Archive for September, 2017

OVER-SLEEPING by John D Robinson

Posted in John D Robinson with tags on September 22, 2017 by Scot

Fucked if I can remember
his name but he was an old,
ugly and wiry muscle
bearded fellow who told
me that he’d be woken
by the voices of a guy and
girl screaming at one
another at 02:30 am:
‘I opened up the window
of my room overlooking
the street, 3 floors up and
shouted: HEY! Stop that
screaming at each other,
I haven’t fucked
anything for over 20
years and if you don’t
stop arguing and go home
now and fuck then I
will come down there
and fuck the both of you!’
‘That was a fair call’
I said ‘How’d it go?’
‘I overslept’ he said.

Two Poems by Mather Schneider

Posted in Mather Schneider with tags on September 22, 2017 by Scot


In third grade, us kids were given a piece of paper
to teach us about similes, and thus
to understand life better.

On the paper were written things like:

“________ is as green as grass.”


“It was as hot as ________.”

We were to fill in the blanks.
At the end of the page we were to invent our
own similes completely from scratch.

For my own simile, I wrote:
“Tony Posino smells as bad as a garbage can.”

Tony Posino was a big kid in our class
who liked to beat up other kids and threaten us
and steal our stuff
and it was true he smelled
like a garbage can.

I turned in my paper and later got a note from the teacher
and he took me out
of class and had a talk with me.
He told me that was a terrible thing to say about another human being
that I should have respect for people
that others didn’t have it as good
as I did
I could not go through life with that mentality
and my parents should have taught me better.

That teacher, he really knew how
to lay it on a kid.
I felt so bad I cried.
I thought I was an evil person who would
never have any friends in my whole life
and never know the meaning
of happiness and probably end
up completely alone and then go to hell.

That teacher sat there feeling
good about himself
for correcting a wayward 8-year-old soul
while I wiped my eyes
and walked home hoping no one would see me
stupid similes,
what good are they?

I’ve been ducking people
like him
and Tony Posino
ever since.




Charlie was at the Iguana drinking.
Charlie’s a Yaqui like me
but he’s blind.
He had his cane hanging on his knee
and his girlfriend Katey was there,
she’s an albino,
she’s white like you.
Well this drunk guy notices Charlie’s blind
and decides to make a move on Katey.
She’s an albino but still not bad looking.
She whispers to Charlie,
“This guy’s getting close,”
and Charlie whispers back, “How close?”
And she says, “Real close, he’s right there.”
“Right there?” Charlie says.
“Yeah, right THERE.”
Charlie stands up real slow
and stares straight ahead with those milky eyes
and he reaches around Katey
and grabs the guy by the neck with one hand
and hauls him out the door.
It was about three in the afternoon
and we all followed him to watch.
Charlie had the guy pinned on the sidewalk
and he says, “You had enough? You had enough?”
And the guy grunts something, you know
and Charlie lets loose
and we all go back inside and leave the guy there.
He wasn’t really hurt bad.
Now, I’ll admit
a one-armed guy beat me at pool one time
at Skinny’s Pub
and I like Charlie and no disrespect
but if I got my ass kicked by a blind guy
I would be so embarrassed
I don’t think I’d EVER go back in that bar again.
But, this dumb-ass just came back in ten minutes later
like nothing happened.
But he didn’t do nothing that time.
He just sat at a table
by the wall
and rubbed his eyes.

Three poems by Bradley Mason Hamlin

Posted in Bradley Mason Hamlin with tags on September 22, 2017 by Scot

Cat Piss & Vodka

to “Disco in Moscow”
by the Vibrators

I find
a matchbook
on the floor
in my office

I discover
many strange
on the flooring
of my headquarters

I don’t smoke
I picked it up

smelling vaguely
like cat piss

not me,
the matches

Black Sparrow
with a Bukowski poem
on the backside

with the hunted

well done,
and this poem
won’t be as good
as that one

Hank isn’t able
at the moment
to drink
iced vodka

not quite
give a fuck.


Bukowski Haiku


Bukowski beaten
but better than Kerouac
beaten but not beat.


California Jungle

to punk rock
on the backyard

soaks up the shine
in a polka dot bikini
while drinking
a beer from Chico

45 Grave
soundtracks the sun

as I read
Tarzan and the Golden Lion
(our Bengal kitten
stalks the veldt
of our lawn …)

as Burroughs
cries forth with epic
cruel world passion:

“… he placed one foot
upon the carcass of his kill
and raised his voice in
the terrifying victory cry
of the apes of Kerchak.”

the kill
in this case,
a lion

the jungle cat’s claws
a crazy sexy hot
jungle princess

evil wicked beast
deserving of
the spear of destiny

if only
could be so

never destroy
that which doesn’t
need destruction

simple, right?

totally, deep
thoughts …

the brown bottle

on this warm California
summer day,
north of Tarzana

you’re welcome.


The Hijacking of America 2016 by Ben Rasnic

Posted in Ben Rasnic with tags on September 22, 2017 by Scot


Avaricious right wing evangelicals
and megalomaniacal pseudo-politicians,
brothers & sisters
from the same shared womb,
the same blue blood lines,
the same empty eyes
casting cattle stares
into carnival mirrors
rippling grandiose apparitions
depicting the chosen one.

Performing mass hypnosis
at circus tent revivals & paid participant rallies
they spin assorted tricks up the sleeve
pick pocketing collection plates
with sleight of hand
artistry conjuring up a carefully contrived
name & face of the enemy,
having baited weak minded congregations
into a mob mentality
with the smell of fear
and dangle of shiny promises
to fix everything
and everyone
who is broken,
all the while smiling
through wolves’ teeth,
lip syncing the prelude to America
descending into darkness.

the memory collective by Elle Surtees

Posted in Elle Surtees with tags on September 13, 2017 by Scot

the memory collective,
less lineal / more ethereal.
girls w/chain-link-print shadows,
cast on skin living between boarders.
concrete blocks, razor fences
made for invisible edges.
babies born again all day,
met w happiness and/or accidentally.
sex machines/dolls/pretend human beings.
made to order, move to suburbs
from far away foreign factories.
fuck toys, lovely babes
some are real, some are fake.
pretty please, lie out loud
when you lay on the bed.
one made up to play w body,
other body plays w head.
magic in the marrow
of the bones our bodies own.
lust dressed like love
mixed w liquor and on drugs.
hyper heart, hopped fence
went too far real fast,
came away w a past.
4 walls up high,
sow deep seeded defenses.
behind them lonely is a darkness
full but empty, ashamed, exposed, defenseless.
fifteen-plus-year thin threaded dreams,
don’t stand a chance made in china.
born dead in paradise, alive momento mori.
inspected, directed, injected, rejected
altogether yet seperate inside
the memory collective.

glory holes lit by cigarettes
see-through, make the show.
nights danced till dusted,
acid drawings, cocaine eyes
heroin blood on the walls.
call it like you see it,
or keep it secret in the stalls.
embrace the future,
paved parking spaces.
specially reserved,
isolate the greatest races.
blue eyes in glass boxes
looking down from somewhere high.
real estate, virtually thin air up in the sky.
back in the day, they all say…
something better used to be here.
all-night neon booth bed diners.
want a tip bitch?
starving children, bastards
will come dine, then they ditch.
take all my cents if you need it.
but back the fuck off my senses.
get ready, put a coat on
it get’s so cold outside.
freezing, lost, vegas-desert-winter,
sometimes it looks like
it’s gonna feel that way forever
all the time.
then a ray breaks through
finds me bc i know it’s mine.
w light that’s gold, looks real
and all the good things feel true.

better take off you’re closed.
then unsettled again still.
hungry man dreams
a stale doughnut fairy.
pissed his pants, more than once
dude was drunk, high on junk.
made his place on the ground
inside a bus stop.
dreams came true
and rolled through.
under a bench,
w few dirty donated blankets.
sugarmeals on wheels
hand delivery by skateboard
seemed like a sad man
was truly happy
in that moment.
dirty old guy, down on his luck.
his kind smile real,
he gave that to me.
i gave him food
rescued from dumpsters
by me.

slut red, some said
ponytails, screaming
pulled apart.
a plastic seat
under a doorway frame.
fingers greasy,
nails, chip painted
out the dirt, under the bed.
run in the hair top ya head.
knew a girl once, broke many times.
filled the kitchen w flies, a beast arrived.
girl broke my heart,
its hard to do.
tall tales,
w long tongue
licking asses of all the guys
she slayed they passed her by.
saw a spirit form from bottled pills
in the dark, double up
took her away
inner being spilled.
lost in stained carpet,
some crumbling stucco hallway.
you got a son, why won’t she shine?
i got a flower, this will never dies.
alive inside my memory
all ways isolated
always by my side.
under glass broken from promises
somewhere far away one day i swear i will be free.
our symmetry in common burns,
memories stay not as warm.
thangs ain’t the same w/o power.
live free / kill the pain,
all day / every hour.


cultured naturally
un-nurtured adult-kid
you’re getting away
little scared maybe still
but this feels kinda big.
ya gonna get that way
anyway someday.
just for now, or never.
nothing is forever.

carrying things takes forgiveness,
weighted and endless.
shit don’t always add up all the time.
work out, or even matter.
blood-n-teeth stains
temporarily remain
flesh novelty
wear it flashy
it’s not for every night,
right now because of this,
we’ll never ever be the same.
things die, some just stay there,
rotting inside.
hardening the blood.
near the chest area.
how is it actually a twisting pain
there, inside my heart?
i know it sounds like bullshit.
but it feels harder sometimes and heavy
i choke on it a little, so I know
for sure something’s wrong in there.
mini anxiety ghost knife-like reminders.
cracking knuckles, pulling hair.
4 steps forward
2 steps 2 many and 2 late
bet on a gamble, poor you, picked wrong pony
w the shotgun at the gate.
state of mind state, please stay gold.
fuck the world
for the win
love ya neighbor
beauty inside never gets ugly or lonley.
let’s get high,
all i ever wanted was to fly.
crash pilot falling from the sky
get lost maybe,
don’t come back.
knew quite a few
who didn’t mean too,
but left the rest of us here like that.
the one resonance, autonomus eternal.
I ain’t so much familiar just quite yet.
I know it’s gotta be there somewhere.
hidden obvious, out in the open.
once you find love i’m pretty sure after that it’ll all be free
at least thats what i hope…
because that’s something good in me i can still see.


 –Elle was born in Australia raised in Hawaii left home for Vegas at 15. Her parents are artists She is a working artist. She lived in Tijuana for 6 months.

viretta park by John Grochalski

Posted in John Grochalski with tags on September 13, 2017 by Scot

–for kurt cobain

i couldn’t write a poem
with enough sorrow back then
although i tried on the morning bus
looking out at east liberty concrete
in the new pittsburgh spring
all sad boy poet pose playing nevermind in my headphones
maybe i lacked the proper empathy
didn’t understand suicide
with a girl willing to take her clothes off for me
telling me she loved me all the time
kris and i saw allen ginsberg read poetry
the night i found out you died
and i turned twenty the day after
that girl i mentioned
well…she wanted to make the night special for me
so hopefully you can forgive me
for being just a touch distracted back then
but kurt the thing is
standing here in viretta park, seattle
twenty-three years later
in a neighborhood i could never picture you living in
looking at a bench with your name
your lyrics scrawled all over it
that ghostly house hanging in the distance
an older, gray man
at an age you could never even contemplate
i’m still not sure that i have the words
or maybe my existence since that time
has now far outstretched my empathy
and capacity for sorrow
how terrible that we missed each other in that cosmic way
i wish i could tell you something dumb
like just concentrate on the music
or that life doesn’t just become habitual
and that you’ve really got to search for the moments
after you reach a certain age
but right now, kurt
i kind of don’t want to prove you wrong or right
or even lie to myself
i just want to take a picture of this bench
hold my wife’s hand
and walk down to lake washington
watch as the sun shimmers off the water
before we head back to the city
where the young kids
are all still wearing your t-shirts
still looking for signs of life
still looking for a way through you
to escape.

the older hispanic men by Justin Hyde

Posted in Justin Hyde with tags on September 13, 2017 by Scot


i met
in detasseling fields
& roofing crews

had nothing
or very little

besides aztec grace
& the dignity
of a bald eagle
on their shoulders

something of durango
echoes of pancho villa
in their marrow

men like luis


no pensive

or existential

i stood
in their shade

those lean

even(ing) by Paul Koniecki

Posted in Paul Koniecki with tags on September 13, 2017 by Scot


when in every dream
i am william cutting
five points bill the
butcher cursing or fighting

american eagle false eye
controlling every other move
like a star trek
ceti eel larvae and

i wish daniel crocker
was here to put
it (all) in a poem
and save me between

fits of lost control
panic mania hurricane eyelids
man’s inhumanity to sleep
and again to man