Rusty Typer Submissions

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in a word doc.

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It’s Just Not Interesting by Daniel Crocker

You’re drunk
I told you not to come
over here if you were
drunk

I came over anyway

Get out
you have to go
you’ve disappointed me
one too many times

Okay I’m going

Don’t go
I don’t want you to go
I just don’t know why
you drink so much

I’m a drinker

I don’t like it
it upsets me

She gets in bed
and starts reading
Don Delillo

She’s naked

It’s just not interesting
all that drinking

and I think
my god
this girl
naked in bed
with the body she has
those beautiful tits
that pussy
and she’s reading
Don Delillo

It doesn’t make you attractive

I say you’d be surprised
how many chicks dig it

She says this guy is brilliant
and buries her nose in the book

She likes Don Delillo
I like titties
I sense a problem here
like maybe this isn’t going
to work out

but I’ve not been put through the
ringer in awhile,
so I go with it.

It could be interesting.

It’s Just Not Interesting by Daniel Crocker

You’re drunk
I told you not to come
over here if you were
drunk

I came over anyway

Get out
you have to go
you’ve disappointed me
one too many times

Okay I’m going

Don’t go
I don’t want you to go
I just don’t know why
you drink so much

I’m a drinker

I don’t like it
it upsets me

She gets in bed
and starts reading
Don Delillo

She’s naked

It’s just not interesting
all that drinking

and I think
my god
this girl
naked in bed
with the body she has
those beautiful tits
that pussy
and she’s reading
Don Delillo

It doesn’t make you attractive

I say you’d be surprised
how many chicks dig it

She says this guy is brilliant
and buries her nose in the book

She likes Don Delillo
I like titties
I sense a problem here
like maybe this isn’t going
to work out

but I’ve not been put through the
ringer in awhile,
so I go with it.

It could be interesting.

G.I. Cocktail by Chris Butler

He swallows his pain
with a prescription bottle filling handfuls of pills
into a shaking hand,

welcoming hell with a hello
and an unconscious wave from the darkness,

but he awakes to an asphyxiating elixir
pumped through the uneasy queasiness of his

choking esophagus to bypass his gastro-intestinal
tract in the form of a chalky concoction,

forced-fed to him through a tube from a
disheveled orderly dressed in bloodied scrubs,

as he lies as a wounded soldier in a losing war.

Lunch at the Castle by Henry Denander

Every summer when I was a young boy we stayed in our summer house in the countryside outside Eskilstuna, a wonderful place for children, with a nice, long sandy beach not far from our cottage. Near the beach there was also an old castle, an enormous building, a huge house all in white where once the Swedish prince Eugen had lived. It was now also a restaurant and a museum.

Charles Plymell on Charles Plymell (part 5)

I became friends with a person through poetry circles who read in little newspapers that Huncke and Bremser and I read at a famous punk club on the corner in D.C. I also read at the Shakespeare Library and then introduced Ginsberg at a larger reading he gave in the Shakespeare Library.  I had applied for a NEA fellowship in poetry that year for the work that would eventually be published by Kulchur Foundation, NYC, in my book titled: Trashing of America. About a year later, I received a phone call from the NEA and thought I had finally got my grant after applying all these years. But the person on the other end asked me if I wanted to introduce William Burroughs and Allen Ginsberg for their upcoming appearance in D C. I politely declined.

Two Poems by Harry Calhoun

Early morning, just rising

It’s fall and tiny acorns crackle underfoot
as you trudge to retrieve the morning paper.
They crunch like cooled leftover embers
in the fireplace, backbeat to that old

Grateful Dead song sliding through your head.
And the train whistle, doing what it does —
imagine the engineer, out there creating that
at this time of the morning — and anyway,

I acknowledge that I am blessed today
to be regaled with these sensations, to feel the crunch
beneath my feet, to hear the happy random railroad
whistle bloom, to rise to this, the spectacular

everyday that it today, tonight and tomorrow,
pulled down from the canopy of sky
by the simple handshake of a train whistle,
soul caught up in its motion, its eye, its storm.

____________________

Another girl I wrote poems for: a true story

it was years ago   I was an undergrad or maybe
a dropout
I alternated during what I called
the happiest decade of my life

and Lisa was the latest
in a series of passionate but doomed
relationships

smart  lusty  and busty
with a wild streak that was
maybe two-thirds of her personality

and one evening just at dusk we were walking
half-loaded or somewhere beyond
and suddenly Lisa said, “Look at that butterfly,
it’s following you wherever you go.”

and sure as hell, over my left shoulder
was this big yellow butterfly
fluttering — is there any other word for what they do? —
around my head.

And I still don’t know
what made me do it but I turned
and raised my outstretched right palm
and said, “Look, it knows I’m

a poet.” And the beautiful creature
obligingly landed right on my palm
and stayed there until I shooed it away.
Lisa was awestruck

I can’t remember whether I got lucky that night
but I sure got lucky when the butterfly
and my palm collided
in some universal fluke

and made me look like a genius

and a sensitive guy

sherwin-williams by Carl Miller Daniels

in some parts of the country, it’s
a homeowner’s tradition: everything in
the yard (except
the grass itself) gets painted white:
every rock, every birdbath, every
busty concrete mermaid statue,
even the lower 3.5 feet
of every tree trunk–all painted white.
**
at night, there’s kind of an eerie
glow from all that white paint.
**
at night, there’s
just the hint that maybe the
practice of painting everything
in the yard white is kind
of charming and weirdly nice, like
the people who do all that painting
know what the heck it is they are doing.
those yards do look kind of inviting
now don’t they…
**
in fact,
**
sometimes,
sexy teenage boys escape from
their bedrooms and
naked smoke and drink
beside white rocks and
lower 3.5 feet of white tree trunks.
sometimes these sexy
naked teenage boys get smoke-drunk
and erotic-happy and
jerk off together, out there
in some unsuspecting yard,
amongst all the white
objects: then,
all done,
wander nocturnal neighborhoods
on tiptoe, on delicate hoof, among
the white rocks;
only the
dribbles give them away.

Two Poems by (the) David Smith

IF I HAD A CLIT

after Kathy Acker & William Carlos Williams

If I had a clit,
I would probably pierce it.
Hell, I would probably pierce it twice,
one for the button and one for the hood,
the metal pearls beating against each other,
with a Morse Code not known since Eden.

I would buy a vintage motorcycle,
a big one, like a Triumph Thunderbird
& ride it around town all day,
in all kinds of weather,
even the most violent,
guaranteeing lightening orgasms,
thunderous satisfaction.

If I had a clit,
I would share it with everyone.

It would feel good to me.
It would feel good
to me. It would feel
good to me.

_____________________

WHY I LOVED WORKING AT DISNEYLAND
After Emily Dickinson

Because every evening at the end of his shift,
Goofy would glide razor cool
into the employee locker room,
an Aston Martin rolling to a magnificent stop,
twist-off his head
& with great ceremony
light-up a Marlboro,
exhaling a garden of clean blue smoke;
like a pharaoh exercising bright logic,
contemplating the history of sin
on the Tokyo subway,
as silent as a mirror
dwelling in possibility.

© d.smith, 2010

Eat Not Thy Mind Reviewed by Gerard Malanga

EAT NOT THY MIND
Charles Plymell
Glass Eye Books / Ecstatic Peace Library

by Gerard Malanga

Right from the get-go, Charles Plymell gets off the first shot in a spree of rhythmic vibrations in “The Theory of Wounded Dust” that betters even Ginsberg’s early thrusts.  And so Eat Not Thy Mind is a modest display in size only (29 poems packed into 34 pages), filled with BIG cautionary tales of doom and destruction and memories of planet Earth the way it used to be in more innocent times with waves of glowing wheat stretching as far as the crow flies in those dreams of Kansas.  I read this cozy little book cover to cover aloud to Ravel’s soothing “Gaspard de la Nuit” like in some scopitone flurry as if looking out a car window with Charley at the steering-wheel.