The Car Riding Captive Audience

NH B

and I'm talking

to keep you awake

POETRY

Lizabeth A. Gehring

to keep the snow from taking your attentions

to keep you from thinking of her

to make you think of me.

Because I am here;

I have taken the seat

from any other companions

My body heat

is steaming the windshield,

My words are keeping you from driving

other roads alone

The Physical and Mental Turnstyle

that even my sweating hands cannot annoint and turn

I string the lights alone

decorating cookies with stars from your eyes

(as I had taken them from you

my shutter catching you unaware).

You eat the cookies

I stand unbelieving

Your hands grabbing stars from my dress.

I pick up and fondle crumbs.

Over the phone you say nothing

but breating

I hear your loveI never question because my heart

lights candles on the tree for you

the flames burning

through my upper levels

into my boudior;

you warm iny bed for me.

Plugging in a toaster

you pop stars in, leaving them to me,

I offer them to you to keep you from turning

to the wall

but you blow

the candles out.

Dreaming. I feel your struggles-

you pull and push against

my barrier

We are fighting the same beast together in the fire we grapple-

metal arms squeaking, we are sent out alone.

Lizabeth A. Gehring

1.

I live within a salty tear.

It drips on all sides

of this life,

on all dimensions of my face

to quell the pain.

There is only one tear

for that is all I can produce,

that is all I am.

I remind myself of this often.

The tear

is the salt.

It is multidimensional

a kaleidoscope

of textures, colors and shapes.

Some are softer, possessed with buoyancy

than others

that are sir

that are airless but grossly fill the space.

II.

Welcome back to hell

and the tear smothered me.

The lights went off and the music halted to a ghostly sound.

I groped with outstretched arms.

I opened my eyes as far as possible

but felt them disengage from the sockets

so I closed them more.

I heard a crack.

My soul snapped.

Madness was just around the corner.

My Appeal

With the restless moan

I am engaged to my pagan master

I sold my brain and my labour to him;

"it" creates thousands of pains

than a snake is biting my heart

I poisoned my own soul, and,

let out my blood

As if, laying in the bottom of a boat

It sinks, sinks.......

Lin Tung

Karen Tierk

page 4/What She Wants/June, 1975