Archive for June, 2009

My Name is Salome, I Don’t Mean to Complain but God has Cut Off My Arms…by MK Chavez

Posted in MK Chavez on June 28, 2009 by Scot

Me and Chiwein

Here—won’t you give
me a dollar for my dance.
I’m still
a beautiful girl. My mother
made me do it. I fake it
every time. They tell you
they love you
leave you
for some piece
of heaven. It’s better
to cut off their heads
while you still have a chance.

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skating on thin ice by John Dorsey

Posted in John Dorsey on June 25, 2009 by Scot

john dorsey 2

when we were little
my mother would strap
skates on our feet
every sunday after church
and walk us over
to an empty lot
in the trailer park
where i spent most
of my childhood
frozen over by rural
pennslyvania ice storms

my little brother and i
were small fish on
an even smaller pond
born on thin ice with copper spoons
up our asses me
with two left feet
him with coke bottle
glasses since kindergarten ready
and waiting for our
shot at the white
trash ice capades twirling until
sundown like the spiritual children
of gordon lightfoot we were
raised to be

we were raised right
it’s just too
bad pride didn’t come
along with a little grace
if it had we
might have been divine
a mother’s angels rattling
the bars of the cage

years later mom donated
our skates to the
salvation army “you boys
don’t ever skate anymore”
my brother says “we
never did” and i can’t
help laughing now when
i think about putting
on skates it’s only
to meet death in the middle
of the road

–John Dorsey

& That’s Why It Sometimes Makes Sense To Dump Gallons Of Kerosene Into Our Gaping Maws, & That’s Why It Sometimes Makes Sense To Scream At The Indigosilent Heavens, Bellow At The Silent Gods… by Hosho McCreesh

Posted in Hosho McCreesh on June 23, 2009 by Scot

To sit around wondering
how this ridiculous world
got this way
just doesn’t
do much good.

To study world history–
pointless;
sociology, psychology,
socio-ecomonics,
race relations or
the collected works of
Voltaire;
nothing can be
found there
to explain away
or justify
all we do.

The world simply loves
to destroy itself.

Sadly, this old grey stallion,
this self-destruction,
is really just a lack of
ideas;
it’s not having anything
meaningful,
legitimate, or
worthwhile
to do with
ourselves;
& it’s our own
personal & seemingly
inescapable road to
damnation.

& that’s why it sometimes makes sense
to dump gallons of kerosene
into our gaping maws,
& that’s why it sometimes makes sense
to scream at the indigosilent heavens,
bellow at the silent gods…

But make no
mistake:

we are owed
no explanation,

we are entitled to
absolutely nothing,

& we are to
blame for
almost all of
it.

POEM FOR MY FATHER by A.D. Winans

Posted in A.D. Winans on June 21, 2009 by Scot

ADW-2005(2)

I’m addicted to looking at pictures
Mother left behind
From assorted photo albums
Bringing back memories of our family
Flat on Page street
Teddy the family dog chasing his tail
Like dad chased his dreams
Mother sitting on the sofa knitting
A heating pad on her swollen feet
Or working a crossword puzzle
One eye on sister the other on me
Dad lighting up a Pall Mall cigarette
blowing smoke rings across the room
It’s like reliving vaudeville days
My father a grip-man on the
Old Muni Railway
Taking me with him for a ride
Letting me ring the bell
A look of pride in his eyes
When he said to the passengers:
THAT’S MY SON
One of the few memories
I had of childhood fun
Father and son as one
Riding to the end of the line
That one time when everything
In life was fairytale fine
Now at 73
I feel like a dinosaur
Walking the ends of earth
With nothing but scraps
To feast on

Dear Dad by Scot Young

Posted in Scot Young on June 21, 2009 by Scot

I found these poems in mom’s things
many years after you both passed.
She never gave them to you but tucked
them away with old bank statements
and keepsakes in that black metal box
under the bed.
So now, I will put them in this bottle
throw it out into this night,
hoping one day you will find it.
But it is my hope
that if you are with her on this father’s day,
you will hold her close
as if you never left.

Miss you,
Scot

MEXICO NOVEMBER 2008 by A.D. Winans

Posted in A.D. Winans on June 19, 2009 by Scot

AD-Sunglasses

Alone in my hotel room
In Mexico, thirty-six hours
Before my flight back
To San Francisco
A hundred blank poems
Rattling around inside my head

I can turn them
Into paper airplanes
Fly each one to imaginary places
Or write poems on them in vivid old
Mexico song rhythms

If I could draw
I’d draw a rainbow picture
Of beautiful Indian women
With faces brown as earth

Soon I’ll return to San Francisco
City of dreamers drunkards
And lonely lovers
I will turn these blank pages
Into poems fished from the
Pond of my memory bank
Baited with the history of old
Mexico

PUNK SURF by BRADLEY MASON HAMLIN

Posted in Bradley Mason Hamlin on June 16, 2009 by Scot

2008

When I
was a little guy
I lived in the northeast side
of Los Angeles
and sometimes
our family would go to the beach
my brother and I playing
in the waves
body surfing
in the 1960’s clean saltwater

then we moved to Santa Monica
bought those funky Styrofoam boards
paddled out and mostly belly surfed
and wobbled up until a wave
snapped the board in two

then back to Highland Park
learning to fight cholos
& skateboarding always
“sidewalk surfing” Jan Berry
said …

then ditching school
and surfin with “borrowed” boards
from kids who had parents
that could buy luxury items
like surfboards
and brand-name swim trunks
instead of
cutoff blue jeans
and many of them had houses
on the beach

they listened to Van Halen
we listened to Dick Dale
and thought we knew more
about the surf
from the music than
the kids that lived
right on the damned sand

all us 70’s kids from the ghetto
wanted
was
an Annette Funicello beach party
still do,
not interested
in competition
or showing off in the waves
“shreddin’”

we went to punk parties
and drank beer with the Germs,
the Plugz, and the Gears

surfing was fun back then
and the punks that surfed knew
how to chew their bubble gum
and surf at the same time

that’s all the skill
we thought
necessary

but of course
the locals always ruined
our Oscar Myer summers
by making us
kick sand in their faces
for a place in the sun
for a little laughter
at the edge of the world
which we thought
no one owned

except the devils
of creation
and the kids
willing to
ditch their leather jackets
long enough
to fall down in the waves
and believe
in everything
Brian Wilson & the boys
vibed about the
California myth

it didn’t matter
that we weren’t athletes,
or that the seemingly pretty
girls
liked the mainstream assholes
with money more
or that society/fate/alien gods
had somehow
chosen them and not us

we knew
by some strange mutant twist
we had been given the gift
of being
better than them.