Archive for September, 2012

Two poems by Matt Galletta

Posted in Matt Galletta on September 27, 2012 by Scot

The Hunted

I see blood
on the bathroom floor
and sink,

big, fat
drops of it,

as though
a crime
has been
committed here,

a grisly

As though
there’s a
battered corpse
in the bathtub,
just waiting for me
to pull back
the shower curtain
and discover it.

But the brown-black
is actually
hair dye,

my wife’s
chosen weapon
in her fight against
the increasing amount
of gray
she sees
in the mirror,

a war
being waged
on my head
as well,

and I realize:

serial killer
or premature gray,

is hunting us
in our
own home.

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CASUALTIES by Lynne Savitt

Posted in LYNNE SAVITT on September 27, 2012 by Scot

talking about college, him
coming from kansas, ex-wives,
husbands, the kids, the time
we’d spent in l.a. & he asked
“what happened to your first husband?”

“a marine, “ i answered, “he died
in vietnam in ’66”

he started to shake & blacked
out, saliva gathering in his mouth,
i turned his head to keep him from
choking, he babbled twenty minutes
about vietnam horrors & when he
came to, said, “i’m sorry, i’d better go.”

i took his hand & led him
to my bedroom where the wars had ended

and a flag lay folded in the drawer.


Posted in A.D. Winans with tags on September 27, 2012 by Scot

I saw the best minds of my generation
Destroyed by success and greed
Smug fashionable poets turned businessmen
Who rode the National Endowment For the Arts pimp train
Ignoring Captain Cool and his magic airplane

I saw the best minds of my generation
Loitering at closed down amusement parks
Self-proclaimed geniuses who tossed restlessly in their sleep
Like a pair of naked dice on a worn Las Vegas craps table

I saw the best minds of my generation
Laying lifeless in glass coffins
Hands folded in self-gratification
Eyes blinking like a pinball machine

I saw the best minds of my generation
Hanging out at San Francisco topless bars
Searching for paradise
Who Championed Stalin at Spec’s Bar
Trading favors like trading cards
Fat and content smoking Cuban cigars
Filling out their poetry festival lineups
Looking like an old dime dance hall queen

I saw the best minds of my generation
Looking like James Bond understudies
Cruising the casinos of Reno and Las Vegas
In between being chauffeured through
The neon lit streets of Atlantic City
Looking for the Now, Wow vision of their
Personal Zen masters
Pretty-faced aging celebrities
Hungry for the admiration connection
Who carried the star fuck media message
Inside their chemically induced minds
Who overcome with ego
Wandered the streets butter-cheeked
And Crisco greased
In search of their 15 minutes of fame

I saw the best minds of my generation
Walking down Hollywood and Vine
Ignoring the long lines of hungry eyes
waiting to devour them
Who floated across congested
Los Angeles freeways
Looking for the right off-ramp
Who stopped to partake the pleasure
Of heated swimming pools
And Roman orgy bathhouses
All the time contemplating their navels
And recording contracts

I saw the best minds of my generation
Bare their not so tight assholes
To aging agents wrapped in silk sheets
Autographed by the King of the Beats
I saw the best minds of my generation
Gangbanging aging groupies
From San Francisco to New York and back
While accumulating frequent flyer miles
Sad-eyed space cadets from the Gregory
Corso School of bad boys

I saw the best minds of my generation
Expelled from Motel Six
for writing bad graffiti
In the men’s room
Who necked in the back alley
Of Gino and Carlo’s Bar
While seeking the favors of Poetry Magazine
In between ATM withdrawals

I saw the best minds of my generation cowering
In New York subways
On their way to literary parties
Lusting after host and hostess alike

I saw the best minds of my generation
Standing naked in fear
Burning out there counterfeit talent
At New York elite restaurants

I saw the best minds of my generation
Listen in terror as the 4-walls
Came crashing down on them
Lady obscurity coming to claim them
Like a faceless hat check girl
Let loose in the morgues of America

Three Poems by Jack T. Marlowe

Posted in Jack T. Marlowe with tags on September 27, 2012 by Scot

in lieu of psychotherapy

i sing this
song in exile
sleepless on
pillow, and i
am unfed love
bleeding at
the mouth

a broken
wheel, an
a skeptic’s
of stilted
toward self-

and i am
one eye
on the
urn and
one foot
on the

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Posted in Marc Olmsted on September 27, 2012 by Scot

In the autumn following the trip to Naropa, Allen breezed through San Francisco once again in a few months and offered to take me to see a video work-in-progress of Kaddish.  I wrangled an invitation for my friends- there were four of us crammed into the back seat, me, Ginsey, Peter Marti and Mort Shapiro (still two years away from his debut as front man for the band Invertebrates) – the other two people, one behind the wheel, I don’t recall at all.

We arrived at a loft space South of Market.  I was dressed in my black raincoat with broadbrim Shadow hat and Allen introduced me as “famous Italian film maker Marc Olmsted,” longhaired Fellini kid I guess.  The director, whose name I can’t remember (and not sure he even finished the film), predictably reacted like “Maybe he is.”  I do remember what we saw was not particularly successful, and Allen asked my opinion when the director was out of the room.  I told him and the director entered in the middle of it, eyeballs full of death rays.  He demanded I start my opinion from the beginning.  So I did.  He was not pleased.  Then we left.

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the fine smell of dread by DB COX

Posted in DB Cox with tags on September 27, 2012 by Scot

a holy crusader
who talks to god
stares up
from the bottom
of religion’s dark hole
into the imaginary
soul of a camera lens
& boldly states his case
concerning the next life—
extreme claims
shaped by imperfect certainty

another blind-faith
based prophet
recites from his volume
of precious text—
perplexing book
of untestable propositions
forged somewhere
beyond the stars—
in his shaky right hand
he raises a copy of the koran
& flips it into the flames—
hell’s purifying weapon

a youtube video
unwinds through time
half way around the world
paradise-backed maniacs
packing plastic explosives
& heavy machine guns
use this desecration
as provocation to
serve up the fine smell
of dread—burning infidel
heads without bodies
bodies without heads

ad hoc
low budget
shock & awe
enough divine
smoke & ashes
to choke the sun
in the hopeless
never-ending showdown
over fantasy lands
not to be found
in this world
or any other

Haiku by Ted Kane

Posted in Ted Kane with tags , on September 27, 2012 by Scot

In some Universe
banker Michael Jagger sings
Karaoke by night

Bones by Doug Draime

Posted in Doug Draime with tags on September 27, 2012 by Scot

Bones of constant regrets
Bones of dreams in nothingness
Bones of all the bodies in all the wars in universal time
Bones of rotting bones
Bones of fine white dust
Bones of John Wilkes Booth, decaying in Mary Lincoln’s nightmares
Bones of black bodies hanged & burned in Mississippi in the 1920’s to cheers
Bones of politics
Bones of rituals & ceremonies
Bones of Hannibal preserved in his own shit & blood
Bones of hipsters still hanging on every word of Nat Hentoff
Bones of Indian babies burned to death by the United States Calvary
Bones of rats jammed in walls in tenement apartments across the rodent world
Bones of all the horses who ever ran the second race at Hollywood Park
Bones of the dogs from hell & A Season In Hell
Bones of all the lies in all the mouths of all egos since The Ego
Bones of promises never kept
Bones of fragmented nonsense, which attempts to alter unalterable spirit
Bones of remorse & guilt
Bones of mountains & rivers & oceans
Bones of Rimbaud’s Drunken Boat
Bones of one solid brick shit house
Bones of whales on the butchered shores of slaughter
Bones of happenstance & bones of circumstance
Bones of desperation & hate & misery
Bones of angst & pathos
Bones of the stagnant & polluted air between you & me
Bones of Thelonious Monk’s dead cat
Bones of situations & occurrences that never were
Bones of a butterfly in the eye of beauty’s release
Bones of anger & fear & betrayal
Bones of Sigmund Freud’s dominating mother
Bones of eagles hidden behind a dark cloud of sorrow & mourning
Bones of Edgar Bergen’s talking wooden people
Bones of finite spiritual concepts
Bones of Dylan Thomas perpetually lamenting the coming of the night
Bones of the monks of Tibet under enslavement & Chinese torture
Bones of limits & bones of borders
Bones of all forms
Bones of you & bones of me
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Not Sure by Arlin Buyert

Posted in Arlin Buyert with tags on September 27, 2012 by Scot

Dad dies in his bib overalls
with a shovel in his hands,
working for the city after selling the farm.

Post-mortem reveals many cigarettes
and a shroud of wonder,
like one slice of his apple,

unknown until after the funeral,
when in our family room
I overhear my mother and aunt whispering:

“Why did she have to come?”

Four Poems by James D. Quinton–1977-2012

Posted in James D Quinton with tags on September 27, 2012 by Scot

sympathetic, but swift

she blew out
the candle I lit
for her
but swift

now she’s
being romanced
talking like
her and him
are the first
lovers the
world has ever
or have
to a plain
that’s hasn’t been
burton and taylor

I wait for it
to end
lit match hovering
over wick and wax

fingers getting


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