A Letter from the Editors

Hello dear readers. This is the first missive from the redoubtable Beatnik Cowboy. We have been hibernating, in the Northern Pure Land, attempting to tame our Monkey Minds, by holding up in separate bear caves, with separate bear family friends. Fleas be damned. As editors, you know, we attempt not to play Yahweh. But when we see, read, and fully hear what those writers submitting really don’t want us to hear, we dance as silly-assed farmers, round-up ready. And we publish. Toiling long, short bright-dark maudlin-flippant sad-happy hours, channeling Gutenberg; we do the strenuous work of discovery. Mining dirt, pay dirt. For the talented poetess, pay dirt is what poetic fame, recognition, and fan worship is. Typhus, is a disease of dirt, just ask Napoleon when the new ones come around. But the dirt we fling, the sand we kick in the weaklings’ faces, truly creates the best warriors, those whose greatest strength is not to fight. To be humble, weak, lacking the confidence, the highest self-esteem, to irrevocably, to infinity and beyond, toot their horn. Like a jazz trumpeting Kirk Douglas, in black and white, we sing our bodies (and minds) electrocuted. Gas chamber dreams satiate us with the sound of grounded Concords taking off. We take off, achieve lift off, publishing the good, the ugly, but not much of the bad. At the most, that’s the idea. We will publish, follow, allow, create a space for your words, artwork, really great short fiction, its meaning and sound. We invite you to raise our rafters, to shiver our timbers, for in doing so your reach, through this blog-spot and the glorious hard-copy magazine, becomes the future past, through inevitably, the present. Remember everyday is a gift, and that is why it is called the Present.


But enough about the above, let’s get to the below. In our eyes darkness is light. The sound of one hand clapping is almost inaudible. And our faces before we were born, we finally gather, were more ugly than beatific. But let’s get down to it, what art is all about is transcendence and sex. And we, and you, as part of this publication whether writer, reader, or Dixie chicken, are about getting more of both. We hope women, men, hermaphrodites, intelligent chimps and signing apes, both gay, transgender, and lesbian, with dolphins, whales, clever insects, cats and man’s best friend, in one big ignore no one metaphysical, hermeneutical, post structural bareback eunuch orgasmatron. Though as has been said, such is life. Yet, also, remember, death, and getting close to it if you are aware, is as important, and more profound, than birth.


Most of all however, we are about feeling. The feeling one gets when things are going well, when that woman or women, or man or men, or German Shepard makes you feel an air hockey puck, floating on electric air. When you get so happy, small engine churning goodness inside, you know it won’t last, and you better not become too giddy, rise to the height of pure ecstasy, because you know, from experience, the highest highs, the hottest hot, the deepest love, proves shallower, despondent, saccharine, with familiarity breeding lack of interest and base contempt. To be steadfast, through it all, working, thinking, playing, producing, growing, grieving, laughing, celebrating, cooking, eating and drinking, while we, the Two editors of the revivified new Beatnik Cowboy, with a pleasant harsh charm beckon you to Avalon.


We hope to do our best to present you, dear readers and contributors, the most favorable opportunity for continued enlightened sustainable growth. May the new Renaissance begin.


Thank you for joining us on the Journey.


The Editors of the original Beatnik Cowboy

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