February 17-23, 2003: Peter Marti and Nadia Brown

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week of February 17-23, 2003



Peter Marti and Nadia Brown


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Peter Marti
petermarti@earthlink.net

Bio (auto)

Born East Chicago, Indiana 1953 height of US population boom Raised California, SF State University Studied poetics, Naropa with Ginsberg, Burroughs, et al Member of the San Francisco based poetry/art magazine collective Birthstone in the 70’s, rock n roll singer in 80’s and part of the Wordland performance group in the early 90’s Nominated for a Pushcart Prize, 2002 Currently helps run a Tibetan Buddhist retreat center in the Santa Cruz Mountains
Of Peter Marti’s poetry, Gregory Corso wrote: “Bum Poet! Yeah, you made me see it – good sound, good clear images “

“Bitter Smoke, Holy Words is good! You ain’t scared of letting the “self” go on the page…you use the “I” with a certain confidence that suggests your “I” has its eye on the world as you ” — Jack Hirschman

Amelie Frank of Sacred Beverage Press writes: “…it takes a talented and generous soul to translate the vernacular of pigeons, honest labor, and car alarms into the idiom of desire…this reminds me why, as a publisher, I am willing to wade through 50-70 pages of bad to mediocre work to find the one poem in the pile that just knocks me over “

Fellow poet Marc Olmsted says of Peter Marti: “Valentines for the essential heart – Buddhist shrug under decay of the Real Movie – Redemptive Poet, kind friend of all readers “

The following work is Copyright © 2003, and owned by Peter Marti and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

The Last Time I Saw Joe Strummer

The Only Band That Matters is dead
Joe Strummer gone at 50 – his London Calling’s anthemic
treble chorded march now selling cars…

It was 1981 I flew to LA/ Burbank to visit artist friend Steve S The
Clash, whom I’d seen perform just night before in SF Civic Auditorium, (we
sneaked in, anarchy style through back door)
was on the same shuttle
We deplaned to the sound of dub and reggae, all dressed in black everyone
with our own boom box I walked through the terminal with Joe chatting
about the “political wasteland” which was Reagan’s Amerika, the big
warehouse party after their show, and which SF bands he said “were real “
As we headed outside, I palmed three hand rolled joints of my “mean
green” homegrown pot &, as Steve drove up to the curb
in his gold exhaust-belching Cadillac, slipped them to Joe shaking hands,
soul style, good bye
Wariness flashed from his eyes, then his broken mouthed grin of surprise
“Thanks mate…” and waved bye as we drove off
their music on car radio just at that moment
like a perfect movie
I turned up the volume
all the way.


My Father’s Implant

Some five years before
his death my father
had a circumcision and
“other problems,” as my mother
called them, taken care of
In the last days of his dying
my brothers, sister and
I would help change his
diapers and bathe him
we noticed his half-hard on
My sister had found out
indirectly from Mother
that he had had sexual difficulties
Mother too embarrassed
to ever refer to the implant,
defended him, blaming his
kidney problems, medicines
but the ravages of alcohol also

cause sexual dysfunction
and kidney failure

now all that remains standing
is a four inch piece
of plastic
bone
waving defiant.

In The Dungeon

In the dungeon
of the Dominatrix
are industrial
tie-downs where
men, mostly,
pay to be bound
and spanked
stretched on the
Catherine Wheel
winched aloft
like trussed fowl
secured in a
stainless steel
Rotweiler cage
left for hours
at $250 per

black
walls and 7 day
candles (Madonna
of the Lottery Numbers,
Satan Stoppers)
flicker

***

a client is
forced by
Mistress Cruella
to cross-dress
(she keeps a variety:
French Maid
School Girl
Smart Business Suit)
and go shopping
at the downtown L.A barrio Ralph’s Super Market
–then is paged by her
and made to answer the
call in front of the
stroller pushing
matrons
and the hair-
net cool vatos
Oye! Mira
maricon!

***

CEO’s with
too much
power need to
surrender, pay
to be humiliated
–popsicle
up the pooper
then eat it
***

driving
the nation’s
oldest free-
way in Pasadena,
California, Cruella
the Dominatrix
behind the wheel
of her jet black
‘69 Cadillac, answers
her cellular phone:
“oh, that’s right no, I forgot are
you there now?
okay, I’ll meet you in
half an hour,” she says
flatly
she has forgotten
her client
“It’s okay”
she says, “he needs
to know how
insignificant he is–
forgetting
our appointment
is just what he
needs He’s been
getting too
dependent This will
show him “

***

Cruella’s new colleague,
conversant with medical
terminology,
dresses as Nurse
administers enemas to bad boys
who are then sent home
bowels full
wrapped in diapers
anxious about leather
car seats
***

in the gardens
of the Self
Realization
Fellowship high
above the canyons
and valleys of the
city of angels
Cruella,
dressed all in
black, is being shown
the tree where Swami
Yogananda gathered
his disciples
to meditate the guide,
middle aged
yellow robed woman,
eagerly whispers
pointing out
everything
under the pure
gray smog
***

At Jumbo’s Clown
Room–the “cool”
topless club near
Hollywood where
aging British Rockers
have been spotted
stuffing dollar bills
in the g-string
bikinis of tired
dancers–Cruella
orders a drink and then
complains to the friendly
waitress because
it’s weak her black eyes
dart ominously
“yeah, that’s bull
–they don’t have
a computer that measures
the alcohol”
one of the dancers
a light skinned African
American with stretch
marks on her thighs
has an intricate routine
that involves a book,
glasses, and a song about
school and teachers–
the guy in front of her
can’t light his cigarette,
fumbles
stares into the space
beyond her gyrating
pelvis, beyond
her red heart
pasties
***

Next door to her dungeon
is a light airy room
a cream colored stainless
steel coffin, satin lined
exact model as
my own mother’s
four months ago
(shock
of red white
roses carnations
her waxy
repose)

“would you care
to climb inside?”
Cruella politely
offers
Out patio door
the blue bright
pool eye
glitters.


Nadia Brown
Jewelx7@aol.com

Bio (auto)

I reside in Miami, Florida where I have been writing poetry for over three years since autumn of 1999 The following year I decided to gather my thoughts and store them on the site I maintain and edit call Jewel, which is still a work in progress I love to pen words and do have a genuine passion for this art I hope that my work will perhaps be of use, or may provide some type of inspiration or influence, to those who read my work I have been published to various zines and magazines which includes Lingerings, Some Words, Alibi Press, Poems Niederngasse Voices, Skyline Publications, Seeker Magazine, Top Write Corner and I am also currently a member of WOAW (The Words of a Woman Net Society, a group of women writers) .

The following work is Copyright © 2003, and owned by Nadia Brown and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.

Unscrambled Eggs

There are holes in my pockets the size of mountains
and I have no place to rest my hands
I spent more time dreaming
than living with purpose
though life is more obliging
over coffee and quiet toast

Looking through reverse mirrors
I watch as errant failures circle
their mistakes
but when will I learn
I can no more unscramble eggs
than change the past

In a place of solace
I sit on someone else’s chair
surrendering old habits
trying not to live on words
like if and only
steadily refilling holes
I once built

Reference

History holds my errors in tact
adjusting their collars
smoothing over ragged creases
that come with counting years
so I would remember not to forget
I once read your books
recreated its texts into something I wanted
but did not need
the past has seen fit that I remember
I trusted your commas
more than I should
confused your periods for truth
and like a toddler
I am forever being scold
by purple mistakes
archived on the shelves
of my remembrance

Silent Walk

She walks like a ghost
only God hears her footfalls
treading on quilted floors
as she enters rooms
that do not speak her sounds
soft pillows of carpet
silence her feet
I become aware of her presence
each time a figure
without movements
passes by


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