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 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.


Continue reading

THE BEAT MEMOIR pt. 4 By Marc Olmsted

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


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,

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
other love
among the
peace signs

and often,
when the
are my
age, just

at the
of the end

they are
all looking
for the
same kind
of thing

a single white male


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

Waiting for my Relief by Mark James Andrews

Posted in Mark James Andrews with tags on June 10, 2012 by Scot
The Dodge Dart procession was eternal
each with a taped on check-off sheet.
I had a black marker in the pit inspecting.
The clock punching was the first hard lesson
followed by the incremental bells and whistles
inside the matrix of the dynamo hum.
Robert was back in the space suit again
and like old times fingering down in my boot
searching for an airplane bottle shot.
“They got me being relief man now
easy skating up and down The Line
but this here 15 minutes is a bitch.”
Robert took a good hit of Hennessy
strapped on his canister face mask shroud
ready for the hand-off of the undercoating gun.
He disappeared into the containment pod
after the new guy Ali hurried out
stripping off his space suit glaring at me.
I really didn’t know why he bothered to strip.
He only had 15 minutes.
I ducked down waiting for my relief.

Featured Poet–Paul Corman Roberts

Posted in Paul Corman Roberts with tags on June 5, 2012 by Scot

Paul’s second job is promoting underground poetry in San Francisco and the bay area.  He doesn’t own a famous bookstore and doesn’t need one to accomplish the goal.  He is an unselfish, tireless worker at promoting others and the craft and art of our words.

Enjoy a glimpse of his work below.

Three Poems by Paul Corman Roberts

Posted in Paul Corman Roberts with tags on June 5, 2012 by Scot


Contrary to popular belief
The poets are the last
To be killed or driven out
When the various gurgling pockets of
Begin to fracture, shrink, divide and multiply
Into a foamy disaffectation
Beneath the economic pressure
That makes a liar out of everyone
Who claimed they had faith
In civilization.

Poets used to be the elite of course;
In the days when only the elite
Were allowed to read and write.

Since then, no practice or profession
Has so sycophantically embedded itself
Into the columns of society
Than that of “poet.”

And this is because genuine poets
Are genuine slaves to words.
And words have always been used
To divide and fracture and
Separate and segregate.
And there is none of this
That is new.

But what the liberal white intellectuals
Tend to forget
Is that while Western Civilization
Faces many humiliating and degrading mileposts
On its slide down history’s timeline
There is still actually quite a long way to go.

But make no mistake about it
And let’s be perfectly clear on this

When the authorities
Begin rounding up the poets
And incarcerating them
En masse,
You can be sure that
It is not the beginning of the end

But a sure sign
That the whole shithouse
Has already gone up in flames.

–          For Mojo R 40 years on down the line



It was a gorgeous day in Hell this afternoon.
Seventy-Five degrees and a gentle breeze,
Flames unobstructed by clouds.

Yeah, a beautiful blue sky day in Hell,
In this city, it’s Heaven’s ambassador to Hell.
The eternal bad seed, the tainted soil of paradise;
Because you know every Heaven has got to have one.

Did you think the place was all brimstone and high impact aerobics in a lake of molten lava for all eternity?
None of our religions tell us that Hell is what we feel, not what we see;
Hell is the ultimate illusion much as it was designed to be.

Hell is
Wall constructed combustion
Line drawn exclusion
Hell is fission and it is fusion.
Hell is the wholesale of consciousness and creativity
by those claiming to be prophets of vision
when in fact they are only visions of profits.
It is where we are told to cling to the sidewalk
and all of its associated storefronts
because if we don’t we’ll have to come back after we die.
Hell is a beckoning, teasing lover;
palpable yet just out of reach;
a mirage that slips not through the fingers
so much as the mind; leaving the heart at war.

And war is against the white blood cells of the nurturing, single welfare Gaia.

Hell is inside you dreamer, individual,
You time-spun creators, you dust-bound poets,
You geodes of star matter made self-conscious.
We are our own angels and demons.
We are the citizens of Hell,
and literally it loves us to death,
because we do shine this dark
and shine this light with an astonishing intensity,

Inside these carbon wrapped marionettes,
On this collapsing proscenium;
We all just want to make it to the cast party baby,
‘Cause Hell is not the hereafter…
… it is…


Ponder the mind
which originally conceived a WMD
designed to maximize
the suffering of the living
and minimize damage
to property, resources and capital

none of the sheer vaporization of particles
provided by the all encompassing H-bomb
or even the conventional A-bomb
nearly as clean and quick
a death one might ask for
almost a blessing
a purifying death

But no
instead here is the lowest bid
the path of least resistance
the all too convenient
dirty bomb
which by force
creates a relatively minor ripple
in the space time continuum
but also manages
to render urban populations
into George Romero extras
in rather large numbers

Take a moment to imagine
everyone you engage with
nearly every day
and every month
and every year
whether you love them
or loath them
but please imagine
every last one of them

with their hair falling out
puking blood the whole day long
third degree burns
eating, sleeping, shitting and breeding
on all their faces
all the time
all the while trying to figure out
the best way to die
while the power plants
and lockboxes
and secured resources
await scavengers
frequently wearing protective gear.

& while a disproportionate number of us
May already be oddly suited
to such an environment
But please do me this one favor
and never forget
Who I guarantee
Was a man
With very rich descendants
Pondered this scenario
For all of us.