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


A Letter from an Editor

Hola vaqueros,
The Beatnik Cowboy is an incredible thing. And as a transcendent publication worthy of deep reverence and awe we here at the Cowboy would like to unveil our latest worthy ploy to get everyone on board. Forget the other rags. Written by hacks on toilet paper and edited by egg-heads bound to reject; your poetry suffers no such ignominious fate here. Our new motto and T-shirt we feel sum up the loving care with which we cradle each poem than arrives with us and deserves its share of widespread exposure. The words in which we reverently enshrine our magazine comprise the following: “All The Poems That Are Unfit To Print”. Emblazoned on the back of a luxurious rye colored short sleeved body vessel (i.e. T-shirt), the smoking Beatnik Cowboy himself girds the front of this groundbreaking couture. The roll-up himself rests cool and positive emboldened by our calligraph company name. Boasting sizes all the way to 5X, and lilliputian as S, this bold statement of poetry excellence wipes the floor with all other similar products of all kind. This shirt, like the influential publication which it absorbs and reflects is a wardrobe accouterment supreme. Coltrane pre-ordered one before he died.
Suffice it to say, it is apparel sublime. The sanctuary of kings, queens, beggars and thieves, like J.J Kale and the reputed health benefits of his “Cocaine”, this statement of poetic supremacy tangles the “facts” up in blue. Just like our singular poetry/short story publication. As they say, when your work has graced the pages of the Cowboy, especially the selective (and rarefied) print version, you have finally led your bronco, bucking, out of the Corral. All the Ramones are dead. Yet here you can be part of a live culture. So like flavored yogurt have taste. Write, submit, reap, and buy a shirt and a subscription. We’ll work on sowing your seeds, separating the nutrient nuggets from empty calories, getting the threads and quarterly print copies out to you. For all other concerns you can see the online version and hip updates at BeatnikCowboy.com For all practical purposes each less fabric size to 2XL comes to 27$ with shipping and handling (included in this price) and each larger shirt to 5Xl is 35$ (shipping and handling included in this price). Overseas shipments add ten dollars ($10) to these prices. As for subscriptions, to receive the multiple yearly print versions of Beatnik Cowboy send a check or money order for $30 ($45 for overseas subscriptions) to:
Beatnik Cowboy c/o Randall Rogers
3410 Corral Dr., Apt. 208
Rapid City, South Dakota
57702 USA
For both subscription and shirt domestically send either $57 or $65. Don’t send cash and please specify shirt size. To order both shirt and subscription overseas (foreign) send check or money order for $67 or $75 or equivalent in your currency.
Thank you, and rest assured this is a homespun Midwest Dakota USA venture hoping for your artistic and keen creativity to fly. To continue rising and proudly soar. And not have the wings melt when we go past the sun.
Your Editor,

J.J. Campbell

something charming


i believe

the waitress

caught me

staring at

her tattoos

on her right



these are the

moments where

i wish my smart

ass was also

clever enough

to come up

with something

charming to say


this is the

problem of

never growing

out of that


phase of life


you feel helpless

watching woman

after beautiful

woman walk



it’s pure




Robert J.W.

Drying The Bones


I tore out my
bone by
and placed it by the
sun to
dry from
years of
The crackling of the
cartilage was like
lighting up the
sky with
effervescent catharsis.
By now, a
crowd gathered to
watch as I
placed my
skeleton back into my
They watched in
terror as every
bone snapped into
place but they’ve
never been
I suppose;
they cried and
screamed while I just
smiled, and
strutted away.




Jake Cosmos Aller

The Revolution is Coming


A revolution is coming

I can feel it in my bones


A revolution is coming

And it will wipe out

The collapsing edifices

Of the American Empire


The masses are rising up

To throw off their chains

And demand justice


The masses are coming

For the masters of the universe

Their day is numbered

And they know it too


One day

The masses will rise

Storm the citadels of power


Arresting the corrupt leaders

In the name of revolutionary justice


Stringing them up

Executing them

One by one


As the revolutionary fires

Consume the nation


And I can’t wait

For the revolution

Is long over due


Carolyn Adams

Last Pack

She’s sitting on a trashcan,
sad and smoking, bummed-out
low-rent hipster girl.

Death of the Passerine

Rain comes hard, shaking her bed,
drenching her, but that isn’t
what kills her.

How to Distinguish a Raven from a Crow

Truth is a lie that’s shined its shoes
then gone to town
with good intentions.

Grant Guy

in a world whose heart has been extracted


Grant Guy


in a world whose heart has been extracted from hope
i am on my own w/o a name or face
i stand in my naked clothes of deception
behind a dead mic


i howl & howl & whimper & whimper
to an empty space w/o dimensions
but no one no one has come to hear me


my words are the empty words of a dying antonin artaud
sputtering meaningless syllable & yaps for hours on end


cruelty and kindness are dismembered
& thrown like johnny’s appleseeds
into the long loneliness of the void beyond nothing


b/c i am god’s orphan



His Story: An Observation


Grant Guy

His wife’s stroke he turned it into a story being all about him

His father-in-law’s funeral became all about him.

When Reagan was shot it was definitely a story about him

Oh, let us not forget about his sister dying from leukemia

Nor to mention the molestation and murder of the 69 year old housewife

The Blue Jays winning the World Series

The bus plunge in El Salvador 

n his mind they were all about him

That was the kind of guy he was

So when he died

And no one showed up

It was all about him