Archive for April, 2011

Featured Poet–Hosho McCreesh

Posted in Uncategorized with tags on April 25, 2011 by Scot


Walking into work the other day
a co-worker told me,
“Hosh, there’s a sucker
on your desk,”
and I said, “Man,
there’s a sucker
at my desk


But I wasn’t
And maybe we’re fools,
getting up,
day after day,
hoping the world
might bring us something
new and different,
might bring us something
less drab,
less rote,
less lifeless.

Fair enough,
I can accept that.

But, then, the world must accept
that after so many of its
torturous afternoons,
after so many hours
lost to the drudge,
lost to the slaughter
and the lash,
we really have
no choice
but to
into the dark, warm arms
of a dirty old bar,
and sit for
a few
sit and regroup,
sit and maybe even
find ourselves

Yes, we’ll take
whatever’s on special, and
we’ll punch a few sad songs
into the juke, and we’ll
remember the magic
of an afternoon
our heads
the slightest hint of
a grin on our long,
dumb faces,
and happy enough
to be back
among all the

Yes, There’s My Bellyaching,
Yes, There’s My Poems,
Still it’s Better to Assume
We’ll Get, From This Life,
No More Than This…

Folks who know
will probably tell you
that I’m not shy about
my disappointment,

too sad sometimes, sure,

& that I usually expect
both too much, &,
at the same time,
to be let down.

But, at this point,
sitting with the woman I love,
the dogs up on the couch too,
being happy in just that,
going nowhere & doing nothing,
just being together & fully alive
in an otherwise nondescript moment,
blaming no one,
asking nothing more than
maybe a little good news,
or poem by a terrific writer
no one knows or reads yet,
is nothing short of a

No sinister distraction
to unquiet our minds,
nothing we’re better off ignoring,
& I say to you, honestly now,
that even if this is the best we get,
if this is paradise, & all there is,

it’s worth it.


Most Days I Am Content
Thinking of the Sun,
& How it Will Someday
Devour This

& that all evidence
of our treachery,
of all we’ve squandered
will vanish in a smirking,
& cataclysmic

But today
I wrote a few things
I’m happy with,
and I finished a painting
for an old friend,
and my woman & I
had a nice dinner,
some overpriced wine,
& some silly laughs,
& later I drove home in the
black & quivering winter night
listening to Nick Drake,
& it’s a day like today
that becomes such an
unexpected tragedy
when eradicated,
when lost and scattered
about the

Yes, a day like today
drags us back from that
fiery, collapsing edge;
it saves something
of us that is
both vital &

Yes, a day like today
is a hard & beautiful thing
to lose
to that


an interview with Hosho– click here

His home page

Poetry of A.D. Winans

Posted in A.D. Winans with tags on April 18, 2011 by Scot


During Air Base Defense training
The DI took us on a field exercise
Bagged a rabbit
Took out his survival knife
And slit it up the middle
Slid his hand inside
And came out with its guts
Then drank of the blood
Smiling as he said:
“It makes a man of you.”
Two, three others jumped right in
As others screamed in joy
Or agony
One leaving his breakfast
On the ground
The beginning of 13 weeks of hell

The day we graduated
We wore the smell of death
Like a whore’s sweet perfume


During introduction
We were given a survey
To fill out
And asked some questions
By the DI
About our religious affiliation

When the Sergeant asked me
What religion I was
I answered Protestant
And when he asked what denomination
I was
I answered Protestant
Not being up on religion that much

The sergeant didn’t like my response
I think he thought
I was a wise-ass
He asked again what denomination I was
And I responded in a like manner
Until I found myself taken
To the company barracks
By a pimply faced corporal
With a demented smile on his face

Once there I was made to strip down
To my shorts
And ordered to sit down
On a straight-back chair
While the two men proceeded
To use me for batting practice
Asking the same damn question
Over and over again
And my response was always
The same

Finally they grew tired of the game
And told me I could get dressed
That they would put down atheist
And why didn’t I just say so
In the first place
And save everyone the trouble



At Lackland Air Force Base
In San Antonio Texas
Home of the Alamo
The DI put us in formation
And introduced himself to us
One fat boy
He called Porky Pig
And gave him a shot to the gut
And said to another dude:
“How did the food taste?”
And the dude answered
“Good Sir.
And the DI punched him too
And said,
“You’re a liar
It tasted like shit,
Didn’t it?”
And the kid tried hard
Not to cry and said,
“Yes Sir.”
And the DI said,
“How in the hell do you know?
Are you a shit eater?”
And the boy said,
“No Sir”
And the DI said,
“Well I think you are.”
And told the corporal
To take down his name
They’d get back to him later

This kind of abuse went on
Week after week
On the final week
When we graduated
I learned the DI
Had served in Korea
And was a decorated hero

In town
He said his job was
To make men of us
Raising his drink
And toasting to us
But when you looked him
In the eyes
It was like seeing a tombstone
Staring back at you
And that boot-camp speech
Was like a death charm
I will carry with me
To my grave


in Panama
at intersections
they posted a national guardsman
who sat on a tower
with a view of the passing traffic
with an over ride control
of the traffic lights

when they saw a Gringo approaching
the intersection
they would wait until he entered
and change the green light
to red
so that it looked like
you had run the light

they worked as a team
with another national guardsman
stationed across the road
who would pull you over
and demand your license

those of us schooled in the game
kept a $5 bill tucked inside
the plastic container separating
the license
but this time the rules
had changed
the guardsman pointing
to the opposite side of the road
where a smiling Lieutenant
was sitting in his jeep
it would be $10
this time

I smiled and told them
and watched the young girl
who was with me scream
in Spanish at the startled guardsman
who apologized profusely
as she took down his name
and the name of the Lieutenant
who looked to be worried
from his position
on the other side of the road

we laughed together as I drove away
this time the game had failed them
the woman at my side
the daughter of Del Vie
the head of the Secret Police
and an avid baseball fan

I pulled down the window
and breathed in the fresh air
heading for the baseball stadium
where I would don the colors
of the base team and go 0 for 4
but it didn’t matter
I had already won before
the game began

afterwards we would fuck
the night away
my mind on the startled looks
on the faces of those guardsmen
the only time I recall
being on the winning side
of what was otherwise
a fixed game

Click here to order the chapbook This Land is Not My Land published by Presa Press

t. kilgore splake…Creative Life

Posted in Uncategorized on April 12, 2011 by Scot

I just got a copy in the mailbox of Splake’s new chapbook Creative Life.  I sat down on the porch with the dog at my feet and read a wonderful  poetic Splake journey through life always trying to stay one step ahead of rat bastard time.  If you have read any of the many books of t. kilgore splake–this is the best for me at least until the next one arrives.

feeling a little tired
yet every morning
back hammering typer keys
pounding alpha-beat letters
new poems and stories
to later read out loud
until rat bastard time
seconds minutes hours
life’s little surprise
poet passing beyond

(painting by Henry Denander)

Order your copy  $7.50 post-paid at:

Angst Productions
PO Box 508
Calumet, MI 44913

The Rusty Truck Bitchez Brew Crowd

Posted in Uncategorized on April 12, 2011 by Scot

…and the art of William Tayor Jr.

Posted in William Taylor Jr. on April 10, 2011 by Scot

At the Opening of TET ‘68 by Roxie Powell

Posted in Roxie Powell with tags on April 10, 2011 by Scot

Her flesh was feline
Silk smooth and shimmering,
Her eyes pale slits amber jeweled.
I feel yet the smarting
Left by her anxious claws.

While we loved the world was crying,
And now we hear guns firing.
Shall we escape again in loving
Until our eternal breath is fading?

Our hearts leap wildly
I feel her shivering
Not for warmth
But rage, that sets to biting
What it cannot wrest in loving.

Soldier by Catfish McDaris

Posted in Catfish McDaris with tags on April 10, 2011 by Scot

A few stars hung overhead like nail holes in a black wall. Soldier looked up and continued walking at a brisk pace toward the barely discernable tracks. His part in the war was always following warily a few feet behind. He was once an elite shadow of a Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol. Chained dogs roamed in the yards of slumbering humanity, growling at the gates of hell. He needed to fight again, to kill to prove himself worthy. Some nights in the waning darkness, Soldier would recall the adrenalin abyss whisper rush, orgasmic sweat soaking his body. Uncontrollable dreams of clean kills and remorselessness stirred an inferno in his loins. Looking around, Soldier saw graveyard emptiness, his heart leaped green mountains of verdure.It had been over twenty five years since he last tasted the exhilaration of a human hunt. The evocation of his demons freed and condemned him at the same time. The tracks beckoned him. He carried his cross every time his eyelids closed, every step he took. Soldier crawled through the underbrush into a distant time. He was miles into Laos, behind enemy lines. Ahead dressed in tan, the uniform of an officer, his target leaned against a thick stand of bamboo, weapon out of reach. Soldier’s knife came alive in his fist. He became a dervish of death. Four humans lay staring in carnage at the jungle canopy with lifeless eyes. The stench of blood filled his nostrils, his mouth stretched in an unholy smile. There was no memory of the three men. The woman officer was like a horror movie, he saw his right hand yank her head back, his left draw the blade in an arc across her soft throat. Her head dangled from a flap, death gurgled crimson onto the jungle floor. Her body slumped , her cap askew, long blue black hair blossomed free like a waterfall at midnight. Soldier stood over her and studied her face. Even death could not remove or erase her beauty. Dark almond eyes stared at him questioningly, accusingly, his tortured soul screamed, he knelt beside her. In a different world he might have been a young man proposing marriage. He raised her tiny exquisite hands to his lips, tears spilled a turmoil of hate and love. Soldier heard voices.“Hey mister, have you got a cigarette?” a girl asked. He looked in the direction of the voice, he was back.Two lovely ladies were looking at him inquisitively. Soldier offered them two of his smokes. They lit up, their lipstick bright on the filters.“Some men are after us, can you help us? We need a place to hide.” He looked deep into their eyes. “Follow me. We’ll take the side streets.” One of them took his hand and rubbed it against her cheek. The other kissed him on the forehead. Soldier felt the taste of blood inside his mouth. He reached inside his jacket for his knife, where it had lain like a scar for too many years.

Vietnam Poetry by Michael Estabrook

Posted in Michael Estabrook with tags on April 4, 2011 by Scot


In P-town sightseeing when
a bunch of motorcyclists
ride up quiet on their smoking
hogs. I stop window-shopping
to have a look, the butter
crunch ice cream dripping
down the sugar cone into
the palm of my hand.
Older motorcyclists:
cigarettes smoldering from dark
bearded faces, long gray hair,
protruding beer bellies, faded
tattoos.  They have women
with them, hard looking women
in shiny black hip boots,
tangled blonde hair, peace
sign earrings and love beads too,
like in the 60s.
But nobody’s worried
as they park their bikes
with a clatter and dismount
because the lettering on
their jackets reads:
And somehow we feel safe then,
certain, solemn, because
they’re bigger than life, noble,
for they’ve been to hell and
returned to tell us about it
and live among us,
forgiving us still.

He was staring at something

Phil was saying how some of the boys in
his platoon killed a Vietcong guerrilla, caught
him murdering innocent civilians so they
stripped him, hung him up
from a tree and blew his balls off.
One of his victims had been a pretty young
pregnant woman he raped, then killed
by stringing her up naked and screaming,
cut open her belly with one of those big
jagged-edged jungle knives, just like that, out
there in the open in the village for all
the others to see.  So Phil and the boys
caught the dirty yellow bastard yes indeed,
and strung him up naked like the pregnant
woman, then shot away his balls, watching
him squirm and splutter and scream
his head off, eventually bleeding to death.
And it sounds terrible, certainly, and is
terrible, but they were glad of it, so glad
to watch him die like that.  They had to do it,
Phil said, or they’d never be able to live
with themselves, ever.  And during the whole
while he was telling the story there was this
glazed over look in his eyes like he was
staring at something far far away that never
really could’ve happened, ever.


Jimmy drives us to the club in his
battered Ford pickup suddenly a giant
khaki Chopper appears circling
banking stiff blades churning the hot
June air as it swoops down over
the trees, stopping, hovering right
above us:  thank God this isn’t Nam,
I say, voicing what I know is
thundering through Jimmy’s
frantic mind (smoky scenes
of bleeding broken bodies; bullets,
rockets whizzing all around)
but it doesn’t matter what I say,
he must pull over, wipe the sweat
from his face, and wait for his hands
to stop shaking before driving on.