Are you ready for some football?

The Dallas Cowboys

You were changing your tampon in the stands
as the Wave was going by us.
Dallas Cowboys kicking Redskin asses.

The Goodyear Blimp flew overhead
like the rail-splitter,
a bullet in his stove pipe hat.

Walt was trying to live up to his reputation.
Leaf after leaf after leaf,
ad nauseam.

The runningback broke away,
the cheerleaders opened wide,
binoculars focusing on the cracks.

Cheering and yelling
I looked over at you,
you had blood on your hands.

my first victim

I am looking for a victim....

I mean a poet who will allow me to take one of their poems and convert it to a picture- video-thing-a-magigy-thing.

No questions asked though from the victim...I mean poet.

There is one exception to this, the poem I select must also be available in audio.

If you are open to my request, please respond back.

Thank you,
Didi

slippages

1
take the lover's words at their most adroit
for this is the lathering welcome soft
as liquorice froth on a bed of fished
rice where no manplan followed
the dead harridan's line

2
for this also where the massive daddy longlegs
memory crawls contemporaneously
with one mind you only massive rose thorn
made dreg-veined legs
could not yet crawled

3
curled up nurserybed-wise and sleep tested
against the cutting point her birther's hands
and shouting mouth how they were hacking
the hedge down and failed to notice no sand
notice no

4
come sea time there are whoosh angels
in scampering tides clithering backwards along
the shoreline so gets us to find ourselves and words
they have slanted somewhat from the cruel pagewise the

5
trail stockings dirt as journey in nylony
as dredge shimmying pathfinders led his coming
tomorrow the where this fits on over the carbonated granite
clevvages the oily rain washes sense into
to ravage the thought ravage to

6
find ourselves holds like a huge holding pattern over
their circling the planes the hedgepicky blackbird scrawbling
his very very very nice to see you how the worm earth provides

7
to have the cleaning taken from her not her sister
who sat at feet who smoothes tears who taught
with precious perfume offering
whose five languid are
carefully unhook

8
from the scripts now life is in
the sand
the leaf
the fingercrusting because

9
they ache for a skin surface not the antiskin
teachings after all not anything fallen but glossy
as if kedgeree became constituents again
and mad mother actually died no scratch-trench

10
most: to rest is to believe it can be given
to believe is to was not reborn in the genes
is to found not self but demiocean simply was
washed was peacesalt held was real-laid not churned

"The liquid weapon subterfuge" [sonnet]

Mace might seem a no-brainer
but nitroglycerine's handy
in an Oil of Olay container
for a shot of explosive brandy
the Evian water ain't water
the shampoo won't do for your coif
if the plotline's wayward daughter
had been covertly cogent enough...
but the liquid weapon subterfuge
lands with premature renown
now be wary applying the rouge
to the face of the naive clown
hello! let's go? one surmises
a future of fluid surprises



============

vide e.g.: New York Times (August 11, 2006)
Liquid as Weapon? For Many, a Scary Thought

What happens when you google yourself

I found a critique of one of my older poems at Poets.Org's board.

I wrote it after a poetry reading at Amy Serrano's home when I met a poet/novelist who had been invited to read and also who just so happened to have been a Political prisoner in Cuba for many years.

It is amazing how many different ways they find to write poems while being held in a Cuban prison. One of the tortures they do to them is strip them naked and leave them in a cold marble room among other monstrosities.

Didi

Aha...I found out how to post

There's no little rectangle anymore. For anyone else confused, scroll all the way to the bottom and just hit the line link 'powered by blogger'.

Pris
I'll be back.

miPOradio's The Goodnight Show: Would you like to subscribe to our blogroll?

miPOradio's The Goodnight Show: Would you like to subscribe to our blogroll?

If you have time, I can use your feedback

This web site gathers information about responses for submissions. If you have submitted to MiPOesias or OCHO and have time to enter the information, I would appreciate it. You can do this for other magazines you have submitted to as well. Just pull down the menu.

http://www.duotrope.com/RT.aspx?id=786

Thank you,
Didi Menendez

Rondeau

rondeau

when the rains came, you sailed away.
the sky extended pale and gray
toward a vacant unspoken place,
the knowing shadows of your face
fallen long across the day.

the wind and water in their play
built up a house beside the bay,
an open room of calm and grace,
when the rains came.

here on the empty shore i stay,
here where the palm leaves knock and sway
in the pale dawn light fine as lace.
and you are gone without a trace,
a breath flown on the blowing spray
when the rains came.

never come back

firescapes
scraping sway
of drunken

it hurts

flies gather
tiny circles
spiraling
create a sphere

there's something
that i wish to contain
there's some thing
that i often wander around
never successfully capture

eating carpet
midnight left
an hour ago
and her words there
hardened
against the window

'never
come back'

OCHO #4

A Musical Exercise: In Which the Kids Die and a Star Cooks the Meat

This mystical frolic amid my sad dreams:
The moon glowing rabid deep in the night.

The children of starry day are gone—

slipping beyond blue, pausing briefly,
growing cold. Eye of rib roasting

upon a velvet star.

Poetry At Sea 2006

Walking Beside Lamp Posts

I climb up
these steps
thinking of where
I fail to follow.

The second I move
out of sight,
you come into view.

Is it like this,
the way love leads to
some place nearer,
some deeper delight
yet hidden from us?

These lights
turn on the beauty
that's already here
that makes us reach to it.

Michelle Buchanan has a portrait of me as a baby up on ebay

And Now A Word From
One Of Our Sponsors

Cesar Vallejo was pulling Sylvia Plath
out of the oven by her hips,
words widespread,

the Eiffel Tower making a land-bridge
between France and England.
He helped her to the sofa,

she was still in a daze
as you can well imagine.
Her eyes a distant star, maybe Antares,

her frock (which we are not
about to mock) gave her the air
of so many housewives up and down the street.

Cesar got her a cup of coffee
and they talked late into the night
except for interruptions by her children,

who still had a mother
and us, who still had a poet,
but we, of course, dared not intrude.

We stood against a wall
and marveled at their art,
our eyes stuck to theirs with Elmer’s Glue.

Poems of World War III

After long absence, Chuck Levenstein announces his new book


Poems of World War Three

published with Lulu and available now!

First reviews: "Almost brilliant!" "Poignant and angry"

swollen stars stumbling
cease features in parade

the luminous nipples of trees
spectatored rotating nuisances

that elfin clowns jumble up
and jump
should come as no surprise
to my wet nurse

Qana

It was but moments ago I died.
I heard the planes overhead
and now silence crushes my bleeding ears.

Just this morning I played games
in the rubble of the bombed-out buildings,
hungry and thirsty,

but being a child, one has to play
even in time of war.
I dreamt of a day

with empty skies
or harmless clouds, playmates,
like the one lying next to me.

I know it’s her
but I don’t recognize her face
and I know she doesn’t recognize mine.

In the pressurized cabin
the triumphant pilot can almost reach out
and touch the face … of evil.