Archive for January, 2013

AD WINANS

Posted in A.D. Winans with tags on January 6, 2013 by Scot

Poetry Workshop Bluesad

Call it a workshop
Call it a class
Call it group therapy
Sitting there waiting on the
Resident Guru to impart his wisdom
To bestow on you the
Magic of the muse
Go home, I tell you
Tend to the garden
Water the plants
Make love masturbate
Then you’ll have something
To talk about

____________

Nameless Woman Blues

Train unoccupied boxcars
Left unattended
Rot from the rust of time
A game of liar’s dice becomes craps
Where the losers are declared the winners

You saw what I was unable to see
You reached for the sun
And the moon hid behind the clouds

You turned solitude into music
As if you were a magician waving
His hand at a mad man wandering the Halls of an abandoned insane asylum

____________

Early Morning Poem

In the haze of early morning
death lurks in the distant shadows
mocks the photo of my father
playing his violin
turning soft notes of life
into chalkboard screams of death
each note falling like hard rain
in the cranial guitar of my brain

____________

Early Winter Poem

Chill of winter in the air
Misty fog gives way
To a light rain
Cars spew deadly exhaust fumes
Windshield wipers flap like
The wings of birds in migration
Stone faces hide behind steering wheels
Give no quarter yield only
To the red traffic lights
Pedestrians scurry across the street
Board the morning bus
On their way to work
Pressed together like preserved butterflies
Between the pages of an old
And frayed book

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WILLIAM TAYLOR JR.

Posted in William Taylor Jr. with tags on January 6, 2013 by Scot

Joy On Most Every Cornerbill

It’s starting to feel like winter
even here in San Francisco
and it’s harder than it should be
to find an open bar on Valencia St.
at 3 o’clock on a weekday afternoon
and as I walk I feel myself
evaporating like the rain
on the sidewalks and I know
this is the nature of things

but I’d like to hold on
for just a little while more
see I’m still not tired
of the sky’s lovely grey
and though I still don’t
know how to say I’m sorry
for all I am
and all I’m not
despite all my talk of darkness
at any given moment
I still can fall in love
with everything all over again
and I still think we are often beautiful
in our pristine and plastic
uselessness
and sometimes I still see
joy on most every corner
and I can still walk these
Mission Street sidewalks
in the wintertime
and sing.

____________

The Universe and Everyone

It’s just like old Sherwood
Anderson said, everything
is on fire all the time
and that means you
and me
and the suns and the stars
and the houses and the oceans
there’s no shame in it
and to understand and
accept it is not giving up
it’s just opening yourself
to the nature of things
and there is great power
in this and if you realize
that all there is
all there ever was and
will be
is this moment
burning
and you inside it
burning
you can give yourself
to it completely
you can burn so big
and bright
people will see
the universe and everyone
will see
and when you are gone
they will remember
and say
wow.

____________
The Sad Ghosts of Poets

I drink in an old
North Beach bar
surrounded by the
sad ghosts
of poets

( I am
speaking now
of the dead
ghosts not
the living
ones)

I look out
the window
down upon
Columbus
Avenue

and think
O Jack
O Bob
O Richard
O Dylan
O Jack

at your best you had
the power to turn
these lonely alleys
into songs

you broke the darkness
with a desperate joy

and mined these
dirty sidewalks
for a beauty Death
had no answer for

but Death
has no shame
I see it
spare changing on
every corner

it follows me like
a starving dog
most everywhere
I go

it waits for me
outside these doors
just like it waited
for you.

MK CHAVEZ

Posted in MK Chavez with tags on January 6, 2013 by Scot

mk

I Stepped on your Feet and you Called me your Favorite Dancer

Everything pivotal no matter what
the eyes see so much pointillism,
but our story is destined for facets.
I’m ready to have the fairytale
altered, we are as good as the golden spike,
and maybe we were the first tenement
and the first slum, but when your mouth met mine
it was vitruvian, we leveled
the place. I created us in large part—
a lithograph that was rubbed and rubbed
not useable until the cliff hanger,
though we had our moments—Reclining
nudes—our faces full of primitivism

____________

Locomotive

The tracks curve here, your eyebrows raise your naked
face like the biting of  New York cold. Come on!
I say, there’s nothing to hide let’s strip, tease,

let’s turn things not completely around, let’s
accept things at a slant, just so, like the hat
on your head, one ear out, part of you would

want, part of you not, that’s the kind of fight.
We could live together next to the railroad
tracks, the 2:03  passing through, as our limbs

make snow angels while we sleep carrying forth
the daytime argument. We would finally
have something to blame for the blue hue

of our disagreements—Come on Baby—
rattle the change in  your pocket, I know you like
to hang out with sharp rocks. All I’m asking is

can I please get inside there. I’ve put on
my ruffle-bottomed swimsuit: proof that I am
a fine diver. Your lips are always parted

and I think that somehow I might someday
get an invitation to enter into
your rusted old ways, that dilapidated building

that I have sworn has an old fashioned meaning,
that brackish water—there at the center
of it all. I want to dip my toe in

to wade, the water licking ankle and up
my calf, to the tickle back part of the knee.
I want to make wet hair, make it

stick to skin, perfect doll curls in honor
of the death of diversions. The pool, too much
to get over, once you’ve been in, you’ll want

in it again, and again. Listen—I’m an old girl
but I can still do the doggie paddle, no longer fixed
on the future. Who cares about the shore?

Come on—The steam is coming off the tracks;
it’s time to let it blow, time to let that engine go.

Bradley Mason Hamlin

Posted in Bradley Mason Hamlin with tags on January 6, 2013 by Scot

brad


Bettie Page

did you see her
in that magazine
or comic book
cover of a pulp
or dirty little stag film
did you see her …

bondage, spanking, whips
jungle girl
wild cat
playing with leopards
or vacuuming the rug
in French maid attire
all good
but nothing without
her smile

did you see her smile …

fishnets
50’s bikinis
garters and high heels
but did you see her killer fringe,

bangs to shoot bullets by
breasts bursting from
sexy bras
low-cut everything
and buttons unbuttoning,
naked
nude
raw she was, sometimes
with curves
real
and fine and foxy
and
did you see her …

did you see her while driving
your red hot-rod and drinking xxx
whiskey and runnin
from the cops

rockabilly roadsters
fetish queens
and tattooed whores in bitchin
blue jeans

you owe all to her
mini-skirts and slutty lipstick
slutty, beautiful
lip
stick …

Rebecca Schumejda

Posted in Rebecca Schumejda with tags on January 6, 2013 by Scot

What We Use Against One Another

You are thin as a celery stalk
and I, a Bosch pear.

Your feet and hands icicles
from September to June.

In the shower, I use up
all the hot water.

You get the bathmat wet.

I use your toothbrush

your razors

your deodorant.

There are piles of wet leaves
in our yard,
we will let decompose.

Snow and silences

cover blemishes.

Three rakes are truths
hidden under
rubbish in the shed.

On trash days, you wait

until the truck rounds the corner.

Instead of cleaning the fridge,
I push everything back
to make more room.

I ask the same questions
from a dozen different angles.

At parties, when I drink too much,
I paint us naked without consideration.

But, morning afters,
the empty bottle of Aspirin,
you leave in the medicine cabinet,

is much more telling.

rebecca

ROB PLATH

Posted in Rob Plath on January 6, 2013 by Scot

either death nor liferob plath

people always
complain
to
me
about
writer’s block

& i don’t understand
this phenomenon

a while back
a good friend gave me this
old typewriter

which i don’t actually write on
but one night when i was drunk
i put a skull
that i use as a paperweight
on top of it

resting where
the blank page would be
the empty sockets
stared back at me
the jaw hovering
over the tiers of keys

maybe they wouldn’t be
stumped for poems
if this skinless head
greeted them
before
they
wrote

but no, they neither
see death
nor
life
_________

well maybe not so good

i can
feel
it
shifting

if
i
really
quiet
myself

this hour
week
month
year

these people
these places

shifting
slower
than
smoke
dissolving
in
a
room
on
a
sunday
morning

this
marvelous
gravy
of
the
present

turning
into
the
proverbial
“good
old
days”
___________

in between atrophy and a pine box there are cages

i don’t know
what’s worse:

the medical field
feeding off
people’s fear
of dying
or
the funeral
business
taking advantage
of people’s
loss

or

in
between
staving off
shitting
our pants
& shelling out
for our own
box-in-a-hole

the
powers
that fucking be
making
us
all
pay
dearly
to
stay
out
of
those
human
fucking
cages

Misti Rainwater-Lites

Posted in Misti Rainwater-Lites with tags on January 6, 2013 by Scot

misti

4th Move in 3 Long Years

I Dermoplast my pits.
Burned by the razor again.
I’m bleeding like I do,
staining granny panties
and apple green sheets.
The food is packed so I
chew cinnamon gum
and read Carson McCullers.
I remember that feeling.
Itchy nipples at twelve.
Hollering at the older boy
across the street
because he was mocking
my passionate belief in Jesus.
He wasn’t afraid of Hell
and that pissed me off so bad
I wanted to kick
his balls.

In another part of the state
my daughter is twelve,
soon to be thirteen.
I wish her less passion,
less boxes to pack,
less tacks to thumb
on maps to say
I Was Here.