J.J. Campbell

splashing in an ocean

 

i once met ezra pound in

a dream and he told me

to fuck off

 

the neon drips out of

my mind

 

splashing in an ocean like

rebellious teens ready to

finish off a revolution

 

i once was the master of

my own domain but was

quickly domesticated by

a few old souls in spanish

harlem

 

there’s something about a

mamacita and those hips

that will have you willing

to murder any soul on

earth if given the chance

 

we once danced naked as

we dared to shoot down

the moon into a cold, dark

night in rome

 

she told me i was the wrong

color for her to ever fall in

love with me

 

i started to peel off my skin

to reveal the cool motherfucker

that sometimes lives in the

back of my dreams

 

she now lives in a castle alone

 

and i hear voices when i wish

for death driving on the highway

 

J.J. Campbell

the taste of blood on christmas morning

 

there’s a joy

in her laughter

 

a sense of danger

with the stare

 

it’s the taste of blood

on christmas morning

 

lost in the neon haze

of an old string of

lights and another

glass of something

strong

 

two old souls passing

like ships in the night

 

you meet some people

in your life and just

know if this or that

would have happened…

 

you wouldn’t be the

miserable fading fuck

lost in this terrible

world

 

although, world peace

as your wish for

christmas is something

you should know by

now is a myth reserved

for children

 

no adult should even

think such a thing is

possible

———————————————————————

the new kitchen floor

 

i can remember

fucking you on

the new kitchen

floor

 

i made you

breakfast in

that kitchen

the next

morning

 

a week later

you decided

you were better

off as just a

friend

 

i offered her

the bed but she

had to have it

right there

 

and the floor

wasn’t dirty

either

 

let’s just say

anytime i see a

white linoleum

floor i get slightly

disgusted

————————————————————-

a loaded shotgun

 

these are the mornings

where i imagine myself

on my grandmother’s

bathroom floor

 

and instead of my

cousin’s nipple in

my mouth, it’s a

loaded shotgun

 

and then i imagine

just how much easier

life would have been

if that was my fucking

truth

 

i never lived all these

years expecting anyone

to understand my pain

 

i just wanted someone

to tell me it was going

to be okay

 

no one could understand

that either

 

all these hard truths

forced down my throat

like i was an unwilling

participant in life

 

no one could wrap their

heads around the fact

that my taste for pain

is an infinite shield

that only i can control

 

and as soon as i fully

believe that lie

i’ll truly be immortal

 

a nightmare to all

and the envy of none

 

Rob Plath

star bath

my
scars
become
skylights
most
nights

stars
shine
thru
the
wounds

their
silvery
milk
bathing
any
traces
of
pain

________________________________

a lesser burden

i used to sit during winter
on the midnight train
gazing out the window
counting peaceful trees
praying it was just dream
that i was not really a man
but rather one those trees
gracefully bending beneath
the weight of snow

Grant Guy

I Can Handle It

By

Grant Guy

 

He said

He could limit himself to one meditation a day

 

He said

“I can handle it”

 

But before long

He and the boys were doing Zen everyday

Often in the back alley out behind the school

 

Today

He can be found

Living on the streets of East Vancouver

Doing hard yoga

 

 

 

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.
Sincerely,
Your Editor,
Randall

J.J. Campbell

something charming

 

i believe

the waitress

caught me

staring at

her tattoos

on her right

arm

 

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

awkward

phase of life

 

you feel helpless

watching woman

after beautiful

woman walk

away

 

it’s pure

fucking

torture

 

Robert J.W.

Drying The Bones

 

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