Archive for February, 2011

HOLY WOOD by Michael Thompson

Posted in Michael Thompson with tags on February 20, 2011 by Scot

Fear gripped a pig society
From the valleys to the canyons
And the love generation
Came to a screeching halt
In the summer of ‘69
As the fault line
That runs through Holy Wood
Was exposed like a raw nerve

The sound of flies swarming
Onto decaying bones
Of an actress, an heiress,
A gambler and candy man
Fueled an apocalyptical vision
As revolution number nine festered

Messages for the cops
Were scrawled in blood
From the lost and aimless
Who peeked over the edge
Of the fire
High on bad religion
And orange sunshine

Gilded idols were torn
From their pedestals
And a subculture
Of polygamous sex
Was thrown into
An unwanted spotlight

When the fringe groups
Began to get ugly
In the city of love,
A misguided legion
Was led down to Holy Wood
For a day of reckoning

Posted in Uncategorized on February 14, 2011 by Scot

The Man Cave featuring Frank Reardon

Posted in Frank Reardon, Man Cave with tags , on February 13, 2011 by Scot

RIDING IN A CAR WITH S.A. GRIFFIN

everything
was
closed up
when he
swerved
& weaved
between
the cars
with his
old brown
Volvo,

my hands,
gripping the
‘ Jesus Christ Handles”,
in total panic
&
holding
it all in,

then he
stepped
on the
gas
& everything
opened
up,

like
canned
sunshine

laughter,

finally .

______________________

Falling Down Hills In Kansas (for John Dorsey)

i remember it here & there
drinking those dark mysteries
like children in water balloon play
who scored smiles from underneath
those pimp-hats of     oblivion,

i felt it like a string of Christmas lights,
with their rapid succession of changing moods

until
the great composer
cried with only one hand over his face,
because the other one
was too busy strangling
the hearts of the weak,

& we drank Christ off the cross
until Revelations made sense,

until our throats
our veins
our hearts

began to feel like an empty house
with a lost bird inside
banging against the glass
of a locked window

________________________

WEAR YOUR MISTRESS LIKE A BADGE

being alone
is not
the absence
of another
person,

it is
a badge
of honor,

given to
us by
the gods,

but you’ve
got to know
how to
treat it
properly

you’ve got
to play
it music,
pour it
French wine,

light its
cigarettes,
lay around
on the couch
all day
with it,

cry into the
darkness of
the void
with it
write to it
without fear
of death,

& when
you need to
speak,
respect its
wishes,
& slam the door
while screaming
because
it
might not
ever want
to come
back
to you

again.
_____________________________

GO 15 WITH THE TYPEWRITER BEFORE THE GODS RING THE BELL

it wont smile at you
before landing a haymaker
so keep on your guard,
keep the gloves up at your chin,
& learn how to counter
with all of your might,
wisdom & courage,
if you don’t
you’ll never be able
to go toe to toe with
it,
because it dances the mat
with a mighty fury,
jabbing,
crossing,
hooking,
leaving you bloody
& lifeless,
but if you wanna go toe to toe
with it
have a lot of stamina
because if
you can keep up
you’ll be dipping & punching
with concertos,
weaving & uppercutting
with the heavens,
& when it goes down
for the count
it will be
because you
landed the most
beautiful punches
you’ve ever
thrown…

________________________

EARN YOUR STRIPES IF YOU WANNA SWALLOW THE EARTH

People
tell me
that I am
lucky,

because
I am 36
& without
much
responsibility

they say
that
I just
bitch,
moan
& write
all day

what
they refuse
to understand
is the massive
amounts
of wars,
madness
& loneliness
I’ve had to
go through
to get to
that point

& that alone
should be
the most
responsibility
any human
should ever
have to
deal with.

Poetry of ML Heath

Posted in ML Heath, VIDEOS on February 10, 2011 by Scot

Upside-Down by Carol Lynn Grellas

Posted in Carol Lynn Grellas with tags on February 10, 2011 by Scot

Upside-down, the pill bug
appears to be long gone…
but who knows, he could be

dreaming of last night’s
escapades, or under the spell
of too many cocktails thrown

back in a flurry of depression,
one after the next in hopes
of drowning his rollie-pollie

sorrows. Poor thing, I know
what it is to fold up into
a ball and make yourself small

again, within the boney amour
of skeletal support, and just
when you think you’ve

managed to hide deep inside
your own makeshift-womb
disappearing in whatever

heartache you’re wallowing in
at the time, there’s some asshole
standing by, ready to poke you

in the soft spot of your stomach,
rousing you from your deep
slumber, just to make sure you’re still

breathing, the way a new
mother might check an infant
in the middle of a sound sleep─

except it’s not your mother
and you don’t want to wake up.

POEM FOR ALEXSEY DAYEN by A.D. Winans

Posted in A.D. Winans with tags on February 6, 2011 by Scot

(12-25-10)

the drums beat slowly
the angels march in step
like a Chinatown funeral march
a new Orleans jazz tribute
sending you  off on a new voyage
like the Vikings of old

the drums beat slowly
echo loud across the universe
where Kaufman and Micheline
await you with drinks in hand

the drums beat slowly for
the prince of New York and Moscow
the drums beat slowly serenade
the heartbeat of saddened friends

bells toll in mourning
guitars play in the streets of Russia
wailing saxophones sing their song
in the streets of New York

your poems your children clothed
in memories
the dark clouds a candle that
Cannot be blown out

deep in the forest of the mind
flowers bloom forever and beyond
where friends wait to walk with you again

the drums will beat forever
my friend
in the heart in the brain in the head
where poems embrace the dead

your eternal light a butterfly
spreads its wings heaven bound
cosmic dust waiting
to be reborn

Rusty by RD Armstrong

Posted in RD Armstrong with tags on February 6, 2011 by Scot


Back in ‘74
When I was just
Starting out in
Construction
I met an old guy
Who had been
Pretty much broken
Down by the trade
He was a character in
His fifties with
A hand-tooled belt
That said “Rusty” across
The back side
He was kinda boozy and
Rough around the edges
But he was willing to
Clean lumber – pulling nails etc
For practically nothing
So my boss Carl
Hired him
With a warning
“No drinking on the job”
Well try as he might
The old guy just
Couldn’t function
Without at least a
Long pull every
Couple of hours
So after about a week
He was gone

I hadn’t thought of him
Much until today when I
Was wondering what
I was gonna do to
Make ends meet
Now that I’m sixty
And I remembered
That belt with the word
Rusty across the back

An old joke with
A new punch-line

Two Poems by Karl Koweski

Posted in Karl Koweski with tags on February 6, 2011 by Scot

bones inscribed with the language of adoration

eyes all around me
like collapsed stars
black hole vortexes
allowing nothing to escape
until you arrived with
all the rapture of
a new mythology
the twin suns of your eyes
offers my only illumination
your eyes harbor
the solitary warmth
caressing my skin
your eyes inspire worship
if faith moves mountains
my love can shatter them
I would build pyramids
from the rubble
two hundred ton monoliths
stacked a mile high
so I might rise up
and scorch away my flesh
with the heat of our lust
leaving behind this
fused skeleton
bones inscribed with
the language of adoration
as a testament
to your divinity

_____________________

 

a shiny silver piece of you

I find your earring behind
the passenger seat
this shiny silver piece of you
dislodged the night before
this shiny silver piece of you
inside you as once
I was inside you

I find your face in my mind
framed with black sunshine
this shadow memory of you
nestled in my embrace
this shadow memory of you
will you remember
as long as I will?