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.

The Greatest


Am I the life of anything other than
Shit talking and manic episodes?
Greatest hater to ever walk these streets:
Bourbon on ice, rye neat, gin with vermouth,
Or whatever that one guy made me that one time.
Not even looking to get fucked up,
More just validation,
An excuse to be myself
To soften the edge from here to there
I see no point in the middle
I see no point in the essence
Looks like the juice is all squeezed out
And we’re left sucking on rinds

 RPM
—For EGA

 
The couple next to me in CVS talk Bitcoin.
This is so far from my reality, it would
be redundant to laugh. I wear grey sweatpants

from a bygone era, my glasses are crooked,
and I haven’t bothered to trim my nose hairs.
I’m thinking of getting the latest Stones album

on vinyl. Though my fragile LPs are analog.
Streaming music is digital. My Pioneer
PL-50 turntable is my age, so I may need

to replace the stylus. (I’m talking about a needle,
not a tablet accessory.) Regarding the indie
music scene, Kurt Cobain said, “Let them eat vinyl.”

I don’t mind if you think LPs are for hipsters
and old folks. More for me. My attention span
is large enough to listen to an entire

album side at a time. I don’t want to go
to a concert and see some guy turn on a laptop.
Put your sterilized, overproduced modern

music in a bong and smoke it. Life has
the occasional pop and hiss. Gimmie danger
and distortion! Which aisle is the Metamucil on?

observe and remember

 
i am the lonely man
you see in the coffee
aisle

looking for something
that is just dark, simple,
easy

the little joys i can find
sometimes

the rest of life is spent
eyes open mouth shut

observe and remember

all life is is content

i would love for that
to change at some
point before i die

but my desperation
hasn't reached the
stages of mail order
brides or falling in
love with a stripper

of course

i still have a few
years to go

"The Quiet One"

Silver water and stars
All my heroes gone

And I'm growing old
Can't do what I use to do

Doesn't seem fair
To end like this

So I'll make it quick
With one last stand

Left jab
Overhand right

Left hook to the ribs
Right crusher to the chin

Coleman would have been proud
To see his grandson go out
Standing up

Since I never saw him
When he was alive

My Dad and I
Only knowing the stories

My Dad welterweight champion
Of the Airforce

And I hidden in the shadows
Of the spirit world
Doer of the done

The quiet one
Floating
In the silver water and stars.