Dr. Randall Rogers

I can walk! I’m back to walkin’! Yeehaw! My new set list I came up with is:
Big Dick Blues
Horse Faced Pig
Glen Ford Is God
all three songs thoroughly jammed out. Long time. These next weeks will be the cat’s meow; we’ll have the Best of Issue I and I Jah! Rastafari! And we two Editors here are coming out with a little book of our own. Whomever receives the Best of publication gets the book too. Or you can order one or both publications from us and/or subscribe too, $30.00 checks or money order payable to: Beatnik Cowboy Press, 3410 Corral Drive, Apt. 208, Rapid City, South Dakota, 57702, USA. Thank you.
(Editor’s note)
My goal in life is to become an accomplished writer. Not in the way you may imagine but in a generalist manner. I want to be able to write letters well. That’s how I practiced writing starting in 1995-96; I wrote to Filipino women. I ordered my thirty-five dollar “newsletter” and awaited photos and addresses. And I began writing.
Let me drink more.
Keep the poems coming thanks!

Scott Wozniak

Jesus Got Himself a Chrome .45


A Rosary tattoo

wraps around

his hand

and wrist

but you’ll never

hear him


a Hail-Mary

for the sins

the tears

on his face



He’s known

to take

an eye


a dollar

and would rather

serve time

than turn

the other cheek.


Yesterday, Jesus

showed us

his new piece

by shoving

its barrel

in the face

of a junkie







is gonna’ nail

your ass

to a cross.


Allison Grayhurst



When did you own me,

pull rank, throw me in the waters

and command my limbs to forget how

to swim? When did it happen, a month ago?

Two towns ago? After I completed the mission.


Veins in stone, under skin, gauging the surface

of the Earth, rivers to maneuver across,

toxic currents unreckoned with.


How did it evolve into this obscene tumour,

blocking my view, deforming my youthful joy?

You are through with me – a deep cracked dish, breeder of bacteria.

Fiddle away. Eternity is dying in the pockets of my lungs, madness

infiltrating my chi.

How did you do it, did I let you? I must have

let my guard down when doing the laundry, counting radio

channels, mopping the spill.

I am still reaching but you are gone, very small

in stature and shrinking. When did you own me, gently

press my face into the pillow, gently

promising a dream?


Ron Androla

The Alley & the Cat

The dog pulls me. A black leash is wrapped around my wrist, connected to his neck. We walk up & down our alley at designated times of a day. Spots of familiar urinated aromas in weedy edges tug us along to a neighbor’s parked & battered little boat. Named “Purple Haze,” it’s docked on a rusted crib & flats, broken, a thing of the past, useless. The neighbor hoards things. He can’t let things go. He’s even older than I am. I understand. His yard is a disarray of fog rain, tumultuous Erie winters, & weathered clunky sections of automobiles. I peer thru half-dead scrawny pine-branches & the fence’s toothless slats. I see how he lives, alone & insane. Ragweed bends & waves its dispersing, molecular, allergic, yellow fingers. Bangles is too old & arthritic to lift his back leg, so he pisses as he stretches like a black greyhound in the tall brown grass that surrounds the ancient, surely-once-psychedelic, boat. Then we turn around. The other side of the alley where the dog sniffs, contorts, & shits, is all grass. Browned vines weave around chain-link fences of other insane neighbors whose ass-end homes face our back door. Nobody talks to nobody in our neighborhood. We live in heaven.

We cross the alley. “Sit,” the dog instructs.

I sit on an outside chair & smoke. Bangles drops his weight, & pants on some gravel & weeds. Overhead, triangles of electricity section a blue sky. The crows are furious, ear-shattering. Gulls rise as they fly north for Lake Erie.

With my neck rolled onto the back of the chair, I feel a force wake me. I check Raspberry Street left & right for other owners & dogs, as we emerge to the front of our house. Under the wide yew bush, the scent of a black cat. We know that cat well. A real tease.

Bangles looks up at me & declares, “I hate that fucking cat.”


Before Becoming a Member

of the Police Force


Kill. Kill. Kill. Kick the door

in, kill everybody. Spray bullets

around the dusty room. Kill them

twice, 3 times. They booby-trap

the women & bottles of wine.

Never feel ashamed. The battlefield

forgives all insane rage. Look, they

have been known to actually EAT

Amerikan infants! They chop our

babies into hot-dog chunks!

Kill them all. They booby-trap the

elderly. They aren’t

us. Kill them. Kill them &

feel good about it. Feel heroic.



Paul Brookes

A Handshake


is a timepiece.

My sigh is a fire extinguisher.


Our held hands are wishes,

kisses a gushing tap.


snogs a succulent slab of meat.

Sex is walking a tightrope.


Engagement is a car park half full.

Marriage is a pink balloon.


Divorce is stale bread.

Remarriage is a reversing car.

Jonathan Butcher


We stand on that verge once again,
hanging by limp, depleting threads.
Our mouths stuffed with masticated
words that we spit out like blunted
bullets, their targets now lost in the

These same roads surround us,
unmarked, yet cracked. The concrete
reaching each corner, with obsessive
perfection, their surfaces like over used
notice boards, with messages tragically
out of date.

A certain smugness hangs in the air,
like ash-filled cobwebs, the shallow
intents not spoken, but suggested
through broken teeth, but never powerful
enough for us to change direction, as we
remain again on that same, broken path.