Archive for March, 2012

Everyday Should be Brautian’s Birthday Issue

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , on March 24, 2012 by Scot

sketch by fn wright

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Four Poems by Alan Catlin

Posted in Alan Catlin with tags , on March 24, 2012 by Scot

Richard Brautigan Trout Fishing in America

Winter leaks from the cracked tar
sealing around the carbon stained brick
chimney forming puddles of sludge and
ash along with the spilled hurricane lamp
oil; opening notes in a cacophonous
symphony of dripping from a neglected
metal roof. The forest at dawn ablaze,
a still life framed by the cracked window
glass of this isolated cabin, flies buzzing
inside ,worrying the remains, meals left
to fester, fishing rods and hunting rifles
unattended, propped up near the barred
from inside door. Invisible fires burn,
stoked in the cold, desolate hearth,
releasing ghosts of smoke burning down
to cold absorbent stone, taking within
the very essence of unnatural heat and light;
the spent pistol shell, crumpled pages from
a manuscript no one will ever read.

____________

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brautigan’s donkey by scot young

Posted in Scot Young with tags , on March 24, 2012 by Scot

richard would have liked
a donkey
would have whispered
you’re a pretty girl
poem in her ear
as he fed her carrots &
sweet feed on a blue sky
sunday morning

he would have hung out
with her
scratched her name
in the sand &
watched the sun set
on a different bolinas beach
and she
would have followed
him everywhere

blow it all away by db cox

Posted in DB Cox with tags , on March 24, 2012 by Scot

— for Brautigan

onetime voice
of the counterculture
found—dead as hell
rotting on the floor
beside a bottle
& a .44
loser
in a one-man gunfight—
caught lowdown
during those risky seconds
of the night
when dark fingers
started to pull
at his dirty shirt
until he was mesmerized
by the sexy eyes
of that old whore suicide

trout fisherman at rest—

no more clawing
at the walls
of his box—cursing
the empty soul of sanity

no more stumbling
toward the end-of-the-line
up to his neck
in accumulated time

now that the fire
has died away
the wolves
have moved in
to have at his bones

howling
their perfect hate
now that he is gone

Old Photographs Stare Like Death by Ben Rasnic

Posted in Ben Rasnic with tags , on March 24, 2012 by Scot

Old photographs stare like death
from the pages of a high school
yearbook that read as an obituary
for Youth.

It is midnight and I am glancing
through the gallery recalling the faces
of old friends and past lovers
and I touch them

as if I was touching Death.
I close the book as if
I were the sealing the lid
on a coffin.

Drought Again, Brautigan by Harry Calhoun

Posted in Harry Calhoun with tags , on March 24, 2012 by Scot

The owl asleep in the rafters
wakes a minute and blinks
her wide sleepy eyes

and listens sturdy and prepared
for a drop of rain
through the roof

and yawns a thin crack
in her beak
and goes back to dreaming

of the rain, lucky rain
that will lull her back
into sleep: consider

the half-sentient lull
of the nonexistent rain
and the sturdy existence

of the never-changing owl.

Three poems by David S. Pointer

Posted in David S. Pointer with tags , on March 24, 2012 by Scot

Joe’s Fishing Lake

A 14 year old
kid skipped
school and
caught a 52
pound Buffalo
Carp at Joe’s
pay lake then
I came on the
scene a couple
of years later
at age 9 or 10
catching a 14
and 16 pound
carp—the little
kids thought
I was the big
fish magician
still fighting
the tangle of
ten pound
test line as
if it were
Brautigan’s
Octopus
Frontier

____________

Remembering
Brautigan

Pitch forward
like a bullet
pocked corpse
into every page
of the reading—
own your own
pain into the ink
and maybe you
can avoid a non-
invasive hangman’s
noose into the
other world,
coming away
with a chap,
novel or even
nothing more
than a gray
day to evade
or celebrate

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