I Need To Move Out

 
Of this apartment.
Next door neighbors,
They fight all the time.
He screams that
He’s more of a man
Than she’ll ever be.
I don’t wanna know
Anything about that.
They just keep it up.
Seems, he gets his but
She’s giving it away,
No remorse at all.
She knows that on the
Other side of Heaven,
She’ll float on a cloud.
Float on a cloud?
In the meantime,
I hear the unmistakable
Sound of a shotgun
Being cocked.
WTF?

Midlife Creases

 
From womb to tomb,
Time takes its toll.
We shed these skins,
Like Russian dolls.

From breath to death,
We grow and slow,
With selective
Mem’ries in tow.

From one to ton,
We become more,
But still remain
The ones before.

From cord to Lord,
The time is brief.
From ward to ward.
From Eve to wreath.

 


chained to free verse

 
i find it fucking hilarious

that the great thing about employing free verse
is that it enables poets to be completely free and unique in their writing

but that almost every modern poet seems to only employ free verse
to imitate bukwoski

Florida Chihuahua Haiku 

 
Hazel likes to bark  
at big dogs, imagining  
she’s a Pit Bull. Not. 

Hazel loves Lowes. Wears  
her pink dress. Sits in the cart.  
My little angel. 

I ask to transfer  
to the Florida office.  
Goodbye, snow. I’m done! 

Know what this means? New  
beach outfits for Hazel. (Lots!)  
Petco, here I come… 

I got the transfer.  
Miami. Palm trees, sunshine,  
white beaches. Oh, yeah. 

Packed up the car. Got  
Hazel in her car seat. Drinks.  
Snacks. (Lots!) We’re ready.  

Stopped in Dayton. Snow.  
Stopped in Knoxville. Ice. Stopped in  
Tampa. Sun. At last. 

Hello, Miami!  
New apartment. New job. Hot  
temps. Heaven. It is. 

Like A Dog Chasing Cars

She was in her mid-twenties,
two kids with different dads,
and smelt like an unplugged
fridge.

Her first sperm donor killed
an infant while drunk driving.

Her second got caught fingering
a sleeping pre-teen and fled before
anyone could boot his teeth
through his lips.

On summer evenings,
we flocked like sheep
without a Border Collie.

We drank cheap booze
around a small garden bonfire
made of household rubbish.

And as the flames quivered,
she would say, All men are shit. All of ‘em.
Don’t need ‘em. Never did. ‘Specially since
I got me eight-inch dildo waitin’ at home.

And we would all laugh.
And drink more cheap wine.
And someone would toss something
onto the fire. And we would watch it burn
away into nothingness like so many nights.

The following summer,
we found ourselves back
around the same fires.

But now she had a new man,
she would say, He’s the best. I deserve it.
He works. He cooks. He takes us places
on the weekends. He loves ‘em kids
like they were his own. I always knew
a good one would come along.

And our nights passed
without significance
until a coke dealer
from down south
came sniffing around.

He scratched his crotch
by the fire and said,
Fuckin’ caught somethin’
from a girl who pays
with her pussy.

And the hours filled
with his spurious stories
before he slipped her
a tiny white wrap.

And she thanked him
by sucking his scabby cock,
in sight of everyone,
while her new man
and kids slept
in a house across the road.

Science Lesson # 4: Space

It is said that, in space, dig,
No one can hear you scream.
At about 250 miles above Earth,
In the space station, who would?
It has been found that, in space,
Zero gravity messes with the eyes.
Eyeballs change shape causing
Visual distortions.  Also, getting
Slapped up side the head with
A beer bottle could mess with
Your eyes, too.  Maybe pop out
An eyeball.  Which you may need.
Testicles would do the same.  Not
Pop out an eyeball, but no gravity
Would cause the shape of each
Nut to change, creating some real
Screwy ass kids with the affected
Space spermazella (spermazelli?).
Speakin’ of space, didja know that
Shit don’t fall from your ass up in
Zero gravity?  It just stays as a sticky
Shit wad on your asshole.  You gotsta
Vacuum it off or wipe it off,   You must
Dispose of it properly so that you don’t
Have shit paper or loose turds floating
Around the space craft.  Nasty stuff.
There’d be a good chance that could
Piss off your fellow space freaks.
Kinda reminds me of using grampa’s
Outhouse in the old days and some jerk
Runs off with the Sears and Roebuck.

Now And Then


These groove stained walls
if they could speak
to the hours, days,
years, moments I
sat freaking out
always it was
the moment, the now,
a series of now s
the beats of my
heart a song
marking time
my time
till
the musician’s
silence
doodles
memories
increasingly forgotten
or remembered
in the soul
amid the striving.


Let’s Talk!


Wind
flowers in golden
bloom
smell blind
with no eyes
hearing
a world
a sensibility
a joy, dare
I say
in a six or seven
day life span
- getting eaten
by the female
after mating -
we so-called
higher beings
just can’t
grasp the glory
and ecstasy of
yet
till inter-species
communication efforts
ramp up
and we cease
the murderous rampage,
call off the insect war.



A special thanks to activemuse.org

A Cold Morning in Stalingrad

on the Volga, sun
hidden in swath of
clouds;
I am blowing my nose
all morning long
my feet are
frozen, and
Hans says we attack 
at noon--
a bunch of Ivans around the
corner, holding up
our advance;
we will kill them all
because they do not surrender
the crazy bastards
they die like flies in Winter
and still, still more arrive
each morning--
shipped over from the 
opposite bank of the river
(that fat Herman was suppose to reduce
but has not).
Hans says we should pull out
this Hell hole, what sense, he asks
this slaughter? The swine Shitler, he says
got us into this--the GOFAZ, ha ha, an
Austrian arsehole--"I would give him such a kick,"
Han's says "he would be unable to sit on his
Lebenstraum for a week."
Sergeant Ludwig gives Hans a dark look; the
Nazi prick will probably report him, and
Hans will disappear, like some others.
When we get about twenty yards out. I think
I will shoot Ludwig in the back of the head;
I will save Han's bacon: He is a better man
than me, and deserves saving.

Hello Beat Poets,

Our Best of Beatnik Cowboy Version 5 is now out. Better get it ‘cuz they’re going fast. Not sure how, but get it. No cowboys, nor beatniks, were harmed. One dog got a splinter, in its paw. I pulled it out Rip Van-Winkle like. Soma got us all that day. Whew! Poems burst as puzzles in our brainstorm/stem. Set them free. Write them, using your words, grasshopper. Make sure of the following. The Cowboy is blessed by all able to bless, God bless. There’s an old cat, white of beard and hair, who guides you in, dead fella, I just reread Revelation.

Write like the success of our magazine depends on it. And thank you, stars one and all! Poets, writers of the finest mettle. Submit, relish success.

This imperfectly bound paperback book features the Good Words of Catfish McDaris, Michael Lee Johnson, J.J. Campbell, Ian Copestick, A.J. Huffman, Randall K. Rogers and Guy Roads!

All inquires and requests can be sent to our electronic mailbox, thebeatnikcowboy@gmail.com. PayPal, checks and dead American presidents accepted. 

The beatnik cowboy rides...viva le art!! And fated success!!

The Editors,

2/18/2024……. the high season for poetry.

author bios

i wonder
what
bukowski’s
author bio
would read
like
if he had
to make
his own
like we all
do now.
probably
be covered
in shit
& piss,
beer
& hangovers.
something abt.
how the
razor strop
molded him
into
a writer.
maybe
he’d mention
his 2 yrs.
at LA
city college,
but doubt it.
one thing
i know:
he would
hate it
like i do.

 

v-day

the flamboyant kid
in the coffee shop
doing his best
to make sure
everyone
hears him.
young kids,
babies
cycle through.
he is
emphatic
about the f-bomb.
i say
something
to my wife
that is
not meant
for him
but he
overhears it.
interjects
into our
conversation.
you can
tell
he is one
of those
ultra-left
instagram babies
who lives
to die
on that mountain.

“kid,”
i say.

“don’t stick
your nose
in other peoples’
butts
to sniff around
where it don’t
belong.”

“oh, don’t!
great grammar
you fucking
prick!”

i smile
at him.
satisfied
by the size
of his balls
that haven’t
dropped yet.

“why
don’t you
mind
your own
fucking business
and not worry
about
what the fuck
i say?”

my wife
kicks me
under the table
to steady
my excitement.
i’m surprised
she hasn’t
leaped up
and clobbered
him yet.
she sees
a twinkle
in my eye.
other eyes
scour us.
the music
is cut.
i get up
and walk past
his table
to the
coffee bar.
grab a container
of hand sanitizer.
walk back
to his table
and pump
a few shots
into his cup.

“just
what the fuck
do you think
you’re doing,
mister?”

mister.
good one.
he makes
for the coffee
in an attempt
to heave it
at me
but i rifle
the container
in time
to knock
the cup
from his hands.
it splatters
on him.
he squeals
like it’s blood.
he’s lucky
it’s not.

“wash out
your mouth 
you fucking
prick.”

i turn
to the mother
of a young child.

“sorry.”

both
of their mouths
hang agape.

“let’s go,”
i say to
my wife.
she is
smiling.
i am going
to get
the best head
ever tonight.
happy valentine’s
day
to me. 

Drinking


drinking. the window shows the
wrong view. I can’t see the
street we viewed
together when we shot, when we
were drunk on love and rotgut.
I’m gagging on air, struggling to
maintain a straight face as I’m getting
drunk, trying to forget you once
belonged in my life. the wrong neighborhood expands
under the window, there’s no traffic at
3 in the morning, that’s alright. I still feel you
shooting junk next to
me on that foldout blue couch–—could I have saved you?
that’s the harrowing question that keeps me awake every
half-sober night.