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

 

John D. Robinson

I HAD TO

 

I heard him crying
one night, alone,
I crept downstairs
from my bedroom
into the lounge,
he wasn’t aware of
my presence:
I crouched down
and watched my
father weep, drunk,
confused and
fucked-up:
for several minutes
I remained silent
and then I
returned to my
bedroom and wept,
I didn’t know why
except that
I had to.

 
IF I ASKED, I’D SAY

 

Write something down that’ll
kick-hard between the world’s
legs, let it know you’re
around and that you’re not
fucking-around for applause
or pages in books:
write something down that’ll
seize readers by the throat
and will force the heart to
beat faster, to take away a
breath, to leave a scar, give
no mercy and fuck the
consequences:
write something down,
scribe the truth
and don’t be afraid.

Ross Vassilev

you gotta keep writing to keep from going insane

 

sitting on the steps of an art gallery in the hot sun

no one ever goes inside

(I once went in there …

you wouldn’t believe the garbage I saw)

 

sitting on the steps of an old white building in the hot sun

doing nothing

wondering why I’m here and

not somewhere else

as the sweat crawls down my hairy back

 

sitting on the steps of an art gallery in the hot sun

doing nothing

admiring the thighs and asses of young girls

as they walk by in their summer shorts

(did you know that the age of consent in Mexico

is 12?)

 

sitting on the steps of some old building in the hot sun

doing nothing

as the benches burn

the parking meters boil

and the world gets ready to explode.

 

 

 

Jonathan Hine

The Buddha Wisely Advised…

 

…wholesale cosmic

rebellion

mara’s

flower image

dream machine

everywhere exploding,

sabotaged

the gleam

dimmed

lense cracked

film assailed

screen

rendered

torn

the god of biomechanics

loveables as

uncontrolled

fire

built this house

the beams

broken

the dome

shattered

the whole

thing

burnt

the

fuck

 

Previously published by Pyrokinection

P

 

down

J.J. Campbell

the unwashed masses

 

lost in the rhythm of

the unwashed masses

 

we were born to lose

 

to serve our godless

parents until they

reaped everything

from the earth

 

to bow down to the

rich and make sure

there were no spots

left on the cheap

ass crystal

 

the edible panties

taste like cardboard

and smell of boredom

 

parade around in a

tiny purple pair lip

synching to george

michael’s i want

your sex

 

of course, you know

someone is watching

 

that’s part of the fun

 

cast off and always

misunderstood

 

there’s a land for all

the freaks, they call

it los angeles

 

i hope you don’t mind

living in a tent

 

you’ll have an incredible

view of the ocean just a

few blocks away

——————————————————————

with such hunger

 

i think i have

figured out why

i look at nurses

with such hunger

 

those damn pants

always make the

ass look so damn

good

 

somewhere freud

pipes up and reminds

the room my mother

was a nurse as well

 

i’ll take a drink and

proudly exclaim

 

that’s not the mother

i’m looking to fuck

—————————————————————

the most elusive woman on the planet

 

think of tears as a reboot

for the soul

 

think of pain as a friendly

reminder that you still

exist

 

think of hatred as a tool

 

think of love as a unicorn

 

think of happiness as the

most elusive woman on

the planet

 

think of dreams as the

flames

 

think of nightmares as

the world

 

think of truth as the

dividing line for

everything

 

think of lies as the

currency for humans

 

Dan Grote

Room 212

 

A twenty dollar bill

and a two dollar

bottle of wine

 

Drinking from one

snorting through the other

chasing happiness a

gram at a time

 

We talk about the streets

We fuck and I mention

that if she got a tit-job

 

she could raise her prices

 

I know how to talk to a lady

 

She says I’m a good man

once the money changes hands

in here, under her, I want

to believe she’s right

 

But it’s quite a different story

beyond and outside of

that wafer-thin

motel door

 

 

 

 

This is Not For You (Unless It Is)

 

Would you rather I describe

the beauty of the tree upon

which a starling sits, perched,

it’s twig- like, tiny talons of feet, or

would you more enjoy witnessing

me unravel myself, one syllable

at a time?

 

I could tell you about the silver

sky of sunlight in a Faulkner story

line or I could bring you the dark,

the rain falling uninterrupted

inside my head, watering dead memories,

nurturing what should never live

to see the light of day

 

Why don’t you just write happy poems?

Why don’t you mind your fucking business?

I’m not doing this for you, I’m not

doing it for me-I do this for the one

not yet sitting where it is I stand

 

The one who might still have

the glimmer of a chance

 

Luke Kuzmish

Sam
old soul
gypsy bones

momma quit the booze
back when

poppa grew herb
in mylar closets

Omaha teeth
and menthol cigarettes

no bra
her midriff reveals piercing

her body is sex
her mind: bad decisions

I wonder how her spirit
moans in the dark

Dr. Randall Rogers

Like Woesville daddio! I can’t write. I do, but I can’t. Oh well, I’ll play more guitar. Start to get holy, and right with death. And live. And write. But I can’t write. I mean I know how – See Spot run – but that’s about it. So I’ll keep this short. To the point. We at the Transgender Lesbian Cowboy, queer as we are, are now searching for a groovy collection of poems to publish. By not us writers. By someone like you. Call it a chapbook if you must. Chap my hide anyhow. I’ll fork over the dough. Print it under the imprimatur of the Beatnik Cowboy Press. It will be our second printed collection of poems. My, “Cambodian Poems”, is the first. Nobody would print, “Black Tits”. We will try to sell some at the local bookstore here, give some to our contributors, subscribers. You, the author, get the rest. Please send collections to: randallrogers01@yahoo.com. Or mail hard copy to:

R. Rogers

3410 Corral Drive, Apt. 208

Rapid City, South Dakota,

57702 USA

Send Self Addressed Stamped Envelope if regular mailing (and enough postage)

Will print fifty. All rights are the author’s except for first time use for us.

Good luck,

Randall (Phony Bones) Rogers

3/16/2018