Is the tradition of the american Poet Poverty, insanity, & death Dramatic people living dramatic lives The american Poet is a tough bunch Tough as Bukowski’s Hollywood streets Real as Neruda at a Redsox game Bob Kaufman crazy in the streets Arrested again for spouting spontaneous Poems On top of cars It’s shock treatment again …
Category Archive: Issue #5 – America! (and everywhere else)
Feb 01
Grease Poet
Carl the mechanic was the first poet I ever met— livin’ at home takin’ a few classes at the local CC I think us younger guys in the neighborhood kinda looked up to him because he was sort of a regular guy but when he came out cryin’ one day and showed us his first …
Feb 01
How to Go On
For Hank As he tells us about how his son died in front of him, I think about the caterpillar my daughter left in a bucket, in the sun, earlier today, and listen to the wipers whoosh against my conscience and the windshield. Without consideration, I say oh my god, I am so sorry then …
Feb 01
Garden City.
In an attempt to connect us with the outside – they have placed a little tinsel down the side of our windows – to reflect gaudy headaches. Elegant displays. We are liable to make many points. Expect us to stop passersby with fresh complaints over C.B. radio. As drivers pass satellite instructions over open windows, …
Feb 01
AKIREMA
I. “the white man points to things that aren’t there anymore” You castaway spike in the bell curved cast of thousands skylines, you orphaned mongrel guest motels vacancy ripening into red and green plastic monopoly game boys, Yo animal man, Yo animal woman getting a leg up on the freeze pop all over each other …
Feb 01
alone and insane in tiny rooms
This is the way the world looks near the end, all the city’s junk collected and safely stored for the mass combustion, accelerants provided, in fifth floor walkup now that the elevators no longer work, all the stuff no one needs bagged in corners, an open morgue for daily racing form news, late scratches, telephonic …
Feb 01
Dance with me, rich boy
Resourceful and unlovely, I learnt to scheme like a sham- marriage, like a man; like Christ and other corporate entities. Without patron saint or pay master I stab in the dark and stop the clocks. You know me by my vows of silence and my chemical consent. Crack me to my canned laughter; to my …
Feb 01
Down and Out and Sideways
Whoever stole my shoes will walk a hundred miles in pain before regretting this perverted crime. He or she also stole the vodka I poured in the bartender’s absence. The fire of downing it will scar the throat and bend the uvula like a tuning fork. The speech of this thief will betray. The world …
Feb 01
blips
the sexy naked big-dicked teenage boy is sitting in his bedroom, on the edge of his bed, his feet on the floor, saying, kind of quietly, kind of whispered, but kind of right outloud, “sorry for the apple pie. sorry for the cream puffs. sorry for the cum stain on the rug. sorry for the …
Feb 01
votive wintertime offering
the sylvan strains of syracuse disrupt the football players in their locker room. the tumescence of the situation is sex toy phallus, balls furry hairy brush-like trimmed and all stages in between. stag-night the suppository delight of beer-tube enemas. gruff voices of aftershave enoble the basest aspirations. the stitching on the footballs frankensteinian in flexibility. …