Archive for August, 2012

Two Poems by A.D. Winans

Posted in A.D. Winans with tags on August 4, 2012 by Scot

MEMORIES

I walk the Fillmore streets
dubbed Bop City where
jazz notes attack the brain cells
like a car crash
echoes of ecstasy float in the air
body pressed into  hardback chair
here in Bop City
I slip
past consciousness
into an invisible world
without sight or sound
each note bathed in blood
lost in a zombie trance
piano sax and horn blended
like a milkshake
explosive sounds like cue balls
exploding on green felt pool table
disappear in incandescent light
that shines off  the sweating brows
of  fallen jazz angles

____________

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Two Poems by Scott Owens

Posted in Uncategorized with tags on August 4, 2012 by Scot

Faith

When Bobby asked the preacher
what he had to do to get the Lord
to make things right in his world,
the preacher just said, Pray,
pray and have faith.
The word hit Bobby like a sledgehammer
to the head, Faith, he said
was what his Momma had while his Daddy
pumped all their money and god knows what else
into some juke joint whore 10 years
younger than her, and his Papa had faith
that Vulcan Quarries would take care of him
when his hearing was gone after too many blasts
and his gut started to rot from siphoning gasoline
from one machine to another,
and his Granny had faith enough for all of them
and screamed about it all the time,
faith enough to push her daughter
to get married at thirteen
because now that she was bleeding,
she was bound to sin with that boy.
No, Bobby said, as he stood up
and walked out of the church
he’d grown up in for the last time,
I reckon the world’s already got
about as much faith as I can stand.

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Beat Memior #5 by Marc Olmsted (with Richard Modiano)

Posted in Beat Memior, Marc Olmsted with tags , on August 4, 2012 by Scot

In November 1977, old friend Richard Modiano, out from New York, hitched up from L.A. after visiting his mother.  Richard has kept a meticulous journal since his teenage years, and frankly these memories are far more detailed than my own…

…I let myself in and took a shower. Around 4:30 phonecall from Allen Ginsberg for Marc I answered and took a message.  I told Marc when he got home and he phoned back and sd we meet Ginsberg at City Lights and should leave soon (…) At the Bookstore we met Ginsberg and with Bob {Sherrard} we went to the Savoy-Tivoli to meet Neeli {Cherkovski}. {Bob and Neelie were an item then – MO}.  On the way we met Jack Micheline who drunkenly stopped Ginsberg to recite a poem.  Ginsey listened patiently and sd “Better write it down so you don’t forget.” On the way over we talked about Martin Duberman’s play about Kerouac which only Bob and myself had read, both of us thought it was bad. Ginsberg had read Duberman’s book about Black Mountain College, good gossip but said {Black Mountain instructor Robert} Creeley had objections.

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Two Poems by Scot Young

Posted in Scot Young with tags on August 4, 2012 by Scot

Sunday Morning

Buster
redbone hound
sleeps soundly
on the front porch
stretched out taking
in the morning sun
dreaming
of the next hunt

you are in the house
frying bacon
making scratch biscuits
maple flavor
drifts through
the open window
you sing Streisand
it sounds good
paired against
these Ozark hills
almost spiritual
bringing culture
to this holler.

blue car stops
in driveway
jehovah’s witness
steps out
begins the conversation
Ol’ Buster raises up
barks slightly
looks him straight
in the eye
and begins
licking his balls
like any good
coonhound
would do
on a perfect
Sunday morning.

_______________

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Zing! Went the Strings of My Heart by Sissy Buckles

Posted in Sissy Buckles with tags on August 4, 2012 by Scot

So I’ve been communing with the dead again
my best pal Doone, she ate it big time
on Thanksgiving day
bitchin’ motor running fast as she lived
slung into the river off a three-wheeler
in the hot, lonely So-Cal desert
took four hours for the medics
to arrive too late.
And I’m not yet done with
gentle Steph’s out of control
blonde divorcee suicide dive down the cliff
in a white Chevy one and a half ton dual-wheel
twelve foot flatbed truck
some of the paint missing from the hood,
after her latest east county boyfriend
beat the shit out of her.
Or my old spaniel Bernie
taking his final breath last year
happy at least to be in his favorite place
on the cool kitchen floor linoleum.
These days not caring if I live or died
I wanna drink gin, pop my fill of pills
and act all excessive, stay up all night
and out on the edge like Judy Garland
then Dr. Bekken asks on the music forum I read –
‘Why ukulele?’ …because
‘Zing! went the strings of my heart’ just sounds crappy
on my fender electric guitar.

Haiku by Virginie Colline

Posted in Virginie Colline with tags on August 4, 2012 by Scot

Kerouac’s moon
above the azotea
the cat remembers

Two Poems by Helen Losse

Posted in Helen Losse with tags on August 4, 2012 by Scot

There’s “nothing new under the sun,”

and not much beneath
the silver-laced moon.

Try as I may to pen
an original image

the tattoo on the arm of
Johnny Depp is about

as far as Facebook
leads me.  Despite

declarations of faith,
my imagination thirsts

in the valley beneath Death’s
shadow & further away than

Utah, where one copy of
my latest chapbook is lost

due to human error.  Sure
God will lead me.

But have all the trains
driven into the sunset

(or moon glow) with
hobos in boxcars?

All the ball teams have
claimed the good animals

as mascots, leaving us poets
writing the same poem

over and over again.

____________
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