesline Project 06 & 07 which brings women abuse out of the closet. Tutored & taught poetry at the American Indian Center, spring 07. A mother of three & caregiver to her 85 yr. old mother (who is feisty enough to spit her pills across the room) lives on the North West side of Chicago, Illinois along with her grand dog, Apache.

The following work is Copyright © 2007, and owned by Donna Pecore and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Crib Death

I had that dream again, that awful achy one, that wake me up one, that keep me up all night one.
Timbers rose amid the smoky midnight mist, sky scraper high, darks way.

I had that dream again; you know that dream, the one that makes the goose bumps on my arms
pop on even the hottest nights. Eyes heavy with sleep glue I wipe to see if somehow

that dream I had again, had materialized within this room, had escaped the other rooms, the dark
rooms we inhabit in those silent hours. Did it find the numbers on my door? Did

that dream, I had again, hold the key to enter that door, walk inside and visit this house? The
baby sleeps. The cat approaches. The baby sleeps. The cat comes close. I shake my

head; I shake the dream I had again. I wake into another room. I walk into another room. I see
myself, deep asleep beneath the forest boughs. The mountain lion sits right next to

me-he lowers his head. I am in the dream I had again. It is too dark to see, too dark to breathe. It
is too dark to know if it is real, if there is a way out, if this is wrong, or might

this nocturnal fright be. Do I surrender to that dream that I had again? See what unknown room it
leads me to? See what place, what space, what emptiness or hold my breath,

no matter how hard that dream I had again, sucks me in? Or let it suck the day's light? Leave me
in dark. Without the light there is no dark, no right, no wrong. Falling hard

back into the dream I had again. The forest floor, my bed, wraps roots round my arms, round my
legs, round my throat. The more I writhe and thrash, tighter the tree binds

me into the dream that I had again. The cat approaches. The baby sleeps. The mountain lion
comes close. The baby sleeps. I don't sleep as I wipe spilt milk from the baby's chin.


David Breeden
david.breeden@sbcglobal.net

Bio (auto)

David Breeden is a poet and Unitarian Universalist minister. He lives in St Louis, MO. Visit David on the web here: www.drpoetry.com

The following work is Copyright © 2007, and owned by David Breeden and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Lion a Lot Like You

Lion leaping into
The clear blue air
Only concrete but
Fierce enough to tear
Imagination to shreds

Lion leaping from
Ivy encroaching
Lion escaping
A gothic perch
Lion leaping
Never moving

Lion snarling
At a thought
Snarling at a thought
That made him fierce
But froze him in concrete

Flight After a Fashion

Lady bug happy
The window's down

Stretches her wings
Such as they are

And they are
Enough


Be Mine

Valentine bear
Thrown to the curb

Spread eagle, staring
At the open sky

Heart in his arms
Heart in his hands


Fido For the Hell of It

A black Lab who'll
Answer to any name
Has wandered up
To the farm. He goes

Along with me on
Long winter walks
I call him Fido

For the hell of it
We walk into morning
Frost that sparks like
A carpet of diamonds

"Fido" I say just
For the hell of it
"Are we more than
The names we give?"

He wags his tail. Nothing
Has a name here but
For us for a while

We walk into evening
Fields blued by solstice's
Cold, trees bared but
For a slight mist rising


A Man With No Teeth Serves Us Breakfast | I'd Like to Bake Your Goods | 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 | Judaic Links | Rick's Bookmarks | Cobalt Poets
E-mail Rick
| Other Cool Rick Stuff / Upcoming Readings | Who The Hell Is Rick