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http://kr.news.yahoo.com/service/news/shellview.htm?articleid=20091113100904152b6&linkid=63&newssetid=487&from=rank
http://basil83.egloos.com/5120255
Liam Rector
When he was 23 and beautiful
He liked to hang around
With other beautiful people.
He liked to get intoxicated with them,
Have sex with them, make money
With them. Among them,
He found, one did not have to strain.
Other people
Wanted to hang around with them
And came bearing gifts,
A little something. (These
Gift-bearers were a lot like
Politics itself is, "Showbiz
For ugly people.") In this world
If anything went wrong there
Was always enough money around
To cover it. After he was through
With this crowd he started hanging
Out with a bunch of academic
Gangsters. These were
A different crew altogether:
Smart, on the main, but mean
And eaten alive by resentment.
They never had enough money
And were bitter beyond belief,
Compared, say,
To a troupe of electricians.
Freud said somewhere
In our unconscious
We are always 23.
At Twenty-Three Weeks She Can No Longer See Anything South of Her Belly
Thom Ward
I'm painting my wife's toes
In Revlon Super Color Forty Nine.
I've no idea what I'm doing.
She asked me to get the bottle,
then crashed on our bed,
muscle-sore, pelvis-aching.
Lifting the brush, I skim
the excess polish across the glass,
daub a smidgen on her nail,
push it out in streaks
over the perfect surface
to the cuticle's edge.
I'm painting my wife's toes.
I've no idea what I'm doing.
The smell of fresh enamel
intoxicates. Each nail I glaze
is a tulip, a lobster,
a scarlet room where women
sit and talk, their sleek,
tinctured fingers sparking the air.
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