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Nat ional Poetry Month Issue 2009 10KpOets10KPOETS

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Welcome To 10K Poets National Poetry Month Issue 2009

The Nat iona l Poet r y Month Issue 2009 of the 10K Poets Z ine represents the cu lminat ion o f 18 monthso f back b reak ing e f fo r t to b r ing to the MySpace commun i t y and beyond the bes t i n non- t rad i t i ona l poet r y. Our goa l f rom the beg inn ing has been to g ive the unpub l ished poet a venue o f recogn i t ion. 10KPoets began as a b log that c reated a communi ty o f c reat i ve and soc ia l l y m inded ind iv idua ls . The b logfocused on present ing a rea l "Communi ty " to MySpace poets f rom d iverse backgrounds, perspect i ves,and leve ls o f exper t i se. F rom th is sma l l beg inn ing 10K Poets g rew in to th ree on l ine poet r y journa ls ,Ev isce ra to r Heaven, Deep Tissue Magaz ine , and the f l agsh ip z ine o f the 10K Poets en te rp r i se 10KPoets Z ine. Next , came the in ternet rad io shows “Poets Dream in Color ” on Wednesday n ights and soonto fo l low the   “Da i l y Happy Hour. ” The 10K Poets rad io shows prov ided poets f rom a l l over the g lobethe oppor tun i t y to ca l l i n and read the i r poe t r y l i ve . Many poets have found the i r vo ice in tak ing advantage o f th is un ique oppor tun i ty to grow not on ly as a poet , but a lso as a per fo rmer. Then, therewas the Spoken Word. 10K Poets began to par tner w i th p roducers ,  mus ic ians and poets to c rea teSpoken Word t racks and to promote Spoken Word Ar t is ts . Th is venture has grown in to la rge propor-t ions wi th more and more poets record ing the i r poems to music. Th is growth and new di rect ion in poetr yhas been we lcomed by a l l o f us a t 10K Poets.

10K Poets began w i th a common at t r ibute, we a l l had a pass ion fo r poet r y and a des i re to be heard.Over these 18 months, 10k Poets has grown as a communi ty and each   i nd iv idua l has grown persona l l y.10K Poets has had such wonder fu l success, not because of one person, but because of  the communi tyo f poets. Ind iv idua ls a l l over the wor ld have s tepped up to cont r ibute the i r t ime and ta lents to maketh is poet r y communi ty what i t i s today. I t cou ld not be more f i t t ing that a l l th is combined e f fo r t f inds ahome in the Nat iona l Poet r y Month Issue 2009 of the 10K Poets Z ine. We know that th is issue w i l l l i t-era l l y b low you away. En joy read ing and know that we promise f rom the bot tom of our hear ts to cont inueto grow both as poets and as c i t i zens o f our g loba l env i ronment . m Peace

Glen Lantz Bo Blount Glo Kada Dan Kellett Yossarian Hunter Nic St. James Kat Solomon Scott Clark Farley Connie Stadler Lindsey Rankin Jim Crafford Petra Whiteley Antony Hitchin A. J. Kaufmann Newamba Nate Ranson Kathleen J. Sather Glen Stil l

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p a g eJ a r l i d S h a d o w s 3 9R o b S h e p h e r d 4 0K e l l e t t 4 1f l o a t i n g b a b y J 4 3C o n n i e S t a d l e r 4 5B u k o w s k i 5 1Y v o n C o r m i e r 5 2S a m a r a 5 3G l o r i a n n e K a d a 5 4K a t S o l o m o n 5 5A n a l e p t ( B a d w r i t e r ) 5 6S w e e t t a l k 5 7T o n y V a s s i l i o n 5 8H e a r t S o n g 5 9F r a n c i s P B l u e 6 0J a m e s C r a f f o r d 6 1G i l l i a n P r e w 6 2M f o r M a g ( i ) c a n t 6 3A n g e l h e a r t 6 5M i c h a e l E . Q u i g g 6 6S w e e t C l o v e r 6 7A l l i s o n 6 8P e p p e r 6 9S a r a h F r e e 7 0S i 7 1L o l a 7 2N o s a j o f t h e h i l l p e o p l eM r . G r e e n 7 4K a t h l e e n J . S a t h e r 7 5G l e n S t i l l 7 6

p a g eC o n n i e S t a d l e r 3G l e n S t i l l 4G l o r i a n n e K a d a 4A n t h o n y H i t c h i n 5C y n d i D a w s o n 6T a r r i n g o T . V a u g h a n 7A m a n d a B a r n e s 8J e f f S i b l e y 9N i c S t . J a m e s 1 0R e n a e F r é s o n 1 1C a m e r o n L a n g e 1 2V i c S w a n 1 3T y l e r C o l l i n s 1 4S a r a h N e l l a V a n i l l a 1 5C . L u c a s S m i t h 1 6K ~ D 0 9 1 7F r a n c o i s e 1 8G l e n L a n t z 1 9N e w a m b a 2 1W o r d m a c h i n i s t 2 2A n g e l h e a r t 2 2A . J . K a u f m a n 2 3M a r y M c L a u g h l i n 2 4J o h n S w e e t 2 5Y o s s a r i a n H u n t e r 2 6L e f t & L e a v i n g 2 7C h r i s t i a n A l v a r e z 2 8S a t e 2 9C . N y l a A l i s i a ( W a r d )P a n t i f e s t o ’ s P o r n t a s t i cS c o t t C l a r k F a r l e y 3 7S e a n R e d d a n 3 8

C o n t r i b u t i n g P o e t s

G l e n S t i l l - E x e c u t i v e E d i t o rG l e n L a n t z - M a n a g i n g E d i t o rG l o r i a n n e K a d a - D e s i g n E d i t o rS c o t t C l a r k F a r l e y - C o p y E d i t o r

A  10K Poets Publication  ⓒ 2 0 0 9

Ten Thousand Poetsby Connie Stadler

ImagineIn a world where

ThievesRapistsLiarsButchers

Hold the Miter to smashAnd damn.

Where roaches crawl over babies’ facesBecause mommy must scam

Next fixNext trick

Because she lost her childhoodInnocenceLong before

It ever began.

And families are cleaved by a market tickHomelessHungryEmpty

SickAnd hope is a word without

RelevanceReferenceMeaning

Unknown

In this lifeless, deathless, stillborn alone…

ImagineIf a Legion were formedOut of WarriorsArmed with

SlaughteringDeafening Song

And with One VoiceThey spoke the TruthIn Miraculous ShoutsOf Pummeling RageAssailing Capitalist

ParapetsCleansing out all

thatPus,

thatGore

And then force-feeding them, tillThey becomeTrulyThe fattened swine

They areOh so throat slit fine…

Imagine Ten Thousand Poets StrongThe Moneychangers’ Temple

would crumbleThe ‘Ordained’ will cower

beneath HumbledThe Child-Cry Succubae must stumble

On their kneesbleeding

Speculum Spectacles lost, flailing,wailing

Into kiss of the abyss

Ten thousand poets strongOn that dayThat

MagnificentTriumphantDay of All Days

On that Day,‘A terrible beauty’

would

Be born…

Ten Thousand

Poets

MAGNIFICENT! What a battle cry. You inspireus in many ways with your poetry and here isanother.............Bravo indeed.Comment by Si Philbrook

www.myspace.com/nywvprof

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We Can Do It Allby Glorianne Kada

& Glen Still

www.myspace.com/glenstill10kpoetwww.myspace.com/sundroprays

we can Do it all

Wonderful work you two... you have presentedsomething many have felt and experiencedhere and presented it to us splendidily with avoice that dances in unity... it is a gift to see ithere as beauty in visions... woven masterfully...thank you poet and poetess :) Comment byNic St. James

the day dawns with melodiesand the night clings to air

where

there's a zone within dreams where voices yieldto the engine of our souls uniting minds without walls

as real as dialing numbers on a phonespirit to spirit call

just for the chance to hear the soundof the same tone echo back hello

sounds are lights of identityknowing is undeniable

this reluctant question of was that really you...

a magic carpet revsto lift us away from inside this day of reasoningminds meet on a plateau to stare out at the day

the mundane time and routine of each day ceaseseach of us without toil or occupation

hand in hand on the path of observationthe day of reason when we allow the painting of our smile

two have become one in the universe of common causeto be a visionary standing inside the ordinary

we can do it allwhen we question

and explore the answers in each other4

BIO: A.D.Hitchin is a poetry and prose writerpublished extensively in small press and independent journals including ‘Blaze VOX‘,‘Ditch’, ’Dogmatika’ and ‘3AM’. His ’The HolyHermaphrodite’ chapbook has just been released by Shadow Archer Press. You cancatch newly updated experiments at:w w w. m y s p a c e . c o m / a n t o n y h i t c h i nhttp://antonyhitchin.blogspot.com

Antony and I have been pushing throughmyspace and poetry circuits for nearly twoyears now together and aside from himbeing a dear friend, I have watched hiswork develop and expand like a nuclearbomb - totally powerful and nearly a sheerforce of its own. But this guy is disciplinedand works hard. This is a poet I respect,admire and read as much of as I can.Comment by Cyndi Dawson

Wolfby Antony Hitchin

Flesh cut beyond commodity, marked beyond the mundane

directional -

the original recordings - probe psychic veil fabrications

releasing blood of the

-Wolf-

I now consume programmes hunting host body, condemned

crisis of the psyche

embryonic breathing amniotic first software, rise!

Lazarus!

rise!

unravel bandages

devoid of preconceptions re-write cells

terms become redundant in the room where we reclaim ourselves.

WolF

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When future civilizations find records of our downfall- this will be one they will use to piece together whathappens when greed runs amok - Comment byGlen Still

The Feel of the BrushBy Cyndi Dawson

www.myspace.com/insideofoutside

'Towering Greed' shouts NY papersunder gray skies, gray skiesrunning, dim watercolors, painted on theback of glass reflections, on the heads ofgold capped skyscrapersPeople expecting something it rained downas nothing...it rained in California wettinga drought of banktrupcy;it rained down Chicago where impostersstepped in for shadows--Tore a hole in a canvas of unemploymentwith a paper congress turning the other cheekagainst panes of glass on the Towers of Greed

Men carrying their lives, filed in animal skinsscurrying to steel trains, and how easily they bend, bothmen and trains when currency is in question...The towers reached into a heaven where 10,000 godscompete for medals, this olympic hunger feeds fromtheir mouths as they lick their lips with faithfaith in a system, a system of faith, a thousand sleepinghumans sleeping on streets, missing their boarding timeon trains leading to golden capped towers.Those most swollen, ingested of lead, plump fingers onthe air-brushed dollar, they throw change down,

they rain change down upon the heads of the sleepingwanderers who never got the feel of the brush right,who never painted the watercolor sky green but saw it as blue;over this climbing ivy of steel that reaches likethe eyes of a blind man into the blind sky guessing atthe melting colors, the strength of steel, the utterblandness of a canvas stretched of 'Towering Greed'.

The Feel Of the Brush

Empty Streetsby Tarringo T. Vaughanwww.myspace.com/tauros0427

Ah - one of those 'be careful what you wish for' moments! The segment about traffic jams is impeccably written and apowerful metaphor. 'Restless souls' driving through 'streets of desperation' is just about as good as it gets. The parallelismof the 'imagine' motif is also a joy. Beautifully crafted and a pleasure to read - thanks so much! Comment by Rich Follett

Empty Streets

Imagine if

images reflected through store front windowswere kidnapped by extinction.No more homeless cries were heardfrom the voice of hopestarving for just one nickelone dimemaybe a quarter.

Imagine no more traffic jamsduring rush hour;No obscenities polluting the airwith frustrationAs restless souls drivethrough streets of desperationjust trying to avoid the car wreckof economic pressure.

Imaginewalking down sidewalks once filledwith many colors of emotionsand now seeing invisible faces.no eyes staring back at you;no crowded noise filling your eardrumswith everyday words.Imagine if it was all taken awayand we were left withempty streets.

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American Manby Amanda Barnes

If only American men, would listen to you... Amanda keep writing.Comment by W.E. Nelson

www.myspace.com/muserenae

American man thinksAmerican man seesAmerican man wishesHe had this, that, and these

To impress American womanUsing labels, lies, and jewelryEven though American womanCan see through his tomfoolery

American man is emptyAmerican man should readAmerican man is gullibleAmerican man is in need

American man lacks knowledgeTo non-American criesAmerican man must listenIf he ever wishes to become wise

Of the image he portraysAmerican man is so much better

American man is foolishAmerican man can be much better

American man role modelsWhat American boy should beThe future of (man)kind remainsAmerican man will sadly repeat

The sequence of painful ignoranceUnless new evolution is in storeAmerican man without a doubtWill remain American poor

Spread love to humanityHelp others become greaterIs American man’s obligation(American man don’t wait until later)

For when American man beginsCivilization will be much clearerAmerican man stop sleeping, wake up!American man look in the mirror

American MaN

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Can damn sure relate .... hell I empty my change jar at least once amonth just to get by till months end... and we eat lots of spaghettiround here... sweet touch placing the rose beside her plate... thanksfor the imagery Jeff... peace... db Comment by d�n�beth

It’s Hard TheseDays There was an old man walking solemnly alone

snot hung dry to his unshaven facehe smelled of day old garbage and cat shitI wanted to give him some moneybut I had noneit’s hard these days

I got home the screen door is brokenGoddamn dope headsI think of myself and that drug dealer I robbed when I was drunk

the screen door is fixed when she walks thruher auburn hair glowing beautiful in the dim lightI could only afford 25 watt bulbsit’s hard these days

can’t afford cableno t.v. if I couldI lift the couch cushionno changeshe beat me to it

she cooks dinner tonightspaghetti again no sauce or cheese this timeI go outsidewalk across the street to my neighbors househe’s a lawyerdoing just finelots of crimes being committed these daysI pluck a rose from his wife’s gardenhe watches from the window and grinsit’s not a friendly grinhe’s showing me how much bigger his cock is than mine

I go back homeshe’s just bringing out the noodlesI place the rose beside her plateIt’s the best I can do babyI know she replies its hard these days.

www.myspace.com/johnnydepth13

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It’s Hard These Daysby Jeff Sibley

It comes and goes... lives and dies, and often is born again... The useof personification here is fantastic! Great feature, 10K and wonderfulwriting, Nic! I don't believe that you will ever be forgotten! Commentby Twaddle

Acid Rain by Nic St. James

High desert showers cleanse the browned earthQuenching the animal and human thirstInsects danced in those warmed showersI used to knowBefore they were washed away to their arroyo death

Gray days in Georgia cover my failuresWashing away my glimmers of lightI spoke to him of oceansOceans within his eyesAs “whore” slipped from his lipsHe failed to see

The puddles molding clay and deadened compostLinger and sit upon my heart this morningA song my sign that what is feltIs not always reciprocatedLike the child’s heart I still wearI know that the love is not going to come from anywhereThis moment

These worms drown on the cementAs my throat drowns in selfishnessAnd sickening pityFrom the split bleeding painOf my breast

In disconnected thoughtsThe desires of echoesMud amplifies sticky doubtAcid rain burns the layersOf me awayThose that felt youThose that cared

Skinless we fallLike sundried wormsHalf bakedDried in the sunExposed and forgotten

Acid Rain

www.myspace.com/479504957

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This was brilliant. It's one of thosewonderful poems that you can chewon for ages. Dissecting it over andover again and knowing that eachtime you find a new meaning to it,finding something new, something different, something personal only toyourself each and every time. Thankyou Renae, this was a pleasure toread... Comment by Rob Shepherd

Introspectionby Renae Frésonwww.myspace.com/muserenae

I am exactly where I belong

well oriented within

the vast, intangible grid

intersecting (in)sanity and

perfect balance

summoning matrix Alus

(Evocation)

I lie just ~between~ the verticals

or perhaps the horizontals

steadfast and firm

dissecting this chaotic world

exposing Humanity’s pulse

(Revelation)

Freedom is my mantra

running amuk and wild against

my enemy’s perilous attack

I will not allow defeat

(Revolution)

I move fluidly

in any direction,

at any given time

my phenomenal power

(Adaptation)

Solitude is my proof

and within the corners

of untouched silence

I find unspoiled bliss

(Meditation)

I smile.11

High desert showers cleanse the browned earthQuenching the animal and human thirstInsects danced in those warmed showersI used to knowBefore they were washed away to their arroyo death

Gray days in Georgia cover my failuresWashing away my glimmers of lightI spoke to him of oceansOceans within his eyesAs “whore” slipped from his lipsHe failed to see

The puddles molding clay and deadened compostLinger and sit upon my heart this morningA song my sign that what is feltIs not always reciprocatedLike the child’s heart I still wearI know that the love is not going to come from anywhereThis moment

These worms drown on the cementAs my throat drowns in selfishnessAnd sickening pityFrom the split bleeding painOf my breast

In disconnected thoughtsThe desires of echoesMud amplifies sticky doubtAcid rain burns the layersOf me awayThose that felt youThose that cared

Skinless we fallLike sundried wormsHalf bakedDried in the sunExposed and forgotten

www.myspace.com/cameronlange

The Answer is there is no Answerby Cameron Lange

I see the future of poetry. And it looks good. Brilliant write,Cameron. I'll be looking into more of your works soon...Comment by NewAmba

The Answer is Let me paint a picture for you.I'm standing up straight,not like I usually do because I'm talland all that but –holding my childhood in my right handand my future in my left.The past always carries a little moreweight to it but it's ok,my right arm is stronger,it can keep the balance.

My feet shuffle to a cliff's edge.There are a million different thingsI could call it but let's just sayit's the line where all emotionsdivide and reassemble undera longing for something more

The wind is blowing, stronglike it wants to punch me,like it's trying to say"You're seventeen boy, go home"I'm a calm kinda guybut those words just frustrate me,make my toes curl.

What about all these questions that I can't answerlike…like where will this path lead me?why am I…what am I doing?

please enlighten this confusion!

Besides… I can't go homeI gave away everything I own,except my cello, because honestlyit sings transcriptions of my soul.They took what I offered gladly,even those old broken toy carsthat I used to love so much,even my swollen bookswith pages ripped out.War and Peace, On the Roadand all of my Blake poems.

So no.I can't go home.Not now.

Sometimes I wish I would have listenedTo my mother when she saidthe answer is there is no answerbut I'm seventeen. Reckless maybe.The wind should take its best swingat my cheek because a black eyewould speak louder than any poemI have ever written.It would just be there,not a particle doubting its role.Just living and full of blood,trying to heal itself.

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there iS no Answ

er

mind bump by Vic Swan

www.myspace.com/2headedbaby

i should be deadby nowi shouldn't careat this pointi should insteadbe forgettingwhere i liveand counting penniesfor the third timeand looking for my bookon zen masterstaking my medsif i didn't alreadypropping feet upreminding myselfto get gas before goingto the next dr's appointmentand where i putmy toenail clippersinstead i'm going throughthe alphabet againtrying to rememberthe name of the girlwith the singletwo inch hairgrowing out of herstrawberry shaped nipple.

The poem is raw and reads wonderfully.It's a breath, a reflection. Beautifully done. Comment by Cameron Lange

Mind Bump

Cover art by Vic SwanWatching needy baby birds across the alley from my stu-dio..squawk in desperation..simultaneously listening to aneedy unfulfilled, person on a shrink talk show..it soundedlike "feed me..feed me.." and I sensed that it would neverbe enough.. v!C

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Tyler - this is an exceptionalpoem with great structure & inmy mind, perfect in what poetry is - a tantalizing beginning a great endingComment by 10kPoets

You were pretty like goldSo I sold youTo a family that wanted a statue.That's what you were best at-Standing around, doing nothing.Something pretty to look at.They watered you like a plant.They talked to you like a plant,Plants don't talk back.

Over time you eventually got oldAnd your skin wrinkled-Reverse alchemy.You were a lump of coal.So they took you to the atticAnd you rotted up there.You were quietAnd didn't scream for helpWhen you needed to scream for help-So you died a statue.

I was sitting on my couchEating a microwavable frozen dinner.I think there were carrots in the meal,But I wouldn't have eaten them.I hate frozen dinner carrots,They taste like flavored shit.Anyway...I channel surfed through the tired programsAnd my thumb got tiredAnd I left it on Antiques Roadshow.

An old woman brought you in-Said she found the statue in her atticAnd the man examined youBut not as closely as the boysUsed to examine you.He said you weren't worth much,That back in the day companiesProduced a lot of you.You were worth more thenThan you're worth now.

Antique Roadsh

ow

www.myspace.com/tyler_amazing

Antique Roadshow

by Tyler Collins

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The Garden:by Sarah Nella Vanilla

WOW! Excellent word choice; I felt as if I wastrapped in the spider web.Comment by ...benT-gRim...

TheTheGardenGarden

www.myspace.com/sarahnel15

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Flora, fauna, perennial woein the garden: the bedroom- the nursery-

crow call cradle- Lazarus tomb- black soil holethe clock vine spins, canterbury bells toll

opening, wiltingfertile soils sow

Calla Lily ghostly glow white in the nightyou open your petals so slow...

offering promises of fragrant nectarbut your insides were eaten by insects long ago

Delicate moth, searching for the moonalways getting caught, battered and bruised in street lights

powdered wings, torn and translucent no longer fly

Lady spider spins a gorgeous homeglistening dew drops gather on delicate drapery

she'll trap you there until she gets hungry...sticky venom soul-sucker

listen to the cicada's clatter, buzzsongs or laughter? an omen maybe?

small bone fragments- cremation remains rattling in a tin canIt's just her shell you now seebut the sound still remains...

baby's breath, bachelor's button, bleeding hearts, snapdragons, stinging nettles...

nurturing soil, life-giver, ever-birthing motherwatch your children and the insects dance together

eating, searching, pollinatingblooming, wilting, death...

...the women dress in uniforms: pretty floral threads...hiding from the peeking moon as it humbly begs...

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Thawing the IceQueen's Heartby C. Lucas Smithwww.myspace.com/waiguoren

If all hearts would thaw, that they first know that theyare frozen! Wishing those that know too well "thecruel" a better day. Nice poem. Thoughtprovoking/heart rending Comment by Alt

yyyyy

y

seven nights they lay togetherbrother and sister, as siblings mighther frozen heart between their chestsbiting and burning, as lovers mighton the third night its ventricles thawedmaking their bodies sticky with bloodthey touched it with their hungry fingersand pressed it gently against their cheeksoh, how they smiledoh, how they smiled then!

seven nights they lay togetherbrother and sister, as siblings mighther frozen heart between their chestsbiting and burning, as lovers mighton the fourth night it began to trembleits atriums quivering like gelatinthey placed it upon a satin pillowand gazed at it in innocent wonderoh, how they laughedoh, how they laughed then!

seven nights they lay togetherbrother and sister, as siblings mighther frozen heart between their chestsbiting and burning, as lovers mighton the seventh night it began to thumpits arteries hissing and gushingthey lifted it to their lusty lipsand filled their bellies with her loveoh, how they weptoh, how they wept then!

Thawing theIce Queen’sHeart

y

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She lays there sobbingpain visable in her eyesscars of fear,bleeding tears~BrokenRippedDeep cutOpen wounds~love's paininflictedthe power of the beastrestricted~she whisperslife is beauitfulnowI'm free

She's Free by K~D09

She’sFree

Great imagery. It took me through the pain... great write Comment by - Brandy aka GoldieSpeaks www.myspace.com/feb121

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www.myspace.com/feb121

E c h o e s o f S y l v i a

It was when I heard you read ''Daddy'' on the radioIt was amazing,Amazing.And I pulled my Sylvia books off the shelf,Just two slim volumes,Ariel and Winter Trees,And I know how difficult her life had been.But that reading was a revelation,A revelation.Her work is raw yet so complete.The tulips were always going to be too excitable anywayAnd the voices for Three Women breaks meBreaks me.I have to avoid itThough I want to read it,Therein is the very essence of female suffering.And I heard only two weeks ago that her one remaining sonHad committed suicide,Just a small paragraph in a newspaperGiving them reason to rehash the detailsOf her extraordinary deathAnd life.And she was a vessel waving goodbyeGoodbye.How could she . . . . .

A writer like that makes you want to throw away your penBecause she wrote as an art form,Not just scribbled emotions on a piece of paper,Though she would probably say it was scribbled. . . . .And the tulips were too excitable,Their floral faces had judging eyesMaking it difficult for her to sleep at nightAnd their redness spoke to her wound.They were symbols of freedomFreedom,When she was trying to submit to the hospital life.

Sylvia will go on and onLike an echoAn echo.My heroines have always been Emily Bronte and Violette LeducBut Sylvia will echoEcho in my heart.

Echoes Of Sylvia [Dedicated to Newamba]

by Francoise

I was quite honored when Francoise wrote this. The best thing anyartist of any sort can do is to inspire somebody else to create. AndI'm glad that my reading of "Daddy" inspired this amazing piece fromFrancoise; it's one of her best, and one which vocalizes the way I feelabout Sylvia, too. Thanks for featuring it, Glen. Defintely is one of myfavorites... Comment by Newamba18

Glance by Glen Lantzwww.myspace.com/glenny_the_poet

The curled edges

of an awkward glance

you move

like an animal

all tail and pounce.

An invitation

something else

no bargain

for the survivors

almost hear the cascade.

Really stunning

it had to be said

even in these times

of differential equations

a spark does ignite.

Like a trained bear,

you snap at your handlers

when they are slow to discover

the needs that drive you.

Love the poem, love the artwork... cool tones, subtle onone level and explosive on another. An obvious talent with aninteresting curve ball thrown in....the man on the blue cross isn'tdistinctly shamanistic but theoverall vibe really is. Comment by Cyndi Dawson

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Glance

Blue Man On the Cross Glen Lantz

The piece is titled “Blue Man on the Cross.” This artwork is made withacrylic paint on a canvas sheet. This piece combines dark broad brushstrokes with small little dabs of the paint brush. The two techniques create an interesting combination that presents the viewer with the senseof movement. Also, I wanted to combine the dark and the light withinthis piece to display the duality of human nature. We as humans areboth darkness and light. We interchange between one and the other.Also, the image of the dark savior is used in order to speak to the absurdity of life and the influence of the irrational. Many times we takelife way too seriously. Thus, it is helpful to stand back from our dailylives every once in a while and embrace the absurd and irrational.

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Sitting in desolate isolation entrapped by a cubicleMy boredom melancholy counted by ticking clocksWater coolers burping passing time like hour glassesCo-workers gossiping about the celebrity couple that punched a nun in the faceAnd adopted a one legged orphan from Sri Lanka with rabies named Pujuma

I can no longer bear the monotonySo I jump onto a table in the middle of the roomAnd begin to scream out a Shakespearean sonnetTearing off my work clothes with each stanzaInstead of an English accent,I recite it with the voice of Tony Danza

Now totally nude and completed all verse,I tie my necktie around my headAnd strap on running shoes with no socksNo socks, not now, not today

I yell out…"I am Ezra Pound, and this is my lost Canto!"

Jumping down from the table, colleagues point and yellSome laugh, some gaspA lady faints, a man spits out coffee and drops thingsMy frightened turtle shrivels in the cool air-conBut I care notFor today I am free

I run into my bosses officeTurning around and bending over,I sing "Don't worry, Be Happy" in B Flat and slap on my buttcheeks for rhythmNot even exiting his conference call, I don't think he notices the intrusionI wave "ta-ta" and run down the hall to the elevatorA woman had been standing there but took off running when she saw me

Once in the elevator, I hum to musak that sounds like "Kokomo""Aruba, Bahama" "Key Largo, Montego" I love that song and it sounds much better when you're naked and in an elevatorGetting out, I dodge a security guard trying to capture me"To be or not to be!" I yell and run out into the street

As I run down the street, I sing Christmas Carols and put quarters into vacant parking meters(I keep a roll of quarters inserted in my rectum at all times just in case a situation like this develops)Stopping and saluting a leashed dog,I revoltingly recant Walt Whitman and have sex with a street sign

Now smoking a cigarette I picked up off the street,I begin running and singing again, even more out of keyPeople scream and point and cover their children's eyesIt's amazing the reactions that a naked man running down the streetsmoking, bellowing out "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" elicits

I point to the sky and proclaim wildly:"Today, and only today, I am the antique's teeth from 'The Waste Land' without the cockney accent, and they are me!"

I run into a tumultuous shopping mallCrawling with suburban zombies and credit crunchinessClimbing up the escalator, I begin to give the Gettysburg AddressSuddenly I'm shot in the back of the head by a deranged Burger King employee on a homicidal rampageI die instantly

I'm still naked

G e t t i n g N a k e d a t W o r k G e t t i n g N a k e d a t W o r k a n d R e c i t i n g S h a k e s p e a r ea n d R e c i t i n g S h a k e s p e a r e

21

Getting Naked at Work and Reciting Shakespeareby Newambawww.myspace.com/newamba

This is truly amazing. As you may know Frenchpeople believe in being naked at least part ofthe time every day.... This was a great adven-ture, real liberation, awe inspiring. I was sad tothink that you died at the end but I have a feelingyou will be back. A great movie/poem. Comment by Feb (Francoise)

21

22 www.myspace.com/wordmachinistwww.myspace.com/angelheartwxyz

TranscendenceBy WORDMACHINIST* & Angelheart

I feel as if I've been gently flown through the night air then laid torest in a large, plush bed. This has a wonderful haunting tone thatis combined with gracefulness. Very nice... Comment by Til

1

TraNSCeNdenceI saw him

Out of the corner of my minds eye. .

Darkness of the room

bel ied the whisper of his shadow

Hovering on the corner of the couch

A panther in black

wait ing

watching

I turned my head

my legs curled up

knee to chest

Id know those eyes anywhere

Winter chi l l covered the room

sound of crow

nest led on powerl ine

cried i ts sound of underworld warning

I couldn't breathe

It couldn't be you. .

Invis ible black wings

enveloped my essence

and I froze when our eyes locked.

Could i t be. . .could i t . . .

but purgatory was cal l ing

and I was fa l l ing

fast and away

amid crow feather rust le

and a dead sparrow smile

I transcended to the next level

your eyes pleaded as I fa l tered

but I could not stay. . .

My hand outstretched

I reached

to touch,

forever is a long t ime coming

who can measure moments

in fract ions

i t transcends beyond the longing

dont leave me now

you have stayed in the shadows

watching

I fe l t your eyes

cloaked in darkness

I woke each night at midnight

you had been watching me s leep

si t t ing at the foot

of my bed

close enough to touch

when my eyes opened

I smel led

the scent of your cologne

dangl ing in the breeze

cl inging to the curtain

blowing

in a window I didn't open.

The echo of longing

in your velvet voice

graces my misty presence

but . . . I am gone.

And as I s tand naked

amid stone columns

f logged for past transgress ions

. . . I smile l ike a demon

knowing that the pain

is real . . .hel l , I can feel!

The purgatory saints

gaze at my bl is tered f lesh

orgasmic, they s igh

sle ight of hand is my fr iend

and they bought i t

l ike Patty Hearst

My thirst remains unslaked

yet I have won the r ight

to dri f t as a spir i t

or move upward and onward.

I choose wanderlust . . .

because I have chosen you.

If you take my hand now

I would leave this world

Drif t away in the dream

under a lovers moon

My l ips c la im yours

to steal your pain,

I would know those l ips

I would know that taste

r ipe watermel lon and strawberry wine

in the heat of a summer afternoon

You have never lef t my heart

The music of the heavens

rains down with shoot ing star

f i l l ing the night with

the promise

passion never dies

Take me with you.

she chooses the abandoned viaductpassingwhile mime country eyessink intothe shutdownred shatteredsunsetabove the work-in-progressnever finishedconstructionbird alike&fullyawareof the cut

she chooses to go& I followthough that's notexactlyroutine& we're not exactly on stagethis time

there are many here spiritsthat choose not to stay

when sights like theseare eternalenough& so veryalluringtothe altering arlequin'smannequineyesight

& the viaduct opens:the vigilantestarlesswomb

inviting...cool& quiet...

just a few drops of sleep& we're in

& the passing world'smusicalnone of ourbusiness

ON THE ABANDONEDVIADUCT NEARBY

ON THE ABANDONED VIADUCT NEARBYby A.J. Kaufmann

Love the fragmented lines here, of course his workis always very lyrical, Aj is a talent that we areblessed to know, I think his work will carry on forages and ages, this piece painted me in just in allthe right places while still allowing my own imagi-nation to carry me at its will. Great work here. Comment by being.john.sweet www.myspace.com/kaufmannpoetry23

Deep Ellum feels the bluesDeep Ellum feels the bluesThe sun just begins to set,falling under the topsof the character buildings,emphasizing an abandoned feeling.Dilapidation butted upagainst gentrification.It has becomelike a modernist’s dream,all fragments of what had been.The dried brown droppingsof graffitied trees minglewith the spring weeds peekingout of the sidewalk’s cracks.

The street performers,the counter cultural,and the musicians have allchosen to runfrom the juxtapositioningof gang banger bars and wealthynew housing developments.

The homeless manwith a stocking capof red and dirt asks me,“Do you know where to score?”“Nope” I mutter,walking quickly awayafraid to know the realityof what goes on aroundeach corner.

Here the derby queenwas taken down by policefor yelling about her rightto walk on wheels.She was taken into custody thenwith a bloody face and knees.

There’s a familiar crowdstanding in a haze of tobacco fog,all with intricately painted sleeves of flesh.“Come on in” he tells me“We’ll finish inking inthat new tat.”“I can’t”, I reply,"Today I am a flaneur.”

Just behind the next buildingfrom the incense scentedtattoo studiois a forgotten cornerof cardboard boxesand empty bottles.It smells of urineand decaying food.Yet there are signs that someonecalls this place home.(A blanket, a backpack,a pair of shoes.)That familiar sensation of fearflows through my bodylike being submerged in an icy tub.

The faces of so many artists,like Willie, Kurt and Eddie,stare out of the windowwhere the now namelessfamous bar used to be.

“Panoptikon Thursdayshere at Club One”the flier reads,One more event and venue shut down.“Trouble at the Polls”the scrap of newspaper screams.More trouble in the streets,I think.

Loved it--reminds me of my cityComment by Damion

Deep Ellum Feels the Bluesby Mary McLaughlin

www.myspace.com/poetecho

24

Rainbows dripped from my lips& I spoke in Technicolor slipsTicker tape eyes prattle on & on& my sandstone hands spill onto the floorThe tape nears the end of the spoolClatters and sputters outThe strips of paper lay in ribbons round my feet& I suddenly got amnesiaStarting to strip off all my clothesSpitting in my hand spreading the colorsSome kind of new hallucinationReflects in the mirrorYellow red blues to greensDance on the glassMy heavy hands scratch the glass& the heat of my breathBreeds diamonds like man-made sand castlesLike an oasis to my stationThat spins on the axis of the earthSteady & relentless gravity keeps me downEmpty of tape my words echoIn the silence of my mindResonating in this head tripWhat is the beginning or the endForgetful my friendCause I am the hues of the earthThe shape of the skyThe top of the mountainMelting the snow capsCovering the world in sandWith my sweeping handsAn alchemist on a sentimental highStealing all the artAssuming the treatment of the madAbstractly insane with no remorseIndependently moroseCaving into the sullen rageOf this metamorphosisBut if I stand real still and quiet

Letting the cocoon hardenWaiting through the seasonTeetering on the edge of this amorphic planeDancing on the verge of the matrixBellowing without soundSpilling my noxious gases into spaceHanging my rainbow in the galaxy of disguiseUnder the radar of satellitesThat whisper a million deaths waiting for meTo explode with my thirty wingsFlapping straight into the arms of salvationBending outside my body the soulReleased itself from the confinesOf my one man side showSearching for my familyI can feel them breathingKneeling down praying for me& my safe returnSpilling my ticker tape ideasInto their brains confusing them with metaphors& trickeryI dance a jittery nervous ticBelting out letters on the tapeA smorgasbord of wordsLeaving them to wonder if I mean anything at allIf I meant anything to them at allThen again I spread my thirty wings screamingThe devil is in front of meDemanding my sacrifice& a sad goodbyeAnd I sail a million miles awayFrom saneLeaving my reflection standing aloneIn the mirrorFingering the diamondsWondering about the next trip to the shrink& then everything will be okUntil I decide to fly again

Rainbow Lips

I really enjoyed that piece, it read like I was watchingsomeone desperately trying to talk themselves down.Excellent poet, person and choice. Comment by Mrs. Word Machinist

Rainbow Lipsby John Sweetwww.myspace.com/johncsweet25

crafting a museby Yossarian Hunterwww.myspace.com/yossarian_hunter

one night I crafted a muse

out of brightly colored scraps

of cardboard construction

paper

gave her a patchwork skirt

and yellow flowers

in her long black hair

but later

when the candle burned low

she was gone in an instant

slipstream bound

in a storm of smoke

and ashes

burning a sheaf of

empty dreams

and three or four

battle scarred memories

to boot

later I crafted another

complete with three

cubes of ice

and a splash of

purified water

but with it I fared no better

as the drink blurred the words

and the ink never dried

on a thousand crumpled

cocktail napkins

and the back side

of an unpaid tab

one time I even fashioned

a muse

from flesh and blood

and a warm

sincere

smile

bought her drinks

at the aqua spirit lounge

brought her flowers

for her own locks

of light

and trusted her completely

to tear it all apart

leaving a bitter empty longing

and a desperate kind

of quiet

which is probably more in line

with what I should have

crafted

in the first damn place

Wonderfully done Yoss. Craftedbeautifully none the lessComment by ~g~ ٹ дžŕāęł ٹ

26

Crafting A Muse

ONE NIGHT STAND

by l e f t& l eav i ng

www.myspace.com/beforwesaygoodnight

I am relivingLast night3 bottles ofWhat ever we brought homeI still don’t remember leaving

I must have picked you up at the bardown the streetI bet you where the most beautiful girl inthe placeI hope I was charmingI am pretty sure I wasWhy else would have you come homewith meI hope I was lovelyAs I rantedBlacked out with speech

I woke up nakedcouldn’t figure out why I hadn’t went tobed as I always doWith my clothes on from the day before

I Walked into the bathroom and there youwereIn the showerYou spoke over the water fallingTold me that youLoved how I mumbledThat I spoke so clearlyIn tunetoHow beautifulZelda wasAnd shook while I ranted for an hourWhile talking about howKerouacReinventedThe American novel

I finished pissingBrushed my teethPaused to collect your wallet toRemember your name

You caught meTold me that it would be perfectly O.KIf we remained strangersEven though it would be lovely to have aone night stand again..

I wish I could remember how we got here

Thanks for not stealing my computerI hope I can remember what a lovely timewe had soon...

This is an amazing piece.... WOW!! Such Truth..

Comment by Re-Verse

One Night Stand

27

i need helpas a chord rings outeverything i care aboutis in a constant state of goodbyeeven thisis yesterdayeverywhere is anywhereeverywherei see dead people and close my eyes everynighti know the west won the suni know my kick will shout thepaid devil outsoft like a thoughtclear like your culturedropped and brokenslipped and watched fade awaythe sound in my ears is equal oppertunity but unspokenpicked up taped togethera newif not to win but to make same mistakes again and loseand then.............thats when i wonder just what the fuck it really takes to pace passion?how to live and die in fashion?naked and screamingasleepawake and dreaminglost and foundthe bass is in my chest andthis situation rides and slideschanges and rearranges itself up and down from side toand backand i cant even keep upi had to walk away and now all i want is to come backattack and validatemate with fatelife is exactly what i just made of you

miss taken id

ms. takenby Christian Alvarez

There is so much to absorb inthis. Very thought provoking,and the flow is simply perfect Comment by eMMa

www.myspace.com/christianalvarez

ms. taken

28

mostlynot by

Satewww.myspace.com/thebadnun

The fluid musing, the emphasis changingin the refrain... very nice write, SateComment by Connie Stadler

Mos

tly

Not

all day longeverydaywithout much restI think aboutmostlyimpossiblestuffI guessthe world peaceor save the world fluffmostly notthe lofty kind

though, if askedI would sayyesthrough thickly reddenedlipssounding insincere like a breathy, breasty,beautyin a pagent

andmostly notof the lust for stuff

I'm all shopped out ofjoy andthat kind of rushthat'sfor saleammasing worth accumulatinga greed for girthandmostly notfor the love of

the manywith their desultry dim-ness and sycophantic dotingsto love someand not hurtthe restis all thatis plausablymustered

nothe nub of my musingsis

about the matterof mattersand howthey all and myselfcould ever betransposednot scientifically and authenticallyagreed aloudbut ofthingssillyminuetwillfulcosmicfancifulcrazyevilseemingly drasticand notdilutebut, realistic?

mostly not29

30

the 100th Time by C. Nyla Alisia (Ward)http://www.myspace.com/spiritwild

Do you want to run away with meplay your guitar on the street cornerhat lying on the ground

I have an old 1920's derbyin a box in the closetwe can toss it on the back seatand just drive away

You can play for the peopleI can dance to your songpass the hat around

When we get enough changewe'll buy breakfastsit on the beach and eatwatching lovers walk bychildren flying kites

I will give youthe rest of my bagelwrite a poem on the bagyou'll laughkiss me good morningfor the 100th time today

Do you want to run away with meto a tropical islandyou can buy a cameraI will buy you a parrotyou can take photos with touristswhile I sell sea-glass braceletsoff a blanket on the ground

When we have made enoughwe can buy lemon aid in pineappleslay on the beach in the sunwatching old people hold handschildren building castles

I'll rest my head on your lapwhile you play the guitarthis time for yourselfthe songs in your heart

I would whisperMister, I love youfor the 100th time today

Do you want to run away with mekeep driving till we are lostdrive till we're everything foundthen toss me in the back seatand make love to me therefor the 100th time today

as you make love to mefor the 100th time today

Do want to run away with meplay your guitar on street cornershat lying on the ground

I have an old 1920's derbyin a box in the closetwe can toss it on the back seatand drive away(we can drive away)won't you just drive awaywith meand that old derbyin the back seat

Drive away(drive away)like in my dreamswe have donefor the 100th time today

The 100th Time

You are so talented and such a flexible writer. Al-ways I love your words and how well they arewritten. Amazing - as always Nyla/Cynthia.Comment by Audrey Michelle

The 100th Time

10K Poets recently put me on the spot with the taskof writing a National Poetry Month article. I'd barelybeen talked into calling in and stuttering over myown words and suddenly we're talking about mehosting a new concept poetry show. Wow. I'm stillwarming up to the sound of my own voice and theidea that I'm any kind of 'poet.' April of this year, itjust so happened that instead of working, I spent alot of time in bed with National Poetry Month andpoetry radio shows. Coincidentally, April ʼ09 wasthe first entire month Iʼd had off of work in at leastseven years. Until Iʼd started becoming familiar withvarious 10K Poets & associated folks on myspace,it never would of occurred to me to listen to a livepoetry radio show.

April and May have come and gone and there is toomuch to say. Iʼd say by National Poetry Month2010, I will have processed 2009ʼs close encounterof the third kind and the meetings of the minds withentities such as Newamba. Here itʼs perfectly ac-ceptable to believe in conspiracy theories andenjoy the sex when you are abducted by aliens. Inlieu of pretending like I'm an expert on poetry, I'lljust explain what a positive experience it has beento be a part of this community.

When I first started listening, I wish I'd kept bettertrack of which poet said what and when. Thatʼssomething Iʼd like to do more of in the future. As Ibegan collecting quotations from various poets, Irealized that whatever type of writer I categorizemyself as on any given day, I feel Iʼm in good com-pany among the 10k Poets. Hereʼs some examplesof some things that got my attention:

Dred Sista Ren:"Poetry is an act of violence..it's supposed to movepeople with words. It's an avenue to everything youfeel in your gut and in your spirit......if it wasn't forbullshit, we'd be talking about daisies"This statement helped to alleviate any doubts I hadof myself as a poet or writer. After hearing that, Isaid to myself "well shoot Iʼve got a bunch of bull-shit and a bunch of daisies and I can foolosophize

til the sun comes up. Count me in!"

Glen Still:"I know when I've written a 'good poem' ....when itpisses me off”

Issac Seal of BadWriter aka ʻAnalept,ʼ the first per-son with the 10K Poets banner to befriend me onmyspace once wrote a poem titled “I fuck poetry”

Newamba likes to use poetry to punch males andfemales in the testicles.

Nic St james:(excerpt from 'Soft Slow Love')"Writing to be safe is not honest and writing safelyis not fair”

I admire the hell out of NIc for balancing out the po-etry show sausage fest.

Jeff Sibley“No names changed to protect the innocent. Ifyouʼre hanging out with me, if youʼre in one of mypoems...youʼre not innocent.“ Speaking of, I thinkMr. Sibleyʼs piece, ʻWhat if god had a myspacepageʼ is one of my many favorites. In this poem hetells god:

and donʼt give me that fucking footsteps in the sandspeechsure itʼs poetic and quaintbut not truejust a good answer to a question you were notready for.

It reminds me of your bookwritten by a bunch of your stoner friends

chewing mushroomsbloomingbending their minds to believe you are what yousay you are

Article by Pantifesto's Porntastic

10KPoets Caught Me Lurking and told me to put my pants back on

and come out with my hands up

31

I could carry on and on quoting poets, but I won't!For me, showing my creative self makes me feelmore vulnerable than taking my clothes off in frontof someone. Henry Miller once said, “reveal yourtrue self and they will mutilate you.” I wonder, if itis also true if you never reveal your true self, youwill only mutilate yourself from within.

I know for certain I donʼt speak only for myselfwhen I say that poetry, chose me like a disease, butnot without fringe benefits like a handicapped plac-ard that I can put in the window and park for free.It bleeds from my head and aches in my bones, Isneeze and it drips from my nose. If I didnʼt get itout Iʼd choke on it and die. Poets must respond tofolks who say, “but I thought poetry was supposedto be pretty....”

I speak for myself and perhaps for some of thegreat souls that brought me to 10K Poets - Iʼmblessed to be twisted; without this sour refreshinghint of citrus thereʼd be nothing but a bland glassof water here, an unbuttered piece of toast. I enjoybeing madd with this sickness and this fever. Thesefantastic hallucinations arebetter than Paramount Pic-tures. Better a so called poetthan a mass murderer...Iknow the handwritingʼs amess but like I said before;at least the splatter is con-tained neatly on this paper.

(if you didnʼt want to be in-volved in any splatter, I was-nʼt talking to you and Iʼll seeyou later over at Salon.comor the New Yorker)

Prior to this task, my privateintention was to make acareful study of the 10KPoets organism as a whole.Much of my writing prior toidentifying myself as a poetwas focused on the reflec-tions of certain necessary in-teractions with variousorganizations and institu-tions. Sometimes I hand-picked the organizations andcorporations, and othertimes circumstance pickedthem for me. Iʼm always up

for a an depth frolic within the big picture. 10KPoets caught me lurking and told me to put mypants back on and come out with my hands up -and to hand over the results of my study.

Glen Still once said to me, "your poetry is okay, butwhy donʼt you write an article for us?" About what?I asked . His answer: “Whatever you want.”

In my case, sometimes the big picture gets way outof hand and where it becomes tricky to write aboutany particular subject manner, poetry can throwdown with the stealth of a ninja. With poetry it ispossible to swallow so much more information in asingle bite than by reading this seven page articleor something as tedious as an entire book.

I'd previously had little experience exchangingideas and processes with anytype of writers. Before the inter-net, my writing first evolved viacrops of spiral notebooks multi-plying in my closet. That is to say;it did not evolve much. It was likean inbred children whose picturesI didn't keep on my desk. I didnʼtwant to bring them to the com-pany picnic. 10K Poets came inas a social services type role andis helping me to socialize them.By doing this they are preventingme from burying them under theporch.

I was baffled when people firststarted asking me to read my writ-ing. Out loud! Why would anybodywant me to do that? My family hasalways acted as if my writing werean infectious disease such as lep-rosy or a deviant behavior likebestiality. In being a writer, I've al-ways feared being perceived asthe unibomber or LouiseFitzhugh's 'Harriet the Spy'. Per-haps this is the reason why untilrecently; as much as I enjoy read-ing and writing, Iʼve paid very little

p o e t r y c a n t h r o w d o w nw i t h t h e s t e a l t h o f a n i n j a

32

attention to the people behind what I read, de-voured volumes of books without paying any atten-tion to who the author was or what motivates he orshe to write.

My inclination to write has not helped me to win anypopularity contests. Now that Iʼve had an opportu-nity to reflect on my prior lack of interest in learningmore about people whose minds function similarlyto mine, I guess it comes down to socially condi-tioned self loathing.

At first I wondered; why the hell would I want to lis-ten to a bunch of babbling writers? People like that,if I know them like I know myself, one minute maybe at a party acting perfectly normal and the nextminute may disappear into a room to be alone witha qwerty or a black and white composition note-book, possibly not emerging for 72 hours. I donʼtknow if that is more of a relief - that Iʼm not alonein my affliction, or that disappointing - that Iʼm notthat original. I was astounded to learn I was cer-tainly not the first person to alter my consciousnessand play with a pencil and paper.

In my creative writing class, English 201 or someshit, after our first assignment our instructor at thecommunity college was not impressed that over halfof the class made sure to include gratuitous andlargely pointless sex, violence, or drugs in their sto-ries. I was one of those students and went on to domany more dumb things just to write about them,before I would complete my bachelors degree thir-teen years later. I had no idea that perhaps millionsof people before me had sought their own alterna-tive quests for the American dream. If youʼre any-thing like me, you didnʼt come into the worldknowing that somebody else already wrote yourequivalent to 'Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas'. Youfeel a little embarrassed about it at first but live andlearn from these experiences and continue to writefoolishly in a way that your family finds terribly em-barrassing.

When as children weʼre introduced to characters byDr. Seuss and Lewis Carroll, the 'just say no' worldcan be confusing. Drugs apparently make somepeople stupid and other people smart. I guessthatʼs where the Terence McKenna factor comes in.My theory is that if youʼre gonna take a trip, itʼs agood idea to familiarize yourself with the destina-tion and to remember that James Frey alreadywrote 'A Million Little Pieces'.

Some people are just born with Hunter S. Thomp-son disorder. Some people just want to drink andwrite about their terrible jobs like CharlesBukowski. Some people want to do chemical exper-iments on themselves like Timothy Leary. Somepeople just want to explore whatever religion theycan invent after drinking a six pack of Papst BlueRibbon. Other writers like Lily Burana and DiabloCody look for literary golden nuggets at the bottomof a brass pole. Henry Miller wanted to say 'fuckyou America' and run away to Paris to write aboutdrunks and whores.

I apologize if you came here for the poetry and hereI am carrying on. Well, get ready because comingsoon is 10K Prose. After that maybe weʼll do 10KPoetry and Polo Society, 10K Poets ProfessionalWrestling League, 10K Poetry and ToplessCaberet, 10K Poetry and BBQ Ribs, 10K Poetry,Chino Bandido Drive Thru and Pottery Barn, 10KPoetry and Garden Supply. Weʼll definitely be work-ing on the the prose site at least, but as you cansee - the possibilities are endless. We want to puta real live poet in every McDonalds Happy Meal.Let us hang up our own '10 billion Served' sign.

Unless weʼre born into the right circumstance, itʼsseems to be a difficult world to be a writer or anytype of creative person afflicted with some sort ofthought process. Dominant culture tries to placateus with dumb-dumb entertainment and educationand convenience store snacks. The scientific com-munity tells writers weʼre predisposed to chemicaldependency, poets are even more prone to suicidethan say dentists. People look up their noses at usfor our unusual behavior, and predisposition tobeing in the wrong place for the 'write' reasons. Westay up all night sometimes and stalk poems andstories in the dark and when we go to sleep, wedream upside down, sideways, backwards, for-wards and of course, in color. I think that maybeweʼre crazy because until the internet, the existingchannels have prevented us from knowing one an-other or even ourselves.

Iʼve found that the 10K Poetʼs programming canwork like medicine or at least like a mood alteringdrug. It is an excellent gateway drug, to the right

We want to put a real live poet inevery McDonalds Happy Meal.

33

1

poets, writers, books, music, and artists. Certainlyeveryone has different tastes, but if there isnʼtsomething at 10K Poets for everyone, the beauty ofit is that we can conceptulize it make it happen. Orelse, those people can continue to enjoy LadyGaga and Fox News, Pat OʼReilly, or the 700 Clubor whatever else it is that they do. The neat thingabout poetry is that it can get you drunk and it if youneed to, it can get you sober. You can use it as alove potion, an aphrodisiac, or a scalpel to dissecta brain, a heart, an institution, or an organization.You can use it to play God, to find God or to beGod. Some people masturbate with it. Itʼs morecomplex and practical than most Americans under-stand. If you really hate it, you can always use it astoilet paper.

If you want, poetry can be like an egg, scrambled,boiled, poached. Or it can be can be smoked out ofa hookah or baked into brownies. Though I startedlistening to the "Daily Happy Hour", "Poets Dreamin Color", and "Nicʼs Poet Bar" with my eyes closedand semi-sedated due to medical reasons, after Iwas back on my feet, I found a new favorite activityof mine has become walking or riding my bike withThe 10K Poets Radio podcasts attached to myhead. For me, the juxtaposition of nature, urban im-ages, and the people in the street takes it to an-other level. Iʼve laid down in the grass and spacedout to poetry shows and watched the clouds changecolors and float over treetops. I have no idea howpeople can sit there in front of a LCD monitor, listento the show and participate in the chat all at thesame time. Thereʼs no right or wrong way to listen,but speaking as someone who was a part of the Ri-talin generation, Iʼm just telling you what works bestfor me. I think it would be great if I could take in ashow over a loudspeaker in the park while drinkinga 40. If enough of us come together and exchangeideas, maybe someday there'll be something to doin our public spaces besides watch the hoboolympics.

Iʼd like to one day follow certain poets as if I wereLeeza Gibbons from Entertainment Tonight. Fornow, Iʼm still watching people like Glen Still, Nic St.James, Dan Kellett, Yossarian Hunter and absorb-ing what it is that they do and what direction I wouldtake it if I were in their shoes. All of these peoplehave created such an amazing platform for dis-course. Iʼve been procrastinating and hesitating fora couple of months to try and come up with an ad-equate interpretation of 10K Poets. Iʼd like to mix itup with Kool-Aid and tell everyone to drink it. Well,

maybe not some people, but thatʼs their problem.

If you can trick someone into to reading a poem, itʼseasy to slip that special something into their coffee.And that may just be the antidote for Nike commer-cials. Next, put some dope poetry to the right musicand itʼs over. For now, I still have a lot to learnabout whatʼs going on at the 10K Poets music sites.Glen Still, founder of 10K Poets says “We're goingto put out the best material that we can; hopefullypeople will like it and it will spread through the net-works that we have.” So bring your words, yourmusic, your beatboxing skills, and your ideas andlet us produce them together.

If there is anyone out there who is not yet tuning inor participating in the 10K Poets programming, I im-plore you to start doing so immediately. I wonʼtpromise you that youʼll like everything that you hearbut if youʼve found yourself at the 10K Poets Zinein the first place, I imagine some of it will worknicely. The neat thing about a live poetry showthese days is that if you donʼt have the attentionspan to sit down with it at the moment, it doesnʼthave to be live. You can fit a ton of it in an IPODshuffle and walk the dog with it. If you think some-thing sucks, donʼt be afraid to fast forward to some-thing more your style. If you see a niche that needsto be created, conjure up your own concept andcome to 10K Poets and they will help you start yourown show. For now, Iʼm still learning from the mas-ters, taking notes, seeing a speech therapist andsitting back watching and occasionally stutteringout the occasional live poem.

Thank you everybody for reading, listening, creat-ing and making the most out of participatory mediaavailable through 10K Poets. Let's all take advan-tage of this opportunity to take back our own mindsand make our own media, whatever it is.

If you see a niche that needs to becreated, conjure up your own concept and come to 10K Poets

www.myspace.com/albinoprincessofdarkness34

1

I musn't forgetI'm cheap

Unforgivably cliché

If I tell this storyI must rememberThere will be plentywho don't likewhat I have to say

It is an open invitation

tight lipped smiles to my facetitters to my backwrong assumptionsfalse correlationsthese things stingnearly as if I thoughtthey were truemakes me want to confessto things I didn't do

Consider the whore

my mother was the firstto call me thatanyone elseusually alsoreferred to meas his girlfriend

(whichever one *he* was)

And no.No! he was nevermy pimp

I confess

that I'd like

to confess

(On my knees)

but I'm afraid

you'd judge melike I do you

I confess

I'm guiltyof witholdingwhat I'd preferto get off my chestMaybe my mother would love meif I got down on my knees

And said,Mother please!Forgive me!everything on earthand above in heavenis exactly as you say it isAnd yes,I confess

I'm an enormous whore

I confessI'm guilty of many thingsBut if I confessed to thatI'd be guilty of being a liar

I confesslike my motherI pass judgment like gasI point my fingerI titterI laugh

Look!

She comes on crutches

The one legged whore!

Towering over the gutter5 feet, 6 inches on highI look down my nose

I curl up my lipI confessI'd like to give her a handonly if I didn't have to

touch her

I am the whore

In the apple of my mother's eyeshe is meI confessI don't thank my motherI'm any differentthan she says I amshe points her fingerat everyoneshe points it at me

she saysRepent you sinner! You slut!I point mine backDidn't you knowyou're fat?obese

Your god saysgluttony's a sin!

I confess, that I said that

And then i confessI was too busy pointingat the one legged whoreI didn't see the storyin the sunken black holesin the middle of her headI gazed into space inthe darkness where someof her missing teethused to beI ran my tongueover orthodontiallystraightened teeth

35

I f I s p e a k o f t h i s h i s t o r yI f I s p e a k o f t h i s h i s t o r y

1

If I speak of this historyby Pantifesto's Porntastic

wow, wow and wow. If I sound stupid andat a loss for words I confess it's because thiswas hard hitting, raw and dazzling. And that'sno lie.Comment by Cyndi Dawson

www.myspace.com/albinoprincessofdarkness

I didn't hear this placein her face begin to talk

Shesaidmy momma fed mered Kool Aid drink in a bottleturned tricksleft me in my cribchanged my diaperwhen she had spare changeShe said

Honeybefore crank, crack or meth I never did have much of a smile to straighten or destroy

Your momma

before she smoked crucified baby jesus like crackbefore you each threw words like rocks

Your momma

she propped you on her lap and played the piano, rocked you to sleep, read you stories

And me, well

I never knew Richard Scarey or Dr. Seuss, I've been waiting my whole life on this street-corner to say

Goodnite, Moon

She washed my feet and baptized me in the stream running down the gutter

36

37

The Rails By Scott Clark Farley

Such a gritty intense piece! Excellent attention to detail in the imagery.Comment by Raison D'être Lailah Saafirwww.myspace.com/artskid

hang on. watch your pockets.gypsies are born here.prostitutes pose on streetsas women.

beauty is deceiving.

at any momentthe stained glass gothic cathedral will shatter,raining down

a fury of reds and oranges.

the gargoylesstare at us disapprovingly,an omen of rain

though the skies are clear ~a lapis blue in late October

something is not right here. keep walking.don't stop for the street performer.

his marionette, a skeleton,playing "Mack the Knife"on a toy piano

(avoid eye contact)don't smile

you are inviting all kinds of troublewith your open face. it started with the nuns

andone-too-many Pilsner Urquells on the train,that stinking wad of hashish in your pocket

why did you bring it?why did I bring you?

gargoyles. we are rich in this town.let's go live like kings

and capitalize uponthe worthlessness of the Crown.

let's gobuy a crystal vase and dine in a five-star restaurant,

while paying pennies for it.

a three-penny whore ~sucking you off on a side street.

I told you to watch your pockets. And nowyour taxi fare is gone.

the side streets are ripped up heapsof plumbing, twisted wires,

a war zone, the smell of sewage

is this reunification?like so many broken reflections in a single vase?

the tourists behind their camera lenses.they see only future photo albums. memories ofthings.curio cabinets protecting the trivial tshatshkes of ahalflife

the tin medals melt in our pockets

... we are waiting on a cold train platform.the sun is rising to our left

(the direction we are going)to Prague.

a couple of nuns walk by ..."Grüβ Gott," they say to us. "Grüβ Gott,"we say.

they hand us Saint Christopher medalsto protect us on our journey ~

cheap tin idols stamped out bysome old machine in the Vatican.

Voodoo.

a whorehouse awaits us. the circus is in town.Kafka's ghost is crawling on a restaurant floor,

and the cemetery is filling with stones,weighing on the dead and the living ~

a pile of people

twisting under the medieval spiresand baroque architectures of a city

that is strangely sinister in its beauty

... a femme fatale

just waiting for usto take that crazy taxi ride

over cobblestone streetsto arrive at her guarded door

where she will greet uswith naked breastsand lead us to the bar.

(our futuresto be read in the swirling sludge of Turkish coffees)

a tangle of bed sheets on the floor.

and ...is that Dixieland Jazz playingon the Saint Charles Bridge?

~ it is.

though it sounds more like a funeral dirge,the Czech voices, guttural and gravelly,

snaking upward through cardboard megaphones

~ thimbles on a washboardscratching out a soul,

a man spits on the mouth of a whiskey jug.

... we should not linger in this crowd.mob assembling.

protestors. we must escape.to subways buried deeply under ground ~

the escalatorof vertigo

taking us thereat frightening speed

to a bottom we cannot see.

one misstep,and surely we will fall all the way to Hell.

The Rails

advancing

Advancing bySean Reddan

Poignant powerful (sadly, timeless)truths~ Comment by Sarah Free

www.myspace.com/seanreddansound38

there were no winnersin the second world war,just the collective sigh ofrelief that followed,that it was all over;bones could be countedmany were missed.many were dead.millions of families,people were displaced…and the little boy traced...the photograph of soldier dadwith love and tears

he died far wayin a foreign landdefending liberty,a real life statue, a ladymore than just a conceptdefending those on the runfreeing those who had beenherded like sheepby men gone madraging monsters and battle tanks.

tin toys

marched one by oneinto the box under his bedsafelyretreated.

good night, father loveyou wore a proud uniformand i needed you so...

i will carry youin my heartclose to my chestbe strong, be bravefor mommy lovealive in this rising sunwe’ll walk hand in handhusband and fatherless;my metal limbed remindermy favourite toymy tin soldiera constant reminderlike the bullets that killedmade of steelengraved, castaround my neck now,advancing…

This piece "Dreams of a Poet" is an abstract piecedone with pen and ink and originally was used withmy series "Death of a Poet". It was done in theeighties and the mask represents my dreams underthe influence of poppie plants. It was also a winningpiece in the "Cherry Blossom Festival" in Atlanta in83. - Ray

The tough decisionby Jarlid Shadows

www.myspace.com/yargooligan

Standing here under the hot lightsin line with construction workersand over perfumed grandmothersI wait my timeIt is up to methe question gnaws at my gut;will I make the wrong choiceand learn to live with the consequencesor break loose from the stereotype.I can see the look of self concernon everyone's faceexcept the child peeking at me from behindhis grandmother's skirt.Damnwhy is this so hard to decide?Even in youth the question was thrown at methe answer rehearsedthrown back at the asker.Now it is my time to focusbecause the question is coming..."would you like fries with that?"

The tough decision

Jarlid... so many people parallel the moments- complete to an earth-changing-if-answeredquestion; and yet forget the earth-changing-answers within........Comment by Chris

39

Letters Homeby Rob Shepherdwww.myspace.com/blackshotbob

This made me cry like I haven't for years. Morepeople need to see this... MANY more. Kudos.. Comment by SweetTalk~CultVault's Siren~

Letters HomeMama,As you know I have never written a letter beforeand so not sure how it is supposed to goBut I am sure I'll be betterEach time I write back homeWill write more.

Mama,Today we had to lay real lowin the dustWith hands over our earsThe f laming Gods f lew highover hereAnd took little Mickey awayfrom usWill write you back

Mama,Tommy is on his way backhomeSure HIS mama will be glad tohave him backNot sure she'll be so gladthoughto see the limbs that he nowlacksWill write back

Mama-they tried to break meFather- I survived today

Mama,Food is getting in short supply

Jamie has lost so muchweightHunger makes it hard to fireHarder even to fight

Still we keep watch tonightgood things come to thosewho waitWill write again

Mama,Davey saved me todayThe shells kept raining downhe pushed me far enoughawayas he laid his body downWill try and write everyday

Mama-they keep trying tobreak meFather-I only just survivedtoday

Mama,I was coming home in a weekbut now I gotta do 3 moreweeksI am tired and I am weakBut I will be back to speedWill be back soonTo father and youWill write again soon

Mama, am coming homesooner than beforeAnd I won't be alone

There's another 40 moreWill call you by phoneOn Searge's mobileYour loving child

Mama-they tried to break meFather-I really tried to survive today

Mama,I guess you got the newsI'm not all you'd wished formeThis wasn't what you and father would would chooseBut I hope I done you and father proudAs you see the f lag raisedhighand the voices sing aloudThe roses they chose are beautifulI hope you like them tooI have dedicated them to youFor when they fire the 10 gunSalutePlease don't be sadDon't be angry or madBut say, that's my child theretonightAnd they have done us allright!Born - 10-05-78Came home far too late

40

He died about two years ago now,A raging alcoholic that died as a result of anupper GI bleed,As a result of chronic alcoholism,As a result of his prior death in Vietnam.

Wilting clefts speak in tones of sob and fleet,Stagger men sink back to mottle streams,

Disintegration plots,Drowned by beasts of mist cringe existence,

Liar kites windbound,Spiral down,

Empathy reduction,Atrophy induction.

Upper GI Bleed;3% mortality rate,I learned that as I googled his death certificate,Trying to find what I could have done to fix it,Hoping there was nothing,I was disappointed by the answer.

Each pulse becomes treason,Pumping towards slow drip tragedy,

Drowning 'bluebird,'Drip drop fade,

Vietnam;

100% mortality rate,I learned that in Irish pubs in the Bronx,Trying to find out if they could have done something to fix it,Hoping there was nothing,I was disappointed by the answer.

War role cast in yellow man fox holes,Machine crumble march in devil trench,Mortar binge and purge and stomp and drop,Shrapnel evermore,Faith thwarted,

By napalm reality.

His shell made it back stateside long enough to give me a last name,I wonder now if escaping the potato famine was a good trade for the draft,He was drafted on St. Patty's Day,Luck of the Irish I guess.

Swarms be thick when prison bars are ribs,And the shackled,

Pumps,Down in the shiver, Next to hate and history,Hooks in the temples,

of the martyr drone enlisted,Entrapped, disemboweled, sent back to scramble

Napalm

41

amongst warless eyes,With more war,

And less I.

I found him dead and naked outside his bathroom,I could see where he fell against the wall and sliddown to the sitting position,He had been sliding down for a long time,Since St. Patty's Day, 1967.

Disheveled patriarch soaked in drop dead air,Phlem spit against a tyrant's breeze,Long gone causes,

They disrobe and wait to be counted,Each throbbing in a lusty, salivary want,

For it's death credit,Picking over a dead man's heart,Each with a trophy grip,

On the part it killed.Regret, pain, loss, ambivalence, melancholy,All lined up,

sneering.

I wonder if he apologized to me as he slid down,Before he faded,For dying like that,Knowing I'd be the one to find him,Knowing I'd be the one to clean up his mess.

Rant child feather wall,Sleek in the matters of me and me,

Carcass shutter light,Looking for apology,

In a last breath,I was a fool.

I own the apartment he lived in,I had to get it rent ready,I had to paint over the mural he painted on the cinder block wall in his bedroom,I cried like a baby.

Erasing slays the swells of regression,Crippled chaos named,

Prayers be something less then this,Less then painting,Over painting,Erasing you away.

I found poems,On napkins,I found black mold in the sink,The poems were unfinished,The mold was thriving,That is what surrender,Looks like.

Nicely penned. As a Vietnam veteran myself all I can say is that your father is missed by all of this brothersthat were there and are still here just waiting for our moment to go. We all have something wrong with us,too much wrong with us but it is too late to lament anymore about it. We have been lamenting for morethan forty years now and it has gotten us absolutely nowhere. Now I worry for today's troops. Will they getthe same non treatment that we got from the VA, from this great government of ours. Doubtful... Anywayam getting away from the poem and I don't mean to do that. This is very very well written and so very sad.A man that should have died in Nam as perhaps we all should have done, and maybe did. I feel like thatsometimes. Great job Dan....And my salute to a fellow vet. May God finally give him some peace. Comment by Retro Poet

Napalm by Kellett www.myspace.com/dk_d

42

Breakfast was on my mind whenI crawled into bed around 2 a.m.After falling asleep to the voiceOf Sigourney Weaver narratingPlanet Earth.I wanted waffles, nothing fancyJust a plain waffle alongsideAn omelette with cheese andMushrooms, ham or bacon.Either way, I was determined to have it!

I woke up later that morningSmoked and sat around readingWhen suddenly I thought tacosMight be a decent alternative toA waffle and an omelette,But, the wild wind was blowingAll night and all morning longIn the south bay, it was cold,More coffee sounded like justthe ticket on this blustery afternoon.

Out in San PedroThe Waffle and Omelette ShopServes steaming hot joAnd breakfast until two in the afternoonFor us late risers or retired folks.We knew what we wanted andThey knew just how to give it to us.We devoured our food in an instant

And washed it down our emptyBellies with warm caffeinated tar.

I paid the bill and we walked outUnderneath the blue sky and let the windBlow our hair into our facesFeeling the coolness with our whole bodiesWe wondered what to do, where to goTo live out the fullness of the day.It seemed hopeless, so we smokedAnd drove up towards Western on 11thHeading towards palos verdes drive,I noticed the cemetery on the left.

As we passed the grassy hill covered withHeadstones and flowers, I wanted to turnAround, and visit Henry, whoI knew was still alive, but hasBeen resting for fifteen years now.We drove over to the main office,Went inside to get directions andA map. The guy inside asked meWho I was looking for and when ITold him, he made no obvious reaction.

He then asked if he was a relative orJust a friend of mine. I told himHe was a writer and that I wanted toPay him a visit. He chuckled and said,"That's the first, haven't heard that before."

He Was [Plot 875, Space I]

43

It was then I regretted telling him, wastingMy breath, I should have played it coolAnd said he was my grandpa or that heWas a friend of mine from the 40's,Back in the good 'ol days when we were young.

he told us He was buried in an awkward placeAnd that we might have trouble locating it,But, I didn't believe him. We walked out andDrove up to the ocean view hillside, parked,Got out of the car and began to wander upThe green hillside amongst grave stonesWith names of people we had never knownAs the wind blew our hair into a wild frenzyAnd froze our ears. It took me less than tenMinutes to find the headstone with fighting fists.

There was an old rollie placed directly onThe headstone, it was stuck, I know becauseI tried to pick it up, it barely budged, but ILoosened its grip and eventually the windBlew it away as I stood there beside the graveOf the man we all talk about, the man we'veRead, listened to, watched in film clips and studiedOver and over and over and over and over again,That man now buried right beneath the grass onThe side of the hill where I was standing.

There beside Henry's headstone in theCemetery I felt life, breathing, trees,

The wind, birds, cars running, clouds, everything-Seemed more real than it had just prior toThat moment. Looking around, colors spoke,I realized that no matter how much we want to getAway from each other in life, we are all stuckWith each other in death. You never know whoYou're going to get stuck next to, unless youPlanned ahead or have a crap load of money.

We walked away and got back in the carI thought about the words, "Don't Try" andWhat Henry must have meant or what exactlyHe was referring to by those words. Somehow,I think I will never truly know what he meant becauseWhen I think back on what I know aboutThe life that Henry lived, I know he neverStopped writing no matter how many rejectionsHe received from editors who couldn't tell a goodPoem or story from their damned reeking assholes.

Despite my uncertainty, I still went homeFeeling full of warm coffee, apple cinnamon waffleAnd cheese omelette. I felt refreshed byThe cool wind and the sunshine and all I could thinkAbout were the days just passing me by whileI sit behind this desk click clacking, typing awayUntil something comes and it feels likeTimes when time doesn't feel like it'sProgressing in time, but Henry was, he lived,And now he is more real and alive than ever.

He Was [Plot 875, Space I]by floatin baby J

www.myspace.com/thefloater81

Nice. I heard you tell this story on the show yes-terday..... And yes, funny how in the presenceof what you find meaningful, the wind can swaytrees and bring song and dance and the veryessence of breath. A living moment indeed,shared even with the dead.....Enjoyed... Comment by Kellett

44

Introduct ionHenry Char les “Hank” Bukowski wasborn in Andermach, Germany on August16th 1920. He d ied on March 9th 1994.He and Wi l l iam Burroughs are arguablythe poets who have made the most pro-found impact on poetry today. But i f welook at Burroughs he is : a) pr imar i ly anovel is t and b) wi th Byron Gysinas theʻ fa ther o f the cut -up ʼ , an in f luent ia l butfar less controvers ia l ʻ force ʼ thanBukowski . With over 60 books in poetryand prose in pr in t , Bukowski has beendescr ibed as “ the man whose once-ex-press ive appet i te for l i fe cont inues tosusta in h is cu l t hero s tatus beyond thegrave”. Indeed, th is statement is corrob-orated factual ly. In the af termath of h isdeath he has become what has f re-quent ly been described as a ʻworld wide-indust ry ʼ . Trans lated in to more than 20languages, wi th dozens of Bukowski -connected internet s i tes, h is publ ishers,as of th is date, have p lans to re leaseand re-release his books for sometime to

come. Indeed, much of h is success canbe traced to his l i fe- long c lose associa-t ion wi th edi tor /publ isher John Mart in atBlack Sparrow Press in Santa Rosa.

To understand the Bukowski phenome-non, some knowledge of h is l i fe is requi -s i te. His German mother and his father,an American serviceman, met dur ing theAmerican occupat ion of Germany at theend of Wor ld War I . Bukowski wasbrought to the US at the age of 2, hopingfor a br ighter fu ture. This br ight fu ture,though, soon evaporated at the onset ofthe Great Depression. Bukowski ʼs father,l ike many at the t ime, was more of tenthan not unemployed, and Char les fe l th is fu lsome f rust rat ion bruta l ly. Inpoems such as "The Death of the Father"as wel l as the autobiographica l novelHam on Rye, he shares much about apainful chi ldhood. Regular beat ings wi tha razor strap were the norm, as he put i t :“So you see, my father was a great l i ter-ary teacher : He taught me the meaningof pain - pain wi thout reason.”

By Constance Stadler

45

The Bukowski Divide: Poetic Genius or Literary Sacrilege?

With over 60 books in poetry and prose in print, Bukowski hasbeen described as “the man whose once expressive appetite forlife continues to sustain his cult hero status beyond the grave”.

www.myspace.com/nywvprof

His depress ion deepened by an ex-tremely bad case of acne vulgar ism thatproduced boi ls a l l over Bukowski ʼs faceand back, boi ls so painful that they hadto be surg ica l ly inc ised so that theycould drain proper ly. As one doctor saysin Ham on Rye, i t was " [ t ]he worst caseI 've seen in a l l my years of pract ice! "(131). This malady scarred the teenageBukowski in many ways. Permanent lypock-marked by the ordeal-- made emo-t ional refuge into adolescent f r iendshipsor c l iques, where appearance p lays soof ten the t ipp ing point between accept-ance and banishment, next to impossiblefor the young developing poet. Becauseonly " the poor and the lost and the id-iots" (Ham on Rye, 155) seemed wi l l ingto acknowledge and accept h im, theyoung Bukowski la ter became the i rchampion in the body of h is work. Heconstant ly made the case for the v i r tuesof their honesty and hard-won digni ty vs.the arrogance and super f ic ia l i ty o f theindi fferent masses.

Dr ink ing thus became Bukowski 's voca-t ion, unt i l , that is , he started wr i t ing se-r iously around 1960. Then dr ink ing andwri t ing were his vocat ions. Necessi tatedby the fact that none of h is jobs paidenough for him to survive, he worked asdishwasher, t ruck dr iver and loader,mai lman, guard, gas s tat ion at tendant ,

s tock boy, warehouseman, sh ipp ingclerk, post off ice c lerk, parking lot at ten-dant , Red Cross order ly, and e levatoroperator, among other th ings.

Bukowski worked at a Los Angeles postoff ice for e leven years, the longest termof employment he ever he ld. And in1969, having had some hard-earned suc-cess as a wr i ter through the l i t t le maga-z ines and smal l presses, he made thedi ff icu l t decis ion of qui t t ing the post of -f ice and try ing to make i t as a wr i ter. Hewas forty-nine and on the verge of emo-t ional col lapse; he was paying chi ld-sup-port and l iv ing in a rented house. Steadyor suff ic ient income through wri t ing wasfar f rom certain. In an unpubl ished let terto Car l Weissner, dated "somet ime nov.1969," Bukowski expla ins that " I haveone of two choices-stay in the post off iceand go crazy. . .or stay out here and playat wr i ter and s tarve. I have dec ided tostarve." Thereaf ter he f in ished h is f i rs tnovel , Post Off ice. And through Car lWeissner, a young German edi tor, hesold the West German r ights to Notes ofa Di r ty Old Man. His income was s t i l lpoor but suff ic ient to a l low him to wr i teful l - t ime.

Besides an increasing income from Euro-pean publ icat ions, when the screenplaywas wr i t ten for Bar f ly (1987) , the f i lm

46

Thus poets of today knew of Bukowski as not only a poet icf o r c e b u t a l i v i n g , b r e a t h i n g , i n s p i r a t i o n / m e n t o r . H e w a sthe ‘great poet ’ o f their adolescence.

based on h is reputed a l ter -ego HenryChinaski (Ham on Rye), he had reacheda level of f inancia l comfort and high l i t -erary renown. Impor tant ly, save Al lenGinsberg, a lmost a l l the beat poets (a l -though Bukowski was never so ident i -f ied) had long passed at ear ly ages.Thus poets of today knew of Bukowski asnot on ly a poet ic force but a l iv ing,breath ing, insp i ra t ion/mentor. He wasthe ʻgreat poetʼ of their adolescence.

The Debate BeginsTo his legions of fans, he was of mythicstature in h is San Pedro lodging over -looking a dingy harbor, ʻan adorable bas-tard ʼ , the voice of Everyman , that roseto offend, chal lenge, st imulate the com-placent , and to console the d isenfran-ch ised for whom a l i fe o f du l l orback-breaking, soul steal ing labor was achoice wi thout opt ions in repeatedly de-nouncing the poetry of in te l lectua l ismand ʻsappyʼ disconnected adorned senti -ment he responded with “naked, disturb-ing, compel l ing, repuls ive, v ic iousʻ t ru th ʼ ” . But Bukowski d id not d isdainhow he was increasingly being seen. Ashe said in a South Bay interview of 1981,"Genius is the abi l i ty to say a profoundth ing in a s imple way" (33) . For thosewho concurred, he was the ido l o f mi l -l ions.

His cr i t ics are equal ly as op in ionated.Cal l ing h im a ʻ ta lent less fou l mouthedchauvinist/misogynist ʼ skims the surface,ro l l ing off much as s imi lar a t tacks onHenry Mi l ler. The noted Bukowski cr i t ic ,the poet and edi tor of The Mel ic Review,

C.E. Chaff in, offered a bl ister ing cr i t iquein a famous tr i -part i te decimat ion:

I should f i rs t remind the reader that hemay be the best known American poet inEurope today, and for two reasons: 1)His language is s impl ist ic; and 2) The at-t i tude in his main body of work matchesthe prevai l ing athe is t ic pess imismamong in te l lectuals on the cont inent . I tis not Bukowski 's renown I quest ion, anunre l iab le ind icator o f qual i ty in anycase, but 1) His lack of craf t ; 2) His lackof transcendent values; and 3) As above,that he represents the f ina l breakdownbetween l i fe and art in poetry.

Chaff in cont inues in f ind ing Bukowskiconfined to the l imits of his own persona.As substant iat ion he offers the fo l lowingabout “Henry Chinask i ” the protagonis tin much of Bukowski ʼs f ic t ion.Bukowski ʼs f i rs t name was Henry and“[ i ] f readers doubt th is assert ion, I urgethem to consider the deta i ls in h is s to-r ies — l ike one lover 's bad teeth, redhai r, speed habi t and t rash- f i l led Ca-maro, or the blue Volkswagen Bukowskidrove around LA (one hopes occasion-al ly sober) . ”

As to Bukowski ʼs inabi l i ty to aspi re toany ʻ t ranscendent values ʼ , Chaff in is re-lent less: Bukowski made h is reputat ion byunashamedly and non- judgmenta l lyrecording a l i festy le of fatal ist ic, atheis-t ic hedonism — which is real ly not hedo-nism but i ts opposi te, a sort of terminalanhedonia medicated with booze and sexas distract ions — an at t i tude not far re-moved f rom the Marquis de Sade, whobel ieved ʻWhatever is , is good. ʼ" He re-

47

jec ts wi th ʻgreat umbrage ʼ the edi tor ʼsprefatory remark: “…chronic le th iswr i ter 's inner and outer l i fe , f rom chi ld-hood to the present — and an astonish-ing and hero ic l i fe i t is . " Wi th thesubst i tu t ion of "and a ted ious and ant i -heroic l i fe i t is .

He then moves to h is f ina l ind ic tment -an absolute absence of s ty le by c i t ingwhat is ʻobvious ʼ : bad journal ism wi thʻpassive gerunds and hap-dash l inebreaks at best. ʼ He offers th is poet ic ex-cerpt as ʻself-evident violationʼ:

from junk

sitting in a dark bedroom with 3junkies, female, brown paper bags filled with trashareeverywhere. it is one-thirty in the afternoon. they talk about madhouses, hospitals. they are waiting for a fix. none of them work. it's relief and foodstamps andMedi-Cal.

Cont inuing with the same work, he com-ments on Bukowski ʼs t reatment of ʻgreatwri ters ʼ.

they pul led Ezra through the streetsin a wooden cage. Blake was sure of God. Vi l lon was a mugger. Lorca sucked cock. T.S. El iot worked a te l ler 's cage.

Most poets are swans, egrets.

Now, al l the daggers are out:

Here is s loppy metaphor, reduct ion is th is tory and uncer ta in sense. Does hemean that these poets were except ions,l ike h imsel f , suffer ing ind ign i t ies? Orthat the i r l ives were d is t inguished f romthe ordinary, especial ly by indulgence inthe sord id? Does he mean they d ivedlower in the gut ter, or in B lake 's case,f lew higher? And what do egrets add toswans as a t rope? Egrets s tand abovethe muck whi le swans g l ide on the sur-face — hard ly the best equiva lent forcock-sucking, mugging, and dehumaniz-ing work.

The noted poet Duane Locke is just asharsh in a di fferent vein. In my recent in-terv iew wi th h im, he responded to aquest ion on the or ig in of h is poem:“Post-Modern Love Song ʼ w i th a f ierceattack:

I am try ing to remember what caused meto s tar t the poem. What I remember isthat i t started f rom a memory of a reviewof one of my poems. The rev iewer wasan af ic ionado of Char les Bukowski andpubl ished a l i t t le magazine dedicated tothe wri t ing of Char les Bukowski .

48

This Bukowski lover s ing led out one ofmy poems for severe cr i t ic ism. The se-lected poem was one in which I wroteabout a love affa i r using Hegel ian termi-no logy. He sa id I should have knownbetter than to use such abstruse, recon-di te, erudi te, polysyl labic language for alove poem. He must have been d isap-pointed because I d id not use any ob-sceni t ies or those meaningless “ fourle t ter words, ” which are the most usedwords in the lower, middle, and upperc lass vocabular ies, the I - they, non-se l fowned, s lave mental i ty vocabular ies.

Now this Bukowski lover did not use thewords I used above in descr ib ing h isstr ic tures, but used some commonplacecol loquia l isms der ived f rom an I - they,non-sel f owned, s lave mental i ty mannerof communicat ion.

I assumed that qual i f icat ions as con-ce ived by th is Bukowski lover to be apoet are ignorance, insensi t iv i ty, andemot ional def ic iency. The condi t ion ofbeing affected with the disease of aut ismis necessary and essent ia l for wr i t ing inthe Bukowski manner. …

I do not consider Bukowski a poet at a l l ,but a non-poet . He is on ly an I -They,non-sel f owned s lave menta l i ty wr i t ingfor o ther I -They, non-se l f owned, s lavemental i t ies. His popular i ty is due to thefact that most Americans hate poetry andseek to destroy poetry by f inding a surro-gate. The most outstanding destroyers ofgenuine poetry are found among our col-lege professors, poetry cr i t ics , poetryscholars , l i terary magazine edi tors , thenon-poets who fa lsely bel ieve and havefai th they are wr i t ing poetry and now e-z ine edi tors , a l though there are a fewrare except ions in the above ment ioned

categor ies who are not enemies of po-et ry. These except ions are d i f f icu l t tof ind, but these few wi l l save poetry f romdisappear ing in “Our Age of St i l lborn Po-etry.”

What can be summar ized f rom thesedamning cr i t iques? Besides an impover-ished knowledge of poetry to the pointthat i t cannot be cal led poetry, Bukowskiis seen as f ixated on h is own persona,devoid of a l l but the basest o f va lues,and foreign to the requis i tes of even po-et ic sensib i l i t ies of any form. Moreover,h is impover ishment o f words made a l lbut base language acceptable in much ofmodern poetry. F ina l ly, he was pr imi -t ive ly unaware of ph i losophy or post -modern thought that def ined theautonomy of an “authent ic sel f ʼ , let alonepoet.

Saying a l l th is , Bukowski had not a fewscholar ly defenders:

Gerald Lockl in, a wr i ter and professor atCal i fornia State Universi ty, Long Beach,and long- t ime f r iend, s ta ted in admira-t ion: "What he taught me is that you canmake poetry out of your dai ly l i fe," Lock-l in says "You don ' t have to wai t for thegreat moments; i t doesn ' t have to belove, death, war."In a major retrospect ive in The Guardianon September 2007, Tony O ʼNei l l makesa s t rong case for the beauty ofBukowski ʼs poetry:In the rush to f i le away Bukowski as abooze-addled f luke, h is ab i l i ty to laydown a truly beauti ful l ine has often beenover looked. Take these l ines descr ib ingthe genesis of Los Angeles:“ th is land punched- in cuffed-out d iv idedheld l ike a cruci f ix in a deathhand”Or take his poem Tragedy of the Leaves

49

which ends with the heartbreaking l ines:“and I walked into a dark hal l where thelandlady s tood execrat ing and f ina l ,sending me to he l l , waving her fa t ,sweaty arms and screaming screamingfor rent because the wor ld has fai led usboth.”Writ ing several ar t ic les on Bukowski for“Poetry Ci rc le : Contemporary PoetryForum”, Jay Dougher ty fur ther arguessuch snippets are representat ive of ge-n ius. He ident i f ies ʻ t rademark ʼBukowskian qual i t ies:

A keen ear for the musical qual i ty of nat-ura l , everyday speech; an abi l i ty to in-fuse s ign i f icance in to desperate,dreadfu l moments of h is own l i fe andthose of o thers wi thout becoming ba-thet ic or sent imental ; a tremendous faci l -i ty o f l is t ing and juxtaposing deta i ls o feveryday l i fe wi th abst ract ion e i ther toset a scene or to v iv i fy a theme; an art is-t ic d is tance f rom h is subjects which a l -lows h im to f ind humor and nuggets ofwisdom in even the most d ismal sce-nar io, h is own or others ' .

He then l inks T.S. E l io t ʼs work toBukowski ʼs ʻmasteryʼ:

" the t ragedy of the leaves” …showsBukowski a t h is t ightest ly r ica l ly. Thefirst l ine, " I awakened to dryness and theferns were dead," sets the reader downabrupt ly in to a wor ld as raped of hopeand promise as El io t 's f i rs t l ine in"Geront ion": "Here I am, an old man in adry month." But Bukowski 's deta i ls re-main c lose to home, not a l lud ing tomytholog ies but the rea l i t ies of thedowntrodden, a permanent wasteland asmuch of c i rcumstance as of choice: "andthe empty bott les l ike bled corpses / sur-rounded me with their uselessness." Thepoem sets a scene soon to become fa-

mi l iar to Bukowski readers: s t r ipped ofhope for work and seeing less sense inst ruggl ing wi th the average man thandying as a no-sayer, the poem's protag-onist remarks upon the dai ly struggles ofthe desperate, f inding some comfort , f i -nal ly, in the t ruths that a l low him to un-derstand their f rustrat ion.

El io t ʼs greatness wi thout the ʻpreten-t ious ʼ hyper-intellectualism, is a point tobe heart i ly celebrated.

He shocks the l i terary establ ishment withh is a l i terary s ty le and h is b lunt lan-guage, h is eagerness to "make i t new,"as Ezra Pound would say. He br ings theAmer ican language a l ive on the page,the way i t is spoken by the averageAmerican, and thereby del ights readerswho have long been disenchanted by l i t -erature's ant isept ic content and al ienat-ing auster i ty.

Conclusion

Bukowski ʼs epitaph has provided insightsfor fans and cr i t ics: “Don ʼ t t ry.” For cr i t -ics i t ʼs qui te s imple: “He didn ʼ t . ” For thedevoted reader th is was accl imat ion thatl i fe was meant to do, fee l , be and thenexpress.In conclusion, th is art ic le makes no pre-tense in resolv ing th is heated contro-versy; there are uncountable numbers onei ther s ide. I t a ims to le t readers knowthat th is controversy has lef t a deep im-press on the shape and form of poetrytoday. Thus perhaps i t is best to leavethe reader wi th one of h is most notedpoems in the hope that they wi l l seek outmore and consc ious ly determine whatthe wr i t ing of Char les Bukowski meansto them.

50

I awakened to dryness and the ferns were dead,the potted plants yel low as corn;my woman was goneand the empty bott les l ike bled corpsessurrounded me with their uselessness;

the sun was s t i l l good, though,and my landlady's note cracked in f ine andundemanding yel lowness; what was needed nowwas a good comedian, ancient s tyle, a jesterwith jokes upon absurd pain; pain is absurdbecause i t exis ts , nothing more;I shaved careful ly with an old razorthe man who had once been young andsaid to have genius; butthat 's the t ragedy of the leaves,the dead ferns, the dead plants ;and I walked into a dark hal lwhere the landlady stoodexecrat ing and f inal ,sending me to hel l ,waving her fat , sweaty armsand screamingscreaming for rentbecause the world has fai led us.

The Tragedy of the Leaves By Henry Charles Bukowski

thetragedy

of theleaves

51

last pledge

Considering current circum-stance... the postulates of sum ofthe greatest economists... posi-tioning a poem with America as amemor... is not too off balanced.Comment by Jason Neese

Last Pledgeby Yvon Cormier

I pledge allegianceto the disunited hopefulsof America,United under onerainy newsstand

To the tenement apartmentswith families,Who eat foodas communionwith their God

To the greasy spoons,to the five and dime,To the inevitable haircutat the side street barber

To the only libertythat stands on Liberty islandin the harbor

And just one friendto say cheers,At the local barover an after hours' beer

To make a mortal mark on the world,to create an immortal memory for all.

52

www.myspace.com/proteanview

http://www.myspace.com/SamaraR This is a good write. "Eyes rolled back and feel the white flagwaving" Like that a lot. Think it’s the way music can make mefeel after the stresses of life get to you. Music can take awayso much stress - Comment by Francis P Blue

White Flag by Samara

53

Slipping on a thin rope, stretched to its limits.Mind racing and filled to the brim, it has taken its toll.Weathered and soaked in empty sheets.

Raging war with clocks,facesplaces

Worn out scenes played overand overand over

I’m at warAt war with me, myself.

So I let the music take me, brake me.Weaving myself into & out the strings of a violin,beating drums, and the lite strumming of a guitar.Sinking slowly into the calm, while the raindrops sing softly on my windowpane. Letting go to where it’s just me and the music and mother natures lullaby.Eyes rolled back and see the white flag waving.

WhiteFlag

www.myspace.com/sundroprays

I am so very much with you. I feel the same exact way. And to have itwritten down like that, to read it to myself, that is a great privilage anda wonderful enlightenment of how many of us are going through thesame experiences, the same situations and thus the same emotions.Thank you for sharing it with us.Comment by Rob Shepherd

Take This Red Flagby Glorianne Kada

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it didn't matter that no one knew exactly what they were doing...the stereo typcial, egotistical, procedures of the day soon outweighedany solid intention that was holding the door open between our miscommunications

they all claimed red flags were raisedthe moment when we didn't follow their wayi claim to be a real rebel with a causewhose patterns play way too far outside the lines

it seems to me I am the one who has had to learn how to sacrificeand so what if i have some secret pleasures of my ownuse them against me if you choose to justify why i am not deserving

tried to be professional. found it just got me painted in the corner ofsatisfied grown up smiles content to have me pinned downbut i realize my sacrifice was always my choice

it has taken me closer to a true reality and penance of a deeper senseand i am only human, for what it's worth if i hurt anyone in my own intentions

red flag me for going out and having a good time

red flag me for loving someone out of the purest place in my heart

and red flag me for battling with my own lusting desire to make friends with the enemy, the off limitsto bring through something i knew to be true

whatever.take this red flagyou think i am wavingand place it in your databankof all the thingsi've done wrongin your eyes

take this red flagi'm done with thesemasquaradesto prove myselfto everyone

that i can beeverythingyou imaginedme to be

Take This Red

Flag...

Returning to what is familiar

by Kat Solomon

Re

tur

nin

gTo

Wh

at is

Fam

ilia

rMy case of emotional amnesia has brokenIn the middle of the inky black nightDoubling me over with intense painSurrounded by sweat soaked pillows and sheetsMy terror ridden cat screeches out of the roomMy screams matching her fearThe demons return to their familiar postsFear reestablishes itself as the principle gatekeeperOf my heart which has been shreddedMany times over by misplaced hopeAnd failure to see the truth of reality,Fear nods its head in ascentAllowing the cruel bastard of poor self esteemTo troll the inner recesses of a heartThat was onceOn the mend,Foolish, foolish womanFear shrieks inside meYou should have learned your lessons by nowHappiness is illusory, a pipe dreamAs phony as the progress you’ve convinced yourselfYou have made,So now that you know better,Return with me to the place you know well,The addiction, the long black tunnel leading to depressionCome back to what you are well acquainted withHow could you imagine that we would let you escape?Our grasps that easily?I feel myself taking leave of my body perhaps temporarily;Mind and heart clouded by emotional pain,I wait for the familiar numbnessTo return

55

This is soooo deep and inspiredme.......this is how I feel A LOT!!!Great poem!!! Comment byMaya Baby

www.myspace.com/katsolomon

Pre-Fossilization [WhenThere’s Still a Face toTear Off] by analept (BadWriter)

Secular imprints of scriptureon the high horse, vaccinationplacing pearls of indifference

meagerly before bulimic-eyed swinemeasure for water in demarcativegesture, hands whirring towardsan expansive variety of living

the wind-up motif a hand-me-downexistence wrinkled to a cog,shuffle the ballast towardmisnomer of fortune where

everyone is asking you"Did you see that?"

and you didn't, or, if you didit wasn't the same thing that

anyone else saw, and you feel foolishlanguage bottled and sold hereto the most flattering bidder

just hang around for the finalepulls words like swollen arrowsfrom the sockets of conscience

trying not to spray you with failurewhen the rupture exposes bone

and a fistful of leaking poems

www.myspace.com/themastercopyisaac

P re-fo s s i l i zat ion [When There’s Still a Face to Tear Off]

So much passion possessed intothese words, this poem... A fistful ofleaking poems, a great way to enda great poem. :)- Comment by Celeste56

Java, but ter cookies and elevator musicThis civi l ized world brings me intoToday

SquanderedThose hours of s leep yesterdayMissing the gentle swell of snowflakes

Shivering while this cof fee warms meInside out, inhal ing roast aromasEnjoying

DeliveryStr ings plucked humming wavesThat melody f i l ls me with longings

Take me to the rol l ing seas and shareFootprints washing away quicklyRhythmic t ides

Velvety carpetSoothing warm sands of t imeMissing not a moment of today

Yes, let not a moment slip away... NiceComment by Kellett

www.myspace.com/sweettalklil

Days to RememberBy Sweettalk~CultVault's Siren~

Days to Remember

57

When your spirit did first seize mine,I was overwhelmed with the power.I lost all sense of space and time,And a second seemed like an hour.

I was drained of all self control,Till left a lump of well wet clay.As with an artist's heart and soul,You began to mold what you may.

With firm fingers you formed my eyes,And your image I did behold.It took no time to realize,Your beauty shall never grow old.

With such care you gave me a nose,Your aroma was arousing,Like the fragrance of a roseInhaled upon first arising.

With hands cupped you made each ear,No longer did silence surround me.No sweeter sound I'll ever hear,In your motion, a symphony.

With deft skill you designed my mouth,I sampled what was before me.Nothing could compare north or south,From you flow rivers of honey.

You breathed in life and made me whole,I felt warmth in your tender touch.In turn I was given a soulTo desire you so very much.

Before you a new man I stand,I embrace you and draw you near.As sand through the fingers of my hand,From me you slip and disappear.

the Awakening

A new day can be our lifetime whenwe ponder the magnificence of thelight, the beauty, the warmth, the lifethat the sunshine in our lives has tooffer and give to our very being....beautifully written and wow! Sent meon a trip in a matter of secondspeaceComment by TiaLola

The Awakeningby Tony Vassilionwww.myspace.com/tony_vassilion

58

How to destroy a peopleby HeartsSonghttp://www.myspace.com/heartssong

First of all, teach your own children,with their mothers milk, with the songsthat you sing to them at night,that they are entitled; that the landhas always been theirs.Over and over again,until the other people who share this landare made almost invisible;so that they become mere shadowsto be brushed out of the wayof your sun.Don't show your childrenthe maps which shows that other landsubsumed, gradually vanishingfrom year to year.Justify what you dowith the profound sufferingthat your people endured;let that blind and deafen youto the suffering of others.Trap them into an airless corridorof land,deny them access to their water sources,tell your selves that you're entitledto all their resources.Destroy their olive groves,

deny them the choice of their own leaders.Build up an army that leechesupon the hearts of all your men;create over and over againan enemy to throw your fears upon.Then when your enemies young men,break out of the anguish that defines their days,unleash your armies, send your obliterating bombs that we finance,into the schools, the hospitals, the playgrounds;And thenallow yourselves to weepand send up prayersfor the maimed and murdered childrenthat lie beside their lifeless mothers,traumatized and dazed.

Would you rather bring down the world,than face up to the realityof what you are doing to your own humanity?

How to

Destroy a people

59

So powerful, you bring great attention to thechaos of now and tomorrow, and the ending witha question to affect a response. Awesome Comment by Absorb the Orb - DeNav Writer

I've realized the realityof televisionby Francis P Blue

I love how you capture the irony andidiocy that truly is tv. Great poem!Comment by Kat Soloman

I ’ v e r e a l i z e d t h er e a l i t y o f Te l e v i s i o n

Liquidize my melting brainWatch it slowly flow down my drainYesIt's our faultBlame usFor making famousA shamelessIgnoramusWhat's her name? What's his name?Why do they put them selves to shame?Television is so lameLet's burn it I proclaimOr at least turn it offWhy must I watch a talent less fool loosing their cool?Is this reality?NoJust another freak showSo reaching for the remoteI turn overYes no surpriseThis is so wrongHow low will they stoop?Look at this nincompoopAs my brain cells regroupMy girlfriend slept with my Transvestite Uncles, cousins, Mothers, naughty naturalist neighbour's sonOh what bloody funAll sitting thereAs I stareWhile they wash their laundry in the public eyeIt's enough to make you cry

www.myspace.com/francispblue60

THIS DISTANT SCREAMby James Crafford

i keep hearing this distant screamand i can't tellif it is a child or a woman or abird

sometimes it sounds like a sirenand other times like music

some kind of operatic high notea piercing one

i feel it in the filthy dungeons of my heartand in the dark pathological alleys of my memories

i know you don't hear itbecausei can see by the expression on your facethatit is not affecting you

so i am not going to bother to bring it upover southern pecan coffee this morning

but later on todaywhen you ask me what i am thinkingi am going to lie

I feel that deep awareness/self protected reservation inthis one.. both raw exposition and sturdy composition...rich write! the feeling... but I want to say "Don't lie!! Tell!!and then go seek out that sound!! ~!!!" but that's justme ;} ..another excellent piece JimComment by Sarah Free

The Distant Scream

61

www.myspace.com/jamescrafford

This poem is created like a pendulum moving forward and back-ward, unable to choose a direction to move. As a single momentwhich can expand in time or to be frozen in present and thus todissolve in the past. This is brilliant! Comment by PaulVwww.myspace.com/wordjunkiespace

the inconclusive kissBy Gillian Prew

light as dipping budtracing air with coloursparing the dark from its boundarylips whispering cleanthe dirt of methe nuance of particleclaiming space as oursthe touch is almost

& yet everything

& further from herehistorywhere kisses begin wars& the blush of mouthis blood

& forwardfuturewhere love isthe gossip of permanencetittle-tattle of eternity

& backherewherewe do not know

& yet everything

The Inconclusive

kisS

62

I Can't Stop Nodding My Head To This Song

63

www.myspace.com/464559229I Can't Stop Nodding My Head To This Song By M for Mag(i)cant

Well my dear neighbor... I always like your poetry even though it seems a bit edgyand dark at times, but there is such a wonderful curiousity and sense of humour inyour words. I REALLY like how your presentation has taken shape too in the lastwhile since I began following your words. Comment by Glo64

Ghost in the Atticby Angelheartwww.myspace.com/angelheartwxyz

This is excellent! peace and love.Comment by Justin Blackburn

Ghostin the Attic

Hiding in Grandma's Attic..we had our own secret spaceblocks built into fortressesStory lines changing dimensionone moment we were"Lost In Space" Pretend spaceships gliding throughtime...I was Leia and you were Luke,Hoist Your Petard..( I thought it was Retard)

Danger Will Robinson.. Danger..Teddy was Chewbacca and he didnt mindnot in the least.

Falling into piles of pillowsthat were cosmic dust..chasing each other with pretend sabres.. into the dusty cornersthat even mice didnt venture,I had a secret compartment there.. where we stowed awaypictures, stories that were written by you and me.A time capsule of our own makinga breath of childish whispersthat were spectre of lightThey encompassed that space,the laughter rhythm and rhyme.

After Grandma died, many years laterI climbed the rickety stairs,hearing the squeakwith each stepsending shivers up my spineLight trickled into tiny window frame,webs hung like Irish Lacea dowery of her ancestoryforgotten toys I bent to touch,lingering with a smileover cups still setwith foccilized Oreo on tiny plateHan Solo sitting next to Ballerina Barbiefaux date in progressClosed my eyesand I could almost hear his laughthe cousin who kept me companyeach summer..quick to laugh, and to jokedamn he always cheated at jacks.

I sat cross leggedreading the story we took turns writingwonderingwhy family drifts like sandand noone meets in summers anymorelike our parents always did,Why did this story have to end

Closing my eyesI almost drifted back,into another time and spaceout of the corner of my eyeI could have swornI saw the hazy shapeof a child looking back at mea whisper of touchon bare legwas all I felt

Was it real...

65

... where we stowed awaypictures, stories that were

written by you and me.A time capsule of our own making

a breath of childish whispersthat were spectre of light

They encompassed that space,the laughter rhythm and rhyme.

I Am

i amby Michael Egidio Quiggwww.myspace.com/worksofq

i a m p r i n c ea n d p a u p e ri a m r o g u ea n d p r o p e r

i a m m e a la n d c r u m bs m a r t a n d d u m bi a m s e n s i t i v ea n d n u m b

i a m k i n da n d c r u e li a m f o o da n d s t o o l

i a m s t r o n ga n d w e a kb o l d a n d m e e ki a m b o r i n ga n d f r e a k

i a m b e l o wa n d i a m a b o v ei a m p u l la n d i a m s h o v ei a m h a t ea n d i a m l o v e

In so few words you said somuch... Comment byJohn(Coyote)66

I Am Woman by Sweet Clover

Behold, and bear witness to the visionWomanWrapped in passions silkRadiating power and sensualitySeeds of the universe ripeRolling hips and swell of breastFully rounded, sweetly softGraceful in turn of hand, and lips

Creator of the divine worldWomanBegetter, of warriorsStrong and benevolent KingsAuthor of empiresA sigh of peace held within chaosDivinator of beautyFull of contradiction

Consume the beauty

WomanUnadorned and gloriously feminine

Mysterious in being

Calling in the scent of love

Pure in form

Her skin glistening, diamond sweat

Satiated in loves kiss

Woman.Behold my visage

Breathe

Revel in my being

I am Woman

www.myspace.com/mypaintedlife

Makes me feel powerful...thanks...beautiful. Comment by Nella

I Am Woman

67

Inspired by a trip to Nanaimo, and of course, written on the ferry.

R o c k s , s a n dTe a m i n g w i t h l i f e .O p a q u e r e s i d u e a n df l a k y g r e e n k e l pb a k e d i n t o t h e p e b b l e s .T h e O c e a n p u s h e s a n d p u l l sr e v e a l i n g i t ' s s e n s i t i v e e d g e su n d e r a t t a c k b yf e e t , b o a t s , c h i l d r e n

T h e n l i g h t s h i f t s a n dl i k e t h e m o o ns h e s w e l l s ,c o v e r s u p f o r t h e n i g h ta n d s e n d s o u t h e r r e f u s e .R o l l i n g o n t o t h e s h o r et h i s r h y t h m a n d c u r l i n g o f s o u n d .

It was then translated into Italian by my dad,

and I quickly turned that into a piece of music.

S c o l i e e s a b b i ap u l l u l a n t i d i v i t a ,r e s i d u i o p a c h ie s c a g l i e d i l a m i n a r i a v e r d ee s s i c c a t e a i s a s s i .F l u s s i e r i f l u s s i d e l l o c e a n or i v e l a n t i I s u o i b o r d i d e l i c a t ia t t a c a t i d a p i e d i , n a v i , b a m b i n i

D ' u n t r a t t o l a l u c e m u t aC o m e l a l u n a l ' o c e a n o s i g o n f i ae s i c o p r e c o n l a n o t t er i m a n d a n d o a l l a s p i a g g i ai r i f i u t i r o b o a n t i ;q u e s t o r i t m o e r o t o l i o d e l s u o n o

www.myspace.com

/alibomb

The Oceanby Allison

What a great discription ofthe ocean, I love everythingabout, I love the way shecovers up at night...excellent! Comment by Melissa

The OceaN

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To My ReflectionBy Pepperwww.myspace.com/459010826

Trifecta hurrahs!! This is fantastic, with the strut soundinglike it returns by the end. You've changed my day with this.Comment by J. Hezekiah Kepler

I lost my strut today

My I'm making peace

with the earth march

Because you came

With your papercut eyes

Stabbing my face

My perfectly imperfect face

What did you think you would see?

Replacing beauty for vanity

You imposter

It's my march

A stampede of failed flesh

As disgustingly beautiful

As a victim to the surface is

So I'll stay beneath it

Filtering my shadows

And bathing in my screams

I can't confuse my making

With your pretty dreams

I've tried

And lost

My longing to belong

to being lost

Swallowing splinters for lust

Because I thought that I should

That I must, trust

That there's a dust

That I cannot see

Falling silently, just like me

Bringing me here

But I'm in here

So, take me dirty

Unashamed and clear

A pilgrim soaked in promise

Flaunting hope

I'm desire, altered grace

Not the portrait of a face,

on mass

Not the girl in this glass.

To My Reflection

afterward by Sarah Free

Like your art Sarah your poetry speaks volumes:) Lovely to watch you bloom featured poet ofthe day lovelyyyyyyyyyyyyy kiss xComment by **BabyM**

http://www.myspace.com/safranna

*"If you eatnowthe bound lotussteamed in lemon butter wine andsweet cardamom Yum!it does not burst or break into bloom...Ask not your belly whywhile savoring the flavoursof blossom.~blossoming sings~to Wholes,holes filled bycoloured stringsstrands,pulled lightinto the heartof eyes'sighs.silversealing waxsurfaces smoothedinwardly weeping inksabsorbed by cells' walls' orificesdrinking colour up as kissesgrace in the hollows,hallowed."*

Afterward

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A Diifferent Kind ofBeauty by Si

The first commenter nailed it- range. Thisbrings the reader through a range of emotionfew manage to capture so succinctly. Humor,lust, sorrow, hope and pride - all in a handulof words. supremely ordinary, Si. Commentby Isaac Seal

/www.myspace.com/jo_nobody

A Different Kin Beauty

i h a v e s e e nm a n yw o m e n n a k e ds o m e l o v e r s ,s o m e f r i e n d s ,s o m e b y l i f e ' s o d d c h a n c e ,

a t s e v e n I s a w o u r a u p a i rs u n b a t h e t o p l e s s ( d i d n ' t b a t a n e y e l i d )

a t t e n I s a w m y s i s t e rb y m i s t a k e( s c a r e d t h e s h i t o u t o f m e )

a t f o u r t e e n o u r c a n a d i a n f r i e n d ' s d a u g h t e r ' s b i k i n i t o pf e l l o f f a t t h e s w i m m i n g p o o li l o o k e d t h e o t h e r w a y w h i l e s h e r e t r i e v e d i t ,l a t e r s h e t o l d m e i t h a d b e e n a " t e s t "( i ' d f a i l e d )

a n d t h e n c a m e l i f e ,t h a t o d d m i x o f a w k w a r d m o m e n t s a n d e l a t i o n ,s o m u c h t h a t w a sl o s t i n t r a n s l a t i o n ,j o ' s a s s e r t i o n " t h a t ' s n o t a l l i d o " ,v a l ' s p e r f e c t - p e r f e c t b r e a s t s( b u t a l l t h a t p a i n )t o r a n d h e r p h r a s e , a l m o s t b u t n o t q u i t e a p o l o g e t i c" m o r e t h a n a h a n d f u l i s a w a s t e " ,

a l l t h e s ec a m ea n d w e n t ,

a n d t h e n c y n t h i af i f t y - t w o w i t h a c a t h e t a f i t t e d ,t h r e e y e a r s o f a l z h e i m e r sh a d r o b b e d h e r o f t h e s p a r k l et h a t c o m e s w i t h " d o w n s " ,t h a t j o y i n l i f e ,

a n d t h e n c y n t h i ai c h a n g e d h e r p a da n d w i p e d a w a y t h e s h i tt h a t o t h e r s p r e t e n d e d n o t t o s m e l ln e a r t h e e n d o f t h e i r s h i f t ,

a n d t h e n c y n t h i ab e d b a t h s a n d h o i s t s ,d i g n i t yi s n o t m e a s u r e do n a t i c k l i s t o f p a d c h a n g e s ,b u t i n t h e e y e sa n d i n t h e d a y s ,w h e nn a k e d m o m e n t sp a s s e d b e t w e e n u s ,

a n d t h e n c y n t h i ai w i s h e di h a d k n o w n t h e l a u g h t e ra n d t h e h u m o u rt h a t o t h e r ss p o k e o f ,

b u t

i k n e w e n o u g ht o s e eh e rb e a u t y .

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On May 16, 2009, the filly Rachel Alexandra won the Preakness Stakes. This is the "second leg" of thethoroughbred Triple Crown. A late entry, Rachel Alexandra had been hailed as a "super filly," havingwon the all-filly Kentucky Oaks by more then twenty lengths. For those of you who do not know muchabout horse racing, "lengths" translate into the length of a horse, or its approximate. When RachelAlexandra won the Preakness, she was in the process of being "run down" by fast-closing KentuckyDerby winner Mine That Bird. Another five or so seconds and he would have overcome her. This poemis for him.

Bird Song By Lola

Yes... but he will always have that victory at theDerby. One for the ages. Well done, my friend.I enjoyed it very much. Comment by Larry Kuechlin

I am son of the champion BirdstoneAnd my sweetheart momMining My OwnThat is where I gotMy silly-sounding nameAlthough tiny in statureAnd a bit uncoordinated My heart is huge, pulsating With dignity and courage.

I run faster than a raging stormThe blood of Arabian stallionsCoursing through my veinsAs I gallop I feel velvety sandUnder my bare hoovesWhat a cushion, such a springI fly up and into the desertWith powerful wings.

Small steed that I amI have dignityI know who I am, I am proudTo be me, little horse, tiny heirTo a throne, Mine That BirdThat is who I am.

I am The One who came from behindDead last, but not by accident

Defying all predictionsI surpassed my fellow steedsAs if they were dead asleepI left nineteen horsesIn my wake rapidly And in stunned silence.

Mine That Bird I amAnd I so want to pleaseJust ask me softly and I will runBeat me, and I ask why?I am giving you my whole heartIt is yours for the takingBut not if you insist oh, noNot if you throttle Me with your whip.

And so, on Preakness DayYou held me back when I wasReady to run heart bursting with prideWhy did you do that?At long last, you set me freeAnd I raced past all the othersOne by one like a phoenixAs you were whipping me mercilesslySquirmy little midget on my backYou cost me my victory.

Bird Song

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www.myspace.com/limetaxi2

www.myspace.com/nosajofthehillpeople

Push a l i t t le furtherto real ize what I a lready havethat which gets s to len from meEveryday in the c i tyThe r ight way i s openstronger than my oneare the cumulat ive woesthat tear at s tanding monuments for meWhere noonewi l l ever seeIt ' s a l l I ever need them to beIn the c i tyI don' t see you tryWhere. . . . .Where are you?If you are scaredl ike meThere i s a chanceto crawl awayWait ing a whi le for the r ight dayto l i s ten for the soundsof the things we areThen c l imb to a common groundwandering this young placefa l l ing in love with s imple g race

cityby nosajofthehillpeople You are awesome! Great job...

Comment by Nilsa V. Torres

CitY

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Implies that the East is conservative. I've never really found it to be that way. Bothcoasts are kind of forward thinking.It's when you travel West or East ofthe coasts that free thought be-comes stagnant. Wonderful poem,full of fantastic wordplay. I love apoem that uses language so intelligently. Comment by Grizabella Jellicle/CatScratch Reborn

WESTby: Mr. Green theunanswered poetwww.myspace.com/230864753

The Rooster points west,towards L.A. nights and Nevada desertswhere the decision is cast on a pair of fixed dice.The pirated soundbytesthat hoist the mainframe of the fortunateand obsolete tidings of passing crowds..

Venture onto the sunless strip,and watch the Rodeo of clownless cars andheads that steer clear of being gored and maimedbeneath the trumped up horns of the apocalypse.

My will has been placed under cardiac arrestand the officials claim my motive was boredom.Atral fib beats the stillness of empathy,so I will not resist the impending incarcerationand relocation of the witnesses there.They know the real story behind the random occurrences.

The marquee overtop the Mirage reads"for weary souls with a hint of chance".The invitation was supposed to be sent R.S.V.P.But promptness has never been a winning suit.

Dogtown is an excellent course for action.The swimming pools provide an even splash of supportfor the slanted riders of thin decks.There is plenty of seemless chlorine on the shallow endand I can keep from flying over the cuspif I hold tightly to the nosedive.

Applause is free of chargeand can be picked up at your local grocery store.Just remember that it may cause side effectssuch as slight vomiting and diarrhea of the brain.

Cacti is abundant near the Bunny Ranch,so be sure to apply it to each and every star-gazing ideathat crosses your path.It makes for an excellent substitute to penicillinand that is a great helpsince it's no longer offered at the entrance.

So leave today...now... this instant.Catch the next bus going west and pray for the bumpy roads.It will shake loose your misconceptions on the present,and the Rooster will greatly appreciate your conservatism...

Wes

t

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www.myspace.com/impalis

Endless Meby Kathleen J. Sather

Perfect title! A person stays in a constant state of change... I love thefeeling of freedom, dance,wings.....very good!! Comment by Phibby

Endless MeinevitablyI see a merereflection of mestaring aimlesslyat the shellthat used to be merealizing I am freeopening new wingsdancing wildly inchange's breeze

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I will never tip my hat as a matter of courtesyBut I will extend respect to everyone because that is the common denominatorHowever the more you demand from me the less I will bend into your conformityIf life to you means who you are in the eyes of someone elseWe will have our differences and they will most likely keep us separatedBecause the more I learn about this thing called breathingI sense now that the only thing that makes any sense is to give it all awayAnd never expect any return because that would be an investmentAnd the more I learn about this thing called livingThe more I sense that giving it all away is by all means the road less traveled to common senseWithin all this is the irony that becoming rich is really just the ability on how to possess nothing

I watch these documentaries looking for tales of secrecy hidden in the contentAll the secrets are there for the taking when applying attention to the reverseAs I proclaim the “I refuse to be molded” mantra while some disrespectful poetMisunderstands the simplicity in self worth verses the hatred of self loathingAnd smothers himself and others deep inside the traumaAnd the more I learn about this complicated story I sense the moral of the chronicleIt’s best to just give it all away and ask for nothingThat would be the hardest thing to procure in this folk tale read as lifeThe complications involved are so magnified when the last thing anyone wantsIs a real model that exemplifies how everything is really freeEventually someone comes along with a price tag and sells it back to humanityThe more I learn about this thing called breathingThe more I see that the only way to be clean is to give it all awayWithout thinking twice about why or about the reward that comes in the long runThe more I learn about my fellow man the more I realizeThat when I give it all away there’s always someone who wants to stop meBut the only one I have to answer to is this impractical voice inside my headThe more I learn about myself the more I comprehend this yearning that keeps driving meTo just give it all away

When you get what you want... you should give it away Comment by Glowww.myspace.com/glenstill10kpoet

Give It All AwayBy Glen Still

Give It AllAway

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The Valentine I Never Gave You

The Valentine I Never Gave YouBy Scott Clark Farley