by David LaBounty
she was a double chin
and rosaceous cheeks
just as
she was clunky glasses
and frizzy and over treated
or ignored hair
and her car
was something imported,
something
borderline luxurious and the
inside was a layer
of dust and nutrasweet
wrappers and there
was a pile of
Barbara Streisand
and motivational CD’s
with names like
Power Over People
and
How to Think Like a Millionaire
she stood at my counter,
spit flying out of her mouth
of coffee stained teeth
and chapped and lipsticked lips
all because
someone put
a thumbprint
of grease on her
steering wheel.
March 31, 2009
March 30, 2009
That Tricky Bastard
by Melanie Browne
Death,
tickling our feet
with catfish whiskers;
the nose
with rabbit's feet;
sprouting weeds
at frozen graveyards;
(those crowded
ghostly wheels)
Death,
tickling our feet
with catfish whiskers;
the nose
with rabbit's feet;
sprouting weeds
at frozen graveyards;
(those crowded
ghostly wheels)
War
by Shannon Barber
We are the walking wounded.
Grim bloody soldiers in the war.
Hollow eyed specters of the reaper's failures.
We mark in bedraggled ranks.
Up the wet city streets.
You will join us.
*Shannon's blog: http://blog.nudemuse.org/
We are the walking wounded.
Grim bloody soldiers in the war.
Hollow eyed specters of the reaper's failures.
We mark in bedraggled ranks.
Up the wet city streets.
You will join us.
*Shannon's blog: http://blog.nudemuse.org/
Envy-
by Shannon Barber
Her breath smelled like gin and smoke and cynicism.
Her big crooked smile spoke less of laughter than of death.
I wanted to crawl inside her skin.
Look out from her reptile eyes and die.
…And it hurts so bad
Her breath smelled like gin and smoke and cynicism.
Her big crooked smile spoke less of laughter than of death.
I wanted to crawl inside her skin.
Look out from her reptile eyes and die.
…And it hurts so bad
March 29, 2009
WHO QUOTETH A BIRD?
by Randall Rogers
OF ONE THING I AM SURE
NEVERMORE
WILL I ALLOW A DRUNKEN
CROW TO FLY AROUND MY
HOME
NOR AGAIN WILL THEY FIND ME
BLOODY AND PUKING
CURBSIDE IN THE GUTTER
DYING, THEN DEAD
SAYING AMONG THE CRITICAL ACCLAIM
HE WAS A GREAT WRITER
AND YOU KNOW THEY THINK AND ARE ALONE
SO MUCH
WELL,
THEY ALMOST HAVE TO DRINK
OR SMOKE
TO STOKE THE CREATIVE FIRES
INSPIRATION
GET IT DOWN FAST FLOWING
THE PROSE WRITING THE AUTHOR
MUSIC PLAYING YOUR WRITING OR TYPING HAND(S)
HEMINGWAY DRANK WHILE HE WROTE
SO DID BUKOWSKI
AND ALL THOSE ALCOHOLICS LIKE CHEEVER
KEROUAC
SINCLAIR (MIRACLE HE MADE IT TO SIXTY SIX THEY SAY) LEWIS
FITZGERALD
RIMBAUD
DYLAN THOMAS
CHRISTOPHER HITTCENS?
ALL NOTORIOUS DRUNKS
HOW MANY OF THEM ACTUALLY
WROTE DRUNK OR LIKE CHEEVER I THINK
HE WOKE UP EARLY AND CLOCK WATCHED WRITING
UNTIL TWELVE NOON THEN THE SQUEAK OF THE LIQOUR CABINET OPENING
WOULD SING ALL AFTERNOON AND INTO THE NIGHT
I THINK HE STOPPED WRITING TO DRINK
THESE OTHER ALCOHOLICS I WOULD THINK WOULD HAVE TO BE
DRUNK OR HUNG OVER WHILE WRITING SOME OF THEIR WORKS
EVEN IF THIS WAS NOT THEIR ESTABLISHED WRITING ROUTINE
LIKE ME RETURNING HOME DRUNK FROM THE BAR AND WHIPPING OUT
SEVEN TO TEN POEMS
THE IDEAS WORD SOUND SING TRUE OR ODD
COOL
NAILING THE POEM
LIKE A TEENAGE CHINESE DIVER
OR GYMNAST
LIKE A GANDY DANCER HAMMERS A RAILROAD TIE SPIKE
LIKE THE NAILS THROUGH JESUS’ WRISTS AND ANKLES
THE BLULLETS FIRED INTO GHANDI’S SLIM FRAME
THE GRENADES AND FULSADE LET LOOSE ON SADAT
BOOTH BLASTING LINCOLN’S NOGGIN
AND KENNEDY’S LURCHING ABOUT LOSING HIS HEAD
(AND WHAT ABOUT THAT LOYAL WIFE SCAMPERING OUT OF THE CAR IN SUCH A FRENETIC HIS-HEAD’S-GONE-AND-I’M-OUT-OF-HERE UNLADYLIKE CLAMBERING OUT THE BACK OF THE CONVERTIBLE, ‘A PUSHING SECRET SERVICE GUYS OUT OF HER WAY AS SHE SELFISHLY LIKE A CORNERED CAT SHE CLAWED HER WAY TO WHAT SHE THOUGHT MIGHT BE SAFETY. HOW UNSEEMLY TO FIGHT SO DESPERATELY FOR LIFE? SHE COULD HAVE “STOOD BY HER MAN” AND OFFERED UP HER CRANIUM FOR BLASTING TOO. HER SELFISH SCAMPER TO PRESERVE HER LIFE AFTER HER HUSBAND’S HEAD EXPLODED LIKE A SMASHED WATERMELON INTO PIECES WAS JUST DOWNRIGHT UN FIRST LADY LIKE!)
ARRANGED WORDS
AS DEADLY AND DANGEROUS
ENLIGHTENING AND FUN
AS THE AUTO BIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X
OR JOEY: PORTAIT OF A HIT MAN
THE BOOK AND MOVIE THE GODFATHER
THE ANARCHIST'S COOKBOOK
AND ALL THE METH AND HOW TO MAKE HOMEMADE DRUGS
SITES NOW ON THE INTERNET
COMBINED WITH THE GREAT FOR FREE PORN
TIME AND PRIVACY ENOUGH FOR A SMOKE AND
A GOOD INTERNET KINK DRIVEN WANK
TO SUM, SHORT POEMS, INAPPROPRIATE OR TABOO
SUBJECT MATTER, MADE SEMI PALATABLE
INTERESTINGLY PUT
AND EASY TO UNDERSTAND
FOR IDIOTS WHO ACTUALLY GO
FOR BUKOWSKI’S DRIVEL
LIKE ME.
OF ONE THING I AM SURE
NEVERMORE
WILL I ALLOW A DRUNKEN
CROW TO FLY AROUND MY
HOME
NOR AGAIN WILL THEY FIND ME
BLOODY AND PUKING
CURBSIDE IN THE GUTTER
DYING, THEN DEAD
SAYING AMONG THE CRITICAL ACCLAIM
HE WAS A GREAT WRITER
AND YOU KNOW THEY THINK AND ARE ALONE
SO MUCH
WELL,
THEY ALMOST HAVE TO DRINK
OR SMOKE
TO STOKE THE CREATIVE FIRES
INSPIRATION
GET IT DOWN FAST FLOWING
THE PROSE WRITING THE AUTHOR
MUSIC PLAYING YOUR WRITING OR TYPING HAND(S)
HEMINGWAY DRANK WHILE HE WROTE
SO DID BUKOWSKI
AND ALL THOSE ALCOHOLICS LIKE CHEEVER
KEROUAC
SINCLAIR (MIRACLE HE MADE IT TO SIXTY SIX THEY SAY) LEWIS
FITZGERALD
RIMBAUD
DYLAN THOMAS
CHRISTOPHER HITTCENS?
ALL NOTORIOUS DRUNKS
HOW MANY OF THEM ACTUALLY
WROTE DRUNK OR LIKE CHEEVER I THINK
HE WOKE UP EARLY AND CLOCK WATCHED WRITING
UNTIL TWELVE NOON THEN THE SQUEAK OF THE LIQOUR CABINET OPENING
WOULD SING ALL AFTERNOON AND INTO THE NIGHT
I THINK HE STOPPED WRITING TO DRINK
THESE OTHER ALCOHOLICS I WOULD THINK WOULD HAVE TO BE
DRUNK OR HUNG OVER WHILE WRITING SOME OF THEIR WORKS
EVEN IF THIS WAS NOT THEIR ESTABLISHED WRITING ROUTINE
LIKE ME RETURNING HOME DRUNK FROM THE BAR AND WHIPPING OUT
SEVEN TO TEN POEMS
THE IDEAS WORD SOUND SING TRUE OR ODD
COOL
NAILING THE POEM
LIKE A TEENAGE CHINESE DIVER
OR GYMNAST
LIKE A GANDY DANCER HAMMERS A RAILROAD TIE SPIKE
LIKE THE NAILS THROUGH JESUS’ WRISTS AND ANKLES
THE BLULLETS FIRED INTO GHANDI’S SLIM FRAME
THE GRENADES AND FULSADE LET LOOSE ON SADAT
BOOTH BLASTING LINCOLN’S NOGGIN
AND KENNEDY’S LURCHING ABOUT LOSING HIS HEAD
(AND WHAT ABOUT THAT LOYAL WIFE SCAMPERING OUT OF THE CAR IN SUCH A FRENETIC HIS-HEAD’S-GONE-AND-I’M-OUT-OF-HERE UNLADYLIKE CLAMBERING OUT THE BACK OF THE CONVERTIBLE, ‘A PUSHING SECRET SERVICE GUYS OUT OF HER WAY AS SHE SELFISHLY LIKE A CORNERED CAT SHE CLAWED HER WAY TO WHAT SHE THOUGHT MIGHT BE SAFETY. HOW UNSEEMLY TO FIGHT SO DESPERATELY FOR LIFE? SHE COULD HAVE “STOOD BY HER MAN” AND OFFERED UP HER CRANIUM FOR BLASTING TOO. HER SELFISH SCAMPER TO PRESERVE HER LIFE AFTER HER HUSBAND’S HEAD EXPLODED LIKE A SMASHED WATERMELON INTO PIECES WAS JUST DOWNRIGHT UN FIRST LADY LIKE!)
ARRANGED WORDS
AS DEADLY AND DANGEROUS
ENLIGHTENING AND FUN
AS THE AUTO BIOGRAPHY OF MALCOLM X
OR JOEY: PORTAIT OF A HIT MAN
THE BOOK AND MOVIE THE GODFATHER
THE ANARCHIST'S COOKBOOK
AND ALL THE METH AND HOW TO MAKE HOMEMADE DRUGS
SITES NOW ON THE INTERNET
COMBINED WITH THE GREAT FOR FREE PORN
TIME AND PRIVACY ENOUGH FOR A SMOKE AND
A GOOD INTERNET KINK DRIVEN WANK
TO SUM, SHORT POEMS, INAPPROPRIATE OR TABOO
SUBJECT MATTER, MADE SEMI PALATABLE
INTERESTINGLY PUT
AND EASY TO UNDERSTAND
FOR IDIOTS WHO ACTUALLY GO
FOR BUKOWSKI’S DRIVEL
LIKE ME.
March 28, 2009
HERE IN THE AFTERNOON
by J. Lester Allen
here in the afternoon
there is death in the refrigerator’s hum
in whir of the hard-drive
in every trick of tick of clock
here in the afternoon
there is death in the kitchen
in a cage
there is death in the doorbell
in the idle of an engine
in threatening rings of the telephone
where my heart nearly stops
here in the afternoon
there is death in distant traffic
in helicopters overhead
in leaf-blowers
and lawn mowers
in the discontented growl of my empty stomach
and the cats’ stomachs
their claws on my legs
chasing mice through my veins
here in the afternoon
there are timidities in your voice
from behind closed doors
and many doubts about my mind
an ambulance siren
sounds as
dogs bark at the ghosts of love
here in the afternoon
the walls sizzle like
bacon in a hot pan
like a baseball crowd
like the 4th of July
the past peeks in to
say hello
while a contented fly
pukes happily all over
my arm
I dump bottles of your
words like
poison into my
brain
which, quite thankfully
has no aftertaste
here in the afternoon
there is death in the refrigerator’s hum
in whir of the hard-drive
in every trick of tick of clock
here in the afternoon
there is death in the kitchen
in a cage
there is death in the doorbell
in the idle of an engine
in threatening rings of the telephone
where my heart nearly stops
here in the afternoon
there is death in distant traffic
in helicopters overhead
in leaf-blowers
and lawn mowers
in the discontented growl of my empty stomach
and the cats’ stomachs
their claws on my legs
chasing mice through my veins
here in the afternoon
there are timidities in your voice
from behind closed doors
and many doubts about my mind
an ambulance siren
sounds as
dogs bark at the ghosts of love
here in the afternoon
the walls sizzle like
bacon in a hot pan
like a baseball crowd
like the 4th of July
the past peeks in to
say hello
while a contented fly
pukes happily all over
my arm
I dump bottles of your
words like
poison into my
brain
which, quite thankfully
has no aftertaste
the poetry is nothing to fuck with
by Peycho Kanev
Well, let me explain it to you:
the bum on the street, with
the bottle hanging in his maddened
pocket,
stretching his hand to you
is poetry
all the f-male creatures of the night
dressed in cut skirts and sucking
cigarettes in their colored mouths
are poetry
all the girls in the punk clubs
with their anger and their beauty
and their stamina
are poetry
the bombs that fall down in the trenches
and tear up bodies and transform them in pile
pile of useless organic junk
are poetry
the demented men in the madhouses,
strapped to their beds,foaming,cursing,shaking,
their heads full of pills and visions
are poetry
the bars full of quiet,shelterd,beautiful,
little people,staring down at their glasses
full of hopes for something better
are poetry
Hemingway’s shotgun was poetry
the bullet too
the booze is
poetry
the drugs are
poetry
the dead trees
the wasted lands
the knife in your
hand
your girlfriend lying
in the bed
everything and
everyone
is poetry
and at the end
when this world
explodes into the nothing
it will be poetry too
no more
no
less.
*Peycho Kanev is 28 years old and lives in Chicago. His new poetry collection, a collaboration with the poet Felino Soriano and the editor Edward Wells, is out now and can be found at Amazon.com
**I've read a few excerpts from this chap. Enough to say that it is FUCKING AWESOME! --Editor
Well, let me explain it to you:
the bum on the street, with
the bottle hanging in his maddened
pocket,
stretching his hand to you
is poetry
all the f-male creatures of the night
dressed in cut skirts and sucking
cigarettes in their colored mouths
are poetry
all the girls in the punk clubs
with their anger and their beauty
and their stamina
are poetry
the bombs that fall down in the trenches
and tear up bodies and transform them in pile
pile of useless organic junk
are poetry
the demented men in the madhouses,
strapped to their beds,foaming,cursing,shaking,
their heads full of pills and visions
are poetry
the bars full of quiet,shelterd,beautiful,
little people,staring down at their glasses
full of hopes for something better
are poetry
Hemingway’s shotgun was poetry
the bullet too
the booze is
poetry
the drugs are
poetry
the dead trees
the wasted lands
the knife in your
hand
your girlfriend lying
in the bed
everything and
everyone
is poetry
and at the end
when this world
explodes into the nothing
it will be poetry too
no more
no
less.
*Peycho Kanev is 28 years old and lives in Chicago. His new poetry collection, a collaboration with the poet Felino Soriano and the editor Edward Wells, is out now and can be found at Amazon.com
**I've read a few excerpts from this chap. Enough to say that it is FUCKING AWESOME! --Editor
March 27, 2009
in this part of town
by The Poet Spiel
as this hombre roasts on the hiway
you could poke him with the heavy fork he’s meant to use
for spreading broiling black rock
and he would use bare hands to shove the rock
before he would poke you back
you could watch a crow snatch his slice of bread
and he would shove his fist beneath his ribs
then swallow the gruesome stabbing at his gut
just like the rest of these laborers as they sun-scorch
the egg and re-fried beans they salt from their brows
but this hombre dare not think not yet of one home beer
no doubt pisswarm as the only medicine he will get if
the battery cranks on frank’s or pedro’s chevy truck
to haul him back to his old lady always napping
where he does not know the names of all his kids
who will jump him to beg bucks he’s sweated but may never see
as he stumbles toward his lone dead olive tree for scant shade
aside his mudbrick walls which bear ancient bloodstains
spilt from his splintered jesus who does not poke back
so long hung from a rope in this stilled life without soap
as in this part of town—
—not even a rabbit screams
when you slash its throat
*The Poet Spiel's 5-page website: http://www.thepoetspiel.name/
as this hombre roasts on the hiway
you could poke him with the heavy fork he’s meant to use
for spreading broiling black rock
and he would use bare hands to shove the rock
before he would poke you back
you could watch a crow snatch his slice of bread
and he would shove his fist beneath his ribs
then swallow the gruesome stabbing at his gut
just like the rest of these laborers as they sun-scorch
the egg and re-fried beans they salt from their brows
but this hombre dare not think not yet of one home beer
no doubt pisswarm as the only medicine he will get if
the battery cranks on frank’s or pedro’s chevy truck
to haul him back to his old lady always napping
where he does not know the names of all his kids
who will jump him to beg bucks he’s sweated but may never see
as he stumbles toward his lone dead olive tree for scant shade
aside his mudbrick walls which bear ancient bloodstains
spilt from his splintered jesus who does not poke back
so long hung from a rope in this stilled life without soap
as in this part of town—
—not even a rabbit screams
when you slash its throat
*The Poet Spiel's 5-page website: http://www.thepoetspiel.name/
returnee: commandments 6 and 3
by The Poet Spiel
in reverse
of the sacred commandment
first taken to his heart
down on his knees
he killed for you
on commands
drilled deep
in the immediacy
of fear and steel
and fire
then he came back home
and robbed you
of what he thought
he’d fought for
when he found himself
confused
and cleansed your colon
with his 9 mm glock
so he returned to his knees
like when he was a child
to humbly wash your feet
of what he’d done
but recognized he’d finalized
his shames
when he exclaimed
his first lord’s name
in vain
in reverse
of the sacred commandment
first taken to his heart
down on his knees
he killed for you
on commands
drilled deep
in the immediacy
of fear and steel
and fire
then he came back home
and robbed you
of what he thought
he’d fought for
when he found himself
confused
and cleansed your colon
with his 9 mm glock
so he returned to his knees
like when he was a child
to humbly wash your feet
of what he’d done
but recognized he’d finalized
his shames
when he exclaimed
his first lord’s name
in vain
March 26, 2009
The Harbour Inn
by John Rocco
In the bar
Steve the old guy
told me he used to read a lot
TO HAVE AND HAVE NOT
and
FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS
but now he’s a drunk and can’t
see the page, can’t see it he says:
“Why should I buy a book if
I can’t even see it?”
“Go to a library,” Chris says
but Steve doesn’t hear him
and tells us a story about
when he was staying in
the Hamptons during
the winter because it
was cheap and one
dark cold February
night, the late 70’s,
he was bored
so he dropped a hit
of LSD and walked
the mile to the bar.
The wind and the night
thrilled him, went through
him and then he was at
the empty bar, empty
except for a little guy
with a high voice.
Steve sat next to him
tripped to his high voice
and rolling words
and it was Truman Capote!
He was delighted to
hear that Steve
was blasted on acid
and they had an evening
of drink and talk
the night a howler outside.
Closing time and
Capote offered Steve
a ride home even though
he didn’t have a car.
Steve politely declined
preferring to walk the mile
home, the wind pouring
through him and the stars
pouring hot through the cold sky.
*John Rocco at MySpace:
http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=292819823
In the bar
Steve the old guy
told me he used to read a lot
TO HAVE AND HAVE NOT
and
FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS
but now he’s a drunk and can’t
see the page, can’t see it he says:
“Why should I buy a book if
I can’t even see it?”
“Go to a library,” Chris says
but Steve doesn’t hear him
and tells us a story about
when he was staying in
the Hamptons during
the winter because it
was cheap and one
dark cold February
night, the late 70’s,
he was bored
so he dropped a hit
of LSD and walked
the mile to the bar.
The wind and the night
thrilled him, went through
him and then he was at
the empty bar, empty
except for a little guy
with a high voice.
Steve sat next to him
tripped to his high voice
and rolling words
and it was Truman Capote!
He was delighted to
hear that Steve
was blasted on acid
and they had an evening
of drink and talk
the night a howler outside.
Closing time and
Capote offered Steve
a ride home even though
he didn’t have a car.
Steve politely declined
preferring to walk the mile
home, the wind pouring
through him and the stars
pouring hot through the cold sky.
*John Rocco at MySpace:
http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=292819823
Reading List
by John Rocco
We began by reading
about the Italian guy’s trip
whacked on Medieval Acid
guided by a Roman ghost
in the high style
through the intestines
of sweaty smoky HELL
packed with crazy stuff
the lovers in the whirlwind
the Boiling River of Blood
and jerkoff Satan’s Tears.
Then Dr. Moriarty’s plot foiled
the cursed Scot and the invisible dagger
and Mary Shelley got the Monster
in a dream and kept Shelley’s
heart in a box for thirty years.
After fishing with Hem
we smoked with Spade
and chased the Black Bird.
Then Deckard fell in love
with Rachel
his beautiful toaster
and slammed her against the wall
to kiss her.
I am Deckard
and you are quite a reading list.
We began by reading
about the Italian guy’s trip
whacked on Medieval Acid
guided by a Roman ghost
in the high style
through the intestines
of sweaty smoky HELL
packed with crazy stuff
the lovers in the whirlwind
the Boiling River of Blood
and jerkoff Satan’s Tears.
Then Dr. Moriarty’s plot foiled
the cursed Scot and the invisible dagger
and Mary Shelley got the Monster
in a dream and kept Shelley’s
heart in a box for thirty years.
After fishing with Hem
we smoked with Spade
and chased the Black Bird.
Then Deckard fell in love
with Rachel
his beautiful toaster
and slammed her against the wall
to kiss her.
I am Deckard
and you are quite a reading list.
March 25, 2009
Biblical
by M. P. Powers
the fat equations of the evening
have found me here, lying in the probable
bones of someone else's
dream, living with the red wraiths
who've cramped my sanity, and never beg
pardon or say excuse me
for leaving gaslights burning in the attic
all night, or when they stole the virgin-
colored roses from me one spring...
i should've known, three or four years before...
living in this profound caricature
i affectionately call my own
against whose throat the bedsheets
are guillotined... while the rain weeps
upon my memory
for the one night in the world i was christened
a sinner, and given no chance for an acquittal...
it seems only natural then
that after all these years, every
springtime finds me again, listening
to footsteps upstairs and the haunted screams
of my daunting fervor...
with beer for my tears and a black-
rose in my hand,
my heart holds onto death religiously
the fat equations of the evening
have found me here, lying in the probable
bones of someone else's
dream, living with the red wraiths
who've cramped my sanity, and never beg
pardon or say excuse me
for leaving gaslights burning in the attic
all night, or when they stole the virgin-
colored roses from me one spring...
i should've known, three or four years before...
living in this profound caricature
i affectionately call my own
against whose throat the bedsheets
are guillotined... while the rain weeps
upon my memory
for the one night in the world i was christened
a sinner, and given no chance for an acquittal...
it seems only natural then
that after all these years, every
springtime finds me again, listening
to footsteps upstairs and the haunted screams
of my daunting fervor...
with beer for my tears and a black-
rose in my hand,
my heart holds onto death religiously
Incommunicable, Me
by M. P. Powers
i could talk to her on the phone
that wasn't a problem
but there was something about seeing her in person.
all she wanted was to kiss me.
so we met under the lime trees.
nothing doing. we met in the shade of the cathedral.
nada. i couldn't even look at her.
so we tried again at my house, at the bottom of the staircase.
something wasn't right.
i was only ten
and eventually it became all-too tormenting
for my ten year old
brain. so i gave her the old heave-ho
even though i was in love with her
i wanted to concentrate on other things
like baseball, figuring out how best to pretend i was tough,
and the dukes of hazard. a couple of years
went by. in the meantime i was still in love with her, dragging
my feelings around. i remember hugging my pillow
and pretending it was
her. and then all the love songs that reminded me of her.
my first feelings of sexual frustration
were real. but still, something wasn't right.
i wasn't ready.
so when i saw her in the gymnasium
she was sitting in the row behind me with some friends
and i was with a friend and started feeling
the pressure again. my brain's blood
was thumping. so to save myself, i intimated she was
a whore.
had to be. it was some kind of hollow victory
which undoubtedly hurt her
feelings. but still, i think i felt just as bad
and probably worse
walking out of the gymnasium afterwards.
still in love. knowing i was a coward and a phony.
still with my pillow waiting for me at home
and more love
songs, which promised even more pain
when they came along.
i could talk to her on the phone
that wasn't a problem
but there was something about seeing her in person.
all she wanted was to kiss me.
so we met under the lime trees.
nothing doing. we met in the shade of the cathedral.
nada. i couldn't even look at her.
so we tried again at my house, at the bottom of the staircase.
something wasn't right.
i was only ten
and eventually it became all-too tormenting
for my ten year old
brain. so i gave her the old heave-ho
even though i was in love with her
i wanted to concentrate on other things
like baseball, figuring out how best to pretend i was tough,
and the dukes of hazard. a couple of years
went by. in the meantime i was still in love with her, dragging
my feelings around. i remember hugging my pillow
and pretending it was
her. and then all the love songs that reminded me of her.
my first feelings of sexual frustration
were real. but still, something wasn't right.
i wasn't ready.
so when i saw her in the gymnasium
she was sitting in the row behind me with some friends
and i was with a friend and started feeling
the pressure again. my brain's blood
was thumping. so to save myself, i intimated she was
a whore.
had to be. it was some kind of hollow victory
which undoubtedly hurt her
feelings. but still, i think i felt just as bad
and probably worse
walking out of the gymnasium afterwards.
still in love. knowing i was a coward and a phony.
still with my pillow waiting for me at home
and more love
songs, which promised even more pain
when they came along.
blek keyt
by Justin Hyde
overnight cook
at the truck stop
is a large old man:
thin limbs
wheelbarrow gut,
back brace
worn over his apron
holding him together.
i’ve seen him
and he’s seen me,
but we've never said
word one
to each other.
tonight
i passed him
smoking a cigarette
on my way
into the truck stop.
blek keyt,
he said
in a thick
bosnian accent
and
crossed himself.
what's that?
i turned around
and asked.
blek keyt,
he said again.
when you pass
it feels like
a blek keyt
walks in front of me.
the tip of his cigarette
went red
lighting up
ash grey eyes
boring into me.
i stood there
hands in my pockets
brain turning over
like the tumblers
of a strange lock.
old coot’s
serious,
i finally thought
to myself.
then i said:
meow
and walked
in.
overnight cook
at the truck stop
is a large old man:
thin limbs
wheelbarrow gut,
back brace
worn over his apron
holding him together.
i’ve seen him
and he’s seen me,
but we've never said
word one
to each other.
tonight
i passed him
smoking a cigarette
on my way
into the truck stop.
blek keyt,
he said
in a thick
bosnian accent
and
crossed himself.
what's that?
i turned around
and asked.
blek keyt,
he said again.
when you pass
it feels like
a blek keyt
walks in front of me.
the tip of his cigarette
went red
lighting up
ash grey eyes
boring into me.
i stood there
hands in my pockets
brain turning over
like the tumblers
of a strange lock.
old coot’s
serious,
i finally thought
to myself.
then i said:
meow
and walked
in.
March 24, 2009
Growing Pains
by Chris Butler
I'm already dying
once growth stunts,
as atrophic muscles
stiffen, tenderize
and ache.
Reserve a place
atop the dusted mantle
for my drained
and polished skull,
a hollow memento
to lament, then pawn
to pay the rent,
since nothing is
better left unsaid,
when I'm dead.
The fine wine in my veins
sours to vinegar with age.
But, I'm too young to complain.
I'm already dying
once growth stunts,
as atrophic muscles
stiffen, tenderize
and ache.
Reserve a place
atop the dusted mantle
for my drained
and polished skull,
a hollow memento
to lament, then pawn
to pay the rent,
since nothing is
better left unsaid,
when I'm dead.
The fine wine in my veins
sours to vinegar with age.
But, I'm too young to complain.
March 23, 2009
THE OTHER SPOT
by RC Miller
Even if human nature is in doubt, none
Of us will escape everywhere.
A rowdy trouble abounds, but still we’re
Lucky or something.
And there’s one thing that always
Blows me away..
Life’s not about what you do or what’s to
Be done about what you do.
This contrived intimacy opens my eyes and
Allows them to play.
It’s chance enough that I’m around
Eventually.
RC's blog: http://visionblues.blogspot.com/
Even if human nature is in doubt, none
Of us will escape everywhere.
A rowdy trouble abounds, but still we’re
Lucky or something.
And there’s one thing that always
Blows me away..
Life’s not about what you do or what’s to
Be done about what you do.
This contrived intimacy opens my eyes and
Allows them to play.
It’s chance enough that I’m around
Eventually.
RC's blog: http://visionblues.blogspot.com/
March 21, 2009
finger to ass
by Grievous Jones
so damn easy being puerile making jokes about getting old,
jokes about cocks and getting rocks off and girls who barely
had tits and all the things we’d do once we knew what it was,
so simple having rod and tackle to shoot under the sheets
in the ceiling’s direction and never worry about the stains,
my doctor tells me I have hemorrhoids and should put cream
on it three times a day, who the fuck’s laughing now.
so damn easy being puerile making jokes about getting old,
jokes about cocks and getting rocks off and girls who barely
had tits and all the things we’d do once we knew what it was,
so simple having rod and tackle to shoot under the sheets
in the ceiling’s direction and never worry about the stains,
my doctor tells me I have hemorrhoids and should put cream
on it three times a day, who the fuck’s laughing now.
March 20, 2009
trying to shake sad
by nila northSun
a dreary cold monday morning
first 2 emails
high school girlfriend dead
medical care and severe depression
was all that was mentioned
so I wonder if she suicided
never married no kids
and at the last few high school
reunions when I saw her after many
year of not seeing her
I thought she looked anorexic
cause she looked so tiny
‘our’ group is now in their 50’s
too early to be dying
2nd email about a
fellow burner that I do not know
in a motorcycle accident in India
her last email home said
how crazy the drivers in India were
and how she’s learning to drive
a motorcycle but not to worry
she’s playing it safe and always
wears a helmet
a bike in front of her wiped out
and she swerved to avoid
but ended up with a handlebar
thru her visor into her head
her boyfriend was following and
began cpr despite blood in mouth
ears nose for a half hour
before German tourists stopped
frantic boyfriend trying to understand
the Indian doctors
lots of blood loss she in a coma
hooked up to a breathing machine
her mom flew in wants her back in
the States for better care
her boyfriend updates blog
so everybody knows what’s going on
somebody snagged her an indigent bed at Stanford Medical
friends in San Francisco having FUNraisers
cause that’s the way she’d want it
trying to raise funds for an air ambulance
that cost $150,000
the dj hosted shake yur booty party
plus other donations have raised $5,000
so they begin to pray more fervently
for her for an air ambulance for a good outcome
and this all sinks me down to sadness
as I recall my hospital bedside waits while
my son was hooked up to everything
but at least he was conscious and alive
and I knew he had most brain function
the coma thing is scary
reminds me of the other kid down the hall
jarrod 18 year old same age as my kid
jarrod bonked his head in a truck accident
and was in a coma
10 years later…he still is
I know cause whenever I pass through
that small town of Gerlach on my way to
burningman I stop at bruno’s bar
and ask the bartender
‘how’s jarrod doing?’ cause jarrod’s family
was from Gerlach but has moved away
‘the same’ is what he always says
one day I want him to tell me ‘he woke up
and smiled’
you read about those kind of stories
sometimes
yet I still feel like crying
about jarrod, about my son
about the burner girl
and about my high school girlfriend
who was severely depressed
I’m so sad that she was so depressed
I remember her best as smiling and having a
caring and sweet disposition
and wishing life could have always stayed
that innocent
our silly little high school life
when all we worried about was our hairstyle
or clothes
and that we laughed a lot
at least that’s how I remember it
and I’m going to keep it that way.
*nila northSun at Wikipedia:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nila_northSun
a dreary cold monday morning
first 2 emails
high school girlfriend dead
medical care and severe depression
was all that was mentioned
so I wonder if she suicided
never married no kids
and at the last few high school
reunions when I saw her after many
year of not seeing her
I thought she looked anorexic
cause she looked so tiny
‘our’ group is now in their 50’s
too early to be dying
2nd email about a
fellow burner that I do not know
in a motorcycle accident in India
her last email home said
how crazy the drivers in India were
and how she’s learning to drive
a motorcycle but not to worry
she’s playing it safe and always
wears a helmet
a bike in front of her wiped out
and she swerved to avoid
but ended up with a handlebar
thru her visor into her head
her boyfriend was following and
began cpr despite blood in mouth
ears nose for a half hour
before German tourists stopped
frantic boyfriend trying to understand
the Indian doctors
lots of blood loss she in a coma
hooked up to a breathing machine
her mom flew in wants her back in
the States for better care
her boyfriend updates blog
so everybody knows what’s going on
somebody snagged her an indigent bed at Stanford Medical
friends in San Francisco having FUNraisers
cause that’s the way she’d want it
trying to raise funds for an air ambulance
that cost $150,000
the dj hosted shake yur booty party
plus other donations have raised $5,000
so they begin to pray more fervently
for her for an air ambulance for a good outcome
and this all sinks me down to sadness
as I recall my hospital bedside waits while
my son was hooked up to everything
but at least he was conscious and alive
and I knew he had most brain function
the coma thing is scary
reminds me of the other kid down the hall
jarrod 18 year old same age as my kid
jarrod bonked his head in a truck accident
and was in a coma
10 years later…he still is
I know cause whenever I pass through
that small town of Gerlach on my way to
burningman I stop at bruno’s bar
and ask the bartender
‘how’s jarrod doing?’ cause jarrod’s family
was from Gerlach but has moved away
‘the same’ is what he always says
one day I want him to tell me ‘he woke up
and smiled’
you read about those kind of stories
sometimes
yet I still feel like crying
about jarrod, about my son
about the burner girl
and about my high school girlfriend
who was severely depressed
I’m so sad that she was so depressed
I remember her best as smiling and having a
caring and sweet disposition
and wishing life could have always stayed
that innocent
our silly little high school life
when all we worried about was our hairstyle
or clothes
and that we laughed a lot
at least that’s how I remember it
and I’m going to keep it that way.
*nila northSun at Wikipedia:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nila_northSun
March 19, 2009
Loser
by Randall Rogers
I told them all in Russia
that I killed two men.
Usually I said this while drinking
and began to cry.
When I agonized and shed enough
tears over my crime
I usually told my drinking companions
it wasn’t true
I didn’t kill two men.
And they always told me
they never believed me in the first place.
Then when I told them at sixteen years of age I got a Native American
girl pregnant and she aborted our
half breed fetus
they didn’t believe me on that one either.
“You? With a woman?” they’d say, shaking their heads.
“No way.”
I told them all in Russia
that I killed two men.
Usually I said this while drinking
and began to cry.
When I agonized and shed enough
tears over my crime
I usually told my drinking companions
it wasn’t true
I didn’t kill two men.
And they always told me
they never believed me in the first place.
Then when I told them at sixteen years of age I got a Native American
girl pregnant and she aborted our
half breed fetus
they didn’t believe me on that one either.
“You? With a woman?” they’d say, shaking their heads.
“No way.”
March 18, 2009
Man Playing Sesame Street Theme Song, Metro Center, Washington DC
by Jennifer Van Orman
He’s missing a leg and he sits
at the top of the escalator,
plush navy horn case open
near his wheelchair,
and as I ride up from underground,
I see the sun and hear the music
at the same time.
I think of people I have moved away from,
people I used to call my friends
and realize they are my friends no longer.
None of them ask where I am these days
and I wonder why they don’t wonder.
Waiting at the elevator, I wait.
Waiting at the crosswalk, I wait.
Listen to this man play the same bars,
can you tell me how to get, how to get…
*Jennifer Van Orman is a painter and writer who lives in Portland, Maine.
He’s missing a leg and he sits
at the top of the escalator,
plush navy horn case open
near his wheelchair,
and as I ride up from underground,
I see the sun and hear the music
at the same time.
I think of people I have moved away from,
people I used to call my friends
and realize they are my friends no longer.
None of them ask where I am these days
and I wonder why they don’t wonder.
Waiting at the elevator, I wait.
Waiting at the crosswalk, I wait.
Listen to this man play the same bars,
can you tell me how to get, how to get…
*Jennifer Van Orman is a painter and writer who lives in Portland, Maine.
Audrius
by Jennifer Van Orman
I don’t know my own dimensions
but you are a fine, dark frame,
a house not built.
I am a word not translated
in messy, unreadable print.
On this night, I stumble the plank
of your naked back, want to carve
the black wax of your shoulders.
You grab fistfuls of my hair, knotted pine,
searching
like dreams of finding rooms
where there weren’t rooms before.
We are a perpetual unrolling rug,
a worm circling
around itself, looking for its end,
cut fresh and flat like a celery heart.
Before falling asleep, you tell me of the country
you were born in. I think of letters
I never sent but meant to,
books I’ve been planning to start but haven’t,
things I’ve been starting to say but can’t.
Only that I am running until I set record.
Only whittling until I spark fire.
Only spending until I go broke.
I don’t know my own dimensions
but you are a fine, dark frame,
a house not built.
I am a word not translated
in messy, unreadable print.
On this night, I stumble the plank
of your naked back, want to carve
the black wax of your shoulders.
You grab fistfuls of my hair, knotted pine,
searching
like dreams of finding rooms
where there weren’t rooms before.
We are a perpetual unrolling rug,
a worm circling
around itself, looking for its end,
cut fresh and flat like a celery heart.
Before falling asleep, you tell me of the country
you were born in. I think of letters
I never sent but meant to,
books I’ve been planning to start but haven’t,
things I’ve been starting to say but can’t.
Only that I am running until I set record.
Only whittling until I spark fire.
Only spending until I go broke.
March 17, 2009
It Hurts When I Pee
by Chris Butler
It’s as if I have
salted glass
shards bathing
in my bloated
bladder, or these
sifting Siamese
kidneys roll jagged
burning stones
down my rifling
urethra, bursting
hemorrhoids in
rainbow rivers
of pain.
It’s as if I have
salted glass
shards bathing
in my bloated
bladder, or these
sifting Siamese
kidneys roll jagged
burning stones
down my rifling
urethra, bursting
hemorrhoids in
rainbow rivers
of pain.
March 16, 2009
The Bar
by John Rocco
I was drinking with Dr. Manhattan
and the Comedian in some waterfront dive
with the world broken into crystal blue chaos.
We smoked big cigars. Our drinks:
Time and Space (Dr. M’s)
Bourbon (the Comedian)
A Manhattan (Me as tribute to Dr. M)
We were laughing and talking
about the good old days, the good old days
Vietnam when in walks a group of superheroes
and I don’t even know half their names.
Powers demented and all over the place.
No respect for the old guard. They had nerve.
They cursed and spat and demanded drinks like
it was their right, their privilege, their destiny.
They all had weird problems and fears.
They made me sick.
Where were their lost ones and revenge scenarios?
Where were their scars and bills and burials?
All they had was wild hair and digital pills
and before Dr. Manhattan could turn them into
nothing molecules inside a sea of nothing
and before the Comedian could raise the M-16
and before I could take the blade from my cane
there was Norse Thunder and Viking Lightning
and blinding blonde Thor stood there
hot hating heavy hammer humming in his hands.
Thor can drink any superhero under the table
and he knows it.
I was drinking with Dr. Manhattan
and the Comedian in some waterfront dive
with the world broken into crystal blue chaos.
We smoked big cigars. Our drinks:
Time and Space (Dr. M’s)
Bourbon (the Comedian)
A Manhattan (Me as tribute to Dr. M)
We were laughing and talking
about the good old days, the good old days
Vietnam when in walks a group of superheroes
and I don’t even know half their names.
Powers demented and all over the place.
No respect for the old guard. They had nerve.
They cursed and spat and demanded drinks like
it was their right, their privilege, their destiny.
They all had weird problems and fears.
They made me sick.
Where were their lost ones and revenge scenarios?
Where were their scars and bills and burials?
All they had was wild hair and digital pills
and before Dr. Manhattan could turn them into
nothing molecules inside a sea of nothing
and before the Comedian could raise the M-16
and before I could take the blade from my cane
there was Norse Thunder and Viking Lightning
and blinding blonde Thor stood there
hot hating heavy hammer humming in his hands.
Thor can drink any superhero under the table
and he knows it.
March 15, 2009
Mom
by Randall Rogers
I was the ugliest baby in the maternity
ward, mom told me,
all the nurses made a point of crinkling their faces
in distaste when looking at me
and commenting
on how ugly a baby I was,
she said.
Too, she said growing older
hadn’t been kind to my aesthetic
appearance also, and, “to be honest” she confided in me,
I was an unplanned unwanted baby.
I guess that’s why I got the cheap urn
for her when she died
and I sprinkled her remains
in dirty gas station
toilets
all over this great land
America.
I was the ugliest baby in the maternity
ward, mom told me,
all the nurses made a point of crinkling their faces
in distaste when looking at me
and commenting
on how ugly a baby I was,
she said.
Too, she said growing older
hadn’t been kind to my aesthetic
appearance also, and, “to be honest” she confided in me,
I was an unplanned unwanted baby.
I guess that’s why I got the cheap urn
for her when she died
and I sprinkled her remains
in dirty gas station
toilets
all over this great land
America.
March 14, 2009
Birthday Girl
by Heather Ann Schmidt
On the day I turned 30,
we stopped at a pub
along the River Dee--
and drank cider
and observed the world,
Wales at sunset--
your hand held mine,
leading me to the edge of the valley
Earth moving--
On the way back,
we had to stop
because sheep had gathered
across the highway
heather
bloomed in late August
up to where we stood,
and our daughter
turned inside me,
her heart against my ribs.
On the day I turned 30,
we stopped at a pub
along the River Dee--
and drank cider
and observed the world,
Wales at sunset--
your hand held mine,
leading me to the edge of the valley
Earth moving--
On the way back,
we had to stop
because sheep had gathered
across the highway
heather
bloomed in late August
up to where we stood,
and our daughter
turned inside me,
her heart against my ribs.
March 12, 2009
Yet Another Acid Tail
by Randall Rogers
“Do we need money here?” my buddy asked
after seeing “the light” and grabbing for the woman God told him he had to
fuck, the pretty woman dancing arm in arm with her big boyfriend
in the row just in front of us. “But do I have to do it here?” he asked.
We were at Red Rocks at an outdoor Moody Blues concert.
I gave him a firm all purpose “No!” while restraining him
from grabbing the woman.
Then a helicopter came in low bearing an electronic message
advertising something and I was sucked right out of my body.
My body went limp as I left it and went hurtling through the cosmos
until I came to the edge of the Big Bang and I bounced off it
and took the same quick route back into my body.
I looked over at my buddy who must have had a similar experience.
“Hold on!” I yelled to him above the music, “put your head down and whatever you do
don’t look up!”
People dancing partying singing along all around us
and we two sitting down with our heads between our knees
eyes shut or staring straight at the ground.
Soon our other buddy
who hadn’t taken the Oms
the brown acid of the concert
and four of them at that
he chimed in with “You guys really should at least look at the stage and try to listen to the show.”
“No way!” we replied in unison
and we pretty much missed the entire show.
Later, as we were leaving the concert venue going down steep steps
in the mass exodus of people
he suddenly sat down in the middle of a stream of moving bodies,
we too stopped when he sat down.
“But do I have to screw her here?” he said again.
Then I said “Look! There’s Don Juan!” from the Castaneda
books and he got up to look around, “Really?”
A Latino was standing leaning against a pine tree watching us.
I think it was his return to the money issue that sort of snapped him back into it.
After repeated vocalizations of “the light! the light!” and a return to the “do we need money here?” I told him no we don’t need money here would you give me yours? And he thought something was up, we weren’t in Oz, we were on a money using planet, and he got up and sort of came to. He walked talking to himself with the other buddy and I guiding him down the steps and out through the parking lot and down to the car. He had the thousand yard stare of a Vietnam Vet or Heston as Moses coming off the mountain. Boy was that fun. Are you experienced?
“Do we need money here?” my buddy asked
after seeing “the light” and grabbing for the woman God told him he had to
fuck, the pretty woman dancing arm in arm with her big boyfriend
in the row just in front of us. “But do I have to do it here?” he asked.
We were at Red Rocks at an outdoor Moody Blues concert.
I gave him a firm all purpose “No!” while restraining him
from grabbing the woman.
Then a helicopter came in low bearing an electronic message
advertising something and I was sucked right out of my body.
My body went limp as I left it and went hurtling through the cosmos
until I came to the edge of the Big Bang and I bounced off it
and took the same quick route back into my body.
I looked over at my buddy who must have had a similar experience.
“Hold on!” I yelled to him above the music, “put your head down and whatever you do
don’t look up!”
People dancing partying singing along all around us
and we two sitting down with our heads between our knees
eyes shut or staring straight at the ground.
Soon our other buddy
who hadn’t taken the Oms
the brown acid of the concert
and four of them at that
he chimed in with “You guys really should at least look at the stage and try to listen to the show.”
“No way!” we replied in unison
and we pretty much missed the entire show.
Later, as we were leaving the concert venue going down steep steps
in the mass exodus of people
he suddenly sat down in the middle of a stream of moving bodies,
we too stopped when he sat down.
“But do I have to screw her here?” he said again.
Then I said “Look! There’s Don Juan!” from the Castaneda
books and he got up to look around, “Really?”
A Latino was standing leaning against a pine tree watching us.
I think it was his return to the money issue that sort of snapped him back into it.
After repeated vocalizations of “the light! the light!” and a return to the “do we need money here?” I told him no we don’t need money here would you give me yours? And he thought something was up, we weren’t in Oz, we were on a money using planet, and he got up and sort of came to. He walked talking to himself with the other buddy and I guiding him down the steps and out through the parking lot and down to the car. He had the thousand yard stare of a Vietnam Vet or Heston as Moses coming off the mountain. Boy was that fun. Are you experienced?
March 11, 2009
LEFT RIGHT LEFT
by Howie Good
You’re already halfway home or more when you remember
you forgot the baby in a shopping cart in the vast parking
lot. Oh, they’ll wail, how could you? And saying your
brain was temporarily deprived of oxygen isn’t a good
answer. So, of course, you look with newfound seriousness
for a place to turn around, but there is none, only the
thud of night smashing into your windshield. All you can
do now is drive faster and faster through the sirens and
confusion, the hairless face of the cretinous moon beaming
over your left – no, your right – no, your left –
shoulder.
You’re already halfway home or more when you remember
you forgot the baby in a shopping cart in the vast parking
lot. Oh, they’ll wail, how could you? And saying your
brain was temporarily deprived of oxygen isn’t a good
answer. So, of course, you look with newfound seriousness
for a place to turn around, but there is none, only the
thud of night smashing into your windshield. All you can
do now is drive faster and faster through the sirens and
confusion, the hairless face of the cretinous moon beaming
over your left – no, your right – no, your left –
shoulder.
Lost My Brain
by Randall Rogers
I think she dumped me
because when she called
I was tripping on acid
and I didn’t recognize her
voice
or her name when she told me who was
calling.
But hell, earlier I had
left my body twice
and when I got in my car
to drive home
when I finally figured out how to start the thing
and I put it in gear
got ready to go and
it appeared as if I was going to be driving
straight up!
Thought for damn sure
I’d hit another car or worse
just moving an inch from where I was parked,
and I got out and walked home.
Took me like three hours to negotiate on foot
the four blocks or so to my apartment.
Damn, ever been stuck on the ceiling holding a lit cigarette in a
limp floppy arm? burning a hole in the couch as you try to move
the damn thing to the ashtray working your body from the ceiling?
I think she dumped me
because when she called
I was tripping on acid
and I didn’t recognize her
voice
or her name when she told me who was
calling.
But hell, earlier I had
left my body twice
and when I got in my car
to drive home
when I finally figured out how to start the thing
and I put it in gear
got ready to go and
it appeared as if I was going to be driving
straight up!
Thought for damn sure
I’d hit another car or worse
just moving an inch from where I was parked,
and I got out and walked home.
Took me like three hours to negotiate on foot
the four blocks or so to my apartment.
Damn, ever been stuck on the ceiling holding a lit cigarette in a
limp floppy arm? burning a hole in the couch as you try to move
the damn thing to the ashtray working your body from the ceiling?
March 10, 2009
The bag boy
by Josh Olsen
The bag boy
was a tall skinny white man
with a thin greasy pony tail
and prison tattoos.
He handled my groceries with care,
placing each item
in its own individual plastic bag
before laying them together
into a larger paper bag.
Wasteful, I thought,
but it must have been a source of pride,
compared to the other bag boys,
who mindlessly stuffed
to the brink of hemorrhage.
I wanted to ask him
what he was doing there,
how he ended up
at the end of lane 5.
Was it a second chance?
But I was positive
the answers I imagined
were far more romantic
than the truth.
So, I kept to myself.
"God bless you, brother," he said
as he handed me my load,
then turned his attention
to the next customer in line.
The bag boy
was a tall skinny white man
with a thin greasy pony tail
and prison tattoos.
He handled my groceries with care,
placing each item
in its own individual plastic bag
before laying them together
into a larger paper bag.
Wasteful, I thought,
but it must have been a source of pride,
compared to the other bag boys,
who mindlessly stuffed
to the brink of hemorrhage.
I wanted to ask him
what he was doing there,
how he ended up
at the end of lane 5.
Was it a second chance?
But I was positive
the answers I imagined
were far more romantic
than the truth.
So, I kept to myself.
"God bless you, brother," he said
as he handed me my load,
then turned his attention
to the next customer in line.
Oh, Lemmy
by Josh Olsen
I sat in a brightly lit corner,
scribbling.
I'd been filled
with the desire to write again,
it felt good,
and I attributed it
to my new Moleskine.
Like Hemingway and Van Gogh,
it promised on the packaging.
Over my shoulder,
two men washed the windows
and I placed a forearm
over my words,
though I was sure
they couldn't give a fuck.
They had a job to do,
and they were probably laughing
at the faggot with the purple pen.
An Asian boy and his sister
turned on a videogame
which featured the opening riffs
of "Ace of Spades" –
Oh, Lemmy,
I hear your music
and I want to skull-fuck
a skinhead.
But there aren't any here
in the McDonald's Playplace.
I sat in a brightly lit corner,
scribbling.
I'd been filled
with the desire to write again,
it felt good,
and I attributed it
to my new Moleskine.
Like Hemingway and Van Gogh,
it promised on the packaging.
Over my shoulder,
two men washed the windows
and I placed a forearm
over my words,
though I was sure
they couldn't give a fuck.
They had a job to do,
and they were probably laughing
at the faggot with the purple pen.
An Asian boy and his sister
turned on a videogame
which featured the opening riffs
of "Ace of Spades" –
Oh, Lemmy,
I hear your music
and I want to skull-fuck
a skinhead.
But there aren't any here
in the McDonald's Playplace.
March 8, 2009
Selfish Bastard
by Randall Rogers
I never know why
women like me
and I really don’t
understand it
when they say they
love me
don’t they see it
that I love God
music, drugs,
reading and writing
and being alone
masturbating
to internet porn
more than I like
being with them?
or having sex with them?
Geez even a cigarette
is better than a lot of you
stink-mouthed cocksuckers.
Ones that clean and cook
and have my coffee ready
in the morning
are alright though.
As long as they retreat to the
bedroom when I wake up
at four in the afternoon,
so I can get to work thinking of and writing this shit down.
I never know why
women like me
and I really don’t
understand it
when they say they
love me
don’t they see it
that I love God
music, drugs,
reading and writing
and being alone
masturbating
to internet porn
more than I like
being with them?
or having sex with them?
Geez even a cigarette
is better than a lot of you
stink-mouthed cocksuckers.
Ones that clean and cook
and have my coffee ready
in the morning
are alright though.
As long as they retreat to the
bedroom when I wake up
at four in the afternoon,
so I can get to work thinking of and writing this shit down.
dancing naked at woodstock*
by Scot Young
on independence day
slow rain hitting
the tin roof
I will sit with you
in hand built adirondacks
on this porch worn
from parades
of dogs and kids
and blast the woodstock album
from vintage speakers
starting with country joe
what’s that spell?
ending with Hendrix picking
star spangled with his teeth
bouncing off the hills
echoing in the valley
like the devil set free
with too much reverberation
the neighbors will hold
a revival
at the end of the drive
look up the hill
through the trees
trying to see
us dancing crazy
naked in the rain
tomorrow
we will post a sign
don’t you fuckers know
how to dance?
today
we raise our hands
sway to
free-dom
free-dom-a
as Ritchie Havens
slaps the acoustic
close our eyes
to the sky
mouth open
catching rain drops
and imagine a
different kind
of place
*first published in Misti's damn fine Instant Pussy magazine
on independence day
slow rain hitting
the tin roof
I will sit with you
in hand built adirondacks
on this porch worn
from parades
of dogs and kids
and blast the woodstock album
from vintage speakers
starting with country joe
what’s that spell?
ending with Hendrix picking
star spangled with his teeth
bouncing off the hills
echoing in the valley
like the devil set free
with too much reverberation
the neighbors will hold
a revival
at the end of the drive
look up the hill
through the trees
trying to see
us dancing crazy
naked in the rain
tomorrow
we will post a sign
don’t you fuckers know
how to dance?
today
we raise our hands
sway to
free-dom
free-dom-a
as Ritchie Havens
slaps the acoustic
close our eyes
to the sky
mouth open
catching rain drops
and imagine a
different kind
of place
*first published in Misti's damn fine Instant Pussy magazine
March 7, 2009
Touch of Evil
by John Rocco
I have a touch of Evil
in me
throwing up the golden margaritas
of the sun
I didn’t buy.
Give me a break
boring universe angels
and the subway soul devils
always caging drinks
who never buy their
own cigarettes.
I know you.
It takes a lot
to crash the doors in
pull them from their
hard cold hinges
breaking them down
to say fuck the dinosaurs.
Fuck history and dates and museums.
Fuck the lines in the road.
It takes a lot
to say this
but the touch of evil
helps in singing the
apocalypse songs
Dostoyevsky happy
with her ass in my face
please please please
after and before
gargling with the
sweet whiskey of Hell.
*John Rocco at MySpace:
http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=292819823
I have a touch of Evil
in me
throwing up the golden margaritas
of the sun
I didn’t buy.
Give me a break
boring universe angels
and the subway soul devils
always caging drinks
who never buy their
own cigarettes.
I know you.
It takes a lot
to crash the doors in
pull them from their
hard cold hinges
breaking them down
to say fuck the dinosaurs.
Fuck history and dates and museums.
Fuck the lines in the road.
It takes a lot
to say this
but the touch of evil
helps in singing the
apocalypse songs
Dostoyevsky happy
with her ass in my face
please please please
after and before
gargling with the
sweet whiskey of Hell.
*John Rocco at MySpace:
http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=292819823
Pizza Money
by John Rocco
U R Dead to Me
she wrote in the sky
blood and whiskey clouds
filling her Valhalla facebook wall.
Damn, she’s tough
reminding me of a day
in the early 1980’s
before she was born
when I was standing
outside a drug store
in mad summer hot
with the murderers
in charge of everything
as usual, the internet
still a toaster.
I was just
standing there
counting change
for a slice from
Fresh Meadows Pizza
(Brothers Pizza is better)
when she walked
past me
time and chance
in her eyes.
The year was different
and I was different
counting that change
when I saw her
but it’s all still the same,
the same feeling that
all the women in my life
are a test, a riddle,
a problem, a confusion
to be solved without
a solution
thank fucking God.
U R Dead to Me
she wrote in the sky
blood and whiskey clouds
filling her Valhalla facebook wall.
Damn, she’s tough
reminding me of a day
in the early 1980’s
before she was born
when I was standing
outside a drug store
in mad summer hot
with the murderers
in charge of everything
as usual, the internet
still a toaster.
I was just
standing there
counting change
for a slice from
Fresh Meadows Pizza
(Brothers Pizza is better)
when she walked
past me
time and chance
in her eyes.
The year was different
and I was different
counting that change
when I saw her
but it’s all still the same,
the same feeling that
all the women in my life
are a test, a riddle,
a problem, a confusion
to be solved without
a solution
thank fucking God.
March 6, 2009
Little Vietnam Woman
by Randall Rogers
Little Vietnam woman.
I hope you will be mine.
Little Vietnam woman.
Hold me like you play with a leaf
Clutch me in your tender sorrow strong grasp
Face so full of frowning joy
I too quickly blow my wad.
Later, when you all browny and small lay softly in my hairy white arms
the smell of my semen and your pussy
permeates the air
I pull her close to me, squeeze her,
our wordless way of expressing our love:
Against my body
I breathe her
I mouth taste her
hear the sweat of our hot tropical bodies
her head against mine
a
wilted apple blossom smell
in her hair.
I think of the Consumer Culture
and how the people here in Vietnam
are getting a big dose of it fast
the fact I think I love her
and when I was a young boy and had hair
and thought a lot about
hair products.
Little Vietnam woman.
I hope you will be mine.
Little Vietnam woman.
Hold me like you play with a leaf
Clutch me in your tender sorrow strong grasp
Face so full of frowning joy
I too quickly blow my wad.
Later, when you all browny and small lay softly in my hairy white arms
the smell of my semen and your pussy
permeates the air
I pull her close to me, squeeze her,
our wordless way of expressing our love:
Against my body
I breathe her
I mouth taste her
hear the sweat of our hot tropical bodies
her head against mine
a
wilted apple blossom smell
in her hair.
I think of the Consumer Culture
and how the people here in Vietnam
are getting a big dose of it fast
the fact I think I love her
and when I was a young boy and had hair
and thought a lot about
hair products.
READING THE POEM MY COUSIN WROTE THAT I HADN’T
by Lyn Lifshin
I didn’t know she
watched men watch
me walking, thought
I was beautiful
When we kiss she
wrote we come close
but we kiss air.
I haven’t seen her
for seven years. I
never read the poem
about sleeping together
in the lake house
before my wedding,
never heard her say
“I want to put my
arms around my
cousin and kiss the
skin from her”
*Lyn's website:
http://www.lynlifshin.com/books.htm
I didn’t know she
watched men watch
me walking, thought
I was beautiful
When we kiss she
wrote we come close
but we kiss air.
I haven’t seen her
for seven years. I
never read the poem
about sleeping together
in the lake house
before my wedding,
never heard her say
“I want to put my
arms around my
cousin and kiss the
skin from her”
*Lyn's website:
http://www.lynlifshin.com/books.htm
March 5, 2009
Tougher
by Randall Rogers
tougher
I left the crushing alcoholism that is
Neighborhood life
For a life drifting from country to country, teaching,
Got the stash and headed to where
The livin’s cheaper, the people probably friendlier
The women eager, available, and willing
White skin and money
What I got
In demand
Come to Asia!
More pussy ‘n’ you can shake a stick at
Or go Kingston, mon!
Everybody there have maid,
White men fuck ‘em
Best in the world weed everywhere!!!
It's a whole different world out there
Different from where I grew up, in the United States
And in spite of what you’ve read or seen on the news
They love us, we Americans, foreigners love our way!!
Not so much we liked in Europe, though, methinks,
Fuck ‘em.
Folks just want to have fun, laugh..
We Americans laugh at everything.
Most of all we laugh at our country, its influence, and ourselves.
You in the rest of the world should too.
Suckers.
tougher
I left the crushing alcoholism that is
Neighborhood life
For a life drifting from country to country, teaching,
Got the stash and headed to where
The livin’s cheaper, the people probably friendlier
The women eager, available, and willing
White skin and money
What I got
In demand
Come to Asia!
More pussy ‘n’ you can shake a stick at
Or go Kingston, mon!
Everybody there have maid,
White men fuck ‘em
Best in the world weed everywhere!!!
It's a whole different world out there
Different from where I grew up, in the United States
And in spite of what you’ve read or seen on the news
They love us, we Americans, foreigners love our way!!
Not so much we liked in Europe, though, methinks,
Fuck ‘em.
Folks just want to have fun, laugh..
We Americans laugh at everything.
Most of all we laugh at our country, its influence, and ourselves.
You in the rest of the world should too.
Suckers.
March 3, 2009
When My Mother Died
by George Anderson
In her open
coffin in the
basement of
the chapel on
Sherbrooke
Street in
early winter
she seems
so incredibly
small. vulnerable.
layered with shit
on her face I had
never imagined.
friends & curious
acquaintances
we had not seen
for years, sometimes
decades, suddenly
appear.
mom,
i explain to her
in my adolescent
bafflement &
grief,
'i never got to
know you'…
Two days later
during the service
conducted in church
the minister reads from
psalm 23, my father
behind me whispering
clearly into my ear,
'fucken bullshit!,
fucken bullshit!'
*George Anderson's blog:
http://georgedanderson.blogspot.com/
In her open
coffin in the
basement of
the chapel on
Sherbrooke
Street in
early winter
she seems
so incredibly
small. vulnerable.
layered with shit
on her face I had
never imagined.
friends & curious
acquaintances
we had not seen
for years, sometimes
decades, suddenly
appear.
mom,
i explain to her
in my adolescent
bafflement &
grief,
'i never got to
know you'…
Two days later
during the service
conducted in church
the minister reads from
psalm 23, my father
behind me whispering
clearly into my ear,
'fucken bullshit!,
fucken bullshit!'
*George Anderson's blog:
http://georgedanderson.blogspot.com/
March 2, 2009
a cold and bitter mistress
by J.J. Campbell
the howling winds are
bringing in 2008 like a
cold and bitter mistress
after watching dick
clark mumble through
yet another countdown
i couldn't help but
notice the smell of
death festering in
the wall behind the
couch
yet another new year
without a kiss
i wonder if it still
makes sense for me
to chase pussy at my
age after two years
of no luck at all
this will be the year
i get carpal tunnel
and my dick falls off
good times
good times
i'll be shoveling
snow come morning
hopefully dirt has a
date with that shovel
in the near future
the howling winds are
bringing in 2008 like a
cold and bitter mistress
after watching dick
clark mumble through
yet another countdown
i couldn't help but
notice the smell of
death festering in
the wall behind the
couch
yet another new year
without a kiss
i wonder if it still
makes sense for me
to chase pussy at my
age after two years
of no luck at all
this will be the year
i get carpal tunnel
and my dick falls off
good times
good times
i'll be shoveling
snow come morning
hopefully dirt has a
date with that shovel
in the near future
March 1, 2009
Dry Socket
by Randall Rogers
Bright happy home
I’m back
With the guitars
The big screen
New music DVDs
New books
New dead cousin
Drank himself to death
Forty eight.
Some new guitar instruction books
Funny, he always teased me about my
Foreign teaching postings
And my willingness and eagerness to go live and work
In places like Kingston, Jamaica,
'I just wonder where we’ll be going when your brother
And I are sent to ‘retrieve the body”, he used to say to me
Teasing me.
Him smart, me smarter
I still alive.
Bright happy home
I’m back
With the guitars
The big screen
New music DVDs
New books
New dead cousin
Drank himself to death
Forty eight.
Some new guitar instruction books
Funny, he always teased me about my
Foreign teaching postings
And my willingness and eagerness to go live and work
In places like Kingston, Jamaica,
'I just wonder where we’ll be going when your brother
And I are sent to ‘retrieve the body”, he used to say to me
Teasing me.
Him smart, me smarter
I still alive.
GRAN TORINO didn’t win shit
by John Rocco
“Pabst Blue Ribbon and a shot of Jack,”
the tough old guy orders, growling,
Clint Eastwood, Holy Dirty Harry,
The Man with No Name
the tombstones reeking of
whiskey and rot.
I join you now
old hero
in 4,508 Pabst Blue Ribbons
and a roaring river of Jack
until drowning in it
I realize the truth.
These are her drinks
the innocent beer
and the damned sour mash
filling her pictures with props
and my head with violins,
violent violins in
PLAY MISTY FOR ME
slashing at the neck of time.
Thanks, old tough leather guy
HIGH PLAINS DRIFTER
for the poncho and cigars.
Thanks for blowing that
bridge up with Tuco
the Civil War
an Italian painting
thrown up in Spain
with always too much wine.
Thank you for the punks
you blew away
each one a childhood enemy
who deserved better but
got the worst
from the most
powerful handgun
in the world
killer love and the movies
stuffed in the big blasted bullets.
*John Rocco at MySpace:
http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=292819823
“Pabst Blue Ribbon and a shot of Jack,”
the tough old guy orders, growling,
Clint Eastwood, Holy Dirty Harry,
The Man with No Name
the tombstones reeking of
whiskey and rot.
I join you now
old hero
in 4,508 Pabst Blue Ribbons
and a roaring river of Jack
until drowning in it
I realize the truth.
These are her drinks
the innocent beer
and the damned sour mash
filling her pictures with props
and my head with violins,
violent violins in
PLAY MISTY FOR ME
slashing at the neck of time.
Thanks, old tough leather guy
HIGH PLAINS DRIFTER
for the poncho and cigars.
Thanks for blowing that
bridge up with Tuco
the Civil War
an Italian painting
thrown up in Spain
with always too much wine.
Thank you for the punks
you blew away
each one a childhood enemy
who deserved better but
got the worst
from the most
powerful handgun
in the world
killer love and the movies
stuffed in the big blasted bullets.
*John Rocco at MySpace:
http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=292819823
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