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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.

if there's any irony to be culled at this point in the narrative

it's that here
thirty-two years old

stocky
like a union pipe fitter

clothes from goodwill

driving
a dented up
kia rio

i pull
three times
the pussy
i did at twenty-two

when i had
the body
of a gymnast

a shiny black
celica gt

and a closet
full of
tight fitting
euro trash.

by Justin Hyde

The Couple Fighting In Front Of The Box Office Ultimately Decide To Go Home

by Melanie Browne

It can seem like a small thing,

the refuge of the cinema on

a saturday afternoon, his hand

tucked in yours, your head

on his shoulder, sharing one

large Diet Coke,

yet society has conspired

against you,

clipped your sanity,

so you continue the fight

you started earlier that morning

about nothing really,

and now you can't even

remember the

name of the movie

you both wanted to see,

his back hurts,

she would rather

eat ice cream in the bath,

look at her Star Magazine

Internet

by Chris Butler

The kids are comatose

trying to dial-up utopia,

where everyone is everyone’s friend,

habitually addicting antisocialiogical

behavior of daily updates to claim face space

along the unpaved infomanic superhighway,

of double-jointed hitchhiking hookers

and pedophiles disguised as teenagers,

to be encased within the trappings of the web,

so just

pull the plug.

Oh well,

lol.

some more truth

*soldiers kill Afghan civilians for fun

Delusions

by Leila Fortier

(click or double-click to view full size)

Fallen

by Leila Fortier

(click or double-click to view full size)

within five minutes of entering the supermarket

by J.J. Campbell

standing in the beer

aisle wondering if the

imported shit is really

worth four extra dollars

when this attractive

black woman fell to

the floor

my first inclination

was to laugh

my mom of course

rushed over to see if

she was alright as the

woman was blaming

her heels and diabetes

for the fall

i settled for domestic

later in the fruits and

vegetables section this

little kid said hello to

me but he didn't use

my name or mister

he said hello to the

big fat guy

i laughed and thought

about karma

and the more i thought

about it the more i

wanted to teach that

kid how much the

truth really hurts

but i refrained

figured life would

get to him soon

enough

*http://sites.google.com/site/losersincsite/

at the community picnic

by J.J. Campbell

just another lost soul

that thinks the world

has gone to hell since

duane allman died

and here come the

other fuckers who

hate the government

until they want

something done for

nothing

a slinky dress falling

off the shoulder of a

leggy blonde that

knows how to get

what she wants

there goes the lawyer

busted for having sex

with underage girls

and all the whispers

that follow him

and here comes the

pastor whom no one

would expect holds

the darkest secrets

of all

but nothing stays

hidden forever in

this small town

infamy is as close

as the nearest

prying eye

The Rancid Rooms of Montreal

by Denis Robillard

I’m thinking of Montreal again
Sleepy out of the way diners
Run by hard working immigrants
Clatter of dishes, noisy kitchens
Cheap tips under chipped coffee cups.
Find jack there, c. 1953.
Sneering at red rancid rooms off St. Catherine
The gloom time of Peel or a Papineau Tavern
Where he’s drunk on Sang Du Caribou again.
I settle for a Cheval Blanc
Where my morning coffee is still doing its job
& Alcohol fumes from last night’s mess
Are still drilling a deliberate hole in my skull.
Today in a hypnogogic state I saw the face
Of a young Jean Louis Kerouac
On the back of a cloth mottled chair
At The Station Restaurant 8 am.
And this day will never be the same.

Items of Amorous Intent

by Denis Robillard

Dark sad eyes
Wild, wild eyes
Sweet look of
Innocence untried
Youthful charm
Long, artistic fingers
A tilted head
A poutey mouth
Shock pink lips
Soft white neck
Hair in pigtails
With bouncy wisps
And erotic curlicews
Eternal hours
Our nights of lovemaking
The weekends of
Wet ,wet rain
Descending into
Darkness as we
Dissolve these items
Of amorous intent.

What a Man Needs

by James Babbs

he needs water
and food
and cases of beer
for the long nights
when he doesn’t have a woman
beer for those nights
when she’s around
but he doesn’t want to talk
he needs money
and moments of anger
he needs rooms
he can go to
and hide from the light
telephones
with caller ID
so he can choose
whether or not to answer
he needs dreams
dreams of beauty
and death
hung with darkness
something
that feels like love
but doesn’t have a name

Nine In the Morning

by James Babbs

empty Bud Light box
blowing across the fields
it’s nine in the morning and
I’m thinking about sex
I haven’t been with a woman
in a really long time and
it seems to be a lot windier
around here these days and
whenever I see a woman
I try to picture
what she looks like naked
imagining
how her body feels
rubbing against my own and
I think
that’s one of the reasons
why I’ve been drinking so much
mostly
cold bottles of beer
but sometimes red wine
or whiskey in my coffee
when it starts getting cold

Cruel Summer

by James Babbs

it was a cruel summer
if you don’t believe me
just go ask
the women from Bananarama
see what they’re doing now
maybe
if you ask them nicely
they’ll perform
their remake of Venus for you
I used to masturbate
while watching their videos
I think one of them
married Dave Stewart
from the band Eurythmics
I wonder if they’re still together
does anybody here know
whatever happened to Annie Lennox
she frightened me
the first time I saw her
in the video for Sweet Dreams
late-night Friday
on cable TV and
I never had any plans for the weekend
I usually just slept in late

Fran’s Building

by John Rocco

A guy jumped out of Fran’s building

the 6th floor

3 floors above Fran’s place where

we play poker and drink.

The guy who jumped was

a loner. No one in the building

talked to the guy because they

thought he was a weirdo

and Fran turned out to be

the only one to talk to the guy

who was a recluse and fucked up

but he talked to Fran and two days

before he jumped Fran saw

him in an ambulance down

the block and had a dilemma:

stop and see him or meet the

band to jam but he stopped

and asked the guy if he needed

anything from his apartment.

The guy said no

thanks anyway

and that was the last

Fran thought of him

before he heard he

jumped early in the morning.

Also in Fran’s builidng

is

was

this WW2

Navy Captain

who had to order

hundreds of sailors

to their deaths

to save thousands of

other sailors

at Iwo Jima.

Fran plays chess with

the old guy

many games drinking

Anisette and the last

time the phone rang

and it was the Captain’s

nephew who told Fran

to tell the old guy to shave

in the morning because he

was going to take him to

the doctor but they were

really taking him to a hearing

to put him away in a home.

Fran didn’t tell him to shave

and they stayed up late

drinking Anisette and

playing chess.

I’m going over to Fran’s now

to drink in the middle of the day

and if the bricks could drink

in his building they would

and I’d give them a shot

but they can’t drink

but they can remember

because

architecture is alive

blood hard music

that we all live inside.

Summer

by John Rocco

All the teeth in my head are exploding

wet firecrackers finally going off

hunks of old lead and decay and

untouched summer girls in the park

down the hatch with a river of bourbon

thank god for bourbon

the true ones

drink 4 gallons of bourbon

a day in their minds

to become Davy Crockett

King of the Wild Frontier

who fought Mexico

16 corpses surrounding his corpse

his knife in all of them.

My summer has been like this.

The Age of Sail

by John Rocco

I’m a stowaway

on the bad ship NEVERMORE

her sails black with blood

her decks awash in whale cum

the Red Clock of Death

a doomed heartbeat below.

Our Captain, my Captain

is the Mad One

branded to kill

the cold fish world

the oceans endless

hot Siren crack pipes whispering

always whispering to him.

I hide in the stinking hold

entombed with rotting meat

and casks of grog.

I tap into both

and when I walk the

decks at night

past the humping shadows

the cursed meat

and the blazing booze

rush through me

pissing blood and guts

over the side.

This is bait

of course

for the aqua chicks

the Sirens, the Mermaids

the stacked sea Princesses

all tails and big tits.

This is bait to attract them

call to them

so I can sing my song

to them for a change.

I sing to them

each to each

as the Allman Brothers say

to eat a sea peach.

I sing of cemetery screwing

and churchyard orgies.

I sing of cannibal pages

and oxygen words.

I sing of the Harbour Inn

and the powerful Polish kiss.

I sing of sweet revenge

and always going too far.

I sing of eating

her whale’s tail

morning noon night.

I sing this mating call

of love to scales and tails

and to their land-loving doubles

you know who you are.

Shark Week

by John Rocco

Watching endless Shark Week shows

on shark bites and attacks and anatomy

I learn some important facts:

Sharks have two sex organs,

the second one a back-up

if the first fails.

Sharks have violent sex

often biting, tearing

huge chucks of flesh

off each other. You can

see the marks on many

of them.

Sharks will die

drown

if they stop moving.

The shark has a third

eyelid that closes over

the blank shark eye

during frenzied feeding.

I don’t know why

but these shark facts

make me think of the

time this beautiful

Chinese girl said to me:

“I don’t love you.

I just want you to

fuck me…

haaaaarrrrrrdddddddd.”

FRESH MORNING COFFEE

by LD Wilkinson

everyday
before work
I find myself
staring
into the Earth-blue eyes
of the Starbucks girl
thinking
how beautiful
these eyes
how beautiful
this aroma
of fresh morning coffee
and sticky
breakfast treats
how beautiful
these fleeting moments
of caffeine
and sugar
and dots
of electric light
in blue
green eyes
and
if it weren’t for
the fact
that I hate my job
and despise my boss
and wear my life
like a burn
I would leave
this misted paradise
everyday
in search of
indispensable misery

Gateway

by Daria Souchkova

There’s a blindness that stings
a sun-encrusted sky. A rooftop,
bloodless, dies. The night
is singing. Plucks a lonely

eye. Shadows are blind.
Whiter white. Down they filter
salt. Whose sound is light. Saccade

on through the million sockets
in the night. Grope on your starry
cavern’s voice…enough!

Where Janus splits, a skyline
sickle rims a blind. Which-
inscribes sight?

Elegy

by Daria Souchkova

A blue ray enshrines
a sphere's crater
lips, that,
splitting, scream the sun.

Cosmic scars reticulate
the sky’s
heart that,
scattering, captures light.

Bury my blue veins. Unearth
the shroud.
Grounding,
thunders my celestial pulse.

A Guided Tour of Hell

by Alan Catlin

"Sometimes hot sauce was the only

way I knew I was alive."

--Michael Connelly

Drunk on Stout and wee lads

of Irish whiskey: the Black

Bush, Tullamore, Power's,

Jamie and the boys, all the dead

soldiers of an armed conflict

with the unseen, boggy nights of

smoke, the landlord's face the last

sight I would see before the fall

and after, lying back down in

sawdust and ash, three quarters of

my way through a liquid guided tour

of hell, the blessed isle, a drink for

each county taken, until the weight

of it all dragged me down and I could

no longer separate the people from

the light that awaits me at the end

of this long, dark tunnel I'm sliding

toward the end of.

In the bottom of some hour

by Alan Catlin

after last call, nearly

snow blind in some field

on a stoned drunk mission

to head due north of nowhere,

alone and lost, skating ice,

the suicide oceans of night,

subzero windchill through

a forest of dead trees.

mounds of snow like headstones

in the Gravesend where no

man goes; staggering, close to

brain death, the body's folly,

walking on when there is no

place to go.