Three Poems by Michael Thompson

Posted in Michael Thompson with tags on March 27, 2014 by Scot


The dilapidated hotel
reeks of rotted flesh
and is more rusted
than a Studebaker
decaying like cancer
in an old junkyard

It’s plain to see why
beatniks fled to Paris
and engaged in cut-ups,
the French notoriously embrace
all things bland

When sissies drop
what they figure
is a mean line,
their heads sit lodged
too far up assholes
to notice that their gristle
severely lacks heart

Fools seem convinced
that Corso was worth a damn
so I read Mindfield
against my better judgment,
but being recommended
and hailed by Ginsberg
should have been enough
of a red flag to stop me in my tracks

Allen should have started
his well-known poem
by admitting he saw
the best minds of his generation
leave his ass in the dust,
but if the old queen spent more time
learning from Jack instead of chasing Cassady
and recognition around like a school girl,
he might have thrown down a decent line




I took Jesus water boarding
for his role with televangelists
and the tabloid rags hailed me
as their new messiah
even though misogynist temples
burned me in effigy
which didn’t cause me any bother
since I’d torched their existence
a lifetime ago
as I have free will
and am not a card-carrying member
of the Kool-Aid swilling herd,
but I’ll use my newfound position
to push 8-track tapes
into making a come back
if just for the struggle
to find favorite songs
between four programs




The loveable hooligan
hummed 12 bar blues until the last
even after radicals from another age
dropped just like flies
and only after the last ride
was taken on an eastbound train
from the Spanish quarter
did periodicals dedicate space
that was long overdue

Bohemian like Rimbaud
even when it wasn’t hip,
the legend of the Coffee Gallery
burst with even more bluster
than New York City,
but too many Jacks in the deck
left some bewildered just who was who

If the city’s fathers have the nerve
to earmark a lane for Rexroth,
the least they could do
is rename Grant or Green
after ol’ Micheline
who, at this very minute,
is closing down every bar in Zion
with Kerouac and Cassady

Salt-Water Church by Helen Losse

Posted in Helen Losse with tags on March 26, 2014 by Scot




The salt-water Atlantic lies over that ridge.
I am here to soak in the sea—
to cleanse my soul & wash myself

of the detritus. Earth has become
a place that takes so much
from me and gives so little back.

I walk toward the water’s edge,
flip-flops in hand. I dip one toe in.
Baptized, I remember the beach

was the sight of Jesus’s last fish fry—
the one after He cried
the loneliest cry in all the world.

On Poetry, and the Typical American Reader… by Hosho McCreesh

Posted in Hosho McCreesh with tags , on February 13, 2014 by Scot

Seventeen syllables? Fuck, even that is too much to ask of them.

Three Poems by Doug Draime

Posted in Doug Draime with tags on February 13, 2014 by Scot


I read somewhere
many years ago
that Hemingway
wrote while standing up.
I also read, I think,
in the same article,
that he was always drunk
when he wrote.

How well did he hold
his booze? Well, those
reports vary greatly. Though,
having been a heavy drinker
at times, myself, I can easily
imagine Papa doing a fair amount
of staggering, abrupt
short lunges, and pitching
forward uncontrollably, against the
chest of drawers that he worked on.
It just stands to reason.

And I’m sure there were those
moments of pure terror and the
misty-blurred vision, as the chest of
drawers begins to topple, from his
weight – with a bottle of Bombay gin
and his shiny Royal typewriter -
as they all came crashing down on
him. And Papa too drunk
to give a tinker’s fuck
about any of it, laughing
hysterically as he rolled out
from under the mess.


for Malala

A bullet cannot cease
the thought of freedom,
nor can barbarism
crush the indomitable
courage of a fourteen
year old girl, who’s
in-your-face defiance
rightly brings shame to
the Taliban,

and to all cowardly men
upon the face of the earth.
Whose spineless apathy, and
blind conformity sanction
vicious oppression and war.

Malala was shot twice, in the
head and neck.

And the bullet in her head ran
all around in her skull, but
did not stop her extraordinary
tenacity, the depth of
which few of us can even

In her recovery standing
tall still, and speaking out
as before, declaring
her right of existence,
her right to education,
her right to speak the truth,

with her smile of fearlessness
and her pure heart
of justice, nailing the world
to its horrific wall of
brutal complacency.


Winter Storm

Chapel bells on the SOU campus
a few blocks away
are striking four. Clouds cover
half the Cascade mountain range
through the dense falling snow,

the peaks sticking up
through them
like nipple less white breasts
yearning and expanding
for caress. Cars and trucks and school buses
climb the foothills like slow steamed chariots.

Molecules of exhaust and fog and snow
merging. Two teenagers in T-shirts and jeans
whip by down the snow-packed street
on snowboards like they were skateboards
and it was just another hot summer day.

Two Poems by Sissy Buckles

Posted in Uncategorized with tags on February 5, 2014 by Scot

Dear man

And the one morning
she woke up and finally knew
she’d had enough
and screwed her courage
to the sticking point
and announced out loud
that she was leaving
in the very next second
her beloved dog’s wooden brush
came hurtling like a rocket
splitting open her scalp
the first thought
damn that man has a good aim
next thought shit
is that hot red blood
streaming down my forehead
and then that dear man
had the grand idea
that holding a lit cigarette
close to her face
was a good idea
to convince her to stay.


Hells Angels San Berdoo Chapter – 1965

(dedicated to old freedom fighters everywhere)

Slipping away from the family crowded round
meatballs and cheese bubbling together
in 1960′s vintage fondue pot
for a quick Christmas beer down the street
at my old hangout The Spring Valley Inn
where I first saw roots band Beat Farmers
loud and plowed on that rough dinky stage,
rushing out to catch their last set
after working the midnight shift
my college job at Tower Records;
a few blocks away the titty-bar lot is packed
as I enter welcoming lounge gloom
squinting a bit from Cali sunshine,
regulars lined up with their usual,
push coins down the music machine
play some Patsy Cline and Social D
try to subdue that prickly feeling of holiday dread
3PM bartendress has her smiling
Hee-Haw hottie look going on
pool tables and dart board deserted today
and no hard questions to be answered
this crowd’s only interested in drinking
I even get to see a fight
over a stolen pack of cigs with a
grizzled old dude parked in corner booth
wearing leather vest and a ponytail
quickly spits out dentures
before trouncing stupid kid half his age
while a burning Ring of Fire wails in the background
to this biker ballet contretemps -
I take my cue and mosey back to suburbiaville
where smoked turkey on the patio barbecue
should be just about done cooked.


Beatles Bathtub by Bradley Mason Hamlin

Posted in Uncategorized with tags on February 5, 2014 by Scot

Blonde chick
bought me Beatles
Live @ BBC 2
for Christmas

listening now
in the tub
mi amigo, Mr. Bubble

the tiny
portable stereo
if George
turns up the treble
or maybe
the trouble

as the blonde
a pint of Sierra Nevada

gives me too much treble
as well

George’s guitar
sounds great
in the acoustics
of the bathroom …

you should try it

the beer is good
and cold in winter
the blonde is good
(even when bad)
and hot in winter

and I love her.


Posted in LYNNE SAVITT with tags on February 5, 2014 by Scot

he says there’s a wasp
inside his window
he has to kill i

hear him swatting
the screen with
rolled up weekly
supermarket flyers
while i wait on the phone

‘’i never kill them all
that way’’, he states,
‘’when i was a kid
i believed other wasps
could hear the death cry
& they would be deterred.’’

‘’do you still believe that?”
i ask
he answers by laughing


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