Id-bits and tidbits. No formality and no expectations -- anybody can say anything here.

A Salty Walk with Gandhi

Of Mohandas I only say, "Aha,
Here's a man knows his satyagraha.
He sleeps with his nieces
As much as he pleases
With hardly a tee-hee or ha-ha."

Joe Wrobel

[Bullet] Poison Apple by RoseMarie London

"He was on his back, in a pool of light from the street, this velvet hair spread all over the floor around him."

Shop of Stones

In the shop of stones
          I buy you bloodstone, crystals,
          green and white striped jade.
          I buy you stones to throw
          which will never hit their mark.

In the shop of sea
          I buy you seaweed --
          kelp lace for your petticoat,
          brown scallop shells for your hair,
          red fish for your necklace.

In the shop of sun
          I buy you two umbrellas,
          one has a handle shaped like a goose's head and neck,
          the other ends in a rosewood lion's head.

In the shop of time
          I buy you minutes shaped
Cat's eyes, but you're no cat.
I place frogs and salamanders at your feet --
no avail.

In the shop of implements
I buy you wool trousers with
shoes attached. I buy you a horse
dressed like a man,
a cobra, friendly and mechanical,
sleek lizards,
also mechanical.

I call you,
just FAX tone -- a shriek.
Then when I call and call,
no answer, you're not home.
I will not call you there again.
And wait and wait at the crosswalk,
shopping done. I just want you to

I call to you aloud, ask passersby
where you are.
They look startled.
"We don't know where she is," they say.
They all seem know you

When will I see you?
When will I hear you say:
"Thanks for all these things,

Stephen Williamson

Untitled, so you won't think, I think of you. . .

Just because I buy earrings
of Czechoslovakian glass,
doesn't mean I think of you.
crystal and gentianly purple
faceted and faced, like the phrases
you roll between your fingers,
tip with your tongue
as you did my nipples
  which are much softer,
and feed almost as many desires--

Framing the photo card I found
of the ecstatic dark haired man,
shirtlessly slim, hugging his infant son,
does not suggest that you are in my heart
listing to the side
where it leaned toward you as you slept
three inches away.
I breathed you,
kept forearm against your sweater
to tactell me
this man is not a night wish,
a cloud created on a winter glass pane.
He will awaken to touch me again.

Dreaming of a secret room somewhere
in the cornfields,
under the stairs, stars
stirring above an awning
jutting out like a balcony,
or a window box greenhouse
where I wait,
not of course, for you,
as I once waited for the time
you would come
back to me
while I helped hold you,
butt to my belly,
and you arced more golden rain into the bowl
than you did in the guest room's one sink. . .
"Want to help me?" you asked.
And you knelt to tease
my own dawn briar,
its dew.
"Salty," you said.

Watching for the hour I could descend
to your rolling bed
one floor away,
so you would place your hand
to rest where it belonged
on the ribbed feather of my skin cage. . .
If I could just loft, lift
sail to you
on a pea-green summer sea,
skimming states,
to find the children of your stories,
the woman of your words. . .
Who you see
when you don't think of me.

MaryAnn Bennett Rosberg

Blessings For a Young Woman

Crones and Mothers, guide the one
Who plays advancing Maiden. Tune
The roles she risks in circus fun
To mythos: Clown in purple plume,
Enchanter of the river's run,
Ring mistress of the table noon,
Acrobat of the cartwheel sun,
Equestrienne of the crescent moon.

Joe Wrobel

Madonna Who?

Small town girl makes good and
the world

William Timberman

Wakening: Ann's Story

Lying side by side holding hands, talking -- friends not lovers.

She said, "I was really into sports, long distance biking. Even now,
well, you've seen me do yoga."

"You're incredible. I don't know how you do it."

"Well, there weren't many girls into sports where I grew up in Minnesota,
not like me, so.... I cycled with the boys. One hot summer day we were out
cycling, and we stopped. Well...they were all standing there without their
shirts on.  Something...a feeling.... I don't know...maybe it was

"You weren't one of the boys anymore."

"No, "Ann laughed," I wasn't one of the boys anymore! They called me
over...all involved in consulting the map. "

"And they didn't realize, of course?"

"No, they didn't have a clue! They are all standing there, holding this
silly map, all very serious, and I'm looking at their bodies, you know....

"They didn't sense anything had changed...."


"Until they realized you might sleep with them?"

"They just kept treating me like one of the boys. It took them so long!"

"Then you made love to one of them, and they got the idea you were a girl."

"Yes, that's right."

"...And not one of the boys anymore. And you...both gained something, and
lost something, right? Because you liked being one of the boys, you'd never
be one of the boys again."

"That's it."

"The world shifted in an instant?"

"Yes. I'll never forget standing there looking at them. They just kept
talking on and on about the route! And asking me what I thought and everything."

"And that suddenly, you'd  become a woman and they'd become men?"

"Yes, I was really unprepared for it. But it's not been bad."

Stephen Williamson

Cerebral Split

        (love you.)
        (you love me?)
        (you ever wondered, if)
        (world had been a different place,)
        (less important than honesty, would you have been willing)
to walk
        (with me)
away from

Jon Alperin

Little Quean Roughie

Little Quean Roughie
sat on his toughie
polishing his leather ring.
Along came a sister.
He zipped up and hissed her,
but she cared not a fig for his thing.

Louie Crew

On First Dates

10 feet from the door of McGlinchey's
where I am to meet Michael
for as many beers as it takes for us
to tolerate each other for one more night --
and I spot you sauntering down the block
toward the same bar,
my kindergarten-like crush on you
piqued by your lengthy stride and tipped hat brim...

     [You are incomparable to my current lover,
     blond Van Dyke the shade of artichoke heart,
     thighs and calves like those of an Olympic decathlete,
     eyes as green as the grapes
     in Martha's Vineyard,
     and I am utterly smitten
     with your ability to converse about
     forensics and science fiction.]

...and I spot you,
stop you as you reach for the door handle,
and ask if we might rendezvous tomorrow
in Rittenhouse Square.
You eye me as if I have offered gold,
and accept the invitation.

The next day, precisely noon,
I arrive in the park;
you are reading Douglas Adams
and drinking a Sprite.
I sit beside you on the stone bench,
greet you with warm passion.
We chat lightly,
how warm the sun is,
how crowded the park is.
You tell me a story about trying to pick up women
with your friend's mutt, wrapping the pooch's leg
in gauze to feign injury.
We laugh, and I ask if you want
to go to Penn's Landing
where it is more private and cooler.
You accept the invitation.

Down at the waterfront,
we watch silly boat races and tourists.
I want to hold your hand,
kiss you deep,
but I hesitate.
You seem unsure about this dilemma as well.

An hour passes, we want beer, and get in the car
to find another secluded venue.
Before starting the ignition,
I lean over, tell you I want to kiss you,
and press hard on your lips.
We part faces,
agree in unison about the kiss's perfection,
and connect again.

After the beers,
we ascend the stairs to your apartment,
you in front, me behind,
holding hands like a pair of elephants
lined trunk to tail.
We kiss for hours on your fire escape,
your Van Dyke brushing relentlessly on my face,
our tongues sloppy,
our hands everywhere.
I want to run away with you,
maybe to Australia,
to live like aborigines,
recline under stars in fields of brush,
climb with koalas,
never to return to Philadelphia.

But then it is 5:30 pm,
and I am scheduled to meet with Michael
for drinks (again) at 7:00 that evening,
and I cry hard when I get in the car,
because it is you with whom I want
to spend my evening, my life...
Later at McGlinchey's,
I'm on my fifth pint of porter,
Michael is on his seventh,
and you walk in the door, sober,
and I notice that you have shaved,
a smooth chin replacing the rough hair
that chaffed my face only a few hours earlier.

Madelaine Sauk

On Domesticity

The mail arrived at 8:30 this morning,
surprised me with another credit card bill,
a pack of coupons for cigarette discounts,
and your new glasses.
You peeled 5 month old contact lenses
from your eyes and set
those rectangular frames on your nose.
I fell in love with you all over again.

At lunchtime, you phoned me at work,
promised me a sinkful of clean dishes
and a divine supper when I got home.
I could smell the dishsoap and orange chicken,
the odors growing more pungent
as quitting time neared.

At 5:30 I walked through the door,
saw you at the sink,
hurriedly soaping plates and utensils,
the chicken thawing in the microwave.
When you professed yourself a house husband,
I said that I had something different in mind.
You could only smile and
throw your wet hands around my waist.

The rest of the evening proceeded as usual,
into the bedroom and up onto my grand bed,
a cherry wood, four poster, queen-sized cloud
lifted three feet off the floor.
The TV went on,
channels flipping like enthusiastic gymnasts.
We bantered, drank beer, fretted over money.
The 11 o'clock news came and went...
it was best ignored anyhow.

I find my own life to be
the most interesting current event,
a bevy of domestic let downs and glories.

Madelaine Sauk

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