Archive for August, 2012

Four Poems by SPALKE

Posted in Splake with tags on August 26, 2012 by Scot


“nada mas”
dying final breath
first caught my attention
after hemorrhoid surgery
battle creek hospital
suddenly aware
not bullet proof
years later
marquette morning darkness
chilly loneliness
following mri scan
loving beautiful woman
relationship sadly ending
moving on to other things
immediately feeling
life’s black hole
hoping a little more time
poems yet to write

# # # #

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4 Drunken Poems by Hosho McCreesh

Posted in Hosho McCreesh with tags on August 26, 2012 by Scot

“Only fascists
drink white wine!”
you say, but still,
there you both are,
opening a bottle
you’ve found
in the garage.

“Fuck,” your buddy says,
“there’s really nothing else?”

“Not even cooking sherry,”
you joke.

And so there it goes,
down the hatch,
and it’s god-awful,
worse than you
had already

“Good christ, it’s awful,”
you say, passing the bottle
to your buddy.

He takes a hero-pull,
then growls out of it,
and slams the bottle
down on the table.

You both nip at it a while
your younger brother
stares at you,

And when the bottle’s
half gone, you say, “I
can’t do it, man.
I’m not drinking
another drop of
that poison.”

And your buddy is pissed,
and he soldiers on
out of spite
for the bottle,
out of spite
for Fascism, and
out of spite
for white wine,
and the world,
and you both end up
passed out on the
front porch.

And months later
your brother asks,
“Do you remember
that time you guys
were drinking?”

“Um,” you say, “you’ll need to
be a little more specific.”

“It was the night,” he says,
“you guys were drinking
a bottle with
in it.”

What the shit? you think,
and then there’s a flash, you
pulling mustard and dill seeds,
and maybe a long strand
of celery string
from your

“Dear god man,” you say,
“why the hell
didn’t you
stop us?”

And you’re brother says
“You looked like you
knew what you were

“Goddammit,” you say,
“just for future reference:
if I am drinking
Mom’s homemade
I clearly have
no fucking idea
what I amdoing!”
but your brother is
laughing too hard
to actually pay


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3 Poems by Scot Young

Posted in Uncategorized with tags on August 26, 2012 by Scot

The Early Years

In 1954
my father bought

mom a new pink &
white dodge

she loved that car
so much she painted

the house to match
the mills brothers sang

you’re nobody til
somebody loves you

that night
I was conceived

after a couple
of cans of heidl brau

and for a brief

all was right
with the  world


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Two Poems by Curtis Dunlap

Posted in Curtis Dunlap with tags on August 26, 2012 by Scot

Dear Nadine Pritchett

Don’t make promises
to our daughter
that you won’t keep.
Don’t tell her
that you’ll take her
shopping this weekend,
then interject
“provided I don’t have anything
else to do.”
You’re demeaning
your relationship
with your daughter,
giving yourself
an out,
putting her
on the back burner
of your priorities.
You’re making her feel
unworthy of your time when
you’re not worthy of her time.

You are self-absorbed,
Nadine Pritchett.
You live alone today
because you while away
on Internet social groups.
You neglected
your child,
your husband,
your home.

We are happier
without you, Nadine Pritchett.
Our new home is clean.
There are no wine bottles
or cigarette butts
on the floor.
There are no lice
in our daughter’s bed.

There is a scent
of fresh baked bread
wafting through this home.
Our daughter
can have friends over
and not be ashamed
of her living conditions.

Thank you,
Nadine Pritchett
for dropping the surname
you acquired
during our wedding.

No longer
yours truly
and with as little love
as I can muster

Dewitt Smith
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Two Poems by Anthony Liccione

Posted in Anthony Liccione with tags on August 26, 2012 by Scot

full nights moon

i take the trail, to a tailed
foxhole where scared
boys clench their teeth
and weapons
on a bed of dirt and forest
of barbwire fence,
holding the hot handle
in their sweaty hands,

almost like a few summers
back before enlisting,
having their first
sex encounter and
shooting their load
fast in the uncertainty
and awe of a woman’s
curve, body bending
over like a tree,
breasts as red delicious
apples hanging limp
to be licked, bitten, tasted
for death, as young men

wish mum is by side
while the ricochet
of other boys shooting
their bullets at them,
empting their guns
and minds, and ghosts
that cross the night fields
as smoke,

cigarettes are scarce here
and canteens are almost dry,
thoughts come in a
no-promise-home return,
as one is kissing the cross
of his necklace,
watching the words
become a blotch
of blue ink from the rain
spitting and running
on the letter,
his wife wrote him
chewing the fat
of lust,
saying she misses most
of all is their sex.

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Beat Memior #6 by Marc Olmsted

Posted in Beat Memior, Marc Olmsted on August 26, 2012 by Scot


During my 1978 visit at Naropa Institute, Allen showed me a “Refuge Tree” of the Karma Kagyu Tibetan Buddhist lineage.  Allen explained how it was visualized and how one did prostrations in front of it, the preliminary practice Trungpa Rinpoche required before one embarked on the “deity” visualizations of the Tantric or Vajrayana path.  One had to do 100,000 prostrations and Allen was working on his.  I was intrigued and impressed.  Little did I know such practices would be required by my own teachers years in the future.  Ginsberg also explained that at this level of the path, it was like marrying the guru, and if you felt you had to leave the teacher, you didn’t want a “messy divorce.”  It was a very straightforward explanation of the Tantric vow with the teacher known as “samaya.”

Refuge vows are a formal commitment to Buddhism, and here I was in Boulder, visiting poet Allen when suddenly it was possible to take refuge from Chogyam Trungpa (who resided there that summer), a totally unexpected situation and quite auspicious.  Ginsberg encouraged us to take the refuge vows.  Both Richard and I had to meet with a meditation instructor senior students who would determine if we were serious enough to take refuge (Allen arranged the appointment).  Richard thinks it was Judith Zimmer-Brown.   Anyway, she asked us how long we’d been meditating, who taught us, what did we understand about taking refuge.  She asked us to sit on cushions and examined our posture.  She thought my posture was too military (now that was a first) but still signed off on my aspiration for refuge.  Richard was not criticized and also passed.   Since our answers were satisfactory and our posture was correct enough she added us to the list and said we’d each get an individual audience with Trungpa who’d give us our refuge names.  Although it may not sound like it, I had been relatively diligent with Buddhist sitting on and off since Allen taught me in ’74.

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A Lesson on stars by Vincent Turner

Posted in Vincent Turner with tags on August 26, 2012 by Scot
Sensitive now to sunlight you moon-bathe
most nights on the children’s trampoline.
Cold air soothing med-reddened skin
which blisters in intricate arrangements,
Like snow flakes you say, only more angry.
Unable to sleep this night I join you.
Together we graze a sky cloud-ploughed
by premature Autumn wind, and spy
the splendour of stars. Such sprinkled beauty
you say. like glitter on a blackboard.Seizing my chance to impress. I tell you
it is indeed beautiful but quite sad too.
That we are not witnessing life but
the aching flicker of death-
a final white wail through millennia.
And how terrible it is to be received
and admired when there is nothing of yourself.
And then I sense it. The lick of your bottom lip,
the slight jolt of hand, And I know I have harmed
you. Brought to surface the lingering sickness.
I whisper warm-breath apologies And you accept them,
telling me We are stars, that love is our white-wail
In an otherwise dead-dark world and it shall outlive
this moment and there is nothing terrible in that.