Gutter Junky

 

i saw you last in cabaret afternoon

doing your lingerie strut before

the has-beens and the never-weres.

 

you were only passing through,

on your way to L.A.,

Vegas,

Avalon,

no regard for tomorrow,

as long as the money spent

 

I feened for you

jonesing in midnight tears

gutter junky looking for a fix.

to mainline you and feel the warmth

spread like h

e

a

v

e

n

you had your own angels to chase

and now im leaving new york

on a west bound train

carrying you like a disease

 

looking for you

in every face,

and laugh.

conversations

our lonely afternoons

branded in my memory

haunt me

worse than a slow death.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Total Annihilation

 

At this

critical juncture

what we have

to understand is

the truth

 

not clever evasions

of it

 

to prove the theoretical

benefit

of a more

enlightened way

 

for

to die full of

yourself

believing

the enemy

worth dying for

is always wrong

 

for in spite

of

conflicting

validity claims

and no one

way only being

best

 

some ways are better

than others

and all ways are

still

not equal.

 

And can never be

made equal

without

 

total annihilation.

 

The Best of The Beatnik Cowboy #1 has been released from its frail and fragile bars. Please refer to our “About” page for information concerning subscriptions or purchases of our annual print issues. We are gracious for all of the support and brilliant words that has pierced our eyes and mind, and welcome you onto the open plains.

Photo courtesy of Spin Magazine, 2004, Kurt Cobain on the set of the music video for “Smells Like Teen Spirit”.

Wolves of Midwinter

When life deals

the hand of needles

I grasp them in full

grip and bleed the

negativity through

the bandages of

indifference

I look at the world’s

problems with a stone

cold face and

an open heart

I mush my wolves

towards a destination

which I feel only I can see

Over the bumps and through

the hurricane

I am determined and

I will see this journey

through

THE GREATEST

 

You breathe your intentions

 

Vague as summer haze

 

Sunlight whistles casually

 

Obfuscating dreams

 

Bright light. Cages

 

Crooked awkward limbs.

 

 

How do you get to sleep, I wonder

 

When you are God?

 

When you are recalcitrant

 

When with the coming of morning

 

You are returned to order

 

A deity bleeding from the nose

 

A God hacked off at the knees

 

Chopped. Adrift. Fumbling

 

Lost ripped flesh

 

Scuffed

 

Broken

 

Trees.

 

 

 

How do you sleep, I ask

 

 

 

I am still waiting for my reply

 

 

 

 

 

THE BOOT YOU DON’T SEE COMING

 

The woodlouse cowers

 

at my omnipotent boot

 

I stand majestic

 

Lord of the land

 

Crusher of souls

 

Executioner

 

 

 

I weigh his world in my mind

 

A judge. A giant.

 

Then, from my back

 

Someone yanks my strings

 

I’m cut back down to size.

 

Put back in my place.

 

 

 

The woodlouse carries on unabated

 

Not knowing

 

Or caring

 

Just how close he came.

 

“Popularity Contest”

The problem
with taste
all goes back
to publishers
guilty of never
using mouthwash

The problem
with wit
all goes back
to quasi-poets
who have no
concept of
how to ingeniously
complete a poem

Instead they excel
at the art
of kissing ass
I’ll like yours
if you like mine
Pandering to please
the alleged fan base

Publisher’s are
going broke
The used bookstore
is up for sale
I’m a half-ass poet
happily wasting
my time
but my breath
is fresh

I feel no need
to partake
in the kissing
of digital asshole
under the guise
of popularity

 

Sometimes the simplest words are the hardest to say

 

(First appeared in Wilderness House Literary Review)

 

 

In memory of my beloved sister 

 

 

Does language determine thought?

Or, does thought determine language?

This debate is still not settled.

Still it’s fascinating how quickly

does our language change,

how quickly does it accommodate reality,

as soon as someone dies.

Our tongue, suddenly,

rolls out verbs

in the past tense

before our mind

could even form thoughts.

It’s as if our tongues have a mind of their own.

 

Sometimes, in the race between

language and thought,

language finds a way

to get ahead.

But not always.

It’s been 11 years since I’ve lost

my sister to blood cancer, and

yet it’s one of the shortest words in

my language, I find

impossible to use.

I guess, I refuse to use.

ਸੀ – थी – thi – Was

(Feminine, singular, past tense)

 

 

 

 

I can hear you

 

(First published in Wordgathering: A Journal of Disability Poetry and Literature)

 

 

I can hear you

when you say the first time.

I can hear you

when you assume how I might have missed it.

I can hear you

when you say the second time.

I can hear you

when you start to speak loud at the top of your lungs.

I can hear you

when you start to move your lips super slowly.

I can hear you

when you begin to get irritated.

I can hear you

when you take a deep breath,

shake your head in frustration.

I can hear you

when you start to say something,

leave off midway.

I can hear you

when you say it would require too much effort.

I can hear you

when you do not speak to me directly,

but in third person

with others, even when I’m around.

I can hear you

more often than you think.

Even without

my hearing aid.

I can hear you well

better than you would expect.

 

 

We are much bigger than anything you’ve ever known before. Or ever will know again. And just think it is you who make us so. It’s all too beautiful, and so are you. Believe it, bank on it, for why would I say such a thing if it were not so scurrilously true. For we are, far more than most, as real as we are without trying. And I we like you, remember, we have a vested interest. We go together, to the top and over. It is we who will always be here, tirelessly championing you. And how do we know what and whom to champion? Well, let me put it like this, the Grateful Dead had Jerry Garcia, among all the other musical giants in the band, and it was he that made them superlatively great. The Cowboy has me, and Chris, and our road less traveled makes all the difference. We purposely do things – publish people – the others won’t catch on to. Folks the others won’t see greatness in. Why? Because we are great too, like you, and we would not publish you unless you were equal to or beyond us. And we like to think you are all beyond us, and few can touch us, so that’s pretty good. So please, keep writing, and share you with all your fans most especially your editors Chris and I.

 

We have no grandchildren. Nor do we want them. With us they broke the mold. We want no others. Only us, and only you. For we are special, and we will prove it. There will never be another art magazine quite like the Beatnik Cowboy. Just watch our – and your – trajectory. Oh you can dabble with others, but we will always be an anchor. We are, to put it most truthfully, the cat’s meow. Come purr with us. Furthermore, we are excruciatingly humble. We are so humble, at times, it hurts. Don’t give us a reason to be humble. Floor us with your wonderful…ability. We only want to be with you. That’s all, to the end. We want no offspring being what we should have been in the first place. Call us the Vasectomies.

 

And who are you, really? Are you what you’ve always wanted to be, or some phony trying to be what you can’t. Truth will be you being what you are, and you and we laughing at the rest. When you see yourself you will see others. The key will be seeing yourself. Can you see? Can you see we? Me? If you can come along (or go alone) we too have come to take our children home. With us you are eternally, unconditionally welcome. This goes for all, for life and beyond. Unless we don’t like you, then we’ll arrange for others to hopefully like you. Or we’ll non-persuade you to a point of happy-sadness and great confusion. No matter, you will in the long run not survive. And the sooner you understand this and get it under your ego, the better you will be able to do in this limited amount of time you have in your present mind and body. Stay healthy and keep writing, this the prescription for happiness contentment. Or just keep writing, then sickness and death won’t get you so down. Everything dies, except I suppose, viral things and death itself which must need life to not extinct itself.

Who created this idea of the finality of death anyway? Death never ends anything, it only terminates a state, a condition, for a while. When a door closes a window opens. That is, if you’ve got a house. Let us give a house, a home, for you and your mind. You are for us, such a wonderful find. Please submit and let us and others know you. Let us help the world understand your genius. And thank you for the thing that is you. You are so special. Never forget that and don’t walk out of the movie before it is over. Please try to hear me. I’m crying.

 

Relentlessly,

 

Randall

 

6/3/2016

 

True believer

she was a rockabilly girl

with cool boots and red hair

her eyes were  pin wheels

and I think it was

because I made eye contact

that she sat down at my table

in the coffee shop

I was alone and had

wanted it that way

 

she dumped out her purse

across my table

a pile  of rusty springs

a birds skull and assorted

animal bones costume jewelry

and at least four catholic rosaries

she stared at all of it and said

you can see it can’t you

you can see how serious I am

that this is  the stuff you need

you really need to get clean

 

I know my mind is sick

and I have to do something

these are tools for getting

myself clean and my mind right

my mind is sick

and I have to live with it

have to sleep with it

but I don’t have to let it fuck me

don’t have to let it own me

don’t have to eat with it

you know don’t you

you can see it can’t you

can’t you

can’t you

 

she looks for the first time

into my surprised face and sees

that I don’t know and then

maybe she wonders if she

or anybody  knows anything

her hands fly around like birds

as she stuffs her things back

into her purse then she slinks

away from my table  like

a wet  cat crawling  out of the rain.

A punk kid

today I’m sitting on

an Appalachian porch

in my mind but

beneath my feet

its Erie Pa

I  have a banjo

in my arms like

a lover full of sorrow

as I pick out

the notes to O Death

and sing almost on key

 

I think and remember

asking my dad

why he liked this

hillbilly music so much

back when I was

maybe fifteen

because when you

get old you realize

these are the songs

that tell the truth

my truth anyway

he said as he hummed

along all the way to

the industrial supply house

he worked in

dad never sang along

 

I just remember

thinking how much

I hated country music

and how dumb that

banjo picking hillbilly

sounded and I would

take the Dead Kennedys

any day or Black Flag

or the Ramones

 

but at fifteen

what did I know

about death sorrow

heart ache loss

misery or pain

I’d never had the blues

 

I was a punk rock kid

with no truth yet

to tell.