Cyber Urban Cowboy He’s not John Travolta and I am not Debra Winger and we don’t fall in love riding a mechanical bull in a saloon as Mickey Gilly sings lookin’ for Love in all the wrong places. He’s not Tom Hanks and I am not Meg Ryan searching for soul mates in Seattle and New York City. Nor are we Robert Redford and Jane Fonda widowed and seeking companionship. He is just an Arizona cowboy poet and I am a Montana girl who publishes a poem about cows on the open Arizona range where I now live. He leaves a note in the comments section with his email address. I email him and get no response and I google his name looking for an obit or other tragic news, and all I see is a photo of a smiling cowboy in a black hat and shirt in his bio on Poets & Writers. I imagine him scribbling poems around a campfire as he herds cows up in the mountains, where there are no cell towers or Wi-Fi, and when he gets home he will find my emails piled up like presents under a tree and read them over supper of venison stew and cornbread biscuits.
Author: The Beatnik Cowboy
Wayne F. Burke
Fear the nurses at the station in the cardio-rehab unit were telling ghost stories from their childhoods and I could think of nothing to add could not remember being scared of ghosts probably because there were much scarier things than ghosts: like the possibility of being beaten to death by a psychopath like catching a back-handed slap from my Uncle as I ran across the living room like growing up to be as dumb and look as ugly as some of the adults around me. Tuesday Night in Dullsville, USA some action down by the Mini-Mart but hard to tell what kind-- a punk in a pickup truck roars through-- street light changes red to green and back: birds dive bomb from trees and shadows spread across the hillside as the earth turns another degree and the sun's rays catch the topmost branches of the elm tree beside the Ace Motel on the corner of the intersection where cars move through, going somewhere-- unlike me. Trifecta I had triple bypass surgery and died on the table and was revived: did not return with an NDE to report, or even knowing of my demise-- found that out by reading the doctor's report on his desk while his back turned to me. One out of every thousand they said, before wheeling me to the operating room door where the doc stood with his team, all in hairnets and blue scrubs-- "any questions?" he asked. "Let's do it," I said. They ran the stretcher into the stadium, under the lights.
Ken Kakareka
i did I didn’t think that I would scrape a knee and then i did. I didn’t think that I would lose a tooth and then i did. I didn’t think that I would need braces and then i did. I didn’t think that I would get acne and then i did. I didn’t think that I would get cut from the soccer team and then i did. I didn’t think that I would get my face spit in and then i did. I didn’t think that I would get rejected from college and then i did. I didn’t think that I would get depressed and then i did. I didn’t think that I would see my parents split up and then i did. I didn’t think that I would almost lose an eye and then i did. I didn’t think that I would get varicose veins and then i did. I didn’t think that I would get nose and ear hairs, lonjas and a gut and then i did. I didn’t think that I would settle into a job and then i did. I didn’t think that I would have a kid with autism and then i did. I didn’t think that I would see my wife miscarry and then i did. I didn’t think that I would witness a school shooting and then i did. I didn’t think that I would see somebody die and then i did. I didn’t think that I would get a life-threatening illness and then i did. I didn’t think that I would die and then
John D. Robinson
JAMMIN Just like you, loss, has followed me all my life, loss of childhood, virginity, innocence, ambitions, dreams, friends and lovers, the loss of hope, for something better, loss of direction and belief and loss is natural and should be embraced, but we don’t embrace it, we hold it up for all to see or try to hide it away, the Buddhists say that ‘all life is suffering’ I think the Buddhists may have something here, loss is not something we get used to, we like to hold onto shit, like breath or love and at some point we have to let go, let go of it all, some Buddhists and other ways of life believe in reincarnation, well, fuck man, I’m always in for another jamming session.
Sushant Thapa
1. Catalogue of Life When all are instructions Life becomes a catalogue. When the journey is difficult The same walks become adventures. A darker side of a coin Still has a printed symbol on it. It is still on the other side. For the sake of Making a poem beautiful Adding decorations is A fools' paradise. Realities need no invitation. Negative and positive both Are the faces of composure. When we meet There shall be revelations Of how strangely close We tend to be. Friendship is a support. Unseen yet true feelings. 2. Cherishing the Faraway I cherish the faraway The flight and its height The immense measure of the horizon. What sets free is a passion. You never know if You were destined For the deeds. Art eases the pain It is there to soothe When you do not live In a suppress. Expression becomes The flowing river or The romanticized moon Still shining in the dark Alone among the multitudes Of the stars. I knew you When the strange air blew. No more a stranger. 3. Masked Specialist Way ahead of time A stone has its impressions Made to the mud. There is history buried In memories and painful wail. The fire of agony Ceases the woods of the mind. But a mind is a free nature. No taming screw Not an avalanche to the thought. A thought can still recover. I feel in my room That the world keeps knocking At my door. The world has a free entry But I cannot douse The ball of fiery emotion. I read for emotions. Only heightened perception Does not make me a specialist.
Curtis Hayes
STOMP I could never dance never move that smooth I could never translate the sound and feeling and motion I felt into anything but chaos. A girl once broke up with me and the last thing out of her mouth, “Your life is a bumper-car ride.” I remember the Dave Clark 5 on the oldies station in my Dad’s Harvest Gold LTD. There was a stomp in those three-minute marvels the sound of black Cuban boots driving rhythm into the wooden stage floor they had harmony they had poetry. My stomp was more like King Kong in a Saturday night swelter rioting through a block of skyscrapers lost enraged another ape chasing the unreachable blonde and aching for the home that will never be seen again.
Howie Good
Human Resources The woman in HR had hard eyes in a doughy face. I had come for advice on what to do about my sadness. Most of what I said she didn’t understand and didn’t want to. In lieu of actual help, the woman in HR placed a box of tissues on the corner of her desk.
Ian Copestick
At Home In Hell Yes, I feel comfortable here. This is obviously where I belong. There's always pain, but I'm used to that. I've known it all of my life. The red hot lake isn't too bad, once you get used to it. And, believe me, you actually begin to look forward to the pitchfork stabs. I guess it's how you know that the Devil cares about you.
Stephen Jarrell Williams
"Blinded" Walking back into yesterday young and strong unafraid ready to love eternity But little did we know what was waiting behind the sunsets.
Laura Stamps
What Does It Take? “Dear Elaine,” she writes on another postcard. “I’ve been thinking, thinking. Today. About my ex-husband. You remember him. Right? The tall guy. Always in a hurry. Yeah. That was him. Couldn’t walk with me like a normal person. No. He had to zoom ahead. Always. Like a rocket. On those long legs of his. And I’d have to yell at him. To get his attention. To make him stop. And then. Watch him look surprised. I mean. He never realized I wasn’t there. Invisible. Evidently. That was me. Spent most of my marriage talking to the back of his head. Conversation. Not his thing. While I was talking. To him. Trying. He’d walk away. Said he thought I was finished. Oh, really? Too hyper. Him. To stand still. To listen. Even though he was chatty. Yeah. He was. Constantly. Mumbling. Mostly. Entire conversations. He’d have. With me. When I wasn’t in the room. Important things. Things I needed to know. He’d say to an empty room. I’d hear a mumbling noise. Somewhere in the house. And I’d have to yell at him. To get his attention. To make him stop. Remind him. You know. That I’m not in the same room. Invisible. In our marriage. Evidently. That was me. So here’s the thing. What does it take for a man to stop? To look you in the eye. Listen. Respond. With more than one word. Can men do that? A conversation. Two people. In the same room. Talking to each other. Back and forth. Give and take. Is that possible? For a man. Any man? Tell me. I’d like to know.”
The Beatnik Cowboy 