Grant Guy

Road Kill
By
Grant Guy
 
He had a thing about road kill.
He even wrote and published a book of recipes
On how to prepare various road kill.
On September 8, 1979, 

He became road kill,

But you will never find a recipe in any cookbook

On how to prepare him.

Michael Lee Johnson

antarctic

 

The March of the Emperor Penguins

By Michael Lee Johnson

 

Emperor Penguins never set feet on land,

straight up their feet on ice, tuxedo’s with short feathers

overlapped, waterproofed, inner down layers insulated with air.

Heads bobble fat fannies waddle, the march to the homeland begins.

70 miles the clan walks and slides away from the sea and back to the sea.

70 miles into the darkest, driest and coldest continent, Antarctica cradles up the South Pole.

High step, searching for partners for one year, away from predators, the mating party begins.

Mutual sex they turn check format a goal, breed their young, months of illness, hurt, struggles, isolation, separation face in the winter the great white ghost of death.

Starvation is a 2-way trip the male is the mother 120 days, mother goes for food-

at one point tough they all must go back to the ocean and sea.

Emperor Penguins they dance and huddle.

Back they go to the ice, to the flow, and sea 50/50, millions of years ago.

 

Matt Borczon

morning after

 

the summer

solstice

the sky

is a bullet

from a

blue gun

and all

hopes for

the new

year are

buried in

mud and slush

 

I’m trying

to change

the tire

on this

life I

drive 100

miles an hour

wiping  sweat

off my

game face

thinking its

time to

re commit

 

to God

or work

say Buddhist

prayers practice

TM join a gym

attend a

meeting or

something

 

or else  its

time to sign

that suicide

pact you wrote

back when

you never

thought you’d

be this sad

this tired

this broken

or this old.

 

 

PTSD therapy

 

after all

these years

I’m still

pulling

the skin

off my

nightmares

still biting

my nails

till they

bleed still

putting on

the uniform

no matter

how many

times I

try to

bury it

my therapist

says I

can tell

her anything

but I’m

still afraid

and don’t

know how

to explain

the blinking

lights in

the eyes

of ghosts

or the

sound of

an infants

last breath.

 

 

Matthew Borczon

morning after

 

the summer

solstice

the sky

is a bullet

from a

blue gun

and all

hopes for

the new

year are

buried in

mud and slush

 

I’m trying

to change

the tire

on this

life I

drive 100

miles an hour

wiping  sweat

off my

game face

thinking its

time to

re commit

 

to God

or work

say Buddhist

prayers practice

TM join a gym

attend a

meeting or

something

 

or else  its

time to sign

that suicide

pact you wrote

back when

you never

thought you’d

be this sad

this tired

this broken

or this old.

 

 

PTSD therapy

 

after all

these years

I’m still

pulling

the skin

off my

nightmares

still biting

my nails

till they

bleed still

putting on

the uniform

no matter

how many

times I

try to

bury it

my therapist

says I

can tell

her anything

but I’m

still afraid

and don’t

know how

to explain

the blinking

lights in

the eyes

of ghosts

or the

sound of

an infants

last breath.

 

 

Dr. Randall Rogers

“Sex-toy Arms Race”

I was hoping it to be the name of my next collection. If I had one. I remember once I asked my cousin if he wanted me to read some of my poems to him. “Hell no!” he said. I praised him on his aesthetic sensibilities. In this range of tough cowboys, I’m a wimpy poet. Coddled, poached, scrambled and fried. I’m a bag of mixed nuts! Running around with tape and an I.V. needle sticking out of my arm, dripping blood.

Poker playing dogs, velvet Elvis-es, soy hot dogs – my life is a disheveled Nolte. Feel awful falafals. Gay cowboys, transgender lesbians, tits on a boar – what’s life coming to? I was watching a Lon Chaney silent the other day and in the end Lon’s redeemed nefarious character gets shot and as his lady swoons over him dying Lon silent movie subtitle says: “Don’t grieve, death interests me.” Next to that cool cat Barron Trump, Lon has got to be, pound for pound, kilo for kilo, peck for pecker, cooler that Tony the Tiger! I had a casual uncaring sex relationship with a woman once – yeah a woman – a real one not a blow up or female sacred cow, and this braying mammal would crack up when ever she heard the word “pecker”. I guess it’s like a chicken head pecking as it fills with blood, pecking. I wonder how people speak of turkey in Turkey. On Thanksgiving in 2015 I woke up checked the internet headlines and one said “Russia Forgives Turkey”. Gee, I thought, the bird gets around. And has friends in drunk places. I always wonder about food shortages in Hungary too. Are they getting enough to eat over there? More paprika? My hippie, a humble hippie at that, had an idea for the US air force or Air Force, should practice bombing bombing Ethiopians with food. This was in the early eighties. Then folks forgot to use interruptus and a whole new generation of Soylent Green was born. Moral of the story: hippie grew up stayed the same but an open system got too full or the weed quality declined – no more Gold – he bought a Bobcat but nevertheless he did have a cheap suit that just hung there. Bored and lonely, waiting for him to come home all dirty, and strip, and still not put him on! But at funerals, boy did that cheap suit shine! Goes to show an ill-fitting garment is better than unplucked chicken! Hog jowls, Ren liked them. Hog jowls are a metaphor. Pigs ears a simile.

A shout out to Ron Androlla. I just found the two chapbooks he sent the home Beatnik office in the pile. I have commenced reading this finest of men’s works and loving them! And oops, I forgot to put Ron on the subscriber list after I cashed his twenty-five dollar check! And we Cowgirls did not send him the purple (in honor of the dead Prince) copy of the first best of Beatnik Cowboy mega extravaganza! So he gets two copies of the next Executive decision whenever we scrape up enough coin to give birth to the aborted baby. Coat-hanger and all. Ooh, should I have said that? First choice is best choice, Kerouac says, unless of course you’re dyslexic. Dyslexics untie!! Create a common befuddled font! When I was young and reading the classics, like me tackling “The Brothers Karamazov” I used to call what I did “looking at words on paper” and turning pages, devoid of any understanding whatsoever. Hours I spent looking at the words and turning pages. Missing entire plots of Hemingway kith and kin. Joyce was right up my alley – like Gertrude Stein nobody’s supposed to understand that are they. I got a charitable D in American literature, way too stoned to read Toby Dick in three months or three years instead of the three days the bow-tied Van Dyke’d guy decreed we read it in. I didn’t even make it out of the forward and introduction in three days. I did, however, discover on my own that Bartley was a Scrivener or something like that. I was not proud, I was young, horny with whitehead painful zits. And I popped them, shooting pus streams all over the mirror. A mirror I never cleaned along with my uber dirty glasses lens. Oh youth! O’Pioneers and Willa Catheter. The self lubing pocket catheter. Sounds sexy.

But hey! These poems, like everybody it seems, words escape me. That’s why we let others write them and then post them. They are, to put it mildly, great. They demand attention. Like Ron’s poems, and Chris’s, not mine. I learned from the humble hippy. Now let me go worship myself as God and a cruel Allah incarnate, and the Buddha’s little brother, and Zoroaster’s sister and Jain’s Addiction. Oye. Send in blathering of depth, scope, and socially hindered cultural lag genius. Thank you/Spaseba.

1/31/2017

Ross Vassilev

we need more books of the dead

what happens to the soul
when the body goes kaput?

does sit atop a mountain
contemplating the Tao?

does it go to the Western Paradise
to sit at the foot of Amida?

or does it wander in some distant woods
where it’s always sunny and breezy?

the only thing to offer the hungry
is food

and the only thing to offer the sick
is prayers

so I say Kwan Yin of the gentle hands …
and throw it to the eight winds of heaven.

Stew Jorgenson

Atmospheric Pressure

I feel the pressure

to keep quiet,

dumb down,

get on my knees

and ask forgiveness

for the sin of being born.

No one tells me this,

but it’s in the air.

Maybe it has something

to do with climate change

or collective fear,

in the atmosphere.

Maybe it’s some deep

primordial inclination,

some self-sabotage

imbedded in my DNA

that foments public insecurity

and makes me want to choke

down a dead dictionary,

crawl under a rock,

and tell myself to

shut the fuck up and die!