Archive for the Uncategorized Category

Poem for Brittany by John Dorsey

Posted in Uncategorized with tags on May 1, 2018 by Scot

have seen you on the streets of new orleans
taking photos with well meaning tourists
for half finished beers on bourbon st
crossing venice blvd wearing blue socks
in a shroud of rain
chasing moloch
in a famous blue raincoat
shouting moloch
praying to moloch
that when morning comes
your shadow will recognize your smile
& that my heavy heart
full of forgotten cities
will be able
to carry the weight
of your love.
on its shoulders.


Posted in Uncategorized on July 31, 2017 by Scot

Pop up issue tomorrow…

XERF by Brandon Whitehead

Posted in Uncategorized on April 26, 2017 by Scot

If you go out into the Sierra Madre Desert,
to a point absolutely nowhere special,
you might just find an old man sittin’
in a cracked plastic pool chair
under a pink toy parasol.
He comes out every night
with a pack of Lucky Strikes
and a case of Iron City beer
(don’t ask where he got it…)
and stares at the sky until sunrise.

He’s sittin’ on the border, you see,
listening to good ol’ XERF.

It was back in the 30’s
when a goat-gland loving bible-thumping
serial killer from Kansas named Brinkley
went south to spread the word of God.
He bought himself an AM transmitter
in Villa Acuna, just south of Del Rio.
50,000 watts was as big as they allowed
him in the States, but in Mexico Doc got 500,000.

He’d throw that huge sucker’s switch
right at sundown and half-a-million watts
would strum out like Jehovah’s bass-line.
It blew the birds right out of the sky,
made rancher’s barbwire hum and moan.
Cowboys listened to the “Texas Night Train”
through their bunkhouse bedsprings,
Norwegian fishermen cranked up
Boomin’Paul Kallinger
to shake the ice off the Bering straights.

Yes sir, the KGB learned English
from Wolfman Jack (true story).

Now, the man get to hear it all again,
the shows, the music, the voices
as if he was still a boy
and the world bright and new,
because long ago in a valley called
Inchon, the North Koreans gave him
(a fresh young PFC then)
a gift to remember them by,
a chunk of bullet forever lodged in his skull
under his bald pock-marked scalp.

You see, if he turns his head
just right, that bit of iron
needles across the sky
like an old radio tuner.

There, trapped in the aether above
is XERF, and a time he can still understand,
before computers and hippies
and those people on TV who smile too much.
So the man sits out here
listening to electromagnetic phantoms
echoing through the sky,
not bothering nobody,
not the border guards
who watch a flat land all day
and couldn’t catch a cold
if they tried or the VA doctors
who have asked him
“So, where were you hit?”
for four decades running
or even the coyotes
who keep trying
to steal his shoes.



Brandon Whitehead is a writer. He lives in Kansas.


“i- feel- like- im- fixin- to- die- rag” the poem by scot young

Posted in Uncategorized on November 23, 2016 by Scot


‘merica there are no pies on the sill

i wrote that line
in a high school poem
two years after woodstock
in 1971 when nixon was president
we were between kent state and wounded knee
the same year trump became chairman/
president of the trump organization
no one cared or knew it

the billboard #1 hit
was joy to the world
optimistic maybe
three dog prophets
they were not.
where is a country joe song
when you really need it?

Call for Politically Inspired Poems

Posted in Uncategorized with tags on November 14, 2016 by Scot

Please submit to



Undun – a modern folk tale by Sissy Buckles

Posted in Uncategorized with tags on November 10, 2015 by Scot


His gentle voice in bed
crooned hypnotic, a warm
soothing baritone caress
that used to make me feel like
I was completely safe and
there was nothing
that could harm me
in this vast detached world
as long as I was with him,
the man I fell in love with
over twenty years ago —
does he still exist,
the same man
whispering close one night
last month that he might stick
poison in my food
while he held me tight
in his arms, like a tiger
licking my ear, the vicious
kicks slamming me fierce
awake in the middle
of the night that he
miraculously disclaimed
as his mere restless dreams
the next morning
deciphering my doubts
and tilting reality
over innocuously shared
breakfast coffee “it’s all
made up in your mind, honey”
so that all I know
is I feel serene with him
right now, his banal tone
quieting me effortlessly
and how the good times
are placed over the bad
like an innocent Band-Aid
and it’s enough to just
feel good to relax a bit and
let down my ever present guard
for a brief moment
shake off the ceaseless
taut racing thoughts;
calm, even though this weekend
he talked about wanting
to take the Remington 1100
into the woods on our
property and shooting it
until he got his frustrations out.
His gun obsession seems
to be having less and less
of an effect on me, but
after all I was born on a farm
my daddy taught me
how to shoot safely when I
was mere ten years old,
still immaculate,
or am I just benumbed,
my anger stuffed down
where it used to boil inside me
like a wild animal,
far easier to mantle him with
emotions he’ll never have,
closing my eyes to the
ever present train wreck
headed my way.
He has stopped ordering
firearm supplies for now
and ended up with only
six shotguns, three revolvers and
his latest a mean looking
Ruger semi-automatic pistol,
tried to shoot a possum
crawling on our compost pile
and either missed it
or wounded, still smelling
the bloody kill fresh
from the week before when
he’d smashed one to grisly bits
along with her nest of babies
crushing them brutally
raising his heavy shovel
over and over and over
maniacal breathing so hard
I’d hoped he would have
a heart attack right
then and there
and he was so excited
to see another one today
through the kitchen window
couldn’t wait to run outside
kill it like a kid with his
new toy, not a dangerous
abuser with a deadly weapon,
and I, not living,
barely existing, waiting…


Posted in Uncategorized with tags on July 27, 2015 by Scot

(Published by Punk Hostage Press)

Poet A D Winans is a native San Franciscan who came of age during the heyday of the beat generation in His hometown. The beat poets along with Kenneth Patchen and Charles Bukowski had quite an influence on the direction he would take in his own poetry. It’s a poetry of the streets and a poetry of the common language, going back to Walt Whitman. Over the years, Winans has written about some of his literary heroes, always with passion, always with a deep understanding of how the tradition of poetry is passed hand-to-hand down the generations. It is a great moment to see a few of his essays, or portraits, collected in one volume.

deadDead Lions is aptly named. Winans has chosen to write of Alvah Bessie, that heroic screenwriter who was one of the Hollywood 10, a victim of the Communist scare of the 1950s engendered by Senator Joseph McCarthy and others. There are tributes to three poets as well, Bob Kaufman, Jack Micheline, and Charles Bukowski. One might read the text and feel as if they had been wandering through a portrait gallery. That is how keenly Winans does his job. I came away from reading this book with a new sense of all of these people. The three poets I knew well. Bessie is known to me only from a distance in the context of the persecution.

What really makes Dead Lions an important book is the intimacy Winans brings to the page. It’s that same sense of the intimate that is in his own poetry. Kaufman, Micheline, and Bukowski we’re true literary outsiders. For each of them it was a long pull to be given notice from the literary Community. Winans knew Bukowski in the days when he was a creature of the little poetry journals and a major figure in the Mimeo revolution of the 1960s, which now seems so long ago. He knew Bob Kaufman in North Beach hanging out with him at bars and cafes. He was closest to Jack Micheline and that comes through in his book. For Winans Micheline’s defiance of literary propriety was an important signal to younger poets. Once again, Whitman is echoed. Jack’s “barbaric yelp” was the ticket to freedom from academe.

I was particularly taken with Winans’ portrait of Bob Kaufman. He offers a good deal of biographical information that one rarely finds. He writes, “Kaufman considered himself a Buddhist and believed that a poet had a call to a higher order.” As one of Bob’s intimate friends, I remember him quoting from ancient Buddhist texts as we sat around the kitchen table in my apartment. He was never loud about it. Winans tells us, “He was an oral poet who didn’t write for publication or expectations of fame and fortune, which is what drew me to him.’

This is romanticism and it is charming to witness. I think of Nelson Algren’s book title, “A Walk on the Wild Side.” It reminds me of the poets Winans admires. He wraps up the Kaufman piece with a description of the pubic outpouring after his death as more than one hundred people marched through North Beach in tribute to the poet’s life.

Winans has written extensively on Bukowski. Once again, it was the rebellion in “Buk” that Winans admires, and he pays him tribute. This piece is filled with up- close and personal recollection. Winans indulges in a bit of psychological profiling, including Bukowski’s mistrust of friends. In contrast, he writes: “His first book, Post Office, was written in nineteen days. The book is filled with laughter that shines through the pain of working at a dead-end job that kills a man’s spirit and physically breaks him down. I know! I worked for the San Francisco Post Office for five years.” It was after reading this novel that Winans became an avid fan. The snapshot of the times he spent hanging out with Bukowski are memorable, including a jaunt into one of the famous San Francisco watering holes, Gino and Carlos, a venerable poet’s haunt. He recounts taking Bukowski to the Caffe Trieste in North Beach. The L A. bard would not enter. He just commented that the habitués were sitting there waiting for something to happen. “Hank, “as Bukowski was known to his friends, comes through with full flavor. One finishes the essay and wishes for more. Perhaps Winans will find the time to expand this interesting portrait of the raucous poet.
Jack Micheline comes through as the quintessential literary barbarian. Some biographical information quickly gives way to anecdote. Jack is plunked onstage by Winans and we watch him in court and jail, in one bar after another amid quotes from the man himself. Winans has a good memory and may have scribbled some of Jacks words down in a notebook. Describing the old days to A D. Micheline said, “Poetry was everywhere. Every day Kaufman and I read a poem. It is not part of history, but I was arrested for pissing on a police car the same night Kaufman was arrested outside the Co-Existence Bagel Shop.” It was the fervor of Micheline’s attack on our safe and sound society that Winans admires, and it comes through remarkably well. It is another one of those useful handbooks of poetic sensibility, with the added bonus of having insights into the life of Alvah Bessie.

*** The signed copy of the book can be purchased from the author (reserve yours by writing ( at a discounted price of $14.29 that includes free shipping. An unsigned copy of the book is also available at Amazon at the same price plus whatever shipping they charge.