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RICHARD ALAN BUNCH
At the Café Intermezzo			
(after looking through Wittgenstein's Tractatus)
It was as though we were released from a long wait, in lines steeped with extraplanetary summers. No longer were we entranced by games using language pretending to reflect states of mind or to reflect split seconds between boredom and a divided self. In a round about way, we discovered something unforeseen: not just to hear echoes but how to see them, not just to say "the Big Dipper rises" but how to know as well as say "the Big Dipper breathes as it rises" when the day's wind began to sweep us clean with alternate perspectives as our eyes were dilated with insight.
--- copyright RICHARD ALAN BUNCH

RICHARD ALAN BUNCH was born in Honolulu and grew up in the Napa Valley. His works include Summer Hawk, Rivers of the Sea, Night Blooms, and Hawking Moves: Plays, Poems and Stories. Thrice nominated for a Pushcart Prize, his poetry has appeared in Potpourri, Black Mountain Review, Poetry Southeast, Cherry Blossom Review, Poetry Repairs, Oregon Review, Poesia, and the Owen Wister Review. His latest poetry collection is Running for Daybreak.

REPAIR: Concourse or confluence of people at or in a place; resort, frequent or habitual going; making one's way; to arrive; to dwell; to heal, to cure, to recover; to renew; (AND!) to fix to original condition. Oxford English Dictionary



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LYN LIFSHIN ALL ABOUT ME
Haven't You Ever Wanted to Use the Word 'Indigo'


the way it rolls of your tongue, blue,
mysterious. It's rather old fashioned tho
but when you run out of words for the
blues, doesn't indigo give it a little 
class? Then, I think of Millay with her
indigo buntings, curled on the same 
velvet couches I have tho they've been
re-covered, not indigo but a chocolate
brown. One visitor, visiting Steepletop
in Edna's last years mentioned how 
shabby the sofas were. I think of how 
Vincent gave up her velvets, lovers, drugs
for the stillness. Except for the buntings.
But I digress. Indigo. I had to listen to
the Indigo Girls but I liked their name 
better. I'd like to say I found the metaphor
to cinch this poem, to pull any reader 
into Indigo ecstasy when I found some
E Mail about the film Indigo Children
but when I put the name into Google, 
What I read lacked all iridescent blue,
the startling hypnotic glistening.  Less 
there than the marine's startling icy eyes,
indigo jolting as sequins from deep under
ground as my real life pales

--- copyright LYN LIFSHIN ALL ABOUT ME

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MICHAELA A. GABRIEL
[red right hand]


a deformed churchbell rings
suddenly, rings once, startling
red spotlights into staccato dance.

he turns into a sinister duke,
coal-black hair, his face a stage
for eerie light-and-shadow play.

all the monstrous, grim-faced
demons inside us wake up, gather
in curtain folds, red hands clasped.

every word he sings is true, murder
stories at bedtime. i've never seen
blue lights bleeding before.

--- copyright MICHAELA A. GABRIEL. "[red right hand]" was previously published on poetryREpairs 02.01:008

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