Archive for September, 2014

Haiku by Ted Kane

Posted in Ted Kane with tags on September 27, 2014 by Scot

The chasm fills with
rain; but only so much and
never forever


Posted in A.D. Winans with tags on September 27, 2014 by Scot

like pulling a wisdom tooth
like an attack of sciatica
I sit here lost
in the attic of my mind

the fog rolling in
slips through the crack
of my living room window
born at home premature
under the light of a full moon
I walked the jungles of Panama
fed off Beat Mania
in the streets of North Beach

Shaman poets sang in my ear
under a bed of stars
young women with dresses
that clung to firm thighs

damp dark cavern
wet as morning dew
peach fuzz dinner
drew me in devoured me
like quicksand

the sweet fragrance of the past
mates with comrades long dead
as I walk back into my birth
work my way through
the sound of water

the wind propels me
toward my destiny
my boyhood gone
like an old jalopy used-up
rusting in an auto junkyard

I head toward
the comfort of the now
nailed to the cross of the past
in the language of the present
with no words to light the fire
as I carry the memories
like a mountain climber
with a heavy back pack
vague memories of my mother
singing me to sleep
and the chill of waking
the tongue of dawn
cold as dry ice

the hawk sweeps down for the kill
a dog howls at the moon
a cat yawns in boredom
the universe draws new boundary lines
fragile as a new born baby

the coo-coo bird moves backwards
into the clock
fearful police lock and load their guns
black boys moving targets
in the night

voter suppression laws
to keep voting down
Southern barbecues
with “rednecks” hungry
for “nigger” steak

gone the passion of revolution
sell out satisfaction
to the status quo

the night hounds of death
stumble into the day
the rich roasting the poor
like a pig on a spit

labor unions
turned into mannequin’s
fuel the fire of Wall Street
the war machine moneymakers
bleed the blood of our youth
like an undertaker
dressing the dead

the Roman Senate proceeds unabated
turn out gladiators
like machinery parts
endless parades and marching bands
waving flags, played out
like a Disney Land bonanza

slaves without chains
government without representation
this nation of criminal politicians

The ghost of Custer rises
like a creature from the lagoon
creeps through the night
like a faceless Santa Clause
with a bag of Indian scalps

Allah competes with the Pope
for the rights to the head of Jesus
beheaded by ISIS barbarians
back from a night of slaughter
as the congregation stumbles
like a drunk into the future
carved out in the hands
of a gypsy fortune teller
as I wait out the night hours of solitude
shut out the demons of insomnia
like a faulty light switch
the holy of the unholy
money exchangers
make and pass new laws
laws that feed on the bones
of the poor and dispossessed
a future where animals
turn into animal crackers
and birds are served live
at holiday feasts
the angels occupy the cheap seats
at Yankee Stadium
God sends down a bolt of lightning
dismayed at the flawed diamond
he created in his image

Off The Tracks by Cassandra Dallett

Posted in Cassandra Dallett with tags on September 27, 2014 by Scot

It’s a fact there are too many rape poems
or just too much rape or rapey-ness
too much talk of raping boyfriends and punching fiancés
the women who marry them
and I understand those women I do, been there
got my ass beat and the word rape didn’t even come out my mouth
but I was bent over and around and drunkenly pushed down
dick in my mouth cause his friend said it was good, said I would
so drunk I sucked dick in darkened playgrounds more than one
and sober I went to see a boy from the neighborhood
the lights were off when I got there, he led me into his room
his friend in his underwear waiting for me
both of them groping me strangely in the black room
and even though I knew they did it just to tell the fellas outside
I kind of liked the mysterious hungry hands on my body
but I hated the dance and the trickery involved
sometimes I refused them and sometimes I invited them in
even though my aunt yelled at me
cause one time they left their nephew waiting in the dining room
he was bumping around the hallway looking for them
and she said “He knows what you’re doing in there!”
four hands can be better than two
maybe because I realized how scared of me they actually were
when I was close to orgasm their clueless hearts beating fast
and nervous under my palms
smooth brown chests California Curl greasing my pillow
gold chain medallions hitting my face
and in the end and forever I owned it
no one ran a train on me
they were my train
a chain of men I went through and keep on
when I tire and replace them
men are funny
always around
standing in line, dick in hand
waiting for a turn.

Two Poems by Bill Gainer

Posted in Bill Gainer with tags on September 26, 2014 by Scot

Fuck Hope

How long
can you believe
in an empty faith
before saying
fuck hope
pulling the pistol
telling the clerk
to hand it over
for a clean

Yeah –
go with
the wishes.
They’re easier
to accept
for the longshots
they are –
seldom break
and there’s always
the chance
of coming up big.

Hope –
fuck hope.
There’s too many strings.
You have to believe
in things:
The mysteries of god
why leaves are always
and that the death of Jesus
a suicide.

Because God’s Never Done

After the wars are gone
and all the bombs searched for,
some kid will chase
a worn-out soccer ball
down a makeshift field,
kick something just hard enough –
because that’s what kids do.
The old folks will argue
about the crater,
fill it in, plant some grass,
call it a safe place,
a gift from God.
Somebody’s mom
will be left wondering

FILLING STATION POEM by Michael Thompson

Posted in Michael Thompson with tags on September 26, 2014 by Scot

Questionable-looking hoodlums
linger like sewer rats
in the parking lot
of a filling station
next to I-80

It’s not Bethlehem
they’re slouching towards
when the highway patrol
stops in for coffee

Around the corner at Chris’ Bar,
ex-cons unable to get straight
set up a base of operations,
but beware that undercover narcs
are never in short supply

Someone’s mother
whose shirt is grossly inadequate
for the belly she’s acquired
pulls up to the curb
on her son’s Huffy

A pregnant working girl
knocks on every windshield
to rustle up business
and blithely offers
to wash windshields
until the proprietor
chases her off the premises

There’s nothing incognito
about these turns of events

Hussy Moon by Pris Campbell

Posted in Pris Campbell with tags on September 25, 2014 by Scot

That hussy moon peeks
into hotel windows,
steamed up cars, locked offices,
snaps photos of adulterous men
touching bared thighs,
speaking of promised roses
and days that will never arrive.

You told me about her.
Said her ass was too big,
when undressed, to appeal,
that her breath smelled of garlic
when you kissed.

You hoped the moon
would entice me to forgive,
make me leap into your arms,
rub salve into disappointment, but

already the moon has my photo, too.

INTERVIEW WITH THE POET by Paul Corman Roberts

Posted in Paul Corman Roberts with tags on September 25, 2014 by Scot

I sat down to interview the poet

They said:

Don’t be fooled by
the gorgeous bucolism
of the rural countryside:
It IS trying to kill you.

Don’t be fooled by
the homicidal feints
of the big city:
really it’s just lonely
and is looking
to take someone home.

Most big city murders
are the product of uncertainty
or buyer’s remorse.

A crime of passion
is much more frightening
& desperate
& likely to happen
in a moment of beauty;

City people take their kids
to the zoo
to demonstrate
a facsimile of nature
which only really happens
when nature breaks free
for a few moments.

I checked my watch
to find twenty years had gone.

I wondered if the poet and I
were now common law married

I wondered if the poet and I
had copulated & then realized
it didn’t much matter
as these matters go

We shall both know our passing
by the latest gaggle
of photons arriving
for load in
before they pulse
& fragment away.