Pete's Big Salmon Reading Series

Awwww yeah, it's time to enjoy a few poems from our Spring 2005 readers.
Click here to see poems from our Fall 2004 readers.
Click here to see poems from our Spring 2004 readers.

	Diamonds Are Trumps We're all in the frumps With weasels and mumps And our lovers have gone to the mall. The playwrights are chimps The babies are pimps And our lovers are shitting in stalls. We're down in the dingle With a dime and two singles Which won't even buy a bad poem. We're torn in the traps We're drawn on the maps But our lovers are not coming home Daniel Lin
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	Weehawken? That's where they dispose of old robots, right? I've been through there. Nice people. Small people, but nice, very nice. I delivered a talk about robots there once to a group of Weehawkens who had gathered in an average room where they gather. I remember the tiny folding chairs, fruit punch, cookies out of huge costco bags, the smell of coffee and meat, etc etc. Good people (though small), and a good town (though it smells like old robots). Todd Colby
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	The Boxer's Wife Thistle is wild round eyes and ribs outside the ring. The way it grows in books. A bit lip is a sign of the cross. Their daughter calls a hinge rusty knuckles. She dreams of teeth falling out. One by one. The pulp and worn pocket of a mouth subtracting fists from the air. Making the air s afe for pockets of posy. Frenching into exhaust on top of his wife, his blood in her mouth makes the boxer immortal. If she were younger, she'd swing like the tire swing swings, careens, makes a victim of anyone fool enough to push. Loving this man is like building a house on a soft wound. Tell me where it hurts, she says, point. Jaime Carbacho from our PBQ Valentine's Day reading.