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Sasha Grey’s Favorite Movie

by John Rocco

I heard on the Internet that

Sasha Grey’s favorite movie

#1 of all time is

ESCAPE FROM NEW YORK.

Thank you

Sasha Grey

beautiful wonder of a porn star

for your choice

Snake Plissken your favorite

breaking into New York

Manhattan Island a

Maximum Security Prison

the bridges mined

the water filled with bombs

no one ever gets off the island

but Air Force One

goes down with the

President on board

played by Donald Pleasence

Dr. Loomis in HALLOWEEN

and the Duke grabs him

played by Isaac Hayes

who wrote the great theme

to SUPERFLY

and who died recently.

See,

you can’t even talk about

hot porn stars

music

and John Carpenter movies

without

Death making it with the Maiden.

Inspiration

by Tyler Bigney

Tried many things:

Read Styron. Walked through the woods,
stopped at the river, watched the fish swim
in circles. Climbed halfway up a mountain,
got tired and climbed back down. Tied
a string around a tree branch, tied a worm
to the string and cast it out into the steely
gray water. The fish weren’t biting,
not even a nibble. Drove back to town
and walked the dusky streets until
they filled up with fog and my feet hurt
and my head ached from a lack of coffee.
Went home, made coffee, smoked two
cigarettes in a row and stood staring
at the blank page.

Read the Spring issue of some
literary journal, thought about writing,
waited for the inspiration to come, but
what, with the cigarettes and the coffee
the only thing to come from within me
was shit.

The plastic factory

by Tyler Bigney

Four nights a week
from dusk until dawn
I followed the railroad tracks
the two miles to the plastic factory
where I sat on hard stools
and tied knots
for twelve hours
until my fingers bled
and calloused.

The old lady with the bad perm
came by with a stopwatch
making sure I could tie thirty knots
per minute. I could.
She left me alone after a week or so,
alone to dream about Russia,
Turkish summers,
Ferris wheels,
Iranian women,
until there was nothing left
to dream about.
When the sun came in through the windows
and the smell of coffee lingered
we knew it was time to punch out, go home
and sleep.

Every now and again
one of the men would offer me a drive home,
and I would decline
telling them that I didn’t mind the walk
that the walk was good for the body
and for the soul.
I wish I did take them up
on their offer
because my feet were heavy
and it was always a long walk home
for someone
with nothing
left to dream about.

special k

by Randall Rogers

special k kreates
bloated
dimension drifts
and personally inflicted blood bath-like
personal wounds
when you do that first or those after
that first
one too big a shot.
careful, kids and adult old women and men
transvestite and transsexual
psychonaut curious in your chair at home or with good folks risk taker journeying learning
old hippie or "the receptors are there"
might as well
thinkers world and beyond
alike
be careful
this is some powerful shit.

thank allah for cigarettes!!!

SATAN STREETS, TO GUIDE YOU

by Randall Rogers

satin streets
and
allys paved
with fool’s gold
that’s america
the usa
just to inform
you dreaming would be
immigrants – or shit help us you terroristas
if youse is still
got the notion paid the smugglers
to get you illegally or hell, legally,
into this fine
always been always will be
nation - and people –

because nowadays
as the social philosopher types
tenured or not
arm-chair
or actually read a book
and finished it
last year
person you are
not.

just put a little
vapor
in your gas/ass
and keep looking
and things still
in the end and on the way
will definitely
not be alright
nor ever near so
why?
because you lie
as you have been told, no forced,
the truth or what then or now or future past
it passed
and was in turn
passed on to
as the whom you think is the fake and spurious real
you, of you.
boo-hoo hoo.

help! dingos, ah...no...

-- vaporous gas raped my daughter!!!
name?
name’s mary
the virgin mary
joe told the detectives.
repeatedly.
until they believed.

For The Cute Poet In Iowa,

by Melanie Browne

My husband is jealous of you,

Because I make him read your

Poems,

He likes some of them.

He squeals like a pig and calls

You farm boy,

Apparently you have sex with lots

Of lonely housewives in Iowa,

And you have lots of adventures

With down on their luck

People that hang out

In bars and greasy diners,

Also in Iowa,

I have to admit,

Some of your poems

Are a little hard to believe,

Like The day you met the Indian

Chief and he turned out

To be your grandfather,

and he told you

your sacred animal

was the Beaver

and a silent

tear fell from your

face and settled

into

your overpriced

shot glass

my generation

by Randall Rogers

they said
we could’nt
do it
and we did’nt.

only thing really worth
living for
is dying
and those twilight zone episodes
you missed.

given the conditions
of the day, year, moment or hour,
are always ripe for

spontaneous suicide!!! yikes!

come
to the
no panic bar.

the panic attack bar & grill
and the rasta roost restaurant.©

learn to live with this
and less
that is the whole of the law.
in the here, now, present, past
and future (continuous?)
which just may not too exactly
nor not
though maybe
might
be you
or whom you shoul or should have been or will be
though again maybe
you
nor not you?
whatever.