James Dilworth
Papa Osmubal "Poverty"
I saw a handful of dead cockroaches/ on the floor this morning./ You must have filled the house/ with your endless litany of dammits’ and ‘bullshits’/ while chasing them with last week’s paper/ you borrowed next door for the purpose.
Sophia Kidd "dance a line"
i get stuck thinkin' of words/ and meanings of you and of him/ the smell of leaf/ on dirt
Kenneth Mulvey "Contagion necessaries: sensorial numb"
reach into pocket/ for a light/ to find I pissed/ myself again
James Dilworth "Pamela in the Spring"I can't talk in the human way, I tried to learn without success. I could only watch her day after day, as the seasons began to change and the world grew colder.
Andy Riverbed "The lost art of visualization"
Now that I think about it;/ I’ve realized I don’t like poetry/ and I don’t like literature; I/ hate movies and music is nauseating;/ my job is a boring mind-/ numb.
Cecelia Chapman "Dream"
A short movie
Pamela in the Spring
She walked by me and everyday she would look through me. Time is irrelevant for me, but I always looked forward to the time when she would walk by me. It's almost silly to consider that I was in love with her and impossible to ignore that I was in love with her. Yes, me in love with her. I've never been in love before and I'll never love again.
It took a few days for me to fall in love with Pamela; Pamela was her name, as far as I could tell. During the first week of Spring she began to take a daily walk and would go by me in her circuit. Lots of people took their daily walk and went by me, but Pamela was somehow different. I saw it in the necklace she wore, a small silver chain that wrapped around her small, lithe neck and blondish brown hair with a black leather pouch at its bottom. Her Medicine Bag made me notice her, but as I began to watch her, I saw more about her that I craved.
I loved everything about her: the way her sweatpants and sweatshirt clung to her body, the shape of her thighs; the curve of her breast all intoxicated me with love. I tried to complement her several time, by the only way I knew. A piece of me would fall off in front of her as she walked by on her course. She never noticed except for once, when she tripped over a part of my body and kept on walking after shaking it off. I can't talk in the human way, I tried to learn without success. I could only watch her day after day, as the seasons began to change and the world grew colder.
Eventually Pamela began to walk slower and slower, the clothes lost their shape, and her hair turned the color of my grey-white skin. Then, after one day when she brought her daughter or great-granddaughter to the park and showed her old favorite walking path through the park, she never returned. I did the one thing a rock could do, and I fell apart into a thousand pieces, slowly turning into dust.
James Dilworth has been involved in many artistic and creative endeavors throughout his life, including music, drama, photography, film, TV, performance art and writing. He publishes a literary 'zine called Non-Creative Garbage and is currently working on his second novel Star.
