SECTION SIX
POETRY PAGE TWO

The Blacklisted Journalist Picture The Blacklisted Journalistsm

COLUMN FORTY-THREE, MARCH 1, 1999
(Copyright 1999 Al Aronowitz)

ashby.jpg (60794 bytes)

[Date: Fri, 31 Jul 1998 16:27:13 -0500
From: ashley <ash@ou.edu>
To: info@blacklistedjournalist.com
Subject: stumbling across pages

I guess I'll start out by saying that I am simply a sophomore at the University of Oklahoma. . . However the reason for this letter is not simply to pester you or ask tediously worded questions, rather I would like to merely express that I think you write brilliantly. As a woman I guess that there are some scenes that will always remain foreign to me, men have a place in this world that it seems I will never be able to touch. The comaradery and friendship that you shared with these cultural icons such as Dylan and the Beatles is beyond my comprehension. . . however I think that it is my envy that spurs me to write you this e-mail. . . I just thought that I would tell you how exceedingly jealous I am of your life experiences. The world will never see another cultural revolution like the one that occurred during the sixties and early seventies, and all I can do is read articles like the one you wrote on the internet. . . I am sick because of it. I don't feel as if I belong with this closed-minded, apathetic generation of mine. . . Well, I wont take any more of your time. I am sure you are a very busy person who receives too many stupid e-mails as it is. . . So I'll leave you alone now, but just remember that there is a person out there who is sooo exceedingly envious of your life it keeps her up at night, so keep writing. You have lived a fascinating life so far.

ashley

(Ashley Tomberlin also draws, paints and sculpts.)]

sometimes

emptiness wanders blindly
beneath my fleshy breasts
running its icy fingers
along my ribs
and longing
swallows me whole ##

* * *

Predestination

your fingers
i like
with their tender
               fleshy
pieces.
trim daggers
of newness.
perfect
        instruments
made only
to be tangled
in the immense
         trembling
foliage of my hair.
and your lips
like your eyes
predestined
to conform
to each
         curve
of this
        taut
satly fabric
lie waiting
to discover ##

* * *

"Is that a poem?"

I held my cynicism
Like a lover
Against my body
Hoping to drift into
                      nothing
To complete myself
And bleed a little less
My wounds
                     I bound
And soon...
The sand drifted into my eager eyes

I imagined that I was whole
And that even I
In enigmatic dreams of solace
                                 and grief

Had peered into that which denies me peace
And touched the very
                         face
Of God

Proximity breeds contempt
This I had learned
And come to hate
                     to fear.

And yet that touch
Singular
           perfect
Drenched me in the realization
Of my own two hands ##

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THE BLACKLISTED JOURNALIST IS A SERVICE MARK OF AL ARONOWITZ