Archive for July, 2010

magnum by splake

Posted in Splake with tags on July 30, 2010 by Scot

city limits fading
rearview mirror shadows
easy quiet miles
early morning darkness
memory drifting back
late night years ago
brain-skull cavity numb
cheap old milwaukee suds
holding .357
remembering scary stories
others saying
“violent recoil
smashed the gun in his face”
carefully squeezing trigger
fiery barrel explosion
red line of poetry
aimed toward heaven
killing god
wounding angel or two
scattering milky way
this morning
testing ancient gun
insuring no malfunction
like empty hammer click
moment of truth
when seriously needing
holy ticket to ride
trip to new reality
standing besides brautigan creek
trailhead start to cliffs
aiming at distant trees
“no not now”
fatal ricochet mistake
smith-wesson exploding
earth shaking tremor
poor rock gravel
moving beneath my feet
suddenly head
feeling full of cotton
silently thinking
“eh eh eh
can’t hear anything”
in blurry first dawn
of other writers
alone and unloved
lost in mind-fuck depression
also knowing
when words vanish
nothing else remains
except final goodbye
existential poetic adieu
randall jarrell
walking into car
north carolina highway
weldon kees
leaping off
san francisco
golden gate bridge
lew welch
leaving gary snyder’s cabin
california mountains
with 30-30 rifle
body never found
brother brautigan rotting
bolinas west coast apartment
now trout fishing
absaroka mists
dreaming of ianthe
watermelon sugars
old papa hem
dazed vacant stare
sawtooth mountains too close
toes in shotgun triggers
young beloved adriana
patiently waiting
somewhere across the river
david foster wallace
putting rope around his neck
hanging himself
while faithful canine companions
“bella” and “warner”
not understanding
truth finally setting him free
my .357 magic
warm and smoky
field tested
ready to go
passing single bullet agony
hot violent end
some time
not far away
when failure and decay
reach beyond my life
erasing new poem

Uncle Sam (MIA) by Bradley Mason Hamlin

Posted in Bradley Mason Hamlin with tags on July 26, 2010 by Scot

It’s simple, Sam
I’m sorry, I blamed you
but it wasn’t your fault
never was
it’s you we’ve needed
all along
not the people
that hijacked you
long ago
you’ve been
missing in action
so many years
kept in a dungeon
with mind control aliens
and the holy grail
no doubt
gone so damn long
that the real Americans
have almost forgotten your face
but I’ll tell you this
the Enemy
cannot control all the people
all the time
if we believe we are slaves
slaves we will be
and simple-minded
so, maybe it’s time
to raise
the counter clockwise voodoo
wipe the mystic mud from our eyes
turn to the mirror
take the first real look
at ourselves
and say
I’m coming home to get you
you’ve been patiently bleeding
I know,
and I’m sorry
I’m so goddamned sorry
we left you behind
but somewhere
I know you’re still alive
maybe you’ve been beaten
bullied and buggered
but hold on, Sammy baby
I feel the first honest war
taking a breath
as more minds shake off
the invisible drug
of the Old Bastards
we will form a new indivisible
psychic link
that cannot be controlled
or broken by bad men
eyes will open
the butcher
will hesitate over his meat
the secretary will stop typing
the ball player
will follow his motion
to a new thought
the artist
will paint something new
that speaks
to the original cause
they will cast away the chains
just like that
and take up the axe
and this new battle will be fought
to the last living breath
for truth, justice, freedom
and the undeniable American way.

Gene and Celia’s Wedding Pictures by Lawrence Gladeview

Posted in Lawrence Gladeview with tags on July 25, 2010 by Scot

grand pop
(retired fbi agent)
acquired the

the uncles
(schlitz connoisseurs)
piled into the
caprice and took
a ride

the photographer’s wife
(ceramic clown collector)
extended her limbs
to protect her
prized curio

the photographer
(con-artist jerk-off)
produced the
paid for never delivered
proofs and prints.

FUNERAL NOTES  by Judy Shepps Battle

Posted in Judy Shepps Battle with tags on July 20, 2010 by Scot

I died tomorrow           but was
resurrected yesterday
in jail (my own)
in health (who’s definition?)
in hope (fear and gentle prayer)
I died today
looking at yesterday and
living tomorrow.

Night came to Milwaukee
I didn’t see it                I was
dead and didn’t know it
Milwaukee was stoned and
ignored me.

Christ is a rugged man
lugs a rugged cross and
passes through Milwaukee

LITTER by Russell Streur

Posted in Russell Streur with tags , on July 18, 2010 by Scot

Today I’m going to litter
Spill the rubbish on the curb
Take the morning lies
Tear each page in half
And throw away the red shirts and the Hezbollah
And throw away the juntas and the monks

Today I’m going to litter
Let the gutter pay my water bill
Drop my dollars in the park
For the minstrels and the tramps
And throw away the euro and the yen
And throw away the Wall Street thieves

Today I’m going to litter
Shred my voter registration card
Give the pieces to the wind
And throw away the candidates
And throw away the spin machines
And throw away the wiretaps and secret courts

Today I’m going to litter
Take my car
For one last drive
Toss the miles out the window with the maps
And throw away the rear view mirror
And throw away the license plates

Find one last freeway out of here
And throw away the keys.

Staying Together for the Kids by Alarie Tennille

Posted in Alarie Tennille on July 15, 2010 by Scot

For months I dream
of visiting my parents.
The air is not choked

with cigarette smoke, not
charged with recrimination.
No one is hung over.

We laugh, talk, play cards.
We part on good terms.
The next time I take a friend.

“I thought you were dead,”
my friend says.
“We are,” they answer.

“We’re allowed to come back
18 times to help the living,”
explains Mama.

Daddy says, “Sheesh,
I’ve already been back
more than that.”

Roll Another One by Carter Monroe

Posted in Carter Monroe with tags on July 11, 2010 by Scot

Driving to Arabia by Timothy Pettet

Posted in Timothy Pettet with tags on July 9, 2010 by Scot

A cotter pin is missing,
and three wheels wobble
on my red Radio Flyer.

My fingers wrap
the semi-circular grip
on a handle that rises
from an axle that binds
on all but the widest of turns.

and those trees
with five-pointed, star-shaped leaves
line the street. Trees
I have never seen
border the road. The dots
and dashes of a firefly hatch
expose a code for particle and wave
along a stretch depleted of trees.

They quote an ancient one.
East, they say – Arabia,
Mesopotamia,  and a map of Cathay.

At a Rest Stop

The mile
is a trick imposed
by the Romans. Distance
is an illusion composed
of mathematics, imagination,
and word.

At a Truck Stop

Half-way to Denver, an exit
opens a parenthesis (piss
rhymes with bliss, and I desire
a second opinion
on the span of ring finger to thumb,
sacred spot to ecstatic hub,
and the purple that curls
after white
blooms behind the eye.

I hear country music. I need
a new rhyme.) The curve
of an entrance ramp
brings my parenthesis to a close.

In My Red Radio Flyer

Fueled by the hum of melodies,
many words forgotten,

I deliver fragrant oils
harvested from an island
in a perfumed sea.

I hear lyrics
voiced by a mouth
insinuated by a cloud.

I witness faces in the bark
on both sides
of a slender, Arabian tree.

The Bitch is Talking by Debbie Kirk

Posted in Debbie Kirk with tags on July 8, 2010 by Scot

Lately, I’ve been struggling with my own

I spend time wondering if the
Or absence
Of a chromosome
Can make me think
That I’m entitled to Ben and Jerry’s at 3 in the morning
And I’m too high to drive
Don’t you love me?

People often describe me as “blunt”
Which is just a less ugly way to say bitch

Where most people avoid confrontations
At all costs
I seek them out
As I love to look into hell
And exorcise one more demon

I push the envelope
My luck
And my partner into an early

And my fucking temper
Addicted to Rageamahol
Waking up
Praying for a fight

And then when I’m riding on the bus
I remember it’s only in my head

I never felt comfortable wearing a dress
Every since puberty when my whiskey breathe
Helped himself

Yet people also see something feminine in me
That I don’t see

My own mockingbird
Singing black and blue

And I’d prefer to just be called
Or invisible

But the sun is sitting on my balcony now
Offering one last look

But in this real world
The sun wouldn’t hang ‘round me
I’m pretty sure this all started
From looking into the sun anyway….

The Oil Spill Poems

Posted in Uncategorized on July 5, 2010 by Scot

Featuring the work of Charles Plymell, Rebecca Schumejda, Alan Catlin, Russell Streur, Hugh Fox, J.L. Cloyd, Michelle Pond, Sharon Warden, and Eric Burke.