Archive for April, 2012

The wolves of wall street by Joseph Farley

Posted in Joseph Farley with tags on April 25, 2012 by Scot

The wolves wait in silence
For our tears to end.
“Stiff upper lip,” they whisper,
As we lament our wounds
And the memory of being beaten
And abandoned in the drainage ditch
On the side of the road.
“What is gone is gone,”
they remind us,
“The new way of business
while not as kind
is more efficient and practical.”
Their fangs are so kind
As they reassure us
Of the deepening night.
And what will come with it.

Childhood Correct By Winnie Star

Posted in Winnie Star with tags on April 25, 2012 by Scot

as a kid growing up I had a perfect bedroom
all my stuffed animals were properly aligned in the crib
all my shades were pulled down at night
to the exact same length on every window sill
school papers stacked on the desk were straight, top to bottom, left to right
clothes and scarves in the closet had schemes and streams of matched color array
the double bed blankets complimented the sheets and down bedspread to a select color-of-the-week
the books in the bookshelf rows were organized by topic and longitudinal size

when I prayed to God each night asking if my thought process was aesthetically sensible and correct
the mirror above my bureau looked at my face and said
“Yes. Yes. Yes.”

for 100% accuracy by Carl Miller Daniels

Posted in Carl Miller Daniels with tags on April 25, 2012 by Scot

when buying
leopard paint,
don’t forget
“grass-stain green”

AMERICA by A.D. Winans

Posted in A.D. Winans with tags , on April 15, 2012 by Scot

Drummed out of the infantry of death
I came back to you carrying
the poems of my soul
opened the door of life
and found only  death inside

I have read the State of the Union
and listened to the state of the economy
in a state of hysteria

America where
the poor and the black
are sentenced to Attica
and the rich serve time
in San Clemente

where the coal miner’s lungs
are used for corporate profit where
the only sound that can be heard
is the opening and closing
of the downtown Bank of America

where the angry voices
of  suburban mothers
can be heard preparing
their children for death
amidst the hurried jerks of masturbation
coming from the university closets

where  blank faces move like
a pendulum in a grandfather clock
pointing in the direction
of the once proud hobo
now auditioning  for a spot
on the next reality show

where the elderly are treated
like boxcars
kept idle unemployed
forced to walk  the streets
like an unacceptable poem

where the politicians sold
the country to General Motors
and A T and T
and gave the people buffalo stew
Tom Cruise and scientology

Reader’s Digest has renewed
its option on the educational system
the mafia weans the poor
on drugs while IBM and Coca Cola
compete for the nation’s heart
as cancer and cardiac arrest
ride high on the charts followed
by Dow Chemical and DDT
a hard combination to beat

this is not your land
it was never your land
it belonged to the American Indian
long before you raped and plundered her
and moved on to Mexico
for your next conquest
and the Indian never a greedy landlord
was willing to share it with you
but raised on the credo of winner take all
you set out to kill them
tribe by tribe slaughtering the buffalo
then the proud warriors with rifles
gatling guns and broken treaties
and when that failed
you killed them with alcohol starvation
missionaries  tuberculosis religion
measles and small pox
and western civilization
left behind your death mask
at Wounded Knee and Salt Creek
where you massacred them
in large numbers even as you would later
do with Asians with napalm bombs
in Vietnam

you chased Geronimo into Mexico
Desecrated the bodies of women
and children
left behind a trail of genocide
wherever you went
maiming killing tribe by tribe
these proud warriors
who wanted nothing more than
to live in harmony with the land

where capitalism farms out jobs
to cheap labor foreign countries
no longer having a need
for the American work force
bleeding dry the productivity
of under developed nations

where 1% rules the wealth of the land
and the 99% are left to fend for themselves
where over 20% of the population
of the riches country lives in poverty
where old men and women who work hard
all their lives for the right to a pension
wakeup and find themselves laid off
given a two week severance check
made to seek a living at half their former pay
men and women who have worked all their lives
only to witness their employer go belly-up
and find there is no pension fund left for them

you can find them anywhere
on park benches or wandering
lonely supermarkets
or sitting at neighborhood bars
nursing  their drinks
like a blood transfusion
while our congress men and women
dine in splendor
at restaurants with fancy white linen
with waiters who make more money in tips
than the minimum wage they toil for

these are your people too
yet you treat them worse as animals
in a human zoo

they come in different flavors
like life savers
some thin and balding
some fat and sweating
some complaining bitterly
and with just cause
some too proud to let
the pain show
these forgotten heroes
from ordinary walks of life
trapped by false promises
trapped by a belief in a system
that has abandoned them
men and women who suffer in silence
who die unnoticed
to be carted off in a meat wagon
to be buried deep in the ground
like a bag of rotting bones

it’s the way of life
it’s the way of capitalism
it’s the way of cockroaches
and mice
it’s the American way
it’s the system
where just staying alive becomes
a small victory

whose answer to crime
is more prisons filled with more
men and women of color
lost souls who cannot make it
on minimum wage
or no wage at all

where politicians and banks
looted the land
made millions at the expense
of the working class
and displaced them from
their homes
with a cold calculating expertise
that would make a bank robber
blush with shame

where the CIA engages
in illegal  and immoral acts
where the President
signs death warrants
on those in foreign lands

where labor unions
are being systematically destroyed
where women’s rights are spit on
where the Supreme Court
has been taken over by politicians
dressed in black robes

where God has become
a billion dollar TV industry
and gangster rap replaced
the national anthem

where the Narc’s of New York City
spawned from a generation
of gangsters grows fat
on the fears of faceless junkies

where holiness is found
in the bowels of Buddha
where Christ died on the cross
and the police were quick
to take his place

I listened to you r bi-centennial
message dripping blood
like a butcher’s apron
heard the drums salute
the ghost of Custer calling
her children to muster
the magic Ohm of Ginsberg buried
deep in the bowels of asshole billionaires
who don’t know he difference between
a poem and a dollar
the American way
if you can’t kill them
buy hem into the system

America where
The Pentagon
is the name of the game
no money for the sick and lame
In God and corporate America
we must trust

where Walt Whitman’s children
are forced to breathe in
black exhaust fumes  worse than
an x-ray of a coal miner’s lungs

the years grow heavy
in the cavity of my heart
leave me feeling like
an army mules carrying
a cargo of death
each year sweetened with
my thinning blood

who stood tall in invading Iraq
the day the music of the Reichland played
and thoughts of the Fuehrer rode high
in the heads of the Pentagon masers
the day the Bismark was played
in the sea of the Persian Gulf
and power once again became something
more than a Detroit made machine

you are living on borrowed time
there will come a day when
your troops are sent to guard
the doors of our cities
in the interest of corporate welfare
afraid the walls will come tumbling down
as some day they must
here in America where
the rich eat the flesh of the poor
like frenzied cannibals dining
at Burger King
the government and corporate America
partners in crime

where the cold face of ownership
preens her face around each corner
ignoring the streets filled with homeless
the landlords duly protected
by laws of office and power
here in America
where money and real estate rule
here in America
where the power of the few
laugh at the powerless of the many
here in America where
the unemployed are pitted against
the educated hucksters chauffeured
in air conditioned black limousines

there will come a day when
the populace will dance
in the streets and the people
will have cause to celebrate once again
for even the dullest of politicians knows
the reign of the lion ends with age

there will come a day when
the people will shed the skin
of their masters
their restless tongues
no long panting like
the tongues of tired dogs

you are the only country
I have known
and I have no longing
for Cuba or Russia
but I’m a man
I’m a poet
I’m the energy running through
your veins
all too aware of the storm troopers
of justice who would turn off the beauty
like a rusted faucet
these men in blue
who sniff the blood o my wounds
like a hound dog crossing
a river of blood
their sirens wailing in the night
play sad tunes outside my window
like a poet forced to read under water
where twice dead and once resurrected
he turns over in his grave
but the finger he raises
is jammed back down his throat until
the shit he shits is theirs
and the blood they bleeds is his
and the cries united
fill the air like a lonely bird
lost in flight

Familiarity by Michael Ashley

Posted in Michael Ashley with tags on April 14, 2012 by Scot

it’s the coldness of your back
on Sunday afternoons

as you sleep after supping
seven pints of San Miguel

it’s the outline of Europe,
of Africa on a globe

where Thailand is still Siam
& Peking is just a city in China

it’s the screw-top wine bottles
littered like the dead
on our battlefield

the smell of stale chardonnay
and tobacco ash still thick in air

it’s that broken barometer
which hangs in our hallway
the outlook frozen at fair

its the dog-hairs
collected under the radiator
that only we can see

while lying in bed

unoccupied enough
to notice it

but content enough
not to give a fuck


Posted in charles plymell with tags , on April 14, 2012 by Scot

qoud permanat enim disolitur, inert ergo. (Lucritius)
(for that which permeates is dissolved, perishes therefore.)

You leave once more….
car readied to the northwest winds
the smell of incense gone
voices of those who listened
to The Argument have joined new age
body spirits torn in the winds of eternity
dissipated into the commerce of the day.

Those who once climbed your ladder
bow their heads like the broken rungs
we’ve known so well where talent failed
signaling their sycophants to be silent
creativity but a word to them, not a life.

The visit over in the wake of climb without ascent
that graced memory’s spirits they’ve never known
lesser arguments piled draught in compost bones.

— Cherry Valley, April 10, 2012


Posted in charles plymell with tags , on April 3, 2012 by Scot

He was a suspicious person to the state and authorities; had the nerve to assert the sun was just another star and that there might be intelligent life in the universe. Such talk would indicate he must be on drugs. They put him in prison and when he confessed to his beliefs, he was burned at the stake.
Over seven million of his kind are imprisoned today. The private prison industry lobby gives coin to our Roman police of God and State. At least one candidate for president still lives in Bruno’s age and would consider subversive anyone who would commit heresy against god and State. We have progressed only in technology since his age, over 600 hundred years ago, but unnoticeable in the age of the universe.
There is a part of our brain that has been retarded, remains the same despite the progression of other parts. Might as well admit it, though we have placed symbols like flag and golf ball on the moon, part of our brain like a rat’s brain. The daily killing news might as well be the white rat shrieking at the brown rat or other “different” rats that invaded others’ gates of rubble in their underground, unseen communities. They shriek and show their teeth and kill; there is no such thing as innocence.  The populations of humans have become entangled in their land; their wilderness has shut them in. Their numbers have increased, but not their contaminated brains.
The instruments of death have been improved.  Fire at the stake has been replaced by the more efficient 9mm bullet. One more sign that Mother Nature can only have her revenge. The innocence has been lost forever. One too many coyotes strung on fence posts tendon tied within tendon, one too many buffalo killed for sport. One too many innocent youths killed. The land that looks like the running wolves will shake off its population like fleas when Mother Nature has her revenge.

Charles Plymell
April 1, 2012

–graphic by Dave Boles

POLITICS BE DAMNED by Charles Plymell

Posted in charles plymell with tags , on April 1, 2012 by Scot

Germs from the Old World
In chemical air over Brooklyn Bridge
Mob loansharking dates back to Rome
Little Caesar himself charged a hundred percent
thousands of years before James Cagney,
Little Italy or the Federal Reserve on a larger scale
Derivatives more invisible than usury
No real assets left
no more morality if there ever was
in New World Presidents
can’t help but rob the poor to give to the rich once more
In the world’s largest pyramid scheme
What else to do but put Cyalis in the water
and have a populist hard on for hours.

Christ will always forgive the evangelist in tears
or the confessor masturbating at the Cross
the armaments of altruism
ratified in the genes
of  Crown and the Conquerors
Captain Marvel’s holy moley hero now
In Eastern Lands of suicide bombers
blown up twat in Bagels and lox
Three C’s of the special Olympics.

Ho Hum of Buddha in the New Age
watching T V in a mortgaged home
the fairy tale with special effects
more easily understood than virgin birth
language lost to the T-shirt logo.

Wait for the attack, denounce the pacifists
democracy, parliament, dictatorship
it works the same in every country said Goering
So take your fucking America Bruce Springsteen

Your high yellow and Buffalo Bill too
…..the wasted buffalo killed for sport
true universes in their globed eyes
as has every innocent creature
who will forever watch the half politician reload.

First Tulip by Donal Mahoney

Posted in Donal Mahoney with tags on April 1, 2012 by Scot
Sometimes you sit for days
sucking yourself in
praying the right words
will fall in your ear
toboggan over the whorls
pierce the canal
and settle in your brain,
an embryonic delight.
Sometimes you sit for days
and finally the words come
and they’re always a surprise
like the first tulip in April
or a sudden
orgasm for your wife.

Two Poems by Curtis Dunlap

Posted in Curtis Dunlap with tags on April 1, 2012 by Scot

can you separate me from your poetry?

…she asked.
i stumble, mentally…
unable to comprehend the question,
my brain working frantically
to process an answer…

can you separate
the moon
from the ocean tides?

can you separate
a falling star
from a wish?

can you separate
the honey bee
from a blossom?

can you separate
a baby
from its mother’s breast?

she walks into the room
and i see

i hear sonnets, sestinas,
in her soothing voice

her eyes
are pools
of haiku

she asked
can you separate me from your poetry?

and i feel like a computer
that’s been mind fucked
by Captain Kirk


The Voice Inside Buzz Tulley’s Head

It’s her.
Grocery store manager now.
Maybe she’ll remember me.
Three decades is not that long.
Maybe she’ll remember
that kick-ass weed we smoked
after band practice the night
I drove her home.
Maybe she’ll remember
how we giggled uncontrollably
when we both had
the munchies.

Maybe she’ll remember
the ice cream truck
we saw near
this grocery store,
how I gunned my Camaro
down side streets
determined to catch
that ice cream truck.
Maybe she’ll remember
how I caught-up
to that ice cream truck
at the intersection
near the police station.
Maybe she’ll remember
how that ice cream truck
morphed into
an 18 wheeler right
before our eyes, the way
that truck driver
looked at us before
he flipped us off.
Maybe she’ll remember
how we laughed
’til we cried…

Yeah, man,
that was some wicked weed.

Look at her,
over there working
in the frozen foods’ aisle,
still beautiful.

Good Lord!
Think of all
the ice cream
we could have now!

Maybe we’re still tripping
from that last joint
we smoked.
we’re still chasing
that ice cream truck.