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Scott Wannberg    Contributor -- Oregon

Scott Wannberg, all rights reserved

Scott Wannberg, Kid Mingo, is the real deal. He is the headwater from which
everything spectacular flows. The grandest poet you could ever hope to know.  

His books includes Mr. Mumps; The Electric Yes Indeed; Juice, the Musical;

and in collaboration with a few other knuckleheads; Harvey Keitel, Harvey

Keitel, Harvey Keitel; and Rockets Redglare.  He has a new book out from Perceval Press called strange movie full of death.


Wannberg used to be an excellent dancer, and is still a terrific swimmer.

tell the fear to come back later when somebody is actually home

i saw the guy who said he's gonna live forever
i told him forever didn't mean much to me
unless you could eat it when you were hungry
he told me to quit being naive
made me buy his how to stay healthy book
i tried to give it my best
but my best recently is kind of done in by all
sorts of banal things
the fear showed up about 11:45 this morning
it looked like it had one hell of a night
its hair was all messed up
its suit was all rumpled
i had a rough road fear claimed
could you spare me some of your time?
come back when i'm actually home, i said
aren't you home right now? fear said with a puzzled look.
looks can be deceiving, i suggested
shutting the door.
fear took a piss in my parking lot
then limped off cursing.
the guy who claimed he'd live forever
just went in for a heart transplant.
the surgical team cut deep deep deep deep
but couldn't find anything
they'll have to come back after getting a much needed time out
the man who claims he'll live forever
begins to laugh and cry simultaneous
no mean feat
it requires dexterity, skill, poise.
tell everyone to come back, he sings
once i get home
it won't be for years
don't know what shape i'll be in when i do
thankfully a student nurse
who's led one all too vulnerable life
grows tired of his laughing and crying
she gives him a dose of whoop ass
that brand new controversial medication
that might give you metaphorical side effects.
the guy who intends to live forever
begins to crawl up and down the hospital hallway
tell him to come back to his room
whenever he gets home
the road it takes its time and toll on you
you begin sitting remarkably straight behind your wheel
but by the time you pull up for what's due you
you're hunched way way over and out
as for naive me
i stole a dose of whoop ass
i don't intend to do anything forever
especially live
that would be incredibly boring
i'm gonna go and see if i can find that limping fear
see if it ever calmed down after such a hard night
maybe we'll grab a bite
see a halfway accessible movie
the guy who claims he's gonna live forever
just got a pink slip
oh oh
don't mind me
anything i can do is simply temporary
i strolled onto this stage unannounced
i became a part of some attempted scenery
maybe you heard me call you
maybe you saw through me
don't matter much
you lift up your heart's baggage
hope it won't give you bursitis
time for me to soiree up the trail
maybe we'll connect sometime
over something edible
maybe we'll do a duet
on the side of the deaf highway
nobody may hear it
but it'll treat us just fine
tell the fear it can sleep in
we really won't need it for a bit
we're on our own
none of us is all that unique
none of us really are too serene
at times we shrug off the burden
at times we encourage the load
we're imperfect unsure dancers
experimenting with the history of foot placement
tell the fear it's really trite in the places it feels its revolutionary
tell it to learn how to stay in the game
i'll be home one of these years
i might invite it in for coffee
my home is whatever i feel
at times we become ciphers
at times we become crystal clear
none of us gets out alive
said the rock star to the burning comet
don't really matter
there's a soiree in your eyes
you may not see it
i hear you humming
beneath the falling objects
i hear you singing
when your lungs have gone to ground
not sure just what ditty you're sharing
but i feel my feet moving
maybe the earth under me is cutting my feet
or just maybe
you've dosed me with whoop ass
it all mounts its horse from the same side
here we go
in a trotting zone


Scott Wannberg's review of David's book:

WHITE TIME by David Smith...

Albert Einstein's munching on Emile Zola's canary while his hair
blows swimming lessons to Hart Crane who's wrestling bears in swamps of the soul with runaway slaves of the heart, and with David Smith at the wheel everybody can and will get backstage before, during and after the show which promises no elegant sophisticated corpses shall be left behind.

America may be a wild worn out vixen but the chemical makers in your brain still switch themselves on when heaven quiets its distemper by bathing 100 flowers in its gnashing mouse skull which swallows tinkerbell every time ezra pound's hair puts $5.OO on a 3/6 exacta and hits it but please be careful when the open flames try to render you blue from 20 feet with Almond Joy igniting your 2 step all along the precarious ledge.

David Smith plants a hole in one in your deep dark hootenanny and
the cows all ride the highest of countries when he breaks out the uke and begins to warble landscapes of the skin's rhythm attempting to steal home plate even if its nothing but an away game. Smith creates community organizers of vision that run for high office and successfully ward off big game ersatz hunting licenses made of banal temperature readings.

WHITE TIME is the only way a sagacious puppy with an appetite
for dancing continental divides made of heartfelt bowling
alleys of the imagination, can actually hum its hello anthem.
David Smith is successfully on the case, and the black bird soars
when the stuff dreams are made of move into your bones when he hums
his unique backbeat.

Scott Wannberg
Florence, Oregon

You can order David Smith's new book White Time at
   A 128-page collection of poems, perfect-bound, soft-cover.

copyrights belong to Scott Wannberg (and David Smith for White Time)
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