Archive for April, 2010

Two Poems by David Smith

Posted in David Smith with tags on April 14, 2010 by Scot


Flying home on the red-eye
pre-Sabbath, the end-stage
of a dry-eyed family funeral
for an old girl-friend,
stinging from the rabbinic ballistics,
the ancient ritual, all mournful chants,
still lips and low guttural moans,
not one single moment of lightness or joy,
a true orthodox affair.

A Sandra Bullock movie
plays on the in-flight monitor.
I wave-off the attendant’s offer
to buy a set of tinny ear buds for $7.00,
& watch the film in silence,
it is much more enjoyable that way.

During the scene where Sandra
is lying on her death-bed
from the King Kong
of ovarian cancers
(I think)
a half-smoked Winston
resting between her lips,
abandoned in her delicate nature,
I weep more than a child,
more than all of Rimbaud’s
children of the entire world.


After Tetsumi Kudo and Pablo Picasso

Watching you sleep, face turned toward the sun,
your body wrapped in several fantastic angles,
splayed-out across the vastness of this huge bed
in the best hotel room of a sacred foreign city,
looking for all the world
like the kind of tree
I might encounter in a dream.

You are a beautiful refuge,
Ana Mandara,
like the history of sin
on the Tokyo subway,
like the joy
of winter flowers,
throwing question
to my night-dark world view
of every man for himself
and god against all.

I reach over,
flick one of Lear’s gilded flies
off your golden shoulder.
In my life
you did things first,
while those who may follow
will do things pretty.

© d.smith, 2010

Rusty Truck Issue 2

Posted in Uncategorized with tags on April 11, 2010 by Scot

Deadline April 15–

submit 3 poems to


Posted in Hugh Fox with tags on April 11, 2010 by Scot

Why does the collection of my dead always come back now,
some places still a glorious blend of yellows and reds, others j
just black trunks and empty limbs in the last November rain, just on
the edge of snow?
“Howya doin’, Hughie?”
Bespeckled, swollen-legged, practical black-shoed Gram, or
mon mere, “Will you please pass the sugar,” making
it sound like “Fire!,” mon pere, Mr. Double-Belly,sucking
on a cigarette or (special occasions) cigar, turkey all over
the tables in my brain, and trees going up, wreathes, Bless
me, Father, for I have, God rest you merry gentlemen…wanting
Mary Joan and Shirley and Guiliana and Patricia and Dolores
and Shirley all back,Lynn coming in the midnight door to
spend the night in my high-heaven hallucinogenic dreams,
the Chicago-LA-NYC-Boston-Paris-BC streets
and desire sun-shining, moon-shining over me twenty four
hours a day.

Re: Albert Huffstickler

Posted in Uncategorized with tags on April 9, 2010 by Scot

Hello everyone,

Perhaps I’ve written you about this before–and perhaps you’ve even sent letters to the city council. There is a proposal before the Austin city council to name a park after small press giant Albert Huffstickler. Below is a link to email the council is support of it. The vote will be held April 22nd…so send this to any and every fan of the small press you know, and especially anyone who has even been moved by Huff’s work. If you’ve never read his work, do yourself a favor and look him up. He was superb.

Take a moment, shoot them a quick email, and tell them you support the park being named after Huff–and re-post the link at blogs and whatnot so other folks can do the same!

Let’s let them know poetry still matters,

the greatest generation goes to war by Scot Young

Posted in Scot Young with tags on April 7, 2010 by Scot

–for dad


tom brokaw said you were from the
greatest generation but you went 4F
instead of being inducted with yr brothers
instead of storming the beach at normandy…
the army said not acceptable for military service
you were not good enough
to be first to die when they dropped the ramp

the greatest generation didn’t talk about the war
and your stories were never discussed
you disappeared for weeks on induction day
never dropped the ramp to hit the beach
or ever stopped to let others aboard
but spent next 50 odd years going 4F
drowning in the land of sky blue waters
most days after work wrapping
yourself around a can or bottle
trying to forget or was it
to remember?

every other saturday we would get a haircut
at joe’s & stop in at the hangout bar  for a couple
you sat at the table when you had me
go along—wasn’t right for a kid
to sit at a bar you’d say…
at age seven I asked you once
daddy what did you do in the war?
you swirled your beer in the glass
those blue eyes narrowed
looking right through me
drank it down
ordered another
asked me if i wanted another coke…
and don’t tell your mother
we were here

they say you never ask
the greatest generation about the war
the ones that made it back will take
the stories to their grave
the ones that never made it
will do the same
every single day

Shop Front Blues by Vincent James Turner

Posted in Vincent James Turner with tags on April 5, 2010 by Scot

Beneath star and sky I dreamt of you.
Beneath a yawning sun I awoke,
cuddling the cold. The sky was not yet blue.

It was you but before his death. Not yet had
it sucked the living out of you. There was
hope in your eyes, your lips were not cracked.

You were only meant to pop out for smokes
you were to return, help with my spelling,
then tuck me up. They found me eating uncooked cake.

The neighbour had called them, I’ forget about
the neighbour. You’d always call him nosy.
he had called the police, saying there was no doubt

something was amiss-I’d been at the window for
something like four days and nights, waiting
as you might have done during my teenage years.

They took me to the station, gave me chocolate and coke,
they were kind, too kind, and I knew then, sitting
in the sergeants chair- you were never coming back.

Burn and Turn by M.P. Powers

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

my dad stinks like money
not because he has any
he’s been underwater
since the mid 80s

spent the early 90s in a cell
ran four successive businesses
into the dirt, and let me tell
you, there’s no salvation in fried
chicken S & L’s beepers

not even my credit
cards – the ones
even I didn’t know he’d
pillaged – could save him

sixtyeight years old,
collars armpits pantlegs
mind stinking of it;
even his farts remind me of cash
that disgraceful
game he’s never grown
tired of

every weekend slipping
on his rolex and gold band
to make the people think things
that are not true
making his way down to the isles

for another chance
and the little bit he has left –
poor dad,
holding out and holding on
to a frayed piece of dangling

his dignity

Going Mobile by John Burroughs

Posted in John Burroughs with tags on April 1, 2010 by Scot

a title as redundant as I sometimes feel

Often I feel I
most everything I do or say –
other times I feel I don’t
think enough
or am thoughtless –
sometimes I feel I’m doing
or not doing
both simultaneously.

It’s enough to render me immobile
like the main man in John
Barth’s The End of the Road.

That’s when by sheer force of will,
whether it’s a waste
of energy
and time
or not,
I make myself remain mobile –
at least in
this three ring
gerbil wheel circus –
because I feel
if I’m not
doing something
I might as well