Archive for the Uncategorized Category

Four Poems by Bradley Mason Hamlin

Posted in Uncategorized with tags on October 17, 2020 by Scot

Attack of the Idea People

they offer their ideas
when you tell them
you’re a

because if you write
you know
you’re probably
for inspiration

I know a great story
you can write!

No, thanks, you say
You write it.

But I’m not a writer
Don’t you
wanna good story?

I’m already working
on something

that’s too bad
because this
would have been

really great.


She’s Too Pretty to Play with Sober

got at least

the boneyard

I like
to pull it

in awhile

and run
with a wild

in the summer
when the world

into autumn
as we

into each

code words

jazz piano
as we

pull on
monster façade.


If You Get Just the Right Amount Drunk Tonight

in the super drunken
of appreciation

I know maybe
we don’t have it
all figured

all of the time

just know this
from me

as summer radiation
fades into
the awesome embrace
of autumn shadows

I love you
and don’t let
ever tell you

and beer
I love beer & wine
and vodka

why the fuck not

if you get
just the right amount
drunk tonight

you might see it
the same way.


Telepathy for Angels

it’s impossible
to sleep

it’s one martini
too many
red wine
or good California

or bills
or worrying about
the future
the children
my pretty wife

only one thing
takes me
to clouds

I pray
to gods unknown
or to those
to whom I think
I should know
or want to know

I pray
to my ancestors
and various
other departed people

I phone it in …
to get past
dead letter office

I can’t tell you
whether or not
they answer

that they
grant me
the gift of dreams.

brains and eggs after the main event by Scot Young

Posted in Scot Young, Uncategorized with tags on August 19, 2020 by Scot


to nichol’s
a .357
& shot
a hole
at 39th
& main

brains &

SALTED SLUG by Strider Marcus Jones

Posted in Uncategorized with tags on August 19, 2020 by Scot

your words stung,
and hung
me upside down, inside out,
to watch you
swan turned shrew-
hairbrush out all memory and meaning,
from those fresco pictures on the wet plaster ceiling-
that my Michelangelo took years to paint,
in glorious colours, now flaked and full of hate.

the lights of our pleiades went out,
with no new songs to sing and talk about-
suspended there
inside sobs of solitude and infinite despair-
like soluble syllables of barbiturates
in exhaust fumes of apology and regrets.

you left me prone-
to hear deaths symphony alone,
split and splattered, opened on the floor,
repenting for nothing, evermore-
like a salted slug,
curdled and curled up on the rug-
to melt away
while you spoon and my colours fade to grey.

the heart of truth-
intact in youth,
fractures into fronds of lies and trust,
destined to become a hollow husk-
but i found myself again in hopes congealing pools
and left the field of fools
to someone else-
and put her finished book back on its shelf.


Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and ex civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.

Poem with a line by Lew Welch by John Macker

Posted in Uncategorized with tags on August 19, 2020 by Scot

I write poems strewn
across the fragile
anonymous stillness
that turkey vultures
perch on. It’s hot down in
Tumacacori and when the mission bells
the lean, unkillable wing-locked soarer

rises, circling above the heat
barely a scratch etched into
the blue charged silence

Aztecs called him zopilote,
craven loner,
like an angel,
perches on an overkill’s
bloody warmth

Doomsdays by John Greiner

Posted in Uncategorized with tags on August 19, 2020 by Scot

Doomsdays give me a reason to go on;
the plagues and pandemics,
the hurricanes and floods.
Someday California will finally
fall into the ocean
and I’ll jump up as exultant
as a mega millions lotto winner.
The pandemic has given me
the spring, the summer,
the magnificent everyday things
that I’ve missed for so many seasons.
I look up at tress,
I listen to birds,
I go down to the beach and swim
because the city is far away
with its fear and death.
Its innumerable tourists
are stuck somewhere else
having to make something of their time
with no hope of vacation
with its tour book distractions.
The dead are gone
and there’s always someone to say:
to somewhere better.
Maybe they’re right, if not,
at least it gives them a chance to speak
a few words that feel their way
blindly through this life for meaning,
I live disasters and die the rest of the time,
dull as the hours taken in with the crowd.
When the hurricane came
I got out of working the nightshift
and lived in the brilliant
debris of days
with no sun to mourn.
I’m always waiting around
for doomsday,
for the disaster to come,
for the death knell,
it’s the only way,
God come naturally
to take care of the Big Mistake.
It’s during the horrible moments
that I get to look up at the trees,
that I get to listen to the birds sing,
that I get to swim out into the deep
alive and looking forward
with no fear of the horizon,
no worry about the vanishing point,
that my spirit is burning,
that my soul is satiated,
that there is nothing to want
because all has been achieved
in the brutal and beautiful break
from the drudge of the good morning,
hello, how are you doing,
yes, I’ll get it done, no matter why,
no matter what for, all over again.
These disasters and doomsdays
never come often enough;
there’s always the calm after the storm,
the plague finished by the cure,
the flood waters receding,
the hope doled out for a new
and better day
where there’s no trees to look up at,
where there’s no birds to listen to,
where there’s no sand beneath the feet
just dust seconds blown away
and where the ocean is as small as a wanton
look out on the deafening waves.


John Greiner is a writer and visual artist living in Queens, NY. He was educated at the New School for Social Research. Greiner’s work has appeared in Antiphon, Sand Journal, Empty Mirror, Sensitive Skin, Unarmed, Street Value and numerous other magazines. His books of poetry include Circuit (Whiskey City Press), Turnstile Burlesque (Crisis Chronicles Press) and Bodega Roses (Good Cop/Bad Cop Press). His collaborative work with photographer Carrie Crow has appeared at the Tate Liverpool, the Queens Museum and in galleries in New York, Los Angeles, Venice, Paris, Berlin and Hamburg.

Punk Rock, Beer, & Boobs by Bradley Mason Hamlin

Posted in Bradley Mason Hamlin, Uncategorized with tags on August 14, 2020 by Scot


I hear
These singers
I have loved most
Of my life
So old

As if
They’re dying
Doing the very thing
That has kept them
So alive

They can’t escape
The grim reaper rattling
Voodoo dolls
Inside their throats

And I just stopped
In the middle
Of this poem

To eat a piece
Of fried chicken
And fix a vodka rocks

Will it happen to me?

My work rambling
On paper
And telepathically

My words turn
Like a shrunken head
For clarity
With sown-shut lips?

What if
I don’t want to write

Punk rock, beer, & boobs

Good luck with that.

Poem for Lester Madden by John Dorsey

Posted in John Dorsey, Uncategorized with tags on August 13, 2020 by Scot


even the dead can see the lights from the highway
i imagine you were an olympic swimmer

that you once kissed a girl from zelienople
on a first date at baldinger’s
who had sugar sweet lips

you were a lucky guy
that’s further
than i’ve ever gotten.

Two Poems by Shawn Pavey

Posted in Shawn Pavey, Uncategorized on August 12, 2020 by Scot

Mo(u)rning Ghazal
Heavy rains for the better part of twenty four hours.
The river rises, water overflowing its borders.

Thunder fills everyone standing with dread, but lightning
cracks the air, opens us to all the sky’s murderous powers.

Beside a propane tank behind my studio, at the edge
of an overgrown gravel drive, sway black-eyed Susans and lacy wildflowers.

Strong black coffee punctuates overcast mornings.
Cigarettes are good, too, but I don’t smoke those anymore.

Last week, chatted with an old and dear friend who’s writing a book
on “The History of Reading” that I want to devour.

He told me it’s cancer. He told me the executor of his will
will send me his lifetime’s book collection of analysis and verse.

I do not want my friend to die and neither do I want to end.
I am exhausted from saying goodbye, yet here we are.

Ghazal of Regret
Memories of childhood seem to come in various hues of green: Lawn in late
spring, undersides of leaves in shade of that old maple near an opened gate.

Which face do we wear now to the world, under masks, under pandemic,
under virus, under orders, under undermined orders, under fear, under greatness?

Modern times, such modern times these are. All of us instantly connected
by phones in our pockets, by watches, by tablets so devoutly followed and liked, never sated.

Uneasy to predict, tomorrow. Disease of information lacking wisdom and context.
We lock windows. Lock cars. Lock doors and cell phones and minds and gates.

To be new again. To be open, again. To be fair and just and kind and receptive.
To be children. To be smiling. To be singing. To be play and playing. Free. Too late.

ABOVE by Wolf Kevin Martin

Posted in Uncategorized with tags on August 11, 2020 by Scot


spit to see the blood in it
bathtubs of lukewarm water
all sins require a tax universally
accepts credit cards or weeping
days of not enough living in the tail of a comet
doing everything to not destroy what was left
the stars are my ladies that know better
than to lie awake thinking of me

dream out loud
not fuck around
say too much
tempt fate
the wrong way

weighs down a soul
regurgitating middle
class upbringing
will be brought back
from the dead
soon In fashion again

wear your blood
across my ghost
will try to kiss
you again later

Gone Fishing by Cord Moreski

Posted in Cord Moreski, Uncategorized with tags on August 10, 2020 by Scot

for Charles Joseph

I finally get hold
of Charles on the phone
to see what he’s been up to.
“Gone fishing,” he tells me.

I mention some new poems
I wrote down this morning
he talks about some fluke he caught
in the bay behind his apartment.

“Any keepers?” I ask.
“Not a chance in hell!”
I go back to my writing
from earlier today and agree.