GPPReader
Selections From The Poets Of
The Guerilla Poetics Project
Edited By
Ed Kauffman
Published By The Guerilla Poetics Project
Copyright 2011 Guerilla Poetics Press
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This free ebook may be used or reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, and transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher. We offer it with our deepest thanks for your interest and support. If you enjoy it, please seek out other work by all the included authors.
Editor’s Note — Ed Kauffman
The Wheels Of Government
To The Lady Who Fell Down The Stairs
Just In Case I Become A World Traveler
Alone
Downtown
Heredity
A Portrait Of Ourselves Only/30 Years Down The Line
Four Crickets
Something Beautiful
The Rust Factory
Seed
You Can Only Watch The Same Movie So Many Times
Sadness, Through Male Eyes
The Unexpected Death Of An Old Friend
Making A List, Checking It Twice
Hugh Casey And Ernest Hemingway: The Artist And The Ballplayer
Working Girl
No Smoking
8-30-06
Logic
Modern Times
Sorrow And Joy
The Rich And Famous
A Room Like This
4 Year Old Collecting Eggs
A Destroyer Of Men
Some Men
Words Like Terror
Nothing Is Remembered
A Moment Of Something Glittering
These Quiet Nights
No, Not Me
You Know
I’d Give It All Up
A Toast
In Memory Of Ray Augustine
Driving Lesson
The Earth Is Exploding Where Lawrence Of Arabia Once Slept
Ivy
Old Homeless Man In St. Francis Hotel Lobby
If I Could Paint I Would Paint This
A Vampire In The Mall
A Frat Guy On A Motorcycle
Two Girls In A Tub Together
My Wife Has The Memory Of An Elephant
Everything Is All Right In Time Even Death
This Place Of love You Make
Lady
One Night In San Francisco
Poems For D.A. Levy
Poem
Farmer’s Market (6.16.07)
To The Quiet Voice Of Tom Kryss
Mindfulness Of Changed Circumstances
After The Storm
After The Intermission
That Place Is Always Attainable
The Great American Novel
Country Garage
September’s Almost Gone
Watching Boxing
Man About Town
Censured At Starbucks
Edge Of Night
If You Go To Budapest
For Tomorrow
Your Anger
There Must Be A Way
Black Days
Call It A Battle Cry, Call It Guttural…
Dark, Dank, Ignored Spaces…
In Every Place The Sun Drags It’s Light…
Alright?
From The Shore Out
Tanning The White Band
This Drawn Out Thing We Do
Sirens & Lullabies
Gravity: Iron Hearts You Can’t Save Or Kick Start
Lost Petition For An Endangered Species
Insurgency
Beer Without Sugar
Missing You
Magnolia
On Hearing Of The Bankruptcy Of Converse Shoes
The Megaphone Man
I’m No Soccer Mom
Inevitable
I Don’t Understand Birds
The Benefit Of Distance
Crawling
The Only Man For The Job
The Grammys Were On
The Perks Of Being An Editor
The Changing Station
Coming Home
Death Comes For Us All
The Terror
Poem For The Dying
These Tired Hands Can Hold No More
Birch Street
I Love
Big Woo
Communion
Suburban Killing Fields
Nothing To Lose
Orange Juice & Death
Test Subject
In Our Best Moments
The Heat
Buffing
Lonesome Town
At The Tavern
Tacoma Tavern
Editor’s Note
I've taken the liberty of presenting the work as consistently, page after page, as possible–striving for balance between the "individuality" present in the poems as originally written, and the book's overall formatting needs. This is most evident in the "standardization" of poem titles–presenting them in a consistent "title case," while the bodies of the poems are presented as originally written, creating some significant differences, poet to poet, in punctuation, grammatical liberties, and even format. Beyond that, a very light (hopefully invisible) editorial hand addressed minor, forgivable grammatical concerns: typos, hyphens, misspelled words (of which, despite much recent criticism, "guerilla" is not one–look it up)...with extraordinary care given to never change the poet's intent, line breaks, or anything beyond all of the above mentioned. It is my sincerest hope that these changes will go quietly unnoticed by not only the readers but the writers as well, and please trust I meant no disrespect.
I’d also like to thank the generous efforts and contributions of all the inventive fund-raisers involved, without whom this book could never have been completed. I hear tell of a vintage Vegas poker chip that fetched a right pretty penny on the auction block, the entire proceeds of which were donated to the project and this book specifically. That is the quintessential spirit of the independent press—namely doing any and everything to crack the nut. It’s all a simple question of alchemy—what you start with and what you do with it. The wealth of this project lies not in its meager ends but rather its near limitless capacity for innovation, owed mainly to the type of personalities it attracts. Creativity is creativity, no matter the medium.
It’s been a real honor to be asked to cull what I thought was the strongest work for this ambitious project, and if there is anyone to thank for the strength of the book it’s the fine poets presented here. Decades of under-appreciated work among them, I’m proud to help bring just a little bit of what they do to light. If you enjoy the read half as much as I enjoyed putting this beast together, then, you are in for a real treat!
Ed Kauffman, editor
David Barker
The Wheels Of Government
three of us
hobbling down the sidewalk
towards the capitol building.
two bad hips and
a gimpy ankle.
none too steady on our feet.
all three spy retirement
on the horizon.
outside the hearing room,
a sea of black suits. we shuffle in
and take seats.
7:30 AM,
the gavel bangs and
they start testifying.
I have a file thick with numbers
just in case of questions.
everyone thought to bring coffee
but me.
To The Lady Who Fell Down The Stairs
I didn’t witness that accident,
but I heard about it later, and
when I saw you on crutches,
your leg in a cast, you seemed
embarrassed by your misfortune. That
was the first time that I saw you
as a person, and not an adversary. We’d
had some turf battle years before,
when you first came to work here. Something
in your mind, not mine. I think you
saw me as a threat to your status, not
realizing that I wasn’t after anyone’s
job; I was just doing my own. Things were
tense for a while, but we got past that,
and later when you learned that I’m a writer,
and told me of your own work in journalism, we
had something in common. You
even bought my chapbook, the one
where I talk about all the crap I’ve
gone through at work, and you were shocked
that I was “so bold” as you put it. And I
explained that I hadn’t told
the half of it in there – that there’s
plenty of other stuff that I’ve
kept to myself. I think you saw me
in a new light after that, and our relationship
was friendly from then on, asking each other
“how’s it going?” the few times we
ran into one another in the hallway.
So it came as a hard thing,
when I got that email from the boss informing us
that you’d suffered from cardiac arrest
on Tuesday night and were in the hospital
in intensive care, lingering in
a medically induced coma, and that the prospects were
not good. I’d just seen you that morning
during the emergency drill, and now
I’m glad that in the chaos of the moment, I had
taken a second to say “hi.”
They said it was a rare event, but it
happens: you’d
fallen asleep on the sofa, and in that
cramped position, a clot had formed and
traveled to your heart.
Wave after wave of sadness
hit me all that day. Not
because we were close – we weren’t – but
because we were coworkers, and I knew it could
have happened to any one of us in that building. And I
remembered back to the stairs, and how you would
really be embarrassed if you could only know what
had befallen you now.
Well, don’t be. There’s no
dishonor in falling downstairs, nor in
falling from life. It happens to the best of us. It
happens to all of us. And you know what they say about
how the good die young. There must be truth to that. You
were only 45, with a husband and a 6 year old daughter.
On Monday the second email arrived, the one I’d been
dreading. I didn’t have to read it to know
what it said.
Don’t think me cold because I
worked the afternoon of your service. It
wasn’t indifference. It wasn’t because I had too much
work waiting for me to take off for an hour. And
it wasn’t because I didn’t care (I did). It
was for the same reason that I skip all funerals.
Because they’re too painful.
The stoic husband ... the
weeping child. There’s nothing I can say. They
don’t need my pity, my
minor grief.
In the days that followed, I took a closer look
at my coworkers, even those I’d
battled against, and they all looked
damned good to me. I have you
to thank for that. I was wrong when I
wrote those words. Wrong about everything.
Just In Case I Become A World Traveler
my daughter tells me that
if you go barefoot in India
these small worms in the soil
with hooks on them will
stick to the soles of your feet
and bore into your skin,
get inside your body and
give you diseases.
at first I suspected
she was passing along one
of those new urban legends,
like alligators in the
sewers of New York City,
but she assured me she had
read it in her Science
textbook.
now I've had to add
walking barefoot
in India to my list of
things to be avoided
in foreign countries,
along with drinking
water in Mexico, and
taking snapshots in the USSR.
justin.barrett
Alone
a dying streetlamp
flickers
orange light onto
the road
as an empty
beer bottle
sits on the curb
just like
me
Downtown
smoggy
gray
guy walks by
and points
to a single red
flower
growing
in a crack in
the sidewalk
“beautiful,”
he says
and
it was
Heredity
my mother used to tell
me that i could
be anything i wanted
to be when i grew up,
yet here i am
working a menial job
for minimum wage,
thousands of dollars in
debt with the drink
as my only escape.
i don’t ever recall
wanting to be
my Uncle Jimmy.
A Portrait Of Ourselves Only
30 Years Down The Line
We walk down the halls,
holding hands,
like a couple 30 years our senior.
She shuffles as best she
can, I shorten my
steps as best I can.
She does well, considering.
Then we see another couple,
one of the ones 30
years our senior, only he’s
the sick one; and she’s holding his
hand and encouraging
him along.
When we pass,
my wife squeezes my
hand a little tighter,
bringing it closer to
her hip,
and we shuffle
our way down the
bleak, sterile hallway.
Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
Four Crickets
A great singer
forges his song
from behind a
few blades of grass.
He is small
in stature, but
great in depth and
sound. He is small,
fits in my hand.
Perhaps two, three,
four such singers
would fit as well.
A quartet of
small, great singers
would fill this room
with giant songs.
Something Beautiful
Let something beautiful out,
a song you can hang the moon on,
the one-word lovers mean
when it’s not a game.
Let the suicides die and madness
mend its own mind. Let the light
out of the caves and
bring out the paint to
color what lacks. Take sadness, grief,
and sorrow and find it
a new face: the smile
you fell in love with.
The Rust Factory
Working in the rust factory
the foreman's on my case
my job is in danger because
profit is lower than morale
my sweat is nothing to them
it stinks as bad as their
treatment of the workers
each affected by the rust
the blood we cough up each morning
has colored the walls and
floor of the factory crimson
and black when the rust hits it
I am looking to get out soon
the asbestos plant is
willing to pay top dollar to
any worker with balls and lungs
Seed
I want to be buried
off the side of the highway,
where green grass grows
and crows feed and sing.
I don't want to die.
this is not what I desire.
What I want is to be a seed
firmly planted in the earth.
I haven't decided
what type of seed, but I would
like to grow defiantly
in all four seasons.
I want to lie down
and disappear under roots
and under the soil and rest,
living in my dreams.
JJ Campbell
You Can Only Watch The Same Movie So Many Times
i see you're rushing
toward another brush
with an over the
counter suicide
and quite frankly i've
lost all my desire to
fight with you over it
with that said
may death grant you all
the wishes life couldn't
we'll meet again
someday
probably soon
Sadness, Through Male Eyes
i was going through a
drawer in my desk tonight
and came across some
condoms well past
their expiration date
and here they told me i
would outgrow all those
high school feelings i had
of being a loser
The Unexpected Death of an Old Friend
i never realized your beauty
until i saw you in your casket
the soft and gentle features
of your face were lost
upon me until then
and perhaps it was that
or maybe just seeing you
finally at peace
that brought these tears
i wiped them with my hand
and pressed my hand to your lips
who would have thought that
out of all the juices we
shared over the years
the ones that meant the most
would come after your death
Making A List, Checking It Twice
i'm wearing my sunglasses in
a thunderstorm again,
dreaming about the days when
i wanted to grow up and be the politician
who refused to kiss the ugly babies
while drinking my body weight
in southern comfort each day
the grocery store kind though
life is a marathon, not a sprint
back when i thought that all my
freckles would join together one day
and make a glorious permanent tan
that was nothing more than another
installment in my long history of failure
you would think it would end
somewhere but no,
that's what i get for thinking
time to put the brain aside
and listen to the gut
of course
the gut has been nagging at me for
years to turn this pen into a gun,
these words into bullets and this sheet
of paper into a place for
collecting names
i still say i'd be
better off as a poet
but who am i to
question
my
calling
Alan Catlin
Hugh Casey And Ernest Hemingway: The Artist And The Ballplayer
They were two of a kind, the baseball
player and the best-selling author,
hombres muy simpatico, off-season in
The Keys. The middle aged macho,
full white beard and face aglow showing
the wild man the riggings, deep-sea
fishing and all the rest that goes with it.
After, in the taverna, they toast
The Revolución with Cuba Libres, the biggest
bar joke of the mid-century: the drink
was nothing more than a rum and coke
with lime and the revolution years away.
Later, still, Papa and Casey don lightweight
boxing gloves in the writer's living room
and begin swinging, no holds barred, no
knockdown rules or regulations just two
men punching themselves silly toward dawn,
a confrontation not even the wife
of the moment can stop by saying,
"Sure, keep it up, break every stick
of furniture in the fucking place,
what difference does it make?"
Finally, the man who threw the wild
pitch in the World Series against
the Dodgers arch-rivals, the Yankees,
the pitch that made Mickey Owens famous
and Casey a dark footnote in history,
shared one elemental fact with the man
who would win the Nobel Prize for Literature:
when all else fails, a shotgun in the mouth,
a last image that rips the back of your
head off.
Working Girl
Small sips are
all she can manage
taken from brown
bagged Tall Boy
beer too tired to
move from this
spot in the sun
her eyes permanently
bagged clothes
wrinkled dirty
hair uncombed
a mess as always
burned out beyond
belief well into
her middle age in
her twenties yet
somehow ageless
this sad eyed
lady on leave
from fucking the
endless armies
of the night
No Smoking
I work at a half way
place for vets-
that's half way between
here and nowhere-
old age and death maybe-
The director is one of
those pressed shirt and tie
gung-ho REMF's
That's a rear echelon mother
fucker in american
can't wait until
the no smoking rule
goes into effect
All those guys have now
is one room to puff in
I try to tell the director-
these guys all fought
in wars
you know what I mean?
Had cigarettes when
they were nervous
scared
relaxed
relieved
wounded
They can't drink anymore
can't chase no women
or run with no wolves
so they smoke
They don't have anything left
that's why they're here
8-30-06
Midnight
Hurrying footfalls
4 shots
then someone yells,
"Go, go, go!"
Some kind of military
action on Furman Street
Dark car disappearing
where there are no
street lights
Then all is
quiet
for a while
Leonard J. Cirino
Logic
The dog’s mouth
snaps on a leg
of lamb
A bomb goes off
in the church
while a mosque burns
Three children
hide in the basement
The attic is full
The soldiers enter
All hell breaks loose
The dog’s mouth
snaps
on a leg
Modern Times
At dawn, every face is a nightmare,
freckled children and heavily-bearded men
swirl about with garbage cans and school buses,
all checking the clock and rocking the streets.
Later, the business suits turn their eyes
to their watches as their wives gather
on driveways or porches, wave good-bye
wishing the absence would last longer,
or maybe not as long, while they struggle
with pucker-faced kids dawdling in doorways.
The laments they could turn into songs
remain frozen in their modern minds.
Dreaming of ten thousand Buddhas,
they go on, hopelessly fruitful.
Sorrow And Joy
“seeing double in the human soul.”
—Federico Garcia Lorca
Let me address you Lord, from one who has taken
the words of Satan to heart, and had his soul eaten
by the lyrical hawk of sadness and joy, with his beak
in my eye, talons ripping my tongue, and the crown
of my sorrow nestled in his cruel and lovely heart.
Let me tell you I've wandered far from the spirit
of human joy, and into the Ninth Bardo of hell. Somehow
I returned and am able to consider both the bloody truths
and the crucible of beauty. I've fired flesh and consumed
the body, even while all my dreams float in a canoe
down a peaceful stream, overrunning the banks, lapping
joys and kissing the slopes with a religious passion
known only to the most fanatic saints and fervent sinners.
Look at my heart Lord. It is soiled with sweat and the dew
I glean from midnight and dawn, when I finally settle
into a foreboding sleep. Still, I navigate these waters
with the joy of an old man who crosses himself
and plucks persimmons at the end of a cold autumn.
The Rich And Famous
The night is hazy and I dream of monks,
young kids fighting, hip-hop punks jumping flanks
of cops armed to the teeth, protecting banks
and the houses of the rich and famous.
I disdain these shills, their pussy, pompous
frills, as if they were clowns in a circus,
playing games with the beasts and audience
when all they really mean is malfeasance
to the masses. Their cronies look askance
at their filthy deeds and ask no questions.
I can quote their hateful thoughts verbatim:
No negroes, queers, or wetbacks, no abortions.
I spit at them and wish them a painful death:
that or the hope they drink Macbeth's broth.
Or as the songwriter said, Life's a bitch,
it's time to go ahead and eat the rich.
Glenn W. Cooper
A Room Like This
There are ways of moving through things
like this. Just lately I have found myself
restless to wake up
in unfamiliar surroundings; to wake, for example,
in some dirty hotel room, wipe the sleep
from my eyes in the half light, momentarily
unsure of where I am
or why. To lay for a moment, observing
the details of the room, remembering
the circumstances of my arrival.
Listening to the light
rain outside, the traffic moving through it.
Then to rise naked from bed, draw back
the curtains and expose the people below.
To light a cigarette. Wonder
about what it is that propels us onward
in the face of so many reasons
not to move onward. It takes a room
like this, early morning rain, cigarettes
in the half light, to help a man
reach certain conclusions. Like
the one about remembering to forget.
There are ways of moving through things.
This is just one of the ways.
There are others.
4 Year Old Collecting Eggs
little Katie
has a new hen
and the first egg
is something
of an event.
but when she
tries to gather
it up the brittle
shell splinters
and gooey yolk
runs between her
fingers and
onto the ground.
without knowing
it she sees for
the first time
the fragility
of her world.
A Destroyer Of Men
Sean O’Grady,
with over eighty
professional
fights to
his name by
the age of 23,
gave new meaning
to the expression
“glutton for
punishment.”
But heck, he won
70 of them so
I guess he
dished out more
than he took.
The kid could
really punch.
Now he sells
real estate
for a living
and is learning
all about
destroying men
in other more
subtle but
no less brutal
ways.
Some Men
it is said
that Picasso always
did three things
before embarking
on a new
creative period.
first he would return
home to Spain, then
he would buy a new house,
then finally he would
get himself a brand
new woman.
just like that.
some men have it all
figured out.
Christopher Cunningham
Words Like Terror
make
good poems.
words like
savage
and
light.
words like
grace and
asphalt
and guts and
thunder.
like
screaming.
like
the laughter
of
dying
and
like
sal
va
tion.
Nothing Is Remembered
the grave stone tilts
above the
plastic flowers.
maybe a lawnmower
rubbed up against it.
someday the
damn thing is going
to fall.
nothing is
remembered
forever.
A Moment Of Something Glittering
it is late in the day
and the last bit of sunlight
cuts its way thru
the last bit of
autumn leaves
left hanging
on shadowy tree limbs.
it catches the roofs of cars
and broken glass on the pavement,
it pushes on the back of an
old woman struggling up a small hill,
it lingers in the eyes
of birds perched above the street.
there are facets cut into the air
and it is a moment
of something
glittering,
something gem-like,
before the smoke of night
and the darkness of time
conspire
like thieves
to bear it away
value
in the
impermanence
of
everything.
These Quiet Nights
after the storm
there is a hush.
a held breath
in the moist silences.
after the storm,
these quiet nights
are all that remain.
we work hard all our lives
battling forces
we cannot defeat,
our voices mingling
with the roar of passing time.
but after the storm
there are
chances to wipe the water
from our eyes and
see with
uncertain clarity,
to rest our ragged throats,
to hope.
these quiet nights
refuel us
as
dark clouds
gather
in
threatening
skies.
Soheyl Dahi
No, Not Me
After Harold Norse’s ‘I’m Not a Man’
I am not a real American
because I speak English with an accent
even though I don’t think with one.
I am not a real American
because I don’t play or watch baseball,
I hate apple pie, red meat, pick up trucks
and sleeveless t shirts.
I am not a real American
because I won’t die for oil,
or vote republican or democrat.
The difference between the two is the same
difference between Pepsi and Coke.
I am not a real American
because I will not do the pledge
and I smile at those who tell me,
"go back to where you came from."
As a citizen of the only empire,
I have a right to be here
or anywhere.
I am not a real American
because I don’t hate Jews, Arabs, Blacks, or Latinos
and I won’t sell my house if one moved to my street.
I am not a real American
because I don’t care what people do in their private lives.
Hell, if two men or two women want to get married,
that’s all right with me.
I am not a real American
because I don’t think homelessness is a fact of life.
I am not a real American
because I will not call a human being illegal.
I am not a real American
because I like poetry and art
especially during war time.
I am not a real American
because I listen to KPFA
and I have friends who say they are
communists or anarchists.
I am not a real American
because I refuse to work 80 hours a week
for a corporation which will chew me and spit me out
at its convenience.
I am not a real American
because, unlike 89% of the population,
I hold a valid passport.
I am not a real American
because I cry when people are called
collateral damage.
I am not a real American
because I speak English with an accent
even though I don’t love with one.
You Know
What matters most
is what the heart wants
and the heart wants what it
can never have
I walk by the hungry
drop coins in their cups
my pain so small
when someone is bleeding
for my kindness
Through the streets
men and women
holding hands
passing me by
I admire them
for not seeing me
or the hungry
I’d Give It All Up
And live alone like the old days
when I was poor and full of poems
pushing my old Mustang up the hill
both of us dying like a minor Sisyphus
No worries but the next paycheck
No drinks but the blood of grapes
I’d give it all up for your nod
or if you let me read your palms
Your lips quivering with shyness
I know you’ve been alone for too long
But the lines in your palm
tell me your heart is a wandering gypsy
I’d give it all up for you
and start anew with what’s left of me
I’d give it all to you
I’ll bleed words for you
Like a traveling salesman I’ll knock on
all the doors until I reach your home
Dave Donovan
A Toast
to lift
and tip back
at an angle
most welcome
the cold wash
of day's end mercy
curved glass and
beaded wonder
singing under the fingertips
to a song
our hearts
learned long ago
open the evening now
and let it breathe
we have skies to admire.
In Memory Of Ray Augustine
gentlemen
reach under the flag
grab the handle
and lift
he told the six of us
three by three
on either side of you
and we walked forward
walked as you did
into our lives
sometime in the past
into the Abbey
or the Gallery
open stages/open mics
gigs and backyard BBQ's
any place with music and friends
and you had plenty of both
we walked forward
walked as you did
under the shade of folk tunes
cowboy songs and country blues
in the footsteps of Woody and Jimmy
and Hank Sr. too
who we know you could have drunk
right under the table
(or the dashboard as it were
and who can prove you didn't?)
we walked forward
walked as you did
over the grass of history
green and rising
a sea of memory
you saved a man's life once
in the Navy - not in battle
but heroic nonetheless
swimming through violent waters
to retrieve a life nearly lost
(i asked if you earned a medal
you said no and shrugged it off
because it turns out
a letter of commendation
from the Secretary of the Navy
a meritorious service ribbon
a newspaper write-up
and the eternal thanks
of your fellow sailor
just don't quite equal a medal
do they ?)
we walked forward
walked as you did
into old age gracefully
your red suspenders and
hair white as ash
your box of harmonicas
a treasure of train whistles
wailing and weaving
the notes of the past
into songs of the present
as we arrive
at that last railyard
a circle of tramps
fierce and enlightened
gentlemen
reach under the flag
grab the handle
and lift
he told us
but he never explained
how to let go.
Driving Lesson
i was riding
along with my cousin
to a party
and we were talking about
when we were kids
how our family cookouts
were so much fun
and our mothers and aunts made the best food
serving fresh lemonade and sandwiches
how our fathers and uncles told the best jokes
and drank cold Hamms beer from
aluminum pop-top cans
with a baseball game
crackling out of a transistor radio
on the picnic table
and I laughed about Uncle so-and-so
and his chain-smoking Marlboro cigarettes
when she said
No - they were Salems and
the reason I remember that
she said
is because one time
he asked me to run to his car and
grab another pack for him
and so I did
but I couldn't find those cigarettes
and I searched and searched
and checked the glove compartment
and under the seat
but didn't see them anywhere and
when I gave up looking
I turned around and there he was
he tried to kiss me
but i slipped away
and ran off as he was trying to say
he was sorry and please don't tell
about 30 seconds passed
as we drove along
before I could think of anything to say
so i said
are you SURE they weren't Marlboros ?
Doug Draime
The Earth Is Exploding Where Lawrence Of Arabia Once Slept
where he fought
and fornicated
where he turned
his heart to blowing sand
blood lust
running through
his aristocratic veins
his blue eyes full of
the murderous
future
Ivy
Eventually when the
dark green ivy dies out,
the sun shrouded
by the dense smog
of doom, they will find us
beneath the dead plants
living vigorously, our eyes
full of mysterious light
Old Homeless Man In St. Francis Hotel Lobby
I could see
it was all
he could do
to keep
from crying
and I
kept expecting
his lower lip
to begin trembling
and sobs
to shake
his bent body.
But he was dignified,
holding himself erect
as he talked to the
nightly news,
cursing raving
at the television
over the
war.
If I Could Paint I Would Paint This
The sun coming down like iron, while shining
through huge puffy-white clouds.
All the buildings glowing like mercury
The ocean at Long Beach, several miles
away, is bopping up accepting the sun, in what
can only be painted as worship
Nathan Graziano
A Vampire In The Mall
I sat on a bench in the mall,
while my wife shopped for jeans.
A man in a black trench coat
sat down beside me.
He had black mascara
Caked around both eyes
and his face painted white
to look corpse-like or undead.
When he noticed me staring,
he turned and hissed.
Two long fangs hung down
from his top row of teeth.
I shook my head, stood up
and joined my wife in the store.
"Honey," I said, "there’s a man
on the bench outside with fangs
like a goddamn vampire."
"That’s a look these days," she said.
"People go to dentists and have
their teeth capped to look like fangs."
She then turned and left
for the changing room.
I stood by a rack of women’s blouses
trying to imagine this dentist
of the dark shadow
who in a single night turns
human beings into douche bags.
A Frat Guy On A Motorcycle
Regardless of what I thought
of his baseball hat turned backwards
and the eighty-dollar Ray Ban sunglasses,
or the sleeves of his shirt severed
and a tribal tattoo on his Mega-man bicep,
or the girl, Good Lord the beautiful girl,
tail-up behind him on the Kawasaki
in cut-off denim shorts, two gulps
of golden leg straddling a hot engine.
Regardless of my opinions,
my simple and stubborn stereotyping,
I have to admit I envied the look
on this young man’s tanned face
when he stopped at a red light beside me.
It was a look that said, in no uncertain terms,
"My life is good right now."
Two Girls In A Tub Together
Maybe you’re hoping for a supermodel
to slip out of a slinky red dress,
kick off a pair of stiletto pumps
and step lightly onto a cold tiled floor.
A few feet away another woman
waits with parted lips in a Roman tub,
steam rising from the still water.
The two beauties then embrace,
their breasts lathered with bubbles
and smooth shaved legs entangle
as their pink tongues flicker like moths.
So it might come as a disappointment to know
the two girls in the tub I’m talking about
are my wife and eighteen-month old daughter.
They’re splashing and laughing,
fun as clean as a yellow rubber duck.
I’m in the other room listening to them,
a bit choked up by my love for both.
I fold my hands over my stomach and smile,
as astounded as you by my own caprices.
My Wife Has The Memory Of An Elephant
My wife and I lay on the couch
watching the evening news
and sipping coffee
after a dinner of leftover chicken.
We both groaned
as the weatherman
followed a storm up the coast
with a stiff right arm
then shook his head
as if apologizing for the snow.
I reached around and placed my palm
on my wife’s round belly
to feel our baby punch and kick.
As beautiful as a butterfly waltz.
Out of nowhere, my wife
asked me if I remembered
a night before we were married,
when she caught me flirting
with a young blonde at a bar.
Although I honestly didn’t
remember the night in question
and blamed it on the beer,
she proceeded to describe
the whole evening in intimate detail
before the weatherman
could finish his five-day forecast.
S.A. Griffin
Everything Is All Right In Time Even Death
100 miles per hour to nowhere
point blank verse
pain heaped upon pain
thru addiction
or just simply being
available
to the process
the march & mulch of war
burgers & fries
obsessive sex
the opiates of
religion
whatever it is
it will get us all
in the end
pick your poison well
live for it
blossom & burn
inside the sacred unfolding of the
laughing rose
even the sun will lose
its hair & go blind
This Place of Love You Make
built on poems of tempered lyric
& music boxed in moonlight
ecstatic moment sent to
school the insensible flesh
vibrating upon sudden arrows
to prompt the heart’s unfolding flower
tuned to the slightest
glance & tempest gesture
love, small like time
incurable
Lady
we are here
for the sweet stigmata
of the poem
One Night In San Francisco
I crawled out of bed
still drunk
& proceeded to piss
all over the cold hardwood floors
of our bedroom
“What are you doing?”
my boozed bladder bursting forth its contents,
“Taking a piss.”
getting excited she noted,
“It’s getting all over the floor!”
“Don’t worry, it’ll all run out under the door.”
I finished pissing & went back to sleep
the Haight was a beautiful place then
she really loved me
Christopher Harter
Poem For D.A. Levy
In the beginning was the Word
and the Word was run off on a
celestial mimeograph machine,
and God looked at it and said
"It's a bit crude, but it'll do.
Here, Adam, go run off about
500 of these and pass them out
to the people."
Poem
—after Ted Berrigan
The only time my father
flew on an airplane, he
exited the jet way
white as a sheet &
visibly shaking.
My father had never
& would never again
appear to me in this
manner, even in the
last days of his illness.
Myself, I have been
on planes many times—
travels both near &
far.
I am not bothered
in the least by these
big mechanical birds,
but I always think of
my wife and son
& smile during take-off,
just in case.
Farmer’s Market (6.16.07)
Today at the market
we bought:
5 onions
6 tomatoes
1 head of broccoli
2 lbs. of green beans
1 lb. of sugar snap peas
1 bunch of kale
I’ll enjoy the taste of
each immensely
When my son asked if
the old man in the blue overalls
grew those vegetables
for us, I said
yes
To The Quiet Voice Of Tom Kryss
My son plays under the maple tree
with the metal tractors of my childhood
and the childhoods of my brothers and father
I sit here reading a thinking man’s poem
as a nearby sparrow works to crack
a speck of seed or the shell of a
struggling insect
Each vaguely aware of the others,
content to keep to ourselves
Richard Krech
Mindfulness To Changed Circumstances
Out of thin air
an opportunity
may arise so quickly
that you must
take advantage of it
right away
or not at all.
After The Storm
Our warm bed
central in the dim lit room
corners in darkness,
rolling & honking noises
from Outside scrape across windows.
Our room flying thru space
commerce bustling around us,
we lying still
holding each other after the storm.
Gentle purr of yr breathing
later lets me know
I am alone
w/ my
self.
After The Intermission
A small skiff (at night)
quickly navigating a body of water,
the time frozen
like a fine oil
framed and in its place.
Using objects
to transcend them,
to see the core
we wind ourselves around.
Winding down
we find ourselves
after the intermission
still glued to our seats,
wondering how it all
will turn out
and pondering
our next move.
That Place Is Always Attainable
Sunlight
filtering in thru curtains
after millions of miles
in the cold vacuum of space,
Here it looks warm and yellow
the blue of the sky
green trees beyond.
Industrial hum
occasional sounds of humans
or cars.
The ability
to find that place of calm
is essential,
Our rock spiraling rapidly
around the Sun
chasing tomorrow.
Mike Kriesel
The Great American Novel
Grows up in a trailer park
in a small Nebraska town.
Bored as corn, he rides a bike
on gravel roads where flecks
of mica flash with sunlight.
Thinks about joining the navy.
Writes in spiral notebooks.
Sometimes holds a page up
to his face like a mirror.
Never knew his father.
Lying on a picnic table.
A meteor blinks past like one
of God’s fallen eyelashes.
He sees the zodiac of possibility
hovering above the world
like a Ferris wheel.
Feels weightless for a second.
Things pivot, then settle again.
Nothing stands between him
and the stars’ roulette wheel.
Country Garage
Working on a Chevy
with my cousin
underneath the buzz of
old fluorescent lights
corn outside the
cloudy windows
scratching at
the muggy night
swearing at ourselves
we hammer at neglect
along with any bolts
that rusted tight
repeating shit we did
back in the service
lies to grace our lives
like fireflies tonight
September’s Almost Gone
Reading a zine on the steps our poems connect
on the steps the pages lift sometimes like leaves
a thousand people brief as leaves spreading watercolors
see these poems singing to themselves in the trees
Watching Boxing
When dad After dad If there’s
and I died I boxing
watch boxing quit on TV
on TV watching I leave
the action’s boxing it on
usually though and go
too fast I kept do something
for me his easy in the
to follow chair other room
Ellaraine Lockie
Man About Town
His stride was a study in meter
And any female looking his way
from the Leaf and Bean
as he crossed the street
would become an immediate student
Black leather blazer
Body cigar-straight in blue jeans
tucked into boots
Dark hair growing out of his halfway
unbuttoned tan shirt
Two-day stubble and longhair look
of a GQ model
Five sips of coffee later I look up
And he's ransacking
the four trash cans out front
Toasting other people's excess
with paper cups
In moves as fluid as the lattes
chai and chocolate milks
that slide down his throat
He's become a fine wine connoisseur
Who couldn't be bothered to replace
hiking boots with soles wallet-thin
Whose domestic help forgot to hem
the lining that hangs below black leather
Or wash the once-white shirt
that wears the foods he's scavenging
Now he's the city sanitation engineer
conducting a field study
Who sets aside samples of pizza
submarine sandwiches and chicken wing bones
Scoops it all with bureaucratic certainty
into a threadbare backpack
And not one of us watching
wishes to humble him
with the truth of a hand-out
Censured At Starbucks
The book bumps my
Swiss chocolate bar square
off the tiny table
To the freshly wiped wooden floor
Where the carefully rationed quota
of daily decadence
Winks cocoa bean brown eyes
in clandestine persuasion
I'd pick it up
and plop it in my mouth
(Suspecting the life expectancy
of most germs outside a medium
is less than sixty seconds)
If it weren't for the three-year old boy
watching like a dog-in-waiting
to see what my next move might be
Role model mindful
And with maybe meagerly concern
for castigation from customers
old enough to consume coffee
I proceed with the picking up part
and place the chocolate by my thesaurus
The implied trip
to the trash can in the corner
is obscured behind a need to write longer
than a three-year old's attention span
and a clientele's turnover
When I can carefreely complete
my consummation of the culinary act
Edge Of Night
Black with blue swollen veins
He sits in stained denim
on the train station bench
Elbows on spread-eagled knees
Sparrow hands on head hung low
A plastic produce bag for a hat
pulled over his ears
Preserving the rising heat
The fragile lobes from frostbite
As winter eats its way
into the San Francisco Bay
with butcher knife teeth
If You Go To Budapest
You'd better pack
hair dye and dark glasses
Because the mafia breathes heavy at night
Its halitosis imbuing bars
that submit $600 bills for three drinks
And police turn up their paid-off noses
at the whiff of tourist protection
So you're required to remit
Or run in hopes that
you're smarter and faster
than the two steroid-fed flunkies
standing at the front door
You'd better pack
a wig and make-believe beard
if you go to Budapest
Because when you're walking
down Vaci Street after dark
An oncoming woman wearing store-clerk clothes
could say you owe her for a hand job in an alley
And the authorities would trust the ten witnesses
who blink red light retinas and fist folded forints
And swear her swollen eye
resulted from your sadistic satisfaction
If you don't race to your hotel
In hopes that the city will be reconciled
by swindling the next dupe
who dares go to Budapest
Adrian Manning
For Tomorrow
maybe there’s nourishment
still left in the bones
of yesterday
don’t discard them thoughtlessly
pick the choicest ones
wrap them in rags of the mind
for tomorrow
may bring fuel for the fire
feed us well
but tomorrow may be lean
and empty and those bones
may make all the difference
Your Anger
let me paint your anger
if it be your wish.
watercolours, oils
no matter which.
vermillion, permanent
red, ivory black
I’ll paint it thick and brooding
something to spit at
it will be ugly and terrible
a vehicle for exorcism
then when it is finished
I’ll make an incision
I’ll pick out some yellow
or a little orange
we’ll touch it in
I believe
it needs
to breathe
There Must Be A Way
There must be a way
of seeing things
in dream light
a way of
opening tomorrow
without cracking
its shell
there must be more
to the illusion
a trick
a slight of hand
there must be a way
that rattles like bones
shrouded in loose skin
forming the shape
of things
Black Days
when it makes frantic
obvious sense
to leap to the liquor store,
treading on the pavement cracks
like I did when I was a kid
shouting "I WANT to marry a rat!"
raping the flowers
and hatefully beheading them,
punishing them for an eternity
of beauty,
hammering on a strangers door
asking them "WHAT DO YOU WANT?"
stamping on their toes,
singing protest songs to nobody,
chasing butterflies on fire,
entering the bearcage
telling him "you don't frighten me
you ol' bag o' bones"
grabbing old ladies by the hand
and kissing their wrinkly foreheads,
Scaring young children with
a natural ugliness
before hopping and skipping
back home with wine in the bottle
to end up lying on the living room floor
waiting to wake when it is over
to be totally sane and dull
again
Hosho McCreesh
Call It A Battle Cry, Call It Guttural,
Call It A Harbinger, A Prophecy, A Vision,
Call It Begging, Pleading, Call It Last Ditch,
Call It The Knelling Of The Rusted Bells Of Damnation,
Call It Whatever The Hell You Need To Call It
To Get Them
To
Listen...
I grow tired, hoarse—
all this screaming
& still
nothing.
They march
onwards,
insisting on misery,
denigrated by choice,
a careful architecture
to all their
frustrated sadness,
it hangs around,
low & bright like
children,
& they continue living lives
that make you
flinch,
make you want to
turn away,
they sit behind TVs & locked doors,
sit atop their pyre,
waiting,
curled up & shivering like
shaving planed from wood,
a hot wind enough to
scatter them.
Thus far, the bulk of it has been
wasted,
an earth-sized pile of meat
so useless it has never even
flavored our
greens.
Tear open their mouths,
pour molten metal down their throats,
& it would return a cast
without edge, without definition,
return a crumpled, unusable foil.
I have less & less time
for gaping yaps,
for hollow maws,
there’s hardly room enough
for the forgotten &
the unavenged…
I say: Out with you
if you sense
nothing
miraculous
in your very
marrow,
nothing
volcanic
in your center,
we have centuries & eons & ages of
ruse & trickery to unknot,
centuries & eons & ages
where it has all been
swindled from us…
What I want
is
this:
for all of us
to do more
with it,
to do more
with
whatever
it is
we’ve
got
left.
Die
trying.
Dank, Dark, Ignored Spaces,
Forgotten, & Unkempt Corners Within
Buried Somewhere Under My Shoulder Blades,
& It Feels Like The More I Say,
The Less It Matters...
…& the world
simply is
what it
is
& I cannot
change
that,
so I suppose the best
I can do
is write, paint—
because that’s what feels right,
because that’s what makes sense inside,
& then I can leave it all in there,
in the writing, the painting,
leave it all behind,
all the
struggle
failure
dreams
arrogance
insolence
heartache
madness
insecurity
victory
ideals
treachery
worry
mistakes
lies
& the damning, cackling truth
so, maybe, someone else
isn’t consumed by their own demons,
so, maybe, someone else
doesn’t feel they have to
go it
alone.
Yeah,
I like the
sound of
that.
In Every Place The Sun Drags It’s Light,
& In Every Shadow That Aches For It,
In Every Single Place That Exists,
& In Every Single Place We Can Imagine...
…the irrefutable, undeniable
truth
is that
despite maybe
wanting to,
we
cannot
do it all
alone,
our humanity
prevents
it—
for the
better
I think.
Brian McGettrick
Alright ?
“everything will be alright.”
he nearly spat on me
forcing this lie out.
and I crack the
seal on another
bottle,
the sound it makes
is like a thousand
bones breaking.
then I sit back
and take a
good, long drink,
unwilling to believe
in a clear,
doubtless existence.
From The Shore Out
the aching
heart
betrays
what is
here and
shouldn’t
be and
what should
be here and
can’t be
my smile breaks
like colour torn
from woven cloth
flee
give
every
thing
eliminate
return.
Tanning The White Band
her balled up pink underwear
plugs a small leak in the shower stall
meanwhile
I slide down her lash
and look her in the eye.
that hot summers still happen
and quiet mysteries are created by the young
is no surprise
and she is so young
a contradictory cynic
with more love than her heart can hold.
I used to have a sense of belonging
in the place where mistakes are made
but now my lies rest up against her easily
and there’s little left to defeat.
This Drawn Out Thing We Do
I used to know a guy
who would keep his alarm clock set
through the weekend
for the time he got up for work.
it was so that he could reach over
turn it off
and go back to sleep.
hey,
take your victories
where you can get them,
create
them
even.
Amanda Oaks
Sirens & Lullabies
wide awake
at three
in the am &
my skin
is lit
there are only
a few things
within reason
that i
can do
quietly
& by candlelight
so that i
won't wake you
even though a-
rousing you
is the only thing
i really
want
to do
Gravity: Iron Hearts You Can’t Save Or Kick Start
you see, she sat there
& didn’t say a fuckin’ word
worth hearing all night,
sipping on her light beer,
she was some kind of sadist alright,
with a silver grin & wine-red nails,
inhaling & exhaling
every solitary soul in the place
dead-center at the bar,
she stole glances of herself in the mirror
behind liquor bottles half full,
behind the bartender’s petite tits,
viper tongued & slick lipped
she easily got lost
in the process
of rolling cigarettes,
she was devoted to the labor of hating,
laborious, one might say,
but oh no, she wasn’t foolin’ me
or anyone in the place
because under that hardy masquerade,
that she paraded around
every fading day,
bitterness was dripping
into a pool of discontent
drowning future experiences
before
their first breath
i studied her
from across the bar,
swelling the room with smoke,
taking part in filling the ashtray
between me & a slurring,
alcoholic-eyed pappy,
wondering why,
it was so hard for her,
because even those
born blind,
never even seeing
one ounce
of this world’s beauty,
know
how to smile
Lost Petition For An Endangered Species
Applauding Clarissa Pinkola Estés
where are you my wild women on
the brink of brutish but upholding
a close upkeep of grace & beauty,
growing taller than those old bones,
swelling & singing deeper than you
ever thought possible, does that
dark man visit your dreams, breathe
down your neck, sayin’ hey lady you'd
better pay attention, i told him last
night that i crossed that sacred,
shallow river seven times, he said
woman, do it slower next time, you
gotta be silent to hear the crackle
of the fire, i said that i've seen too
many fingers go quick to lips, that my
flames burn on the inside & they're not
hard to miss, that our submissiveness
has been the cement holding together
our mother’s mismanagement & it's
his mess that bloats all our hearts,
popping red balloons too heavy to
float, we have held in our tender
hands the same hopes & worries
of our mothers & their mothers &...
our minds have caged the same bird
too many times over, so i will not go
gentle into this night & when i open
my eyes your ghost will not guide
me to my death because i run with
a pack of wolves, we meet our men
halfway speaking the same language,
we roll around in our rusty double
beds, mama & papas of god shouting
thunder, spitting lightning, so don't
you tell me that silence is golden,
our hands have been in our pockets
cupping loose change & lost buttons
for far too many years now, so this
is my call, my plea, my appeal, where
are you my wild-wild women, let’s
meet our men in the middle & show
the world what it means to be
free
Insurgency
i know our love
is as small as a
single note played
on a dusty piano key
by a passerby
on their way
to the kitchen
to brew their
sunday morning coffee
in the grand
scheme of things but
just think
of how that
lonely note yearns
to be part
of a symphony
Bob Pajich
Missing You
Cracked my left wisdom tooth
the one on the bottom
and all I can think of is cocaine
how it numbs your teeth
and how much I wish I had some
on this Monday night in October
this last Monday of October in Las Vegas
and I bet I could find a bag of cocaine
to dip into and rub on
the back of my mouth
a cabbie could lead me to
some cocaine for the ache
that’s running from the bottom of the jaw
all the way into my eye bone
and I’ve done nothing wrong recently
to deserve it, I haven’t scaled
any levels of deceit
so I know the pain is not
a payback by a guilty mind;
it’s real. It’s dark and I’m tired
and hurting for cocaine, once again,
cocaine, always, always cocaine.
Beer Without Sugar
My weakness for bad songs
is costing me friends.
They don’t understand that
“I’m still living with your ghost”
says more to me than any line
from “Hey Jude,” and
the three chord riff
in that college death anthem
“Santa Monica” makes the hair
on my arms stand up
and headbang. “Lonely and
dreaming of the west coast”
simply rocks, especially
if I’m heading to a bar
to sit in a black vinyl booth,
drink beer without sugar
and argue about Bill fucking Collins.
It’s a song about love drowning.
Collins should be lucky enough
to have written: “I don’t want
to do your sleep-walk-dance
anymore.” And the chorus,
optimistic, somber, as eager
as a Big Mac, a naked picture,
it goddamn moves me: “We can
live beside the ocean,
leave the fire behind,
swim out past the breakers,
watch the world die.”
I’m there. Elevate me.
Some days, I play it
over and over and I don’t care:
“Watch the world die”
(chicka-chicka) bum bum
bum bum bum bum
(chicka-chicka)
bum bum bum bum bum bum
“Yeah, watch the world die.”
Magnolia
Have you ever walked into a roomful of music
and scurried for the corner of silence,
away from the sweating bodies all trying
to solve their equations for happiness
that cling to the dark walls of their mouths?
In New Orleans, it took me two days
to find Magnolia. For her, I would have let
everything I value tumble off the shelves
inside my body and crash into a million pieces
in my feet. Me and Bobby took turns
wiggling under her lisp, saying “Christ”
to each other as if we were marching in a funeral.
She sang all the words to the J. Cash I called up
on the jukebox, knew he turned 70 last month,
which cemented my heart into a smiling gargoyle
perched over a stone box in the cemetery near
Louis Armstrong Park. She wouldn’t let us get near
the black velvet curtains she said
hung in her bedroom to beat back
the sunlight during her afternoon naps.
The next day had her driving to Baton Rouge
to play a digital keyboard and sing at a T.G.I. Friday’s.
This is how I know she was real: Dreams do not
drive 150 miles to perform in a chain restaurant
that charges $9 for a cheeseburger.
Right before dawn lifted her head over the Mississippi,
Magnolia pretended to read my thick palm
while I worked on a giant steak at an all-night dinner.
She said I would see things, go places, be happy, sad, find ruin,
guilt, prosperity, sexual gratification, a house
with many children, a lover, a lover. “Oh.
And you have a long life-line,” she said,
“Which means you won’t die until
You’ve fallen in and out of love 16 times. Even
by my standards, that’s a lot.” I didn’t tell her
not really. She held my hand.
On Hearing Of The Bankruptcy Of Converse Shoes
The skin inside the skin
wants to expand and destroy as a teen
and these shoes helped me do it. And then there was
the gym teacher, Mr. Davis, at least
four years past mandatory retirement
who lobbed hook-shots over
our uncomfortable and pimpled heads
with uncanny accuracy. He once drew blood
from my nose by faking a shot
before rifling me a pass, wide open
and staring at the hoop, braced for the rebound.
He wore Converse All-Stars
because he wore Converse All-Stars.
The canvas supported his varicose-veined ankles
just enough to school us all. I wore
All-Stars because I hated my father,
my mother, my sister, my body,
my face with white blood cells
bubbling out of my pores, my smile
too easy and quick around girls.
But as the shoe wore on, my face cleared,
Download this book for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-77 show above.)