Dr. Randall Rogers

It is the present no matter what time or date you read this. That is the beauty and pain of everything, including transporting thunk memories and futuristic scenarios. We have to be hopeful, after all death will save us all. For a while.

 

Now let’s get to poetry. Poetry involves thought-words. Writing it is fun. Or should be. Getting rejected submitting it to editors is not. Therefore we at the Transgender Lesbian Cowboy are temporarily altering our editorial policy. To engender submissions (from same-sex women) we are hereby resorting to a publish-all philosophy. No worry, we shall separate the wheat from the chafed in time, and quite probably retain the by-product. And promote it gaudily. Did you know fanfare means trumpets blowing? Not strumpets, trumpets. Larger than life little Donalds. Not McDonald’s, the real thing. The real secret sauce. Not just Thousand Island. No person is a Thousand Island – though Xavier Holland comes close. Tried to watch the film “Caligula” the other day, on the Ffilms.org free film site but the site of the naked Malcolm McDowell scared me off. Too with O’Toole, Peter and his scruffy Tiberiun countenance. I prefer my Malcolm drugging at the milk-bar. My O’Toole fastened down in my trousers. But Oh! The Caitlin of it all! Where, dare I ask, or whom, kept the dis-members only, ah, thing? Oh my lord and how long was the operation?

 

But forget all that. Forget all you can, even the intrusive memories, good and bad. Good because inevitably good turns into bad, and bad because…ah…well don’t forget the bad memories because the bad turns to good. Just ask Fredric Nietzsche when he is trans-valuing the lips of a horse. I remember watching ABC’s “Wide World of Sports” when I was a young humanoid and they always talked about “the agony of da-feet” when they showed a crashing ski jumper. I guess Italian influence has permeated culture more than ancient Rome. Also, I was at a bar in Phnom (Phnom means hill) Penh, Cambodia, speaking to an Englishman, insisting England was “a whole gay nation” when he did some silly-assed begging to differ. Great American I am I won the argument when I told him he was in denial and I don’t mean standing in a river in Egypt. The lady Khmer bartender laughed ( I was sitting slouched slurring words at the bar) and I hands downed the little slap and tickler. After all when I discovered they call underclassmen “faggots” at Eaton I just knew they weren’t calling them “bundles of sticks”. But enough for now, though this now will be present whosoever whensoever anysoever ganders upon these signifiers in any galaxy, universe, tiny or big, anywhere, anytime, if they make it.

Let’s make it; write, submit, we publish, all, for now. Let us immortalize at least for…for now…an always present at different times, everywhere. But I’m still angry for all those years the Lone Ranger was calling Tonto tonto which means “stupid” in Spanish. But what after all, can you do? Except die, to live on. Live on with your own written poetry published all by us, we cowboys of the unsure, confused kind. Thank your graciousnesses and right honorable highness-es of all kinds, for all times, of all places, in all ways. Even Muslims may your bombs dud and aims not be true…God willing.

 

The some kind of range rat,

Randall 4/19/2017

 

J.J. Campbell

annoying but considerate

 

i remember sitting

on the front porch,

smoking a cigarette

while holding your

hand

 

it’s the closest they

have ever allowed

me to perfection

 

you went away

just like all the

others

 

so did the porch

and the cigarette

 

sometimes i take

a bottle of whiskey

into the backyard

now and ask the

powers that be to

take me

 

i guess they are

waiting for me

to finish off the

bottle first

 

annoying but

considerate

 

the good shit

isn’t cheap

 

Cee Williams

Cousin Doobie passed me my first joint…

 

I was thirteen,

we stood beneath the pine trees and he asked me who I liked in class.

I told him no one… he said “That can’t be right, there must be someone.”

So I told him about Jenny

 

the kiss in front of the basketball trophies.

He punched my arm and said “My man! tell me what happened next.”

Sister Lucille caught us, and despite her palsy, she paddled me senseless,

my ass, a hue of blue I have only seen once, and have yet to see since.

 

By the third hit of Doobie’s trees, the pine trees and were soft and fuzzy, and the azure sky

puffy with clouds, held an infantile amazement.

“So why don’t you like Jenny?” Doobie’s eyes squinting through the smoke.

“It’s not that I don’t like her, it’s just,

 

she has a boyfriend and she’s white and black boys aren’t real boys to white girls.”

The sky is filled with Peter Cottontails and clown faces, the happy kind of clown faces, not

the child terrorizing Pennywise scary clown stuff,

and there’s cotton puffs sprouting in my mouth.

 

And Doobie said “forget that old nun

kiss anyone you wanna kiss as long they wanna kiss you.”

Now it feels as if there is a box of tissues stuffed between teeth and gum and cheek, and all I can do is smile and nod and sit admid the pine needles,

 

and Doobie prods, cajoles me, tell him more about the real boy bit.

I whisper my parched condition he offers me a swig of my father’s Stroh’s,

it helps but only slightly.

Another swig of beer, and the teary eyed story of yet another classmate; Julie,

 

prettiest girl with a uni-brow you ever did see; On a dare I asked her to ride the rides with me

(Waldemeer Fun Park, class trip) she said yes, she even held my hand; We rode the Skyride and the Spider and the Tilt-a-whirl

and right before we into the Whacky shack she said it.

 

“I want to go in here with a boy.”

I don’t know what she thought I was, but I knew what she meant.

and Doobie said “forget that thick eyebrow chic too.”

And with that Doobie became Buddha before I knew who Buddha was,

 

he preached love and kindness, he was a light-skinned Dr King preaching oneness,

he was Richard Pryor with a southern drawl. He was the only one I ever told about Julie

And then the bunny rabbits and the happy clowns told me to go in the house,

and make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and pour a big cup of milk,

 

and watch cartoons. (the Flintstones was on)

So I did just that.

Doobie sat on my parents front lawn, content,

watching the animated sky.

 

 

 

Everything but…

i wish i could leave the scabs alone
write poems to the moon or the soft green glow of the smoke detector, anything but you
anything but four AM moves from the couch to the floor and back again, anything but the mist of bodies absent touch or scent or rhythm anything but the Coltrane playing my head and the chorus of forgotten shoe strings anything but you
but it’s always you isn’t it and when the moon ain’t full there’s still a sliver of something between us and when soft winds blow and the bats flap their wings against a black August sky and church bells are silent, and the spider builds its web in the uncut grass and the cigarette stays unlit and the scars just won’t heal, anything but you, anything but you
anything but you

 

Dr. Randall K. Rogers

Hello Beatniks,

I trust you’ve all been well. I just completed the initial installment of the three part “Autobiography Of Me: Viva My Existence!” This will be a three book series covering the periods of my life from 0 – 30, 31- 50, and 51 – as close as death as possible. This first book I shall entitle: “The First Third” taking cue from Neal Cassidy who wrote and published his own book “The First Third” intending to write the other two thirds later in life. But he died before even attempting these further works. Apparently he died of exposure trying to count the number of railroad ties between two cities in Mexico. His last words were supposed to have been something like 450,792.

Of course the esteemed Beatnik Cowboy Press will be publishing these exciting new works. And I’m sure the fact-checkers will be lined up to purchase their copies, for the sake of future reference. I’ve solved the riddle of what came first the chicken or the egg and extrapolated on it. I’ll share later the answer. The new question is what came first the cow or the human? You see when I was in prison in Cambodia there was a fellow of Indian dot decent there and as both fluent English speakers we bonded. He called himself @. @ informed thou he was from a long line of Brahman in India though he was from Australia where his parents were teachers. Anyway he shared the first humans were born of one of the four bovine stomachs. That’s why the cow is sacred in India. I told him about my idea for sacred cow hamburgers and we only got in one fight during our entire time in prison together. The fight occurred when I had a mid-afternoon nightmare during nap time. I awoke with the intention of attacking the skinny, poorly uniformed, unarmed guards. While advancing on the guard brethren I had the sense to cry out to @ attack me! And he did. We had a slug fest and apparently he beat me out of my ‘fight the screws intention’. I thanked him and started engaging him concerning the scientific fallacy of the different human ‘races’ (and ethnicities) and which breed of cow birthed the Chinese? In the end he cryptically said ‘some men smoke, but Fu Manchu’. I countered with; ‘It’s a great day for the race!’ He said what race? And I had to tell him, ‘the human race!!!’ Then I suggested to my cow parent brother, ‘why don’t dogs dance?’ Why, they have two left feet I intoned! Then I grew grave, extremely concerned and a big throbbing vein showed bulging down my forehead. I leaned in and asked conspiratorially, what’s ‘The Meaning of Life?’ He became distant contemplative, his eyes rolled back in his head and he went into immediate trance. Finally, after much quaking and third party channeled gibberish from a dead virgin ninety year old Thai king I had to break it to him. “Hey man relax’ I said, ‘it’s a movie by Monty Python. We embarked then and there on a lighthearted discussion of timelessness.

We didn’t finish the discussion. That’s the way prison bullshitting goes. Time ran out during our mutual contemplation of timelessness. Talk about your non-irony. I was sprung, they let me go. All baseless charges dropped. I said, ‘Sorry’. @ got out soon after me and when he came by my home (I was living at the hotel I ran at the time, in Siem Reap he said he wouldn’t tell the others where I was.

But gosh, enough about me. Though my non-totally off the wall poems keep getting rejected, I know yours won’t. Especially here. So past them in or attach and send ’em in, viruses, anthrax spores and all. And keep on laugh smiling, hopefully moronically. Bye.

 

Relentlessly,

Randall One Editor 9/14/2017

 

Ross Vassilev

what it is

by Ross Vassilev

a small rented apartment
one bedroom with water stains on the ceiling
from when it rained 5 days straight
a TV that fills my eyes with all the lies
that the powers-that-be want me to hear
and moronic bullshit
like Friends and Dancing with the Stars

my only escape is
100 books about the Mayans
and my rabid imagination

I imagine 10,000,000 Buddhas
falling from the sky
on clouds made of jasmine
I imagine North Korean troops
liberating Amerika
I imagine some topless beach in Denmark
all the girls playing volleyball
in the sun

I gave up on life getting better
a long time ago
so hand me another bottle,
friend.

Heath Brougher

H Eat H 
 
Soundlessly creep the flock of owls
assimilated meat annihilated heart   
turned cold faucets to the lukewarm and back
half minutes of long city days
waking early to the noisy windows
the blaring sky feeding a needlessness
under its own unused, unseen light
broken plates she screams the cleaver
toward the gut of a hungry pigeon
she exclaims she is Binge, the fastest one
like nobody else was moving faster
to sprinkle the strawberry dust over the feathered carcass
impaled by her dozen forks
even the buildings are voracious, the nice people voracious
going their ways all together not stepping aside each other,
the stride of a pretentious saunter, fabled unseen
yet plastering the white on the white and the black on the black,
their forced societal cliques still nothing like newborn
destiny they call it prefabricated meetings
of the similar she doesn’t look toward me
they say it’s meaningful, a special place,
but I’m staring right at the shuddering core
hidden under the rinds and bloated sights and sayings
of their swarming and festering un-remedied social poison.


 

Stew Jorgenson

The Perspicacity of Rain

by Stew Jorgenson

 

 

I wanted to talk about falling Romans,

declining imperatives,

large scale ineptitudes,

the shortage of elevated thinking,

high tech window peeping.

I wanted to say all

there is to say about

ideological turpitude,

hemispheric pressure,

moral viscosity,

social insolvency,

oceanic perturbances,

historical sediment,

and carbonated skies.

I wanted to spill my guts

in a violent rage of

righteous recompense

for the lost city on a hill,

its fraudulent afflictions,

intemperate thresholds,

shrinking civil habitat,

sacred insanities,

institutional atrophy,

cruel impotence,

blame games,

and the gurgling grudge

of third degree spurns

refusing to heal.

I wanted to rant about

the pitiful plight of injustice,

give people a reason

to vent about nothing,

gripe about grievances,

tongue tied imprisonments,

intractable resentments,

crippling betrayals,

emotional lacerations,

and decry the ruination of love.

I wanted to say something

that would make the sun bleed,

and beg forgiveness for its

smug indifference to our needs

but I didn’t want to get sidetracked by

celestial politics,

the co-mingling of souls,

animal magnetism,

longitudinal shortcomings,

aeronautical proclivities,

or mathematical probabilities in

the dissemination of kindness.

I thought that might sound

a bit whacked,

giving credence to all sorts of

paranoid prognostications by

gentrified social engineers

with slide rules and zip ties,

so I backed off on that program.

I also wanted to put in a plug for

compassionate forbearance,

and call attention to the

imaginative logistics

of wearing other people’s shoes.

But most of all,

I just wanted to take pleasure in

the abiding conviction of words,

peel back a few layers of

caterwauling concerns,

and declare how hard it is

to stay grounded in dreamscapes,

while groping for sentient cohesion

 

in the tangled tribulations of life.

 

 

John D Robinson

HEALING TIME

She could have said anything:
she had the right to: tears
framed her eyes that looked
at me with such hurt that I
had to look away: she shook
her head and the tears
silently fell and I waited
for her words and then
they came, she said, quietly,
‘Leave me alone’
and I wanted to hold her,
to ask for her forgiveness,
I wanted to confess, I
wanted too much:
‘Okay’ I whispered and
I packed in quietness and
left my house-keys on the
kitchen table and closed the
door behind as I stepped back
into another fuck-up of my
own making,
leaving behind a wound,
that time would turn away
from.