Archive for September, 2012

It’s Almost Sunday Morning by Donal Mahoney

Posted in Donal Mahoney with tags on September 27, 2012 by Scot

In the summer of 1956,
any Saturday at midnight
when the moon was full
and the stars were bright,
you would see Grandma Groth
on her front-porch swing
waiting for her son, Clarence,
still a bachelor at 53,
to make it home
from the Blind Man’s Pub
after another evening quaffing
steins of Heineken’s.

Many times when I was young,
I’d be coming home at midnight
from another pub just steps behind
staggering Clarence.
I’d always let him walk ahead
and listen to him hum
“The Yellow Rose of Texas.”

But the last Saturday night
that Clarence and I came down the street,
I didn’t see Grandma on her swing.
She wasn’t waiting to berate him.
So far so good, I thought,
until, not far from his house,
Clarence fell into Mrs. Murphy’s hedge.

When I finally got him up,
I moved him like a fridge on a dolly
down the walk and into his house
only to see Grandma, a wraith
in a hazy nightgown, swoop
into the hallway, screaming
and thrashing Clarence with her broom,
pausing only to tell me,
“Go home to your mother now
so you won’t be late for Mass.
It’s almost Sunday morning!”

After that sad night in 1956,
I never saw Clarence again,
either marching to work in the morning,
his lunch pail gallantly swinging,
or staggering home at midnight
from the Blind Man’s Pub.
But many a midnight after that,
I’d be coming home
from the other pub,
lunch pail in hand,
and I’d see Grandma
reigning on her swing,
broom in hand,

Tonight, however, many decades later,
as I stroll home at midnight,
I realize I’m older now than Clarence was
the night he disappeared
and even though Grandma’s dead,
I can still see her regal on that swing,
broom in hand, waiting,
and so I give her a big wave,
hoping to hear one more time,
“Go home to your mother now
so you won’t be late for Mass.
It’s almost Sunday morning!”

Two Poems by Ed Markowski

Posted in Ed Markowski with tags on September 27, 2012 by Scot

Valentine’s  Day  In  Detroit








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The Rusty Truck Presents Lynne Savitt

Posted in LYNNE SAVITT on September 12, 2012 by Scot

An Introduction to Lynne Savitt by A.D. Winans

Any seasoned reader of poetry is familiar with the work of Lyn Lifshin. She’s been published in practically every small press magazine around.  Lynne Savitt, on the other hand, doesn’t send out her work unless she is asked.  This is a true loss to anyone who enjoys poetry coming from life experience.

Lynne is in my opinion the queen of sensual poetry, and has a sense of humor second to none.  Reading Lifshin’s poems (always technically competent and most of the time interesting) is like dining at a respected Mom and Pop’s restaurant.  Lynne, on the other hand, is like dining at a gourmet restaurant with a wide range of decadent desserts.  However, her poetry goes much further than the flesh.  I have at times been moved to tears by poems she has written about family and lost lovers and friends.

She is at long last in the process of putting together a book of her Selected Poems.  A book that is anticipated by those who have been blessed with her unique style and personal take on life.

Lynne Savitt–The Rusty Truck Interview

Posted in LYNNE SAVITT on September 12, 2012 by Scot

Scot:      How important are poets today?

Lynne:  It depends on what you want poetry to do for you. Poets are not important. Most of them are self important.  With good poets, it’s
the voice they bring to a world in need of a consciousness check-up, it’s their experience that touches us in a place inside ourselves
that we recognize. It’s the  impetus for change we get from words. It’s the art of expression we wish we’d put on paper ourselves.
What we get from poetry can only come from what we bring to it.
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Posted in LYNNE SAVITT with tags on September 12, 2012 by Scot

it rains water dances stop his demo saw
from cutting bluestone for walls & walkways
his woman watches weather forecasts & comes
bringing food in little white paper containers
& a yellow flowered umbrella with a red handle

years ago when i had sex with him it wasn’t
dependent on weeping clouds i brought johnny
walker black label & can’t remember much about
those warm afternoons or air conditioned nights
mornings we woke with headaches bright as oranges

more than a decade later we speak on the phone hours
catching up on missed years of joy, baseball, lovers, slices
of pain, poems, films, kids mundane opportunities for a
throaty laugh or floating clouds of the time he did that brought
us together my name tattooed on his arm faded as the lust

that used to drive me to him like oxycodone love drugs
a thing of the past grown-up friendship replaces now
our pumps get primed by younger flesh & fantasies
timing is the key to everything & ours was always off
comfortable as blue velvet memory foam lined slippers

we wear each other well

Lynne Savitt’s Bio

Posted in LYNNE SAVITT on September 12, 2012 by Scot


i am terrified of biographies,
the factual black and white
printed credibility

the date the cloud was filled with lemon snowflakes

the hour my father exploded my birth from a tennis ball

the job at the orphanage giving oatmeal
kisses to homeless midwest cheeks

thumbprints from my offspring  my husbands
picture of my sister looking just like daddy
distributing dollars with a miser’s heart
xerox copies of my mother’s bridal dinner,
hysterectomy, charity luncheon
list of the religious persuasions and vegetable
preferences of all my lovers

there are new methods to categorize
fears, health habits, insecurities
all recorded on asbestos uniforms
worn by airline stewards on international flights

‘’born in australia in the emerald studded
pouch of a sable coated kangaroo
my right eye is a perfect star sapphire’’

i am in favor of myths.

–from LUST IN 28 FLAVORS, 1979


Posted in LYNNE SAVITT with tags on September 12, 2012 by Scot


sexual attraction i am sending you
photo of my right thigh always least
favorite part of my body looking back
bent over mirror my ass is holding up
well may i gratefully implore you send

me photo of body part attached to
you i should see before i continue
fantasizing slap of sex helping this
old gal sleep like contented toddler

ah, smell of you draws me like old
furniture sold after we spilled on
arm chairs & beds & shower juice
of lust ragged as broken wine bottle

senior citizens of desire i lick
thoughts of you fill me with easy
breathing mental ambien no pills
can we bottle this for baby boomers
love, we’d be richer than our happy

hardening of arteries diamond hearts


Posted in LYNNE SAVITT with tags on September 12, 2012 by Scot


‘’To love without role, without power plays, is revolution.’’
                                                                          –Rita Mae Brown

i drive the long, dangerous journey
you shower, put on your clean clothes
& wait for us to arrive with books,
sometimes vegetables, depending on
what we can afford this month

i wait on line with all those
other women who work to keep
home together long hours
raise children strong as the
bars in this cold prison

after we’ve walked through
the four electric gates
our men will enter one at
a time we’ll be blossoms
soft and perfumed and
bring them coffee, honey, sandwiches
they will warm the food, set the table

in a blur stealing intimacies
i touch you touch she rubs
he sighs robbing smells textures
to last until the next visit

sometimes i bury your head
in my breasts you find
comfort me in your arms
all is well no roles

in this love, my darling
all the pins have been
pulled from the grenades
no matter how long we
must wait we will
continue the revolution

–from No Apologies 1981

Works By The Poet Lynne Savitt

Posted in LYNNE SAVITT with tags on September 12, 2012 by Scot

Lust in 28 Flavors, Second Coming Press, 1979

Eros Unbound, Blue Horse Publications, 1980

No Apologies, Cardinal Press, 1981

Plump Passions, Ancient Mariners Press, 1988

Dreams as Erect as Nipples on Ice, Ghost Dance, 1989

Sleeping Retrospect of Desire, Konocti Books, 1993

The Burial of Longing Beneath The Blue Neon Moon, Ye Olde Font Shoppe, 1999

The Transport of Grandma’s Yearning Vibrator, Myshkin Press, 2002

Greatest Hits 1979-2003, Pudding House Publications, 2004

The Deployment of Love in Pineapple Twilight, Presa, 2005

Digging Dinosaur Dignity in Ardortown, Myshkin Press, 2008

Too Late for Valentines’ Day, Myshkin Press, 2012

Poem by Lynne Savitt

Posted in LYNNE SAVITT with tags on September 12, 2012 by Scot

                 THE MOVIES & REAL LIFE

husbands punch their wives after beers
with the boys losing at cards or racetrack
they come home smelling like sachet from
lingerie drawer not yours checkbook lost while
kayaking glue themselves to their glasses
cheaters, brutes, idiots, sissies they kiss
or beat the crap out of their respective
spouses who are all unfaithful blondes
with great tits & ass acting cool as blue
plastic ice cube trays or brunettes in
pale pink cashmere & nylon stockings
cheeks peachy as produce from augusta

get grade A education love your limbs like
branches of the weeping willow write poems
in linen clouds dance like a vengeful rain
hump like sweet bunnies paint canvases big
as arizona canyons travel the world ten times
over paint yr lips & cheeks with pomegranate
kiss the lower back of any human who shares
yr joyful pain & macro photography don’t ever
care what others think of yourselves as warrior
princesses deserving of the universe & own it