mipo: a community chapbook

8/14/2019 MiPO: A Community Chapbook

1/16

a community of sorts...

Featuring

Melissa McEwenEdward NudelmanAmy GeorgeMichelle McEwenTerry LucasColeen ShinAdam Fieled

Art by

Jeff FilipskiLaura Orem

Didi Menendez

March 2009

MiPO


2/16


3/16

tripping switches, riding the wake

on their own slick waves: angel, demon,

cloud, birdsong.Let the retros fire and park your rocket

in your own backyard right under

the shocking firmament.

Youll thank your lucky stars

for your sacred second messengers:

white hot, razor sharp,

cutting open your sutured eyes.

EDWEDWEDWEDWEDWARARARARARDDDDDNUDELMANNUDELMANNUDELMANNUDELMANNUDELMAN

EDWEDWEDWEDWEDWARARARARAR


4/16

In Junior High School, I wantedto be owned

by a possessive

noun, owned by a nounproper,

the correct way: a hickeyon the face so the whole school could see

that you were his baby, like a wedding ring, like a tattoo

of his name on your left breast, like having

his baby and giving it his last nameor whole name if it were a boy, like

the girl who had all of the above

by the time she finished high school. I

remember in chemistry class

how the hickey on her cheek

shined under the classrooms light

like she was stung or bitten and we

all knew who did it. I couldnt look

away, wanted to possess it, peel it off

and stick it on me, study it

at home in front of the mirror

in the bathroom with the lamp

with no shade.

_________________________s Girls Girls Girls Girls GirlMELISSA MCEWEN


5/16

feline friends in

field of red

Jeff

FIlipski


6/16

I always caught the gleamof worry in your mother-eye

when I would run, unwashed/half-dressed,

through the kitchen and out the door

instead of pulling up a chairto watch, to take in the leveling

of baking powder, the separating

of eggs, the pounding of meat. Aunt Minnies

girls were there already taking turns

making whole dinners. But you neednt

have worried, I was always aware

of the ovens heat, quick and warm on the back

of my legs as I ran by it. No heat hasever come close to matching that heat

except maybe the heat of lovin and its

this remembrance that has finally

dragged me into the kitchen for keeps,unafraid even with the recollection

of daddy demanding his breakfast

RRRRRed Ved Ved Ved Ved Veeeeelllllvvvvvetetetetet


7/16

Michelle

CakeCakeCakeCakeCakebe ready by the time he set foot on thebottom step. I have yet to master

that art: the art of turning big pots & cast iron

skillets into a dinner for four, but I can bake

my ass off: red velvet cake, golden

harvest muffins, banana nut bread. Your

mother-eye says men need real food. But

you dont know my men they skip meals,

prefer dessert.

McEwen


8/16


9/16

Portrait of Blake

Pastel on paperDidi Menendez

Front cover portrait of Sina also by D. Menendez


10/16

At Night,

All CatsAre Gray

LAURA OREM


11/16

Beyond objectificationis an object of maleness

that admits to frailness.

I have this weird feeling

like I'm a xylophone

being struck repeatedly,

all some weird minor

scale, or a whipped cat...

a dreamer of pictures

could never have made

you redder. Or as much

of grass in your eyes asthere is. Or poignancy

of words meant to hurt.

All this is a way to flirt.

Yet your redness tells a

story of consummation,becomes the sine qua non

riveting me to black coffee.

RednessAdam Fieled


12/16

Some Days

I Find MyselfSome days I find myself

sitting at my desk

for fifteen minutes without thinking

about dying.

Or about the sun,

the feverish sun hoisting itself up

the back-lit eucalyptus trees

outside my window, how its

malignancy even now is forming

a swilling tsunami, how one day

it will engulf the entire family

of squirrels racing along

the wrinkled bark, the dolphins,

elephants, beesevery violin

will scream as music melts,

Terry Lucas


13/16

along with all the crumbled roads,

the massive missives writtenfrom sagging motel beds, golden

Gideon Bibles, packages of Trojans,

buzzing neon signs, naked candles

dancing behind brown luminarias

parchment, Mona Lisas smile, curled-up

toes of shoes in Salvation Army stores.

But tonight I watch the moons thin shadow

the way a child watches an abused mother

sitting at the kitchen table, half-lit

pock-marked scars shining like coins,

like runes, waiting for the fathers eclipse.

And now it is sleeting in the streetlights,

ice particles sighing through spaces

in the spaces, before the white noise hits

cement like tongues against teeth, or fists


14/16

against a whorled-grained desk,

and I find myself again

thinking not so much about death,

but rather listening for the sound

of claws skittering up the eucalyptus trees,

fellow fugitives from the enormous fire

that gave us birth, even now flexing

flaring arms to embrace us.

Some Days

I Find Myself

Terry

Lucas


15/16

I am writing the poem

that nobody wants...

the sentimental, mushy

one about the boy who

had a dog and who

lost his birthday balloon

and whose mean sister

pointed and laughed

while cartoon hornssprouted out of her head.

No editor cares that

it floated over a wheat field

in Kansas above lowing

cattle beside junked out carswith rusting skeletons,

burning in the echo of the sunset,

that two lovers watched

while holding onto each other.

They don't want to know

how it drifted like a cloudbathed in moonlight

as soft as a kiss or how the trees

reached out with arm-like branches

and snagged it.

It will hover for a while,

like a lost spirit,

then burst sometime

during the night,

just like my bubble

when I open the rejection letter.

AMY

GEORGE

The Poem That Nobody Wants


16/16

This publication is an online community chapbook.

Listen to the poems while you flip through the pages.

2009 Created by Didi Menendez

2009 MiPO Contributors

www.mipoesias.com

www.miporadio.com

MiPOa community of sorts...mipoesias.ning.com

mipo: a community chapbook

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