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


Matt Borczon

I read


that Audi Murphy
gave all
his medals
from the
war to
kids in
his neighborhood

I understand
but having
kids of
my own
I will
leave mine
to them

as payment
for the
year they
lived without
me while
I was
in Afghanistan

and for
all the
years they
have lived
without me
since I
came home.


Mike Zone

Sketches, panels and planets

new gods and forever people

oh, where have the humans landed

in a tidal wave of inhumanity

screaming “cosmic retribution!”, frogs from the sky

lightening zapped by hovering squids from another planet,

each being a universe in the pocket careening into a nihilistic void

bursting into new directions in the quasars of minds yet to be born,

the infinite crisis of anti-life equation is not not learning- we don’t know how to live

but how we are not allowed to live, rebels of delusion,

mirroring counter-revolutionary tactics,

the constellations come together,

Orion with his belt makes a club of mars,

Jupiter splits apart, innards of creme corn

and interstellar strippers made of jello and (here all thought it was gas)

existence, exit stance,

another wave of reality

forget the fourth and fifth worlds,

demand to break the wall

between self and source, they say mathematics is the language,

words are treason, but the mystery is breathing,

the philosophy is marvel in the elseworlds of confinement,

the miracle to concede defeat in the land of unliving

an embracement of tomorrow’s glory

when moment is what you are without meaning,

true being, serenity of the soul, there’s your earthen saga

and heroic myth of the ages recycling into another dawn tinged transmigration

of starved stardust exploding angels and the nine fingers of nirvana,

but what about the thumb?

up my dead wandering desolate ass, wrestling a stranger in town – the valley of bones

where giant men in unstable molecular suits are testament highways

warnings to lovers of all ages

gracing the wild and crazy eternity.


Anne Fall

A Wardrobe Malfunction

Anne Fall


Generally false,

I find your societal distinctions

reek of sentiment and disbelief

in the worth of the rest of humanity.

Despite that, I like listening to you talk

about this and that.

Almost like, you know where it’s all at.


Then, you show through

like a little slip of a nip in the embarrassing dress

of a woman whose breasts

have seen better men than the applications

she’s currently taking.


Drink this, and you’ll feel better, I tell you,

and you do.

Oh, you do.


Paul Brookes

Our Sex Is Our


death. Important decision

for my wife and I.


We live with the urge to do it.

Day in day out.


Thirty five years married.

It has to be mutual.


First time sex is last time alive.

We must decide before


We are too weak

and other devices needed.


Sex is euthanasia, you see.

We agree when enough is enough.


I was born from my dead mam.

So, hopefully my wife will become


pregnant after we die.


Michael Lee Johnson

Children in the Sky (V2)

By Michael Lee Johnson


There is a full moon,

distant in this sky tonight,


Gray planets planted

on an aging white, face.


Children, living and dead,

love the moon with small hearts.


Those in heaven already take gold thread,

drop the moon down for us all to see.


Those alive with us, look out their

bedroom windows tonight,

we smile, then prayers, then sleep.


Dan Flore

The birds in the tree

they laid in the park like a sneak preview of being resurrected from their caskets but I didn’t want to tell them that the sun looked too old on their heads. I would’ve walked up to every father and said  I didn’t sleep with your daughter. Even if it was a lie. I just wanted to say how are you, thank you for keeping my childhood on your spice rack. I’m sorry I don’t want to leave but all we ever wanted from the beginning was to kiss goodbye. I’m sorry I’m already gone. Did the mortician do your lipstick? I’m glad you’re at peace with how you’re dead. R.I.P.

and I spent the night on the other side of your roads
when the deer were dying and dark
I wanted you to come out from your statue houses in khaki shorts
to let me into your imaginary guest rooms
but you were in the dust of your welcome mats
and I couldn’t get past your smiles
I wanted to die by the stones in the mulch of your gardens
and on your daughter’s dining carts in their television worlds