Archive for November, 2009

Featured Poet: JASON HARDUNG

Posted in Jason Hardung with tags , on November 12, 2009 by Scot

SECRETS OF THE ANTIQUARIUM

I was nineteen and still believed tn
the mystics walked among us
a guitar could get me laid
and I could control the rotation of the earth
with extreme concentration.
I drove a pick up truck
through trenches in Middle America
was in love with a slut
carried a gun
and partied until the ceiling
spun like a dream sequence
in a Ken Kesey’s home movie.

Gunfighters, junkies and cowboys
became heroes of mine
and love conquered all.
From the bus window I saw Jesus
stifled on billboards
and in the back room of the Antiquarium.
I thought his verse resembled Jim Morrison’s
Horse Latitudes-
and they both did the crucifixion
pose for their head shots.
I wanted to burn out young.
My life would make a great
made for TV special
and Kirk Cameron would play
my teenage years.

Once I was born
sucking on the floppy tit of the beast
fed it until it overcame adversity
killed it and made it holy.

I followed train tracks and miracles
fire on my heels
flowers in my ribs
sun on the horizon-

there was always California
if the bottom fell out.

Veterans Day Anthology–The devil laughs with us

Posted in Rusty Truck echaps with tags , , on November 10, 2009 by Scot

vietnamwall

Click on he wall to view chapbook, then on full screen for best viewing.  Poems by Alan Catlin, S.A Griffin, D.B. Cox, Bradley Mason Hamlin, F.N. Wright, Jack Henry, Raindog, and Scot Young.

Cover art by F.N. Wright.  First appeared in  Piss on the Pope published by Mystery Island.

ONE NIGHT STAY by Howie Good

Posted in Howie Good with tags on November 8, 2009 by Scot

An old man with eyes like dead sparrows
is telling a story at the next table

in the restaurant of the Quality Inn
in Lebanon, Pennsylvania, something

about the price of scrap metal after the war.
Suddenly he lowers his voice. The Jews,

he mutters. My wife and I look at each other.
Meat hooks. Gas chambers.

Our daughter notices. What? she asks.
I shake my head. We finish eating

and go up to our $74-a-night room
and all lie on one bed and watch TV.

The studio audience is laughing.

IT WAS BETTER HE SAID by Lyn Lifshin

Posted in Lyn Lifshin with tags on November 6, 2009 by Scot

than Christmas with
a half naked girl with
tongue down his
throat while the
record stuck on
Elvis’ Blue Christmas.
When he forgot the
language he couldn’t
remember how it
seemed, only how her
leg caught his lips
on the stained sofa
you could smell
ancient sex smells rise
from like fish egg
smell over Orleans
where the sea’s blue
in the mirror was
less blue than her veins

RIPTIDE TWILIGHT ON THE MACARTHUR PLATFORM by Paul Corman Roberts

Posted in Paul Corman Roberts with tags on November 3, 2009 by Scot

I know this brother

……….Even during the big storms the color of the sunset sky
on the platform from ten years ago

……….over California’s coastline at its best
was a little more Rasta back then

……….a crisp and healthy hue of gold
with the serape and the leather cowboy hat

……….with the occasional slash
and the hot and wild hair trying to jump off into the universe

……….of purple and red but never
making him much more Bob Kaufman than ever before

……….with the kinds of profusion
I take great hope in that and he is going to San Francisco

……….like the skies
He is praying and he will be warm

……….while I stare down the crisp, golden green San Francisco skyline
in the Mojave desert at sunset

it’s not that i’m apathetic by Justin Hyde

Posted in Justin Hyde with tags on November 1, 2009 by Scot

read enough world history
from multiple
perspectives.

on top of that

walk around

eyes
pinned open

brain
unfurled:

we’re standing
on a
billion plus
years

of

sifting
change

&

not one drop of
forward
progress:

those with the winchesters
call the shots

those with the megaphones
sometimes manage to get hold
of the winchesters.

but all they do is
raise a different
flag.