Archive for November, 2010

Two Poems by David LaBounty

Posted in David LaBounty with tags on November 19, 2010 by Scot

America

America
today
you are
grilled meat
and hand
shakes

today
you are
egalitarian
blue skies
and
cold
forgiving
beer

today
you are
the air-
conditioned
Cadillac
idling
at the
light

today
you are
the middle
aged woman
at the
Laundromat
with varicose
veins and
blue jean
shorts

today
you
are the
man
who lives
at the
corner
of
Clarkston
and
Lapeer
his bike
overloaded
with blankets
and
plastic
bags

today
you are
this and
a thousand
other
tree
and
flag-lined
streets

waiting

for another
forgetful
parade

____________

a concern

please
put
the
mercy
bird
back
in its’
cage

I don’t
want
it to
swallow
the
poems
I’ve been
leaving
behind

poems like
bread crumbs

poems
that I’ve
scattered
along
the
path that
leads to
the
near side
of
heaven

Letter To The American Conservative by Craig Firsdon

Posted in Craig Firsdon with tags on November 14, 2010 by Scot

I remember the days
when logic superceded
greed and power.

Now, instead of needy children
we adopt the highways
we’ve littered with inattention,
Bury them in freshly printed greens
and watch our printing presses smoke
themselves to an emphazema death
as we all abstain
only as long as the moment lasts.

With the focus of a five year old
high on prescription speed
we soon forget abstinence
and chase the first fox we see.
Its the chase, they say,
that makes the foreplay sweeter.

Chemically induced erections
and silicone inflated breasts
sliding on skin covered in
trans-hydrogenated fat
slowly heating our oceans
and sea-to-shining-seas.

Today the news said maybe
we will or will not
prosecute the murderers
lounging on our blackened beaches
in Versace and Valentino
writing memoirs to their greatness.

I know you understand me,
I can hear you scream “Socialist!”
just fine.

The next time we are out
and your logic asks me to pick up the tab
just remember I voted for
the black guy with a big smile.
This “socialist” is not giving you a dime.

The Punk In Ti Vo, The Punk in Me by Dennis Mahagin

Posted in Dennis Mahagin with tags on November 14, 2010 by Scot

I told
the punk in me
to turn down
the TV,
and he
answered me
so pseudo
insouciantly,
something
about
parallel ID’s
and temporal
fluidity, courtesy
of Discovery
channel and 2
much Ecstasy.
so I locked up
his mercury
eyeballs with
mine,
shoved my
finger down
his throat,
took him back
in Time,
I beat his punk ass
for not listening to
me …
then said
to get ahead,
it’s OK, hock
my TV.

Two Poems by Kyle Hemmings

Posted in Kyle Hemmings with tags on November 14, 2010 by Scot

When the Circus Came to Town

My absentminded father would sometimes
forget me at the circus. Scared, I became distracted
by the elephants, who never lost their way.
One time a camel broke from the line
& ate from someone’s bucket of popcorn.
That camel stole the show
& in my laughter I forgot
that my father and I were still separated.

& if love is like a circus,
that clever camel has become the silence
at the other end of my wife’s cell phone,
stealing the only item on my bucket list
& I won’t parachute into a desert
all alone.

from The Pocket Guide to Existentialism for Travelers

It’s not true that everything settles at death.
mummies under mud, how we disappear like rain.

You left me with four frozen food dinners
of shrimp & scallop linguini, three bottles

of apple cider brine. I must learn to make
pancakes from scratch. Vegetables are a cinch.

Your mother’s lime futon, with its jute webbing
&  flax twine, is sturdy enough for garage sales.

& there’s a boy here whom you left behind. The one
with cool blue eyes, marble-still, the carnivorous love

of a spider conch. He sits in your  favorite spot on the sofa.
No longer remembering me, he forgets where you are

Haiku by Scott Owens

Posted in Scott Owens with tags on November 7, 2010 by Scot

yellow porch light
illuminating darkness
swirl of candle bats

________________

wildflowers in bloom
the tractor stops a moment
then plows them under

________________

dressed in flannel
autumn maples before
they turn to grunge
________________

council of crows
dead on the road
poor choice of venue
________________

whippoorwill, cricket,
howling dog, screech owl,
quiet country night
________________

grandfather
strops the much-stropped edge
racing blowflies
________________

mountain shadow
fiddle music
sings through the trees

A Day in the Life (November, 1963) by Ben Rasnic

Posted in Ben Rasnic with tags on November 7, 2010 by Scot

A typical Friday for the fourth-grade,
just turned nine, just returning
from a recess of marbles and tag

when one of my classmate’s mother,
hooked on valium and “As the World Turns”
delivered the news to our classroom
that Walter Cronkite had just delivered
to the world—
“President Kennedy is dead”

And for a moment the world
seemed to freeze on its axis
and on the faces of my classmates,
white and puffy as cauliflower
with shocked red weeping eyes.

That’s when the Principal bolted in
helter skelter and ordered the familiar
fallout drill–cowering beneath
rickety wooden desks
as if that would shield us,

as if Russian-made nuclear-tipped
ballistic missiles were no more lethal
than water balloons or the paper wads
from rubber band sling shots
we loved to launch against each other,

the insanity of which
mirrored by the actions of a lone
gunman crouched from the 3rd floor window
of the Texas School Book Depository

or the shadowy figures lurking
under cover of gun smoke clouds
permanently grazing
the grassy knoll.

Charles Plymell on Charles Plymell (part 6)

Posted in charles plymell on November 7, 2010 by Scot

We were driving through my home state of Kansas when I suggested we visit long- time friends, William S. Burroughs and James Grauerholz.  After dinner, Mr. Burroughs signed a copy of his book for my son and asked him about Missoula and talked about how his father used to take him fishing up there. I told him I had gotten the dorm bug when against my better judgment we had stayed at the dorm that was emptying, and I had come down ill. After he signed the book, he said, “and I have something for you” and went to his medicine


Burroughs, Plymell, Grauerholz
Continue reading