by Randall Rogers
my dad always said it’s not becoming a success
that is so difficult
but maintaining your position
once you’ve reached the top
most guys fall prey to women, drink, drugs,
or laziness
and lose it
he said
another maxim of his:
“easy to buy, hard to sell”
and the old standby
“the only constant is change”
and a bartender in Phoenix
once
took one look at me
and asked me straight out:
“What is it? Money? A woman? Or the law?”
Articulating the usual reasons for heavy drinking
and suicide.
Dad never told me there’d be moments
where the best advice
is to just shut your eyes
try to think good thoughts
and ‘hold on’.
Dads don’t want to talk to their kids
about
suicide
talk about drugs and sex and other safety shit
but not much said about the old
final solution
even after it occurs
it is not mentioned,
same with dying of AIDS
I suspect.
May 31, 2009
May 30, 2009
from the book of wtf?
by Justin Hyde
sitting at the bar
trying to detach your mind
from the crucible
of day to day
when she
taps your shoulder:
a tenth grade
high-school english teacher
named susan.
jesus your arm's
bigger around than my
thigh
i hope you don't mean me harm,
she smiles
inviting you to
check the circumference
of her thigh.
you tell her
her smile
lights up
the catacombs
from greece
to ethiopia
which makes her face
turn red.
lets you
buy her
a bud-light
tells you
she's designing
a whole unit
on alice in wonderland.
you tell her
she needs to
do a unit on
carver and bukowski.
she's never heard
of either of them
but writes it down
on a napkin.
you tell her
you have to
empty
the contents of
your bladder.
you're so
creative with words,
she smiles
and squeezes your neck
and says
hurry back.
not two minutes later
you do come back
and
she is gone.
gone brother.
nothing left
but her empty bud-light
and your
big
blue balls.
sitting at the bar
trying to detach your mind
from the crucible
of day to day
when she
taps your shoulder:
a tenth grade
high-school english teacher
named susan.
jesus your arm's
bigger around than my
thigh
i hope you don't mean me harm,
she smiles
inviting you to
check the circumference
of her thigh.
you tell her
her smile
lights up
the catacombs
from greece
to ethiopia
which makes her face
turn red.
lets you
buy her
a bud-light
tells you
she's designing
a whole unit
on alice in wonderland.
you tell her
she needs to
do a unit on
carver and bukowski.
she's never heard
of either of them
but writes it down
on a napkin.
you tell her
you have to
empty
the contents of
your bladder.
you're so
creative with words,
she smiles
and squeezes your neck
and says
hurry back.
not two minutes later
you do come back
and
she is gone.
gone brother.
nothing left
but her empty bud-light
and your
big
blue balls.
May 29, 2009
Tell Me One More Time
by Barry Basden
We sit across from each other
at this smooth mahogany table,
our opposing counsels
assessing exit strategies.
Mine has questions: Do you smoke?
How many cartons a week?
Do you eat out? how often?
Pages of interrogatories
to wear you down. No windows
in this Bushwhacker Room,
not even traffic noises from
Colfax Avenue can penetrate these walls;
no escape from harsh fluorescence,
a buzzing place suited to
anguish and guilt,
a room where no one wants to be.
The questions pound at you and
I wonder how it has come to this.
What finally led me to trick you here
when I once needed you so?
My young Turk beats you with the
terrible secrets of our past and I see
you flinch. Finally you sit quietly, wan and
still beside your lawyer in his rumpled blue suit.
I despise this aftermath of our failures,
this end to the disaster of our lives.
I would rather see something familiar,
your exhilarating rage, for instance.
If I had that butcher knife again,
I would slide it across the table and
you could come swishing it at me again,
making your low animal noises to startle this room.
I could once more reach for that blade,
and again see the fury
in your green eyes soften and fade
when blood begins to flow,
and I could hear
you tell me
one more time
that you love me.
*first published in The Legendary
Barry Basden is the editor of Camroc Press Review (http://www.camrocpressreview.com/)
We sit across from each other
at this smooth mahogany table,
our opposing counsels
assessing exit strategies.
Mine has questions: Do you smoke?
How many cartons a week?
Do you eat out? how often?
Pages of interrogatories
to wear you down. No windows
in this Bushwhacker Room,
not even traffic noises from
Colfax Avenue can penetrate these walls;
no escape from harsh fluorescence,
a buzzing place suited to
anguish and guilt,
a room where no one wants to be.
The questions pound at you and
I wonder how it has come to this.
What finally led me to trick you here
when I once needed you so?
My young Turk beats you with the
terrible secrets of our past and I see
you flinch. Finally you sit quietly, wan and
still beside your lawyer in his rumpled blue suit.
I despise this aftermath of our failures,
this end to the disaster of our lives.
I would rather see something familiar,
your exhilarating rage, for instance.
If I had that butcher knife again,
I would slide it across the table and
you could come swishing it at me again,
making your low animal noises to startle this room.
I could once more reach for that blade,
and again see the fury
in your green eyes soften and fade
when blood begins to flow,
and I could hear
you tell me
one more time
that you love me.
*first published in The Legendary
Barry Basden is the editor of Camroc Press Review (http://www.camrocpressreview.com/)
May 28, 2009
ABANDONED ELEMENTARY SCHOOL
by Lyn Lifshin
You can still see
where wrought iron
fire escapes screwed
into brick. At the
siren, boys took
steps four at a time
hoping to beat the
girls whose dresses
they'd look up. BB
and AB blackened in
to a desk in the
cellar. The daughter
he made and would
not be a father to
with her own grown
children now avoids
his phone calls.
Morning glories
tangle around what
is left of the swings,
dark blue as the
eyes of the pale
girl who did her
paper on Scotland,
England and Whales.*
She sleeps safe from
whistles, no longer
blushing as the
petals flaunt and
fling themselves in
hot lilac light
*a friend of Lyn's wrote that paper and yes, that's how she spelled "Wales." Shw mae. -- Editor
You can still see
where wrought iron
fire escapes screwed
into brick. At the
siren, boys took
steps four at a time
hoping to beat the
girls whose dresses
they'd look up. BB
and AB blackened in
to a desk in the
cellar. The daughter
he made and would
not be a father to
with her own grown
children now avoids
his phone calls.
Morning glories
tangle around what
is left of the swings,
dark blue as the
eyes of the pale
girl who did her
paper on Scotland,
England and Whales.*
She sleeps safe from
whistles, no longer
blushing as the
petals flaunt and
fling themselves in
hot lilac light
*a friend of Lyn's wrote that paper and yes, that's how she spelled "Wales." Shw mae. -- Editor
May 27, 2009
Catalog Fantasies
by Paul Hellweg
Where I live,
we have rural mail delivery,
and the carrier commonly
mixes things up,
lately I’ve been getting
sexy catalogs in the mail,
last week Victoria’s Secret
(addressed to my
next door neighbor),
today a Venus swimsuit ad
(addressed to a woman
miles away),
and I honestly don’t know
what the universe
is trying to tell me,
perhaps the love I seek
is as close as next door
or maybe
it’s miles away,
or possibly my
hopes
dreams
desires
amount to nothing more than
catalog fantasies.
Where I live,
we have rural mail delivery,
and the carrier commonly
mixes things up,
lately I’ve been getting
sexy catalogs in the mail,
last week Victoria’s Secret
(addressed to my
next door neighbor),
today a Venus swimsuit ad
(addressed to a woman
miles away),
and I honestly don’t know
what the universe
is trying to tell me,
perhaps the love I seek
is as close as next door
or maybe
it’s miles away,
or possibly my
hopes
dreams
desires
amount to nothing more than
catalog fantasies.
If they only knew
by Paul Hellweg
I intimidate people
just because
I write books
and
teach at the university,
little do they know
they intimidate me
because they
know how to do
what I don’t:
use a cell phone
make small talk
parallel park
back up without hitting other cars
wear shoes that aren’t mismatched
sleep at night
and
get laid.
I intimidate people
just because
I write books
and
teach at the university,
little do they know
they intimidate me
because they
know how to do
what I don’t:
use a cell phone
make small talk
parallel park
back up without hitting other cars
wear shoes that aren’t mismatched
sleep at night
and
get laid.
May 26, 2009
When Will She/He Snap?
by Randall Rogers
the essence of my idiosyncrasy is
basically a terror, a panic
a fear of me doing myself in
like Laura, Jim, Uncle Harry
Wally and Mom did
in a sordid slide into alcoholism
until getting progressively weaker
the body the liver first
just gives up
or bleeding into the brain
makes you garble a few
backwards sentences
and slump over
breathing heavily
snoring loudly
till silence
and you’re dead.
drinking yourself to death is still
far more worthy than an
outright at the moment
cessation of one’s own life
like a bullet to the brain,
for example,
living la vida loca.
the essence of my idiosyncrasy is
basically a terror, a panic
a fear of me doing myself in
like Laura, Jim, Uncle Harry
Wally and Mom did
in a sordid slide into alcoholism
until getting progressively weaker
the body the liver first
just gives up
or bleeding into the brain
makes you garble a few
backwards sentences
and slump over
breathing heavily
snoring loudly
till silence
and you’re dead.
drinking yourself to death is still
far more worthy than an
outright at the moment
cessation of one’s own life
like a bullet to the brain,
for example,
living la vida loca.
May 25, 2009
Glass Factory
by Doug Draime
For several months
every night
my grandfather
would fall asleep
sitting in front of the television
after dinner, which he would
just pick at and
never finish. Every night
he would
wake with a start
between 8 and 8:30,
his eyes blinking
open and shut
rapidly
several times,
and scream,
“Watch out, Frank, the goddamn
sheet is slipping”
Referring to the 8 by 12 foot sheet
of glass that fell from a crane,
killing one of his crew at the glass factory,
where he’d worked
for over 30 years as a foreman.
I don’t remember when
he stopped screaming,
nor do I recall him
ever
mentioning watching
his friend practically
sliced in two, and bleeding
to death
in his arms.
For several months
every night
my grandfather
would fall asleep
sitting in front of the television
after dinner, which he would
just pick at and
never finish. Every night
he would
wake with a start
between 8 and 8:30,
his eyes blinking
open and shut
rapidly
several times,
and scream,
“Watch out, Frank, the goddamn
sheet is slipping”
Referring to the 8 by 12 foot sheet
of glass that fell from a crane,
killing one of his crew at the glass factory,
where he’d worked
for over 30 years as a foreman.
I don’t remember when
he stopped screaming,
nor do I recall him
ever
mentioning watching
his friend practically
sliced in two, and bleeding
to death
in his arms.
Underground Press: Totalitarian Nut Crushing
by Doug Draime
They publish poems
about the Nazis
at a safe distance
here in 2006
Hitler can’t track
them down
and stick a Swastika
through their hearts,
or torch their desktop software.
Though, the poems about
the current
warmongering bigots and corporate
butchers,
are rejected faster
than Hitler’s
compassion for the Jewish race.
They publish poems
about the Nazis
at a safe distance
here in 2006
Hitler can’t track
them down
and stick a Swastika
through their hearts,
or torch their desktop software.
Though, the poems about
the current
warmongering bigots and corporate
butchers,
are rejected faster
than Hitler’s
compassion for the Jewish race.
Mohammed’s Self-Portrait
by Chris Butler
Mohammed’s self-portrait,
drawn with invisible ink
on an imaginary canvas,
exists in the minds of Muslims
born without original sin
for seventy-seven virgins
atop a smoky heaven,
emissions from suicide
bomber’s C-4 strapped chest
on a crowded street corner,
all for Allah.
Mohammed’s self-portrait,
drawn with invisible ink
on an imaginary canvas,
exists in the minds of Muslims
born without original sin
for seventy-seven virgins
atop a smoky heaven,
emissions from suicide
bomber’s C-4 strapped chest
on a crowded street corner,
all for Allah.
May 24, 2009
My Apology in the Devil’s Doorway
by John Rocco
I must apologize for a lot
including the recent
global economic collapse.
It’s all my fault.
About a year and a half ago
I pulled a Henry Miller eating
rye bread in Eraserhead’s room
smelling of old guy’s guilt
fuck that I said
smoked it like a bomber
flying fortress of death
and they washed him out
with a hose. I went to
Coney Island and
met the Coney Island Bird Girl.
Looking at the real dirty ocean
I took some
time off from worrying
about the monster ocean of bullshit.
So a year
and a half ago
I just stopped.
I stopped
paying and you
know what happened?
Lots of mail and phone calls
war
the stock market collapsed
people murdered their families
every commercial and sitcom
telling us we’re all broke.
I admit it, it’s all my fault.
The only country I didn’t
fuck up was Norway
because I forgot about
Norway but I’ll get Norway
next time.
Tonight, my apology is happy
standing in the Devil’s Doorway
she calls it
the girl who is not here
in the Mexican bar
in Corona, Queens
tequila shots
missing 6 innings of the Mets game
the stadium named after
a broke bank
and they lose anyway.
*John Rocco at MySpace:
http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=292819823
I must apologize for a lot
including the recent
global economic collapse.
It’s all my fault.
About a year and a half ago
I pulled a Henry Miller eating
rye bread in Eraserhead’s room
smelling of old guy’s guilt
fuck that I said
smoked it like a bomber
flying fortress of death
and they washed him out
with a hose. I went to
Coney Island and
met the Coney Island Bird Girl.
Looking at the real dirty ocean
I took some
time off from worrying
about the monster ocean of bullshit.
So a year
and a half ago
I just stopped.
I stopped
paying and you
know what happened?
Lots of mail and phone calls
war
the stock market collapsed
people murdered their families
every commercial and sitcom
telling us we’re all broke.
I admit it, it’s all my fault.
The only country I didn’t
fuck up was Norway
because I forgot about
Norway but I’ll get Norway
next time.
Tonight, my apology is happy
standing in the Devil’s Doorway
she calls it
the girl who is not here
in the Mexican bar
in Corona, Queens
tequila shots
missing 6 innings of the Mets game
the stadium named after
a broke bank
and they lose anyway.
*John Rocco at MySpace:
http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=292819823
Fat Venus and the Greasy Muse
by John Rocco
The Ancients were really into
laying pipe
I tell you
from the plumber’s blood
in me and the pipes
in Old Gladiator Rome
happy shaking from the
orgasm fountains
and the squirting aqueducts.
Older, older
the plowing of the earth
and the pipes were laid
40,000 years ago pipe laying
with the super hot MILF
the Venus of Hohle Fels
just discovered
packing a wallop.
Giant boobs
expansive baby got back
and a deep wide crack
for the origin of the universe.
Scholars say the
Fat Venus
could be the earliest
human sculpture
telling us a lot
about
how art evolved
from fertility rituals.
Sorry, Eggheads,
but your pervert stone
is too late, too late.
The Greasy Muse
told me all this today
when she told me not
to call her tonight
but maybe tomorrow.
The Ancients were really into
laying pipe
I tell you
from the plumber’s blood
in me and the pipes
in Old Gladiator Rome
happy shaking from the
orgasm fountains
and the squirting aqueducts.
Older, older
the plowing of the earth
and the pipes were laid
40,000 years ago pipe laying
with the super hot MILF
the Venus of Hohle Fels
just discovered
packing a wallop.
Giant boobs
expansive baby got back
and a deep wide crack
for the origin of the universe.
Scholars say the
Fat Venus
could be the earliest
human sculpture
telling us a lot
about
how art evolved
from fertility rituals.
Sorry, Eggheads,
but your pervert stone
is too late, too late.
The Greasy Muse
told me all this today
when she told me not
to call her tonight
but maybe tomorrow.
May 23, 2009
We Are The Sons And Daughters And Brothers And Sisters (to all those who came home from Viet Nam)
by Doug Draime
We are the sons and daughters and brothers and sisters of
James Dean, Elvis Presley and
Marilyn Monroe.
We learned to chew nuclear tobacco and
spit in the eye of the
status quo.
We have survived the Vietnam era (and numerous other atrocities)
to become your senators,
your merchants,
your drug addicts
your drug dealers
your corporate moguls,
your drunks,
your welfare shams,
your doctors,
your murderers
your lawyers
your garbage men,
your prostitures
your teachers,
your homeless,
your artists,
your poets
We have all come triumphant and
betrayed from the
murderous 1960’s.
We are the sons and daughters and brothers and sisters of
Malcolm X, Martin Luther King and
Che Guevara
We have torn the veil from hypocrisy,
we demand freedom from
captivity.
We have watched millions starve while
churches and temples and mosques feed the
already well fed
We have watched insanity become the norm,
we have listened to the lie become the
worshipped and cherished truth.
We are the sons and daughters and brothers and sisters
(who came home from Vietnam)
We are the sons and daughters and brothers and sisters of
James Dean, Elvis Presley and
Marilyn Monroe.
We learned to chew nuclear tobacco and
spit in the eye of the
status quo.
We have survived the Vietnam era (and numerous other atrocities)
to become your senators,
your merchants,
your drug addicts
your drug dealers
your corporate moguls,
your drunks,
your welfare shams,
your doctors,
your murderers
your lawyers
your garbage men,
your prostitures
your teachers,
your homeless,
your artists,
your poets
We have all come triumphant and
betrayed from the
murderous 1960’s.
We are the sons and daughters and brothers and sisters of
Malcolm X, Martin Luther King and
Che Guevara
We have torn the veil from hypocrisy,
we demand freedom from
captivity.
We have watched millions starve while
churches and temples and mosques feed the
already well fed
We have watched insanity become the norm,
we have listened to the lie become the
worshipped and cherished truth.
We are the sons and daughters and brothers and sisters
(who came home from Vietnam)
May 22, 2009
THE YOUNG GIRLS AT BALLROOM
with their
perfect skin,
pert tight asses
they giggle when they
get a step
angels in the
instructor’s arms
His wedding ring glows
less bright than the
glint of wet
skin where he pulls
the girls closer
by Lyn Lifshin
*Lyn's website:
http://www.lynlifshin.com/books.htm
perfect skin,
pert tight asses
they giggle when they
get a step
angels in the
instructor’s arms
His wedding ring glows
less bright than the
glint of wet
skin where he pulls
the girls closer
by Lyn Lifshin
*Lyn's website:
http://www.lynlifshin.com/books.htm
May 21, 2009
Too Little Much Not Quality Time, Spent Depressed, Sober
by Randall Rogers
take another toke
have another hit
of life
on your way to the
final upsetting
of some balance
that once held sway
a mind not divided cannot withstand
the willful self of destruction
the spiral up down of drugs
alcohol
too many women
too much wine
enough of this time
and bango! the decision, irrevocably made
plans not well laid,
for your exit of choice
trigger finger rejoice
squeezing off a leaded round
through mouth bound cranium and beyond? bound
decision made
I degraded a spade
infanticide, regicide,
a genocide of a
spontaneoussuicide!! Plonk goes a bullet.
take another toke
have another hit
of life
on your way to the
final upsetting
of some balance
that once held sway
a mind not divided cannot withstand
the willful self of destruction
the spiral up down of drugs
alcohol
too many women
too much wine
enough of this time
and bango! the decision, irrevocably made
plans not well laid,
for your exit of choice
trigger finger rejoice
squeezing off a leaded round
through mouth bound cranium and beyond? bound
decision made
I degraded a spade
infanticide, regicide,
a genocide of a
spontaneoussuicide!! Plonk goes a bullet.
Rant In A Bar
by A.g. Synclair
Dumb Bitch
bars are meant for drinking,
not texting.
In better days,
men would come here
to talk of books, and life,
and women, and sport.
Men of letters would cry,
and drink, and smoke,
and write in filthy notebooks
with curled up edges
on cocktail napkins
and matchbook covers
that became novels,
and stories, and poems.
Wisdom borne of Scotch and Bourbon,
The Brooklyn Dodgers, and
not a frilly umbrella drink in sight.
Dumb Bitch
bars are meant for drinking,
not texting.
In better days,
men would come here
to talk of books, and life,
and women, and sport.
Men of letters would cry,
and drink, and smoke,
and write in filthy notebooks
with curled up edges
on cocktail napkins
and matchbook covers
that became novels,
and stories, and poems.
Wisdom borne of Scotch and Bourbon,
The Brooklyn Dodgers, and
not a frilly umbrella drink in sight.
May 20, 2009
Beggar’s Elegy
by Chris Butler
Spare change? Spare change?
Got any spare change?
Anything you can to help out an old man.
I got mouths to feed. Child support to pay,
I can’t even work. My back is broke (jingles can)
Been on this earth 53 years, what can I say?
I been trying to get back on my feet
Been trying to take good care of myself
You see?
I just need a little help…
Thank you sir, thank you much.
I assure you it’ll go to good use, like my kids’ lunch…
Spare change? Spare change?
Got any spare change?
Spare change? Spare change?
Got any spare change?
Anything you can to help out an old man.
I got mouths to feed. Child support to pay,
I can’t even work. My back is broke (jingles can)
Been on this earth 53 years, what can I say?
I been trying to get back on my feet
Been trying to take good care of myself
You see?
I just need a little help…
Thank you sir, thank you much.
I assure you it’ll go to good use, like my kids’ lunch…
Spare change? Spare change?
Got any spare change?
May 19, 2009
luck
by nila northSun
as you walk through the casino
your eyes scanning
you stop
listen
and decide from the slot machine
cacophony
that 'that' machine
is 'the one'
the one that will turn your luck
from poor to rich
raining coins from its
loose slots mouth
your optimism palpable
later i find you
at the bar with a cold beer
and not much else to show
for this week's paycheck
'hey' you say
'there's still next week'
and wink and smile.
*nila northSun at Wikipedia:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nila_northSun
as you walk through the casino
your eyes scanning
you stop
listen
and decide from the slot machine
cacophony
that 'that' machine
is 'the one'
the one that will turn your luck
from poor to rich
raining coins from its
loose slots mouth
your optimism palpable
later i find you
at the bar with a cold beer
and not much else to show
for this week's paycheck
'hey' you say
'there's still next week'
and wink and smile.
*nila northSun at Wikipedia:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nila_northSun
The Ruins.
by William Pauley III
My cigar smoke breath whispers no more
Steadily I twist and bend
Perfecting my bullshit design
And yours
Since you gave up years ago.
These teeth do not construct smiles
These teeth bite into meat
into flesh
and tear from the bone.
Your tears only waste paper
Incoherently, you scribble down thoughts.
We're just a blur, you and I
a flash of light fading before the eyes of millions
and somehow we still manage
to have a good day
now and then...
but we're losing.
My cigar smoke breath whispers no more
Steadily I twist and bend
Perfecting my bullshit design
And yours
Since you gave up years ago.
These teeth do not construct smiles
These teeth bite into meat
into flesh
and tear from the bone.
Your tears only waste paper
Incoherently, you scribble down thoughts.
We're just a blur, you and I
a flash of light fading before the eyes of millions
and somehow we still manage
to have a good day
now and then...
but we're losing.
May 18, 2009
NEAR THE POND
by Lyn Lifshin
tonight the grass is
full of fireflies, a
rhinestone quilt of
glitter, blinking
thru darkness just
like that summer
with the ex-con poet
in the leaves.
Behind my house,
sand rippled, like at
the shore or a
desert. Nights were
thick and hot. He
couldn’t stay. I knew
it tho I opened my
body, every part of me
to him mornings we
made eggs Benedict
and he read me Sylvia
Plath. Already the
days were getting
shorter. Summer does
not linger in upstate
New York. But the
glitter camouflaged
what we didn’t want
to see. The fireflies
were doing a mating
dance, a mating to death
somebody once said,
irresistible and wild as
a tarantella, dazzling
as ex-con poets
hitching across the
U.S. because a poem
or photo lured him
*Lyn's website:
http://www.lynlifshin.com/books.htm
tonight the grass is
full of fireflies, a
rhinestone quilt of
glitter, blinking
thru darkness just
like that summer
with the ex-con poet
in the leaves.
Behind my house,
sand rippled, like at
the shore or a
desert. Nights were
thick and hot. He
couldn’t stay. I knew
it tho I opened my
body, every part of me
to him mornings we
made eggs Benedict
and he read me Sylvia
Plath. Already the
days were getting
shorter. Summer does
not linger in upstate
New York. But the
glitter camouflaged
what we didn’t want
to see. The fireflies
were doing a mating
dance, a mating to death
somebody once said,
irresistible and wild as
a tarantella, dazzling
as ex-con poets
hitching across the
U.S. because a poem
or photo lured him
*Lyn's website:
http://www.lynlifshin.com/books.htm
May 17, 2009
Switchblade Sisters
by John Rocco
I met these two sisters
with switchblade hearts
Kamikaze sword eyes
and bodies made by
Eternity’s Great Sword Maker.
They were hot and cool.
Coney Island was in their DNA,
Coney Island of the chromosomes,
Coney Island of the infinite girl.
They learned English from
BEAVIS AND BUTTHEAD
cutting school
riding the trains
to the beach.
The Switchblade Sisters
I know have this hot knife blood
in them from Poland and Russia
and when they speak it I see
young Fyodor about to be shot
by the firing squad
but the Czar’s man rides up
with a last minute reprieve.
There is a silence after
you could cut.
*John Rocco at MySpace:
http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=292819823
I met these two sisters
with switchblade hearts
Kamikaze sword eyes
and bodies made by
Eternity’s Great Sword Maker.
They were hot and cool.
Coney Island was in their DNA,
Coney Island of the chromosomes,
Coney Island of the infinite girl.
They learned English from
BEAVIS AND BUTTHEAD
cutting school
riding the trains
to the beach.
The Switchblade Sisters
I know have this hot knife blood
in them from Poland and Russia
and when they speak it I see
young Fyodor about to be shot
by the firing squad
but the Czar’s man rides up
with a last minute reprieve.
There is a silence after
you could cut.
*John Rocco at MySpace:
http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=292819823
May 16, 2009
WHEN SHE DRINKS
by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
When she drinks
we suffer.
She is small.
Do not be
fooled by that.
She goes off.
She threatens
us with knives,
throws coffee
cups, and blunt
objects. She
thinks she is
all right. But
she is a
time bomb, a
loaded gun,
ready to
go off. She
would not drink
so much if
she did not
have such bad
friends. They come
around and
influence
her to go
with them and
drink. She is
a pretty
girl. She is
much better
when she takes
her pills. When
she stops them
the voices
come back and
make her do
crazy things.
When she drinks
she cannot
be controlled.
When she drinks
we suffer.
She is small.
Do not be
fooled by that.
She goes off.
She threatens
us with knives,
throws coffee
cups, and blunt
objects. She
thinks she is
all right. But
she is a
time bomb, a
loaded gun,
ready to
go off. She
would not drink
so much if
she did not
have such bad
friends. They come
around and
influence
her to go
with them and
drink. She is
a pretty
girl. She is
much better
when she takes
her pills. When
she stops them
the voices
come back and
make her do
crazy things.
When she drinks
she cannot
be controlled.
THORNS AND ROSES
by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
In the broken concrete
thorns grew out.
The rose petals remained
deep in the earth.
An angel heart bled out
in the sky
above the thorns growing
from the earth. A
cloud emptied its tears and
let out a sigh
that shook the earth.
A wave of roses burst
out and the thorns
fell into the earth.
In the broken concrete
thorns grew out.
The rose petals remained
deep in the earth.
An angel heart bled out
in the sky
above the thorns growing
from the earth. A
cloud emptied its tears and
let out a sigh
that shook the earth.
A wave of roses burst
out and the thorns
fell into the earth.
May 15, 2009
All those years
of solitary confinement
inside a Gilbey's Gin
bottle were crawling out
of her stammering lips
demanding a mercy drink
for a dying, lost soul.
She foresaw a bad journey
for me in my next
life if I didn't rescind
an absurd ultimatum
involving the withholding
of vital fluids for her
lips, poured out an endless
succession of invective
so vile, I was almost
impressed by the quantity
and sincerity of her angel
of death wrath. I suggested
a trip to the City Mission,
they specialized in lost
souls, although they frowned
on her holiest of waters.
"A good night sleep, a square
one or two and a hot shower
and you'll wake up refreshed as
a maiden."
"Don't bullshit me, I was
born drunk and violated
and I intend to die that way."
As if she had a choice,
I thought, handing her five
bucks on the sly, escorting
her to the door and pointing
to the Lamp Post bar just down
the block. "Do your worst."
I said, giving her a healthy
shove out onto the icy sidewalks
of hell.
by Alan Catlin
inside a Gilbey's Gin
bottle were crawling out
of her stammering lips
demanding a mercy drink
for a dying, lost soul.
She foresaw a bad journey
for me in my next
life if I didn't rescind
an absurd ultimatum
involving the withholding
of vital fluids for her
lips, poured out an endless
succession of invective
so vile, I was almost
impressed by the quantity
and sincerity of her angel
of death wrath. I suggested
a trip to the City Mission,
they specialized in lost
souls, although they frowned
on her holiest of waters.
"A good night sleep, a square
one or two and a hot shower
and you'll wake up refreshed as
a maiden."
"Don't bullshit me, I was
born drunk and violated
and I intend to die that way."
As if she had a choice,
I thought, handing her five
bucks on the sly, escorting
her to the door and pointing
to the Lamp Post bar just down
the block. "Do your worst."
I said, giving her a healthy
shove out onto the icy sidewalks
of hell.
by Alan Catlin
May 14, 2009
a chain reaction
by David LaBounty
management, my
management any
management, said
the gas prices are
a bitch and business
is soft and we’ve
got to tighten our
belts so chain-wide
the cuts are coming,
and they gave me a sickle
and told me to swing
it through my store
and start hacking
away and I certainly wouldn’t
swing it at myself and
I knew I would cut
the weakest and
the lowest paid guys,
guys that
change and bust
the tires, guys with
dirty hands and
tobacco stained teeth
who go broke buying
McDonald’s every
day for lunch,
guys who wouldn’t
put up much of a
fuss about being
let go because the
poor never fight
back, it’s as if
they expect to
lose their eight
dollar an hour job
because they’ve lost
so many eight dollar
an hour jobs before and
that’s how it goes
and management knew
where the cuts
would be made
and indeed,
the weakest
were cut and hours
were cut and the
rest of us had to
pick up the slack and
that’s what management
has always done,
that’s what
society and
mother nature and
the indifferent
universe has
always done
making sure
the weak are fired
and sometimes
eaten.
management, my
management any
management, said
the gas prices are
a bitch and business
is soft and we’ve
got to tighten our
belts so chain-wide
the cuts are coming,
and they gave me a sickle
and told me to swing
it through my store
and start hacking
away and I certainly wouldn’t
swing it at myself and
I knew I would cut
the weakest and
the lowest paid guys,
guys that
change and bust
the tires, guys with
dirty hands and
tobacco stained teeth
who go broke buying
McDonald’s every
day for lunch,
guys who wouldn’t
put up much of a
fuss about being
let go because the
poor never fight
back, it’s as if
they expect to
lose their eight
dollar an hour job
because they’ve lost
so many eight dollar
an hour jobs before and
that’s how it goes
and management knew
where the cuts
would be made
and indeed,
the weakest
were cut and hours
were cut and the
rest of us had to
pick up the slack and
that’s what management
has always done,
that’s what
society and
mother nature and
the indifferent
universe has
always done
making sure
the weak are fired
and sometimes
eaten.
May 13, 2009
My Contribution
by Randall Rogers
last time I checked I was still insane
barely holding it together out here
shunted to the far corners of the Earth
doing what I learned to do first in the early
seventies and pretty much the only thing I can do well
once again
I’m selling weed
only this time
I’m pioneering the spread of the good powerful one two toke
shit
all across war healing SE Asia.
Bring peace and happiness confusion
and the munchies to one but all
Johnny Potseed-ing it around the globe.
Posing as an itinerant teacher of English!!
last time I checked I was still insane
barely holding it together out here
shunted to the far corners of the Earth
doing what I learned to do first in the early
seventies and pretty much the only thing I can do well
once again
I’m selling weed
only this time
I’m pioneering the spread of the good powerful one two toke
shit
all across war healing SE Asia.
Bring peace and happiness confusion
and the munchies to one but all
Johnny Potseed-ing it around the globe.
Posing as an itinerant teacher of English!!
May 12, 2009
The Single Life
by Paul Hellweg
I love someone
who loves another,
and that’s hard enough
to endure,
but still
that someone and I
get along so fabulously
I don’t mind her
not being mine,
well,
not always,
tonight, for example,
things went
the other way,
we had tickets to attend
a jazz concert,
just she and I,
no boyfriend involved,
then
tonight
she asked if he could
come along too,
and my response?
well,
it’s dark
and cold
and late
and
I’m drinking Scotch,
wishing,
as most of us singles do,
for someone
to love us
so we could stop thinking
we’re the only ones
who
hurt
this much.
I love someone
who loves another,
and that’s hard enough
to endure,
but still
that someone and I
get along so fabulously
I don’t mind her
not being mine,
well,
not always,
tonight, for example,
things went
the other way,
we had tickets to attend
a jazz concert,
just she and I,
no boyfriend involved,
then
tonight
she asked if he could
come along too,
and my response?
well,
it’s dark
and cold
and late
and
I’m drinking Scotch,
wishing,
as most of us singles do,
for someone
to love us
so we could stop thinking
we’re the only ones
who
hurt
this much.
It’s Valentine’s Day
by James Babbs
it’s valentine’s day and
I'm getting drunk again
sitting near the window
watching cars driving past and
they’re probably carrying
happy couples full of love
to all the happy places
where happy couples go
while I’m pouring
more whiskey in my coffee
because
I like how it burns
every time I take a drink and
it’s not, quite, dark yet
no
when I look through the window
I can, still, see
traces of light in the sky and
I know something about loneliness
just ask me about it
the next time you see me and
maybe
I’ll tell you what it is
it’s valentine’s day and
I'm getting drunk again
sitting near the window
watching cars driving past and
they’re probably carrying
happy couples full of love
to all the happy places
where happy couples go
while I’m pouring
more whiskey in my coffee
because
I like how it burns
every time I take a drink and
it’s not, quite, dark yet
no
when I look through the window
I can, still, see
traces of light in the sky and
I know something about loneliness
just ask me about it
the next time you see me and
maybe
I’ll tell you what it is
May 11, 2009
MEMORY'S EYE
by Stephen Jarrell Williams
I've done what's worth doing
in the darkness visible,
snarled in the tangle,
no way out,
long-lost father
with a lit match in his hand,
he's just an old me
waving goodbye,
smokey air,
dreamy silence,
sad satisfaction,
remembering peep-shows of life...
I'll soon let go the grip
hanging from the edge,
blue-lipped into the cooling dusk.
I've done what's worth doing
in the darkness visible,
snarled in the tangle,
no way out,
long-lost father
with a lit match in his hand,
he's just an old me
waving goodbye,
smokey air,
dreamy silence,
sad satisfaction,
remembering peep-shows of life...
I'll soon let go the grip
hanging from the edge,
blue-lipped into the cooling dusk.
May 10, 2009
French Quarter Tryst
by Heather Ann Schmidt
Saturday
on a Bayou night
down Royal Street
and beads and
ba do dee da--
the blues slipped
over me like a tight
cocktail dress
and music showed us where
to turn
the quarter swayed from
the tipsy air
and The River
reflected brown bourbon.
Little fires in windows
distorted by old glass
into orbs of ghosts,
wailing an Etta James song:
I want a Sunday kind of love....
and lovers staggered by,
drunk on the
ooo shoo do de dooo
of the half-naked night.
I took your hand
and showed you where to put it,
unlike a girl who goes to bed
early to get up for church.
We went into an alley
and let the
blue-oh-eh-ooo
da doo dee dey
shadow over us.
Saturday
on a Bayou night
down Royal Street
and beads and
ba do dee da--
the blues slipped
over me like a tight
cocktail dress
and music showed us where
to turn
the quarter swayed from
the tipsy air
and The River
reflected brown bourbon.
Little fires in windows
distorted by old glass
into orbs of ghosts,
wailing an Etta James song:
I want a Sunday kind of love....
and lovers staggered by,
drunk on the
ooo shoo do de dooo
of the half-naked night.
I took your hand
and showed you where to put it,
unlike a girl who goes to bed
early to get up for church.
We went into an alley
and let the
blue-oh-eh-ooo
da doo dee dey
shadow over us.
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