March 24-30, 2003: Jeff Onore and Katy Maslow


week of March 24-30, 2003



Jeff Onore and Katy Maslow


BECOME A POET OF THE WEEK
click here for submission guidelines

Jeff Onore
Jeffonore@aol.com

Bio (auto)

Jeff Onore is a poet and songwriter living near Boston, Massachusetts HIs poetry has appeared or will appear in MaelstromPearl MagazineNerve CowboyPoetalkthe Iconoclast Along with being a suburban businessdad he also occasionally performs in the Boston area.

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

Slip and Fall Guy

Uncle Ted wore an ascot and an accent when we went out,
He would take the cousins for ice cream We would sing on the way to the soda fountain He knew the best place for dessert,
and where to flim-flam the guy for the change
Maybe once a year, he would stand on Park Avenue,
and throw himself onto the windshield of a limo Banged up, he’d get the driver’s info and limp away At the hospital, they’d cut his suit to look
Ted was busy as a slip and fall guy,
Daughter in private school, country clubs,
clothes, vacations, meetings with his attorneys He had important details to remember, doctors to consult
After the dentist, he’d rip out the work with pliers,
cut himself with a razor after a haircut,
call the new widows from the obituaries and
tell them their husbands just ordered a new TV
Choke and gasp, fall to the floor in the restaurant,
claim lost luggage at the airport,
slip and fall in front of the Hilton,
when the first snow hit the city

At his wedding they caught him leaving
as his bride walked down the aisle Her brothers and cousins hauled him back He apologized to everyone and was married for 52 years
At my father’s funeral, we embraced gently
His arm in a sling How are you, Uncle Ted?
Not so good, he said, by the way,
you know your father owed me money
originally published in Maelstrom Magazine

Glass Feet

In a brown, muted-plaid wedding suit,
I stomped the lightbulb in a napkin,
pretending my wife had not spent two grand on flowers,
her bejeweled family was not late to the ceremony,
that I would be filled with love forever Pretending her father waits for my answers to his questions
before he walks off or says Attaboy My foot descends on the fake wineglass
as I dream the crushing, snapping sound is my father-in-law’s
skull So satisfying, 
obligations we danced and danced,
until that suit was soaked in sweat and regret, my shoes tight My feet as burnt as the meat in the stove
in the kitchen where my wife, startled by my entrance, drops
a flowered, fluorescent glass Dirt, dust, crystal splinters meet and I, barefoot, puncture
my dreams and one of my feet
originally published in BAPC Poetalk

I Need Your Help On This

In an online chat room I connect
with a couple, mid 30s’, two children,
sportsminded She is an erotic dancer
and emergency nurse, he is a cop
with a rug cleaning business They all moonlight, you know?
We exchange letters and pictures
and after having coffee with the husband
he invites me to have sex with his wife It’s Christmas and I just moved here,
so I accept There is one condition though While I have sex with the nurse/dancer, the cop
wants to hold a loaded gun to my head This turns her on incredibly, he tells me He seems like a nice guy while we are setting this up,
so, OK My question is not about the advisability
of this cause I really have nothing better to do,
but rather the etiquette of the situation This is my first
time in their home so I wonder what
is an appropriate house gift for this kind of invitation Wine always makes sense,
but I would just be bringing a bottle one of my stalkers
dropped off at my place Do I bake something?
That’s personal, but so time consuming The malls are jammed Having something sent from
online is too impersonal Do you have any suggestions?

originally published in Nerve Cowboy


Katy Maslow
kdkaboom333@yahoo.com

Bio (auto)

Katy Maslow is a 20-something New Yorker currently immersed in studies at Brooklyn College. She was published at the young age of 8 years old, but is experiencing a slump and hasnít been published since She currently moderates for The Critical Poet web forum and lives with her two cats, Herman and Roscoe Visit Katy’s site: Kaboom Poetics

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

Broken Land

I am born fixed in broken land
I throw my arms around the fortune
held tight in mother’s copper fist I climb
to her crown and squint The colors
bleed in alleys behind a wooden
cyclone, and dark fades scattered
spikes of light, blazes unfurled flags I crawl through heroic puddles
that mirror towers crumbled,
and glass shattered by a junkieís stone My steps are hesitant over roiling waters
bridged by granite stalks that sway
in eastern winds, edged by cobbled
esplanades City lights melt into tangible,
and I become part of the haze I dream of being broken, no longer
dangling, like the subway light, by a wire
*Brooklyn, originally named Breukelen in Dutch, or Broken Land.

It’s Under My Skirt

It’s under my skirt,
the truth of the universe;

this enormous belly
Men I cannot see,
teeter like ballerinas
on my hem, perched like
melons on a wooden shelf
This fruit I always bear,
squatting in the galaxy,
into the birthing pool,
the milkiest way
No truth like my story
dancing on the cuffs
of my petticoat.

My Architect

I have been the obelisk
that pierced the sky,
and the tower that crumbled My cornerstone,
you chiseled out of skin,
could not shoulder my bulk You watched as I fell,
then held ceremony Lost, you built another.