Archive for September, 2012

Two poems by Matt Galletta

Posted in Matt Galletta on September 27, 2012 by Scot

The Hunted

I see blood
speckled
on the bathroom floor
and sink,

big, fat
drops of it,

as though
a crime
has been
committed here,

a grisly
murder.

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
splatter
is actually
henna
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,

something
is hunting us
in our
own home.

************
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being brautigan has not kept up with inflation by Scot Young

Posted in Scot Young with tags on September 27, 2012 by Scot

at folsom
and embarcadero
they cast the poem
30 cents
two transfers

into the sidewalk—

today i realized
that riding
this world
alone will cost
you two dollars
–not exactly
an economic indicator
but still a bargain
on lonesome

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.

POEM FOR ALLEN GINSBERG by A.D. Winans

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
hammered
pillow, and i
am unfed love
bleeding at
the mouth

a broken
wheel, an
unloaded
revolver
a skeptic’s
roulette
of stilted
ambition
staggering
toward self-
loathing

and i am
mothwing
suicide
with
one eye
on the
funeral
urn and
one foot
on the
dimmer
switch
************

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BEAT MEMOIR #7 : GINSEY, BUK, GREGORY, HARVEY MILK & NICK RAY by Marc Olmsted

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