Archive for June, 2010

Zippo Lighter Fluid Is My Favorite Smell by Cassandra Dallett

Posted in Cassandra Dallett with tags on June 11, 2010 by Scot

I remember or dream I do
Mom painting
a fuchsia colored flower
on the ceiling above my crib also
unwashed bodies in unwashed Levis
belt buckles and soft leather worn blue t-shirts
with a front pocket for Camel cigarettes
the Zippos comforting clack and close
our refrigerator black
a red and white STP sticker stuck on it
Dad’s chair sit in it if you dare
a good solid wood table
legs speckled like ostrich eggs
spilt coffee and beer glaze
illuminated by a coffee can light shade
over a single bulb
the pile of junk on the kitchen table
threatened avalanche
homegrown kept in a Buglar can
sat high on a shelf
wood smoke and creosote fires
driving us from the house on frigid nights
wrapped in blankets mom would hold me
while Dad got the fire out of the chimney
some nights on the way home from a party
barns burning
not immune to the starry spark
flying embers we’d slow
mesmerized by molten beams
insatiable flames eating up black sky.

punching a fourteen-year old in the face by John Grochalski

Posted in John Grochalski with tags on June 8, 2010 by Scot

i tell him
you wait and see, man
when you turn eighteen i’m going to rent a car
no, a limo, motherfucker,
i’m going to rent a limo
and have him drive me all the way out here
because i’m sure you’re not going
to be in college
you probably won’t even be in high school
and i’m going to have that limo
drive me all the way out here
on my dollar
and i’m going to have him park the limo
right in the middle of the street
so that all your neighbors can see
then i’m going to casually walk up
your driveway
ring the doorbell
and then when you open the door
i’m going to just haul off and punch you
right in the face
how do you like that?
right in the goddamned face
with a limo waiting in the middle of your street
and all your friends and neighbors
lingering outside their doors to watch it
what do you think, huh?
oh, you think it’s funny?
you think i’ll forget?
you just wait and see, man,
because fate is a bitch
and i have one long ass memory
and little else to do in the ensuing four years
but mold and shape this plan
so you keep on laughing and smiling
and thinking i’m just a drunk old fool
but you’ll see
four years from now
a limo and everything else
parked right there on your street
and you knocked out cold
wondering what in the hell just happened
and then you’ll remember, kid
you’ll remember this moment like all hell.

Karl Koweski…Two Poems

Posted in Karl Koweski with tags on June 7, 2010 by Scot


the death and rebirth of a mechanical engineer

Jeff returned from
tending his garden
florid faced
his chest constricted
with pains he blamed
on acid reflux

ten minutes later
he laid between the
couch and coffee table
dead of a massive
heart attack
believing to the last
it was just something he ate

you can look through
the glass of his
office window and
see his safety glasses
folded on his desk
surrounded by a
conspiracy of
yellow post-it notes
bearing neatly printed
numbers and letters
that lost all meaning
last Saturday afternoon

the pictures of his children
like three little Jeffs
trapped in cryogenic sleep
their faces frozen in
perpetually staged smiles
lacking any conception
of a fatherless future

the tongues hang out
of his work boots
laces crossed like
autopsy stitches

no one will ever
wear those boots again
leather and flesh
rendered equally useless

he left Friday
with no doubt
he’d return Monday

two weeks from now
there will be a new body
occupying the empty chair
rebuilding a confederacy
of pink post-it notes
with a hieroglyphic trove
of important numerals
and another
cryogenically slumbering
brood no less unaware
of the surprise
party mortality
waiting to be sprung

_______________________

judas kiss

widow’s peak and fingers steepled
before the Satanic church of her lips
a congregation of mischief seated
behind the blue green altars
her neck adorned with flowers
forever fresh and scented with poeme
and I am the priest
the monsignor of this one church,
one goddess with a hundred administrations
I light her candles for evening mass
I kneel before her open gospel
reciting my favorite passage
to a litany of hallelujahs
I kiss the seven stars leading to heaven
nightly, I ordain myself in her ministry
I cloak myself in the vestments
of her omniscience
her faithful servant
until the seas run red with blood
and the dead walk the earth again

OF KINGS, PRIESTS AND CEOS by Jason Ryberg

Posted in Jason Ryberg with tags on June 4, 2010 by Scot

(OR, REFLECTIONS ON THE 2008 ELECTIONS)

The weather channel is showing
highly detailed satellite imagery
of impending meteorological doom

(while various other sources are warning
of a new ice age (and a giant meteor
thrown in, to boot))

and the street corner preacher (in chorus
with his whole in-bred family and entourage)
says “GOD HATES FAGS!” (which makes me wonder
what He/She/It  must think about rogue investment bankers,
government torturers, sowers of paranoia and discord
masquerading as journalists or porn-addicted poets,
for that matter).

Even the usually reliable Magic Eight Ball
says “it doesn’t look good” and, apparently,

our current (and wildly popular (if not so
genuinely populist)) Republican vice-
presidential candidate enjoys shooting wolves
from helicopters, firing librarians for refusing
to ban “objectionable” books and believes dinosaurs
roamed the earth six thousand years ago (really,
should this person have access
to the nuclear codes?).

But the lost boys and the strippers
and the third shift factory workers and EMT’s
are finishing up their nightly routines
and are all just waiting to get off work
and head over to Cooper’s for a drink.

Thank God someone in this city
of a hundred and thirty-one homicides
(this year, and climbing)
is open at 6AM.

But what was it the old boy with the cowboy hat
and Wally Walrus moustache was saying, just then;
something about the “Philosophick Mercury” or
“Grand Quintessence” as “cosmological constant,”
or something?

We can probably assume there used to be
competing schools of thought set up
to address those and other pressing issues of the day
and that there surely must be remnants of their descendants
left in the universities and non-partisan think tanks
here in our own uncertain age.

Or, maybe, when confronted
with the various cultural/quasi-intellectual
bogeys and conundrums of the modern world
we should all just step back and calmly review
the situation and maybe think about renewing
ours vows to our estranged lover or spouse,

that He or She (or whoever in between)
of Reason and Critical Thinking,
sitting all alone at the end of the bar,
nose in a book, sipping on a soda with lime;

the one who keeps looking at you
from time to time out of the corner of their eye,
maybe even stealing a full-on glance
when they’re sure you’ve turned away.

How is it you don’t remember them
looking so damned good;
so fit, so linear and clean?

Not like the sad, flabby menagerie of crazies
and bar-whores of hysteria and misinformation
you’ve been truck-stopping  around with, lately.

How did things ever degenerate
to this sorrowful state?

How did we get conned into believing
we’re born fallen and fully deserving of a life
(and eternal afterlife) of suffering?

How do we get fooled again
and again and again into laboring
against our own best interests

and thinking that we ever had
anything to gain from killing
each other over the disputes
of kings, priests
and CEOs?

John Dorsey

Posted in John Dorsey, VIDEOS with tags on June 3, 2010 by Scot

Nightmusic by MP Powers

Posted in M.P. Powers with tags , on June 2, 2010 by Scot

On a dingy corner across from the Moulin Rouge, this little beautiful madam takes my hand and draws me into the sadistic darkness of her strange ambrosial cave. S’asseoir.” I sit down on a fat sofa. “Something to drink, monsieur?” “Heineken, please…” Smoke tingles in a soft blaze of soiled lights, walls aquiver. A big, buxom African whore in clinging semitransparent lingerie moves under the chanting red globes. Something  begins to diminish. The decomposing dribble of a moment jiggles via the infallible hands of timelessness, perhaps?

Here, the dead have dressed up in their oral traditions, god plays grim his violin, light fails, and the prostitutes hit the floor, shoving precisely though the pushandpull of orchestral despair, their bounding feet transfigured on a steep current of swollen logic. It sits at the end of some foreign tongue, volumes of dirty eroticism slowly expanding until the keen queen-of-all-kings coyly emerges. She hurls a handful of lilacs on the floor, spits, and as she begins pouncing on them with her happy jouncing feet, I observe the glad awful screaming of her profane flesh; the sweaty waves of palpitating flab among whose largeness even oblivion would be feign to blush. My beer arrives, green and glowing. It’s handed to me by some Turkish pimp of the dime-a-dozen kind, donned in large white collars and a black bullying blazer stuffed with shoulders, his gold tooth and earrings emitting sharp glints from the hellish neon, his face a dull retching of perfect
evil, like a serpent, or a toadstool. His loafer slightly pronounces itself, he pirouettes, one arm does a fat sweeping gesture, and the big African whore descends upon me, pink drink in hand. The pimp nods, nods again. “For the lady,” he says. “Merci…” she says. “On me?” I ask.

But he’s gone.

A cloud of silence covers her face. Immense, beautiful, perfectly insipid. She takes a sip from the straw. Two hungry thighs squirm before me and she unleashes her top. She cups the roundness of her heaving breasts and gives them a good upward squeeze, lets go. Plunk. Then her fingers find my thighs and I feel like all the others, hooked in the gill, waiting to be dragged along the wake and then eaten. The room spins its fuzzy red syllables. A purple curtain parts. A man in a cape begins to sob. Or sing. Or something. And I am the man in the cape. I have no home. Just this perverse little cave of a room, in my soul, or across from the Moulin Rouge, where a purple curtain closes, and gods play grim their violins.

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