Archive for June, 2012

CHAPBOOK–Black Lily by A.D. Winans

Posted in A.D. Winans with tags , on June 13, 2012 by Scot

This offering is a chapbook length poem like no other from A.D. Winans.  Besides the controversial poem the chap contains street photographs from San Francisco and art from Norman Olson.

There are just a few numbered copies left

Please check for availability before paying

It begins with–

Black Lily wheels her whip
Leaving Red marks on
white skin

Lily hums old plantation
Slave songs that
Her clients do not comprehend
Bent on knees worshiping
Her black skin…

____________

Published in 2010 by the Rusty Truck Press in a limited edition of 126 copies.

26 are lettered and signed by the author–$10.00  SOLD OUT

100 numbered –$5.00

Postage $2.00

P0stage will be adjusted on multiple orders.

Cover and inside art by Norman Olson

Simply email your order to rustytruckzine@gmail.com and you will be invoiced through PayPal or arrange to send cash.

_____________

A.D. Winans comes from a grand tradition of true San Francisco poets.  This chap finds him in top form.  Through the character of Black Lily he playfully explores the world of S&M as only a true San Francisco poet can.  The picture he paints is at once funny, erotic and sad.  And it rhymes!  Classic stuff.

-William Taylor Jr.

_________________

Black Lily is still A.D. Winans, but if I didn’t see his name on the cover I would have thought the work was by the ghosts of Kerouac, Ginsberg and Baudelaire. It’s a highest-possible-tension classic, full  of wild sexual over- (and under-) tones, written with whip-lashes and  hand-slaps, you start it and you can’t stop until you get to the last  word and then wish there was more, more, more. Compelling, totally  original, a real wake-up masterpiece!
–Hugh Fox

Featured Poet–Six Poems by Larry Rogers

Posted in Larry Rogers with tags on June 10, 2012 by Scot

Monsoon Sky

In high school
I read a book
about submariners.
Anxiety, its
author said,
is sweating out
depth charges.
Then I couldn’t
imagine a fear
so intense;
this morning
that’s easy
on this hill
with a number
for its name.
Every bunker
and every hole
in the ground
in which two
or more grunts
are gathered
is a little
mental hygiene clinic,
and it’s still
impossible to manage
the stress here.
Bloated corpses
litter the landscape,
and choppers, at
max capacity with
our wounded, splash
like giant tadpoles
across the monsoon sky.

_____________

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THE BEAT MEMOIR pt. 4 By Marc Olmsted

Posted in Beat Memior, Marc Olmsted with tags , on June 10, 2012 by Scot

BURROUGHS IN THE BUNKER AND OUT

Allen invited me to see Burroughs, January 1977, when I was visiting NYC.

 

As you may know, Burroughs’ residence at 222 Bowery was nicknamed the Bunker.  It was a converted YMCA, and had literally no windows.  The walls were painted white with tiny minimalist art like old colleague Brion Gysin’s, the door was shiny steel.  I thought it was definitely a great space and safe shelter, then and now.  Various young cats were hanging out with Bill at a big table like you’d see in a conference room, like James Grauerholz, his longtime secretary and now-platonic companion.  Burroughs was extremely gregarious in this environment – a few drinks in him, some weed, he was a hilarious story teller.

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On Mother’s Day by Robert S. King

Posted in Robert S. King with tags on June 10, 2012 by Scot


Years after I last saw you
posed in a silk-lined box,
I try to remember you gliding
through younger days. I try to recall
things you said, your accent, gestures,
what caused a smile and what broke
your heart into pieces of burning coal.

But what I remember most is last
when you changed into someone
no one knew, when you changed me
into someone new while every heart
around you pumped tears and shadows
glided lost along the walls.

I curse Mother Nature that one must die
in pain, curse the locomotive on which we
labor and pass away. I hurt that in the end you
did not know me or yourself. You fell into
the furnace of your own heart, trying to stoke
from it another beat, just this last labor after all
the fires you tended, after all the ashes
you scattered settled down in the ashcan of hell.

Despite disbelief, I pray:
May hell be no more than a dream we pass through.
Beyond it, I hope you have found another
body to fit your peaceful soul.
But from my window, not even
your last breath was gentle.
It labored more like the clack
of trains fading into the distance.

Without You by Arlin Buyert

Posted in Arlin Buyert with tags on June 10, 2012 by Scot

The campus visits started two years ago.
Like a bluebird checking out her nesting sites,
she narrows it down to four.
Finally, “We are pleased to inform you.”
The packing starts in July,
a tearful goodbye hug for Sadie our dog
and we are off.

A “Welcome Home” banner greets us at the campus gate.
Where to park, Dayton Hall,
we carry boxes and suitcases
to her third floor nest.

Parent Tour:  Library, Fine Arts Center, Old Main, Stadium.
Parent Orientation:  Let them adjust…without you.
Parent Lunch: Pasta, salad and tea.

Not hungry, not thirsty.

Telling my Mother (at nineteen) by Ally Malinenko

Posted in Ally Malinenko with tags on June 10, 2012 by Scot


 

We have all stood on this edge
and rowed out into dangerous waters.
First I promised myself and broke it,
then I promised my sister
and then there was no going back on it.

I stood in my room, having just returned from college,
awkward and limbless like an astronaut adjusting to gravity,

and she stood in the doorway,
her brow wrinkled in confusion
and frustration and anger, yes, anger too.

For a moment I saw myself as she saw me,
not the way I always see me,
distorted and warped,
sick,

but young, with unlined skin
and opportunities she never had,
I realized suddenly she wanted to grab me and shake me,
wake me from my own self destruction.

Scream, ‘Waste’, loud enough into my ear that not
only did my brain but maybe also my heart and my soul
buried deep in my swollen muscle of my trachea would hear it.

But she didn’t.
I told her, and she sighed deep and lost and
then for a moment inside, I was the mother,
asking Why? Why?
and she was the child, shrugging.

You will be okay, she said. You will get better.
It was not a question.

This is the way it happened. This was what we were waiting for.
Afterwards there was no going back to what once was.

craigslist by David LaBounty

Posted in David LaBounty with tags on June 10, 2012 by Scot

sometimes i look

the way one looks
for another job
even when one
is happily employed

so here i am

looking for love
and
other love
among the
peace signs

and often,
when the
women
are my
age, just

at the
beginning
of the end

they are
all looking
for the
same kind
of thing

a single white male

hardworking
and
sane
and
stable

and i think
i am all of
those things

but, i
tell myself
as i walk
away from
the screen

if i’m here

how stable can i be