Archive for March, 2014

Three Poems by Michael Thompson

Posted in Michael Thompson with tags on March 27, 2014 by Scot


The dilapidated hotel
reeks of rotted flesh
and is more rusted
than a Studebaker
decaying like cancer
in an old junkyard

It’s plain to see why
beatniks fled to Paris
and engaged in cut-ups,
the French notoriously embrace
all things bland

When sissies drop
what they figure
is a mean line,
their heads sit lodged
too far up assholes
to notice that their gristle
severely lacks heart

Fools seem convinced
that Corso was worth a damn
so I read Mindfield
against my better judgment,
but being recommended
and hailed by Ginsberg
should have been enough
of a red flag to stop me in my tracks

Allen should have started
his well-known poem
by admitting he saw
the best minds of his generation
leave his ass in the dust,
but if the old queen spent more time
learning from Jack instead of chasing Cassady
and recognition around like a school girl,
he might have thrown down a decent line




I took Jesus water boarding
for his role with televangelists
and the tabloid rags hailed me
as their new messiah
even though misogynist temples
burned me in effigy
which didn’t cause me any bother
since I’d torched their existence
a lifetime ago
as I have free will
and am not a card-carrying member
of the Kool-Aid swilling herd,
but I’ll use my newfound position
to push 8-track tapes
into making a come back
if just for the struggle
to find favorite songs
between four programs




The loveable hooligan
hummed 12 bar blues until the last
even after radicals from another age
dropped just like flies
and only after the last ride
was taken on an eastbound train
from the Spanish quarter
did periodicals dedicate space
that was long overdue

Bohemian like Rimbaud
even when it wasn’t hip,
the legend of the Coffee Gallery
burst with even more bluster
than New York City,
but too many Jacks in the deck
left some bewildered just who was who

If the city’s fathers have the nerve
to earmark a lane for Rexroth,
the least they could do
is rename Grant or Green
after ol’ Micheline
who, at this very minute,
is closing down every bar in Zion
with Kerouac and Cassady

Salt-Water Church by Helen Losse

Posted in Helen Losse with tags on March 26, 2014 by Scot




The salt-water Atlantic lies over that ridge.
I am here to soak in the sea—
to cleanse my soul & wash myself

of the detritus. Earth has become
a place that takes so much
from me and gives so little back.

I walk toward the water’s edge,
flip-flops in hand. I dip one toe in.
Baptized, I remember the beach

was the sight of Jesus’s last fish fry—
the one after He cried
the loneliest cry in all the world.