Overture
When I was a boy, I loved to draw. It irritated my mom, who would ask in a dread voice why I was wasting paper. We lived on Dunsinane Drive, named for Macbeth’s gloomy Scottish castle by a home builder obsessed with Shakespeare. My dad had done okay in business until the Koreans undersold him. Then there wasn’t money for clothes or meat meals or the dentist. I still habitually probe with my tongue the spaces where teeth are missing. Maybe no one grows up unscarred. Cows, slow-moving, banal animals Hindus venerate as sacred, plod through streets of blackened ruins.
Author: The Beatnik Cowboy
Scott C. Holstad
Faith-Less
You write to tell me of your latest
drunken weekend, of how you read
some poems and met a man and
danced by yourself and how a
beautiful blonde asked if you were
(hopefully)
a lesbian and how you got your brains
fucked out by this nameless stud and how
you came five times and how the blow
rocked and the lines were endless
but how you still love me because
anyway it’s only sex and how your
heart still belongs to me after all.
One Question.
Ever stop long enough to ponder
whether MY heart still belongs to you?
Ben Newell
Notes for Open Mic Comedy Night Found in the Gutter
I
dig skinny chicks.
Really
skinny.
No
strip club
for me.
I get my kicks
at the
holocaust museum.
__
Opened my mailbox
to find
a speeding ticket.
Traffic camera
caught me doing
65 in a 35.
I got
off easy.
There was
a dead hooker
in my trunk.
___
“You’re so fine,”
I told her, “I would eat
the peanuts from your shit.”
“Your place
or mine?” she said.
They weren’t
all that bad.
Preacher Allgood
from the smokes of long dead railroaders
sure her cat puked on the desk
my grandpa rescued from the train depot after the big fire in ‘36
sure she sold my rusted out MGB/GT
the one with the wire knock-off wheels
to an Okie while I was in rehab
and sure she spent the proceeds from that little swindle
on plane fare to Chicago to visit her mother
and sure I couldn’t get enough
of eyeballing that German/Mexican jalapeno ass
or the tamales she cooked in the big pot on my old Kenmore stove
but I wasn’t all that sorry
when she came to me on a snowy blustery evening
with big tears in her eyes and said
I’m going back to Billy
he got out of jail and he wants to have a baby
and you don’t want to have a baby
and you’re so drunk you can’t get it up most of the time
and I like you but I really want to have a baby
so I’m going back to Billy are you mad at me?
sure I wasn’t mad at her
sure I was relieved that I wouldn’t be cleaning any more cat puke
off the big slab of oak that I prized for its history and its connection
to my grandpa who began railroading
on the Kansas Southern in nineteen twenty-two
and who swallowed mustard gas in the war to end all war
and who kept a flask of “pain killer” out in his garage
along with his pea green 1950 Studebaker Champion
but I might have been a little bit mad about those tamales
because I’d never eaten homemade tamales
and unless you’ve eaten homemade tamales
stuffed with pork and homemade masa
wrapped in fresh corn husks and steamed in their own juices
or sat at a big desk that’s scarred by burns from the smokes of long dead railroaders
and waited for another poem to show up
you can’t possibly understand what this poem means
Zhu Xiao Di
You and I
We are two
One and one
Who am I
Who are you
I don’t know you
You don’t know me
Until you see me
And I see you
Do I know you now
Or you know me too
We are not one
We are still two
From when on
I feel I know you
And you can say
You know me too
That could be never
Or it may occur soon
It all depends on
Neither you nor me
What decides it
Is mysteriously unknown
Whatever it will be
Let us remain two
One is one
Two is two
We remain two
Always greater than one
You and I
We find each other
I and you
Never say never again
Who am I
Who are you
Two individuals
Forever care for each other
That’s the best of love
One can ever dream about
You and I
We’ll remain forever that
Michael Lee Johnson
Turnips in Southern Tennessee Still
In Tennessee, the shadows of the southern
wooden structures stalled off the narrow
highway and came to an abrupt end.
Lost in the deep eyes of forest green,
closing in on night.
From the top of a Yellow Poplar
tree scares me looking down
at the hillbilly stills. Moonshine
and moonlight illuminate the fire stills.
Moonshine murders of the past,
dead bodies hidden behind blue walls.
Mobs lie in Chicago, bullet marks
on the right side lie dormant through plaster.
This confirms my belief that Jesus
only works part-time.
Let me look at this mirage
picture photo album.
One more time—
find the turnips in the still.
Chris McClelland
Hot sand
The gusts blast like furnace-fire
In this desert land,
And never does the heat seem more oppressive
Than now,
An oven-blast and a scorched-earth policy.
Such an arid heat that it doesn’t even allow
For sweat,
Much less mercy.
Royal Rhodes
THE WOUNDS THAT BIND
An afternoon ramble. The strong sun
anointing my head with its light.
A neighbor's peonies position themselves
to display their petals of pastels.
I walk with a cane, now seventy-eight,
having fallen a few weeks before.
A crow cruises past from the left
as I topple on my face on the asphalt.
My wire-rim glasses lacerate the skin
and the fall fractures my nose.
It fascinates me how the quick
blood creates a widening pool
that will stain the concrete walk
for at least weeks after this moment.
I remember the emergency call
and the rescue crew immediately arrived.
The long weeks of recovery ahead
have become like a rehearsed script
a line prompter whispers as I perform.
The raw indentation disfiguring my
brow I'll pretend is a dueling wound.
And then I remember on Father's Day
the deep scar on my father's forehead
he got as a child on his family's farm,
when he fell under a plow's steel rake.
Now we have become close in our falling.
Gabriel Bates
Thoughts on Art
A lot of people
want to go on
about art.
Process,
style,
accolades.
But I'd rather make art
than just talk about it.
Alan Catlin
Looking back
she wasn't quite sure
how it started, sex in closets,
empty offices, after hours
before cameras were installed,
under desks, fellating a man
lunch times, the Ultimate
Take Out Order, eaten in with
all kinds of men her husband
despised, especially Ethnics
as he'd learned to say on the job
guarding hard core recidivist
juveniles, on a mission to
become adult repeat offenders
& it wasn't as if she wasn't
getting any at home, it just
lacked something indefinable,
something Real, something like,
Once More With Feeling.
Ghostkeeper
She looked kind of
spooked, scared shitless,
by something so awful
she had to keep it
totally concealed,
buried inside someplace
only a couple of two or
three Manhattans
would let it out.
Even her voice,
her gestures, started
changing as the booze
hit bottom, effecting
such a complete change
in her manner and her being,
every time she went to
The Ladies, you wondered
what the next makeover
would bring, what would
come back in her place
and how crazy that new person
would be.
The Beatnik Cowboy 