Archive for March, 2009

Words that refused to remain hidden…by Carter Monroe

Posted in Carter Monroe with tags on March 31, 2009 by Scot

So, you say to yourself
sometimes silently, sometimes aloud,
“I’m doing this now
because there’s nothing left to do.”

I mean, it’s a confrontation of sorts.
A seeing yourself as you are
for the umpteenth time,
The reality check you’ve repressed
until now

And, you know
this is not a poem.
Merely what you can do
at the moment.
Something about which
you can convince yourself
on a sober day
had some meaning
some significance
because it damned surely
has none now.

The conjugal selves swirl
in and out.
Testing the limits,
if only for the moment
and the grip is in doubt
like the lock
on the ancient back door.

You wish to use the word “fleeting” here,
but it takes too much of your soul.
Places you into a boxed context,
which is the same
as writing your own eulogy.

And, briefly you consider
a concept as totally meaningless
as posterity
and you chuckle aloud.
All the while forcing
a Platonic barf
that temporarily denies 53 years,
giving you the security of imagined ignorance
and allowing you  a chance for sleep.

cmonroe2

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the bottle…by todd moore

Posted in Todd Moore on March 29, 2009 by Scot

was stashed
in the dirty
clothes or
behind the
toilet stool
for my old
man’s quick
grab & chug
in the mor
ning to flash
start his
hands or
at night to
blind the
demons so
they cdn’t
get his eyes
he made a
face while
the bourbon
scorched the
phlegm sd
they fuck
you in the
eyes kid
yr dead

todd-moore

Resting Aging Bones…by Doug Draime

Posted in Doug Draime on March 24, 2009 by Scot

dougs-pic1

I really was attempting to
pay attention,
the best I could, to focus
on the young poet
reading his poems.
I hadn’t slept well
in several days, my legs
aching from all
the walking
I was doing looking for
some kind of work.
48, let me clue you in,
is no age to be
without income and
nowhere to go
to call your own.

I needed a place to sit down
and rest for awhile.
The poet was trying
to be poetic, his poems
full of run of the mill
similes, that contained
no fortitude
of spirit, or passion.
And I’m sorry to say,
I fell into
a deep sleep.
I don’t know for how long,
but a college coed
stinking of patchouli oil and
sweat, shock me awake.
“You’re snoring. That’s really
rude.” she said.
I looked up and the poet
was glaring
at me.
All 20 eyes of the 10 people
sitting in the
folding chairs
were glaring at me

I said, nodding at the poet,
“Sorry about that. Good luck
with those similes, kid.”
And I got up and walked
out of the bookstore
and down the street
to the nearest bar,
where I ordered
a small pitcher of beer
with $3 of
my last $10.
I found a table in the corner,
sat down
and immediately
fell back to sleep.
Karen, the bartender,
was kind enough to let me
sleep till
closing time.

THERE IS NO MONEY IN POETRY, SOMEONE SAID…by Howie Good

Posted in Howie Good on March 22, 2009 by Scot


howie-good-headshot1

True, but wouldn’t you rather
jerk awake to the tom-tom of heartbreak

and later, if the light is right,
watch a river scratch itself until it bled?

And as to the example of those who keep
their feet firmly on the ground,

like a telephone pole, or a feeding trough,
or a tombstone –

when you’re in love, you’re happy to board
the wounded plane last seen disappearing

over the mountains and never heard from again.


5 bucks on Micheline…by Debbie Kirk

Posted in Debbie Kirk on March 20, 2009 by Scot

pink-hair

Baby,
I’m glad you can still taste me on your lips…
Can still smell my pussy on your fingers.

but I was in New Orleans with Jack Micheline
he had some paintings
and I had a boom swagger boom
laying down some lines
that resembled webs

and we got a bet goin’
to see who the real hustler is
And, I’m feeling lucky….

So, could you use your fucking hands
and let me go back to sleep?

Vincent Van Gogh was an Idiot…by Bradley Mason Hamlin

Posted in Bradley Mason Hamlin on March 19, 2009 by Scot

2 days before Christmas
1888
Vincent Van Gogh
35 years old
cut off the lower half
of his left ear
and took it to a whorehouse,
where he asked for
a prostitute named Rachel
and gave her the ear,
asking her to
“keep this object carefully.”
In the papers of the time
just before
Van Gogh’s
self-mutilation,
15 articles appeared
revealing the horrors
of Jack the Ripper,
mutilating
the bodies of streetwalkers,
sometimes
cutting off their ears.

Vincent may have
emulated and reversed the crime,
masochism for sadism …

and it just goes to show you,
Art is better off
in the hands of the working class.

THE BLIND LEADING THE BLIND..by F.N. Wright

Posted in F.N. Wright on March 16, 2009 by Scot

wright1

I was the assistant manager
of a shoe store in
champaign-urbana, illinois

yes, I’ve held down
some shitty jobs
to support my
writing & painting

I even worked at a factory
that built fiberglass
shit-houses

you know,
like andy gumps

anyway
one afternoon
tom & I had
just closed the store
& as we stood outside
& he locked the door

tom was the manager
& , as said, I was
the assistant manager

I heard a tap-tap-tapping
across the street
looked over and watched
a blind man leading
two other blind men
at a fast-paced walk

their canes making
the tapping noise
on the pavement

there was a
school for the blind
along with the
university of illinois
& a nursing school
in champaign-urbana
as well

& I realized it was
an instructor from
the school for the blind
leading two students
on a “confidence-building walk”

I nudged tom
& as we watched them
disappear around a corner
& said,

“I always wondered
what they meant
when they said
the blind leading the blind
& now I know,”

he mumbled,& said,
“you’re a warped motherfucker.”

“I resemble that remark,”
I replied,
“let’s go drink
a few beers.”

“okay,” he said

“shall we let them
lead the way?
I asked.