Archive for March, 2012

Why do you close your eyes? By Norma Jean Demaggio

Posted in Norma Jean Demaggio with tags on March 17, 2012 by Scot

Why is it that you close your eyes when you fuck me?
Who are you seeing and dream of?
Is it another lover from a distant time?
Is it man or woman that takes you from me?
Worry not that I am angry,
for there are other lovers that haunt
my dreams as well.
It’s not anger or jealous that makes me inquire
but mere curiosity

Norma Jean Demaggio is a full time writer.  Her writing can also be found on Katherine Press, The Camel Saloon, Rusty Truck and The Circus of the Damned.

Two Poems by Travis Blair

Posted in Travis Blair with tags on March 17, 2012 by Scot

Asparagus and Spam

He fixed me up
with his older sister Huong—
which means pink in Vietnamese.
She taught yoga and spoke
six languages.

Huong showed up perched
on five inches of stiletto attitude
wearing striped knee-high socks,
orange and yellow on passion pink.
Her skirt showed off her thighs.

I took her to an art film,
The Housemaid, erotic
and sensual — so graphic
it left us speechless.

Back at her house
Huong offered to serve me
dinner, a taste of her native culture.
I told her I loved Vietnamese.

She flashed a sardonic smile
and made sandwiches—
asparagus and Spam on rye.
I think she was putting me on
in a seventh language.



Sundays, while your family
sits in church, you come
to my bed and we fuck,
our passion a raging religion
of need. In the afterglow
we lie naked while I read poetry.
You struggle to understand
my language but love the sound
of my voice. I love the inky
blackness of your hair
feathered across my belly.
I love the delicacy of your finger
tracing circles inside my thigh
until I grow hard again.
I hate the peal of cathedral bells,
how they signal the end
of love-making, how you dress,
rush home, resume your role
as the faithful wife.


Travis Blair lives a mile down the road from the University of Texas in Arlington where he earned his B.A. in English Lit. After a long career in the movie business, he took up poetry writing. He is author of Train to Chihuahua, a collection of his poems about his adventures in Mexico, and has written many other poems that appear in various literary journals.  He has two daughters and five grandkids and hides from them frequently in Manhattan and Mazatlán.

fn wright

Posted in F.N. Wright on March 11, 2012 by Scot

I first talked to Fred 3 years ago this month.  I last spoke to him Feb. 28.  We talked more this last month than in the previous 3 years.  I missed the sign.
We talked about doing a Brautigan tribute book.  He was going to do all the illustrations and paintings, and he would get some big names to contribute. He told me then he was putting his place on the market and moving home to Mantoon and would come visit me in June. He said it was time.  I knew him as a Viet Nam Veteran, biker, poet, writer and a kind and gentle soul– but most of all a friend.  And those are hard to come by.  The pain is gone big man, rest easy.

Below and in the sidebar: the words of fn wright


Posted in F.N. Wright with tags , on March 11, 2012 by Scot

I’m out here
in the Mojave
about 50 miles
from Barstow
high on peyote
spinning like a whirling
looking up at
the sky
marveling at
a spectacular
light show
the stars are putting on
for me & only me
I hear ominous
rattles shaking
& I know it as a
Mojave Green
it is dark
& I can’t see
the motherfucker
but I know he’s too
close for comfort
but the peyote
has me in it’s grips
& instead of feeling fear
the music of the
rattles makes me spin
as rhe peyote paints
a goofy smile upon
my face.

TONIGHT by F.N. Wright

Posted in F.N. Wright with tags on March 11, 2012 by Scot

I think I will
silence my voice
listen to music
while recalling
the sound of your
voice today
o, the muse
will still be with me
but the words
she brings me
will be like
whispering feet
gliding across
the ballroom floor
& though they
will be silent
to the ear
I hope you hear them
because they are
for you & only


Posted in F.N. Wright with tags , on March 11, 2012 by Scot


having ended ass up
in the hospital
quite unexpectedly
I had nothing to write on
or to write with
(they were taking all my blood
for one test or another)
so I began composing poems
in my head

poems about the hospital & nurses
& other things as I imagined
black ink on white paper

the nurses kept wanting to open
the blinds to let the outside light
brighten my room

but to their dismay
I insisted on darkness
so I could picture
white paper in a black typewriter
(an old Underwood portable that
Kenneth Patchen wrote his first
four books on & I would write
my first novel on that Miriam
had gave me)
that sits on a stand of its own
next to my bed

& day & night when not being
poked, prodded, pilled or pushed
the words began flowing

& these words & the image of
white paper in that old black typewriter
& the  sound of the birds singing
outside my window at night
are what kept me
& the words going

ah, the sound of the birds singing
sound even more beautiful &
wondrous tonight laying here
in my own bed waiting for more
black words to spill upon this white paper
of the notebook I am scrawling in
as the typewriter sits smiling nearby
awaiting its turn once again


fred sketched this out for my chap–hank williams a.d. and me

Posted in F.N. Wright, Uncategorized on March 11, 2012 by Scot

paintings FN Wright did for my brautigan inspired chapbook

Posted in F.N. Wright, Uncategorized on March 11, 2012 by Scot

trout fishing–what else?

Posted in F.N. Wright on March 11, 2012 by Scot


Posted in F.N. Wright on March 11, 2012 by Scot