Monthly Archives: May 2009

My Dearset Wendy,

My dear set Wenesday . . .
how long has it been.
Crush your lovely breast
against my past. Steam the iron.
Fuzz the gash. Open to the flowers
of the night. Your children they all wait
for you.

I miss ya Wendy.

Remember the old days? Shore you do.
The times by the lake. The waters
of your breath. As you lie
upon the infinite linens of my old hospital bed.
Your children they wait for you . . .

Remember me Wendy?

Do you receive secret e-mail from your ex-lovers
begging you to return to the old gardens of youth.
Remember the waves upon the musty waters?
Are you like that proverbial challis filled with the blood of The Christ?
You didn’t read at the spider
during the H. Fair. All the children waiting with baited breath . . .
dying to hear about your storage attic of the past.

As The Official Rep. of last saturday evening poetry
I am condemned to ask of you the truth.
To look you into your private stash and wonder . . .
are you still as
fervently dedicated toward the writing
and especially reading publicly the wet
words from your frozen tongue?
Standing in the lit late night doorway of your heart
like you did when you were young. Blessed be
thou breast upon your sleeping shore.

I have graduated
and finally finished off the infamous 6 credits I so dearly
(They are going to mail
me my diploma.
A mail order diploma?)
Oh bless your soul, wendy. How’s your
blog sweetheart? What is a blog?
Words are in fact labor . . . love
your friend . . . Pete

Peter Leon


I am not really touching
this glass
There is space between all matter
If I were to really touch
this glass
Matter would be destroyed

I am not really touching
There is space between us
If I were to really touch
We would be destroyed

Your breasts are known to me
no matter what you wear
Last night
in a dream
our breasts touched
and space opened
inside me

I will keep you there


Cross-species Hairdresser

she crushes playdough
in a garlic press
and it comes out like green spaghetti
and she attaches it to her toy gorilla and the giraffe
and suddenly they look like green haired little girls.

Mark Koslow

Ice Rink

She pushes an orange pylon
such as they use on highways
as she tries not to fall off
the sharp silver blades
of her rented ice skates

Mark Koslow

for better or worse

humanity curls
in on itself
on the couch

two free cushions
for the night

a pair of humans
tied by paper
community vows
clutching the pillow
comfort raft
of each other

thru this economic time

wendy shaffer


submission with teeth
a leghold trap insertion
cock sucking is war

head to head contact
blood and sweat rise and erupt
swallow to clear throat


mothers day

mother’s remembrance
to embellish or forgive
the female failings


monument in a parking lot

children as soldiers
fighting the peace war
burn some buildings
break some glass
slit the fire hoses

bad government as bad parent
uses death
to clip their wings
feather pillows
for the masters

two of those dead students
were only walking
from one class
to another

wendy shaffer

hard shell

old ladies band to
gether old men just drift a
part & swim in their

own juices like the
last lonely turtle heading
out to the salt sea