++++Coffee++++

There is nothing more satisfying
to me
than a good cup of coffee,
and when I poured you
into my cup,
I was amazed at how
smooth and strong you were
with just the right little bite,
that bitterness just under
the surface, that rolled
across my tongue with
such velvet liquidity,
and just to inhale the aroma
that rose from that cup
was a delight in itself..
God, you were hot,
and as I held the cup
between my hands
my whole body
would warm to the heat.
that seeped through
that container.
But I set the cup aside
for a bit, for some reason,
which is not important,
and when I returned to it
I found the aroma had faded
and you had grown cold,
and when I took a tentative sip,
the only thing I tasted
was the overpowering bitterness.
Filled with disappointment, I
even tried putting the cup in the microwave,
but then you just tasted stale
and old.
So now I've dumped you
down the drain,
with all the other
cold javas
that preceded you,
but for some reason,
no matter how hard I scrub
that cup there remains
a damned ring of you
around the edges
that just won't
go
away.

 

++++Frito Bandito++++

Possibly the most insane thing
that I did during my wild and
wanton youth was to hitchhike
into the interior of Mexico.
Alone and unpossessed of but
one word of Spanish,
that being "Si,"
and having papers only
for a daytrip into Reynosa,
I felt the call of the lushness to the south
and followed unthinking,
baring my midriff and extending my thumb,
correctly convinced that those two body parts
were a universal language
understood by even the most depraved
third world inhabitants,
I stationed myself by the side
of the narrow highway
that led
through the glaring whiteness
of the desert
and into Monterrey.
It was not long until the unspoken thumb
was heard,
and an old truck rumbled
to a slow and welcome halt.
I threw my duffle over my shoulder
and climbed in,
greeted by black curls, dancing eyes,
a smile that flashed brighter than
the desert sun outside the cab, and a
string of unintelligible conversation
to which I replied with a smile
and a "Si", and we began our
journey south,
with heat waves rising around us
and the glaring Mexican sun
blinding us to everything
except each other.
He tried to talk to me,
I tried to talk to him,
but our words were strangers and
I finally gave it up
and stuck my head out the window
and for miles sang the Frito Bandito song
which he seemed to enjoy immensely,
even joining in on the iii, yii yiis, and we did
a lot of laughing, and he brushed
my hair from my face, and the wind
blew it back, and I bit his finger
and he pretended to cry.
We stopped for gas and he bought me
a warm coke.
The day got hotter, and he took off his shirt
and I took off my shirt, and he touched
my breast with a tentative finger
as the hot desert wind whipped
through the windows of the truck
and we kept rolling south.
Then the road split, and I pointed one
way, and he pointed the other,
so I put on my shirt, and climbed into
the glare, and kept on my way
to the dreams in the mountains.....
but I still remember his smile.

---

Love Storms - 30 page poetry chapbook

email W. Laura Alleman for more info

---

     Hi. My name is W. Laura Alleman. No one, remembers what the W. is for and only my chidren, who are various and sundry, ranging in age from 21 to 4, of whom, thank god, only four entered this world through my vaginal canal and of whom, thank god, only four still share this rambling monstrosity we call a house, call me Laura. Almost everyone else knows me as "Phant", "Phantie", "Phantom", Phantomheart", or "Oh my god, there she is again." I am old as dirt (47), although I think by the time dirt is that old it has mostly been recycled into worm poo, so I guess I am holding my own faily well, because I haven't completely turned to shit, yet...at least, I don't think so. My husband, however, might argue that point...Oh, yes, I do have some of those husband thingys, one current, several previous, and I also have a big gray tomcat who likes to rub on my legs after he goes out whoring around the neighborhood.
     I began my long and illustrious university career in Louisiana in 1971 where I majored in Psychedelia, continued my education in California, where I studied Street Bands and Washtub Base Techniques, returning to Lousiana to collect the various assortment of three letter tags that I can hang at the end of my name when the mood strikes me, and the stack of framed documents that collects dust on the top of my hutch. After trying on several different careers, from greasy spoon waitress to oilfield truck driver, I settled into the teaching profession where I spent fifteen years filling my students' heads with literary bullshit and social activism, and from which profession I am currently taking an unspecified leave of absence to decide what I want to be when I grow up. And that brings us here, to The Hold, where I am going to attempt to drive both our devoted readers and our eminent editor completely insane with my flagrant and often incoherent ebullitions and my penchant for erratic and remonstrative ramblings.