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10KPOETS

National Poetry Month Issue 2009

10KPOETS National Poetry Month Issue 2009
Welcome To 10K Poets National Poetry Month Issue 2009
Welcome To 10K Poets
National Poetry Month Issue 2009

The National Poetry Month Issue 2009 of the 10K Poets Zine represents the culmination of 18 months of back breaking effort to bring to the MySpace community and beyond the best in non-traditional poetry. Our goal from the beginning has been to give the unpublished poet a venue of recognition. 10K Poets began as a blog that created a community of creative and socially minded individuals. The blog focused on presenting a real "Community" to MySpace poets from diverse backgrounds, perspectives, and levels of expertise. From this small beginning 10K Poets grew into three online poetry journals, Eviscerator Heaven, Deep Tissue Magazine, and the flagship zine of the 10K Poets enterprise 10K Poets Zine. Next, came the internet radio shows “Poets Dream in Color” on Wednesday nights and soon to follow the “Daily Happy Hour.” The 10K Poets radio shows provided poets from all over the globe the opportunity to call in and read their poetry live. Many poets have found their voice in taking advantage of this unique opportunity to grow not only as a poet, but also as a performer. Then, there was the Spoken Word. 10K Poets began to partner with producers, musicians and poets to create Spoken Word tracks and to promote Spoken Word Artists. This venture has grown into large propor- tions with more and more poets recording their poems to music. This growth and new direction in poetry has been welcomed by all of us at 10K Poets.

10K Poets began with a common attribute, we all had a passion for poetry and a desire to be heard. Over these 18 months, 10k Poets has grown as a community and each individual has grown personally. 10K Poets has had such wonderful success, not because of one person, but because of the community of poets. Individuals all over the world have stepped up to contribute their time and talents to make this poetry community what it is today. It could not be more fitting that all this combined effort finds a home in the National Poetry Month Issue 2009 of the 10K Poets Zine. We know that this issue will lit- erally blow you away. Enjoy reading and know that we promise from the bottom of our hearts to continue to grow both as poets and as citizens of our global environment. m Peace

Glen Lantz Bo Blount Glo Kada Dan Kellett Nic St. James Lindsey Rankin A. J.
Glen Lantz Bo Blount
Glo Kada
Dan Kellett
Nic St. James
Lindsey Rankin
A. J. Kaufmann
Kat Solomon
Scott Clark Farley
Yossarian Hunter
Connie Stadler
Jim Crafford
Petra Whiteley Antony Hitchin
Newamba
Nate Ranson Kathleen J. Sather Glen Still
1

Contributing Poets

2

 

page

Connie

Stadler

3

Glen

Still

4

Glorianne

Kada

4

Anthony

Hitchin

5

Cyndi

Dawson

6

Ta r r i n g o

T.

V a u g h a n 7

Amanda

Barnes

8

Jeff

Sibley

 

9

Nic

St.

James

1 0

Renae

Fréson

1

1

Cameron

 

Lange

 

1 2

Vic

Ty l e r

Swan

 

1 3

C o l

l

i

n s

1 4

S

a r a h

N e l l a

V a n i

l

l

a 1 5

C.Lucas

Smith

 

1 6

K~D09

 

1 7

Francoise

 

1 8

Glen

Lantz

 

1 9

Newamba

 

2 1

W

o r d m a c h i n i s t

 

2 2

Angelheart

 

2 2

A.J.

Kaufman

 

2 3

M

a r y

2 4

John

M c L a u g h l i n Sweet

2 5

Y

o s s a r i a n

 

H u n t e r

2 6

Left

&

Leaving

2 7

Christian

 

Alvarez

2 8

Sate

 

2 9

C

.

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 c

Scott

Clark

Farley

3 7

Sean

Reddan

3 8

 

page

Jarlid

Shadows

3 9

Rob

Shepherd

4 0

Kellett

4 1

floating

baby

J

4 3

Connie

Stadler

4 5

Bukowski

5 1

Y

v o n

C o r m i e r

5 2

Samara

5 3

Glorianne

Kada

5 4

Kat

Solomon

5 5

Analept(Badwriter) 5 6

Sweettalk

 

5 7

To

n y

V a s s i l i o n

5 8

HeartSong

 

5 9

Francis

P

Blue

6 0

James

Crafford

6 1

Gillian

Prew

6 2

M

for

Mag(i)cant

6 3

Angelheart

 

6 5

Michael

E.

Quigg

6 6

Sweet

Clover

6 7

Allison

 

6 8

Pepper

6 9

Sarah

Free

 

7 0

S

i

7 1

Lola

 

7 2

Nosajofthehillpeople

M r .

Kathleen

Glen

G r e e n

Still

7 4 Sather 7 5 7 6

J.

Glen

Still

-

Executive

Editor

Glen

Lantz

-

Managing

Editor

Glorianne

Kada

-

Design

Editor

Scott

Clark

Farley

-

Copy

Editor

A 10K Poets Publication

 

2009

Imagine In a world where Thieves Rapists Liars Butchers Hold the Miter to smash And
Imagine
In a world where
Thieves
Rapists
Liars
Butchers
Hold the Miter to smash
And damn.
Where roaches crawl over babies’ faces
Because mommy must scam
Next fix
Next trick
Because she lost her childhood
Innocence
Long before
It ever began.
And families are cleaved by a market tick
Homeless
Hungry
Empty
Sick
And hope is a word without
Relevance
Reference
Meaning
Unknown
In this lifeless, deathless, stillborn alone…
Imagine If a Legion were formed
Out of Warriors
Armed with
Slaughtering
Deafening Song
And with One Voice
They spoke the Truth
In Miraculous Shouts
Of Pummeling Rage
Assailing Capitalist
Parapets
Cleansing out all
that
Pus, that
Gore
And then force-feeding them, till
They become
Truly
The fattened swine
They are
Oh so throat slit fine…
Imagine Ten Thousand Poets Strong
The Moneychangers’ Temple
would crumble
The ‘Ordained’ will cower
beneath Humbled
The Child-Cry Succubae must stumble
On their knees
bleeding
Speculum Spectacles lost, flailing,
wailing
Into kiss of the abyss
Ten thousand poets strong
On that day
That
Magnificent
Triumphant
Day of All Days
On that Day,
‘A terrible beauty’
would
Be born…
33

Ten

Thousand

Poets

Ten Thousand Poets by Connie Stadler

www.myspace.com/nywvprof

Thousand Poets by Connie Stadler www.myspace.com/nywvprof MAGNIFICENT! What a battle cry. You inspire us in many

MAGNIFICENT! What a battle cry. You inspire

us in many ways with your poetry and here is

another

Comment by Si Philbrook

Bravo

indeed.

4

the day dawns with melodies and the night clings to air where
the day dawns with melodies
and the night clings to air
where

sounds are lights of identity knowing is undeniable this reluctant question of was that really you

we can Do it all

there's a zone within dreams where voices yield to the engine of our souls uniting minds without walls as real as dialing numbers on a phone spirit to spirit call just for the chance to hear the sound of the same tone echo back hello

a magic carpet revs to lift us away from inside this day of reasoning minds meet on a plateau to stare out at the day

the mundane time and routine of each day ceases each of us without toil or occupation hand in hand on the path of observation the day of reason when we allow the painting of our smile

two have become one in the universe of common cause to be a visionary standing inside the ordinary we can do it all when we question

and explore the answers in each other

We

Can Do

It

All

by Glorianne Kada & Glen Still

other We Can Do It All by Glorianne Kada & Glen Still www.myspace.com/glenstill10kpoet www.myspace.com/sundroprays
other We Can Do It All by Glorianne Kada & Glen Still www.myspace.com/glenstill10kpoet www.myspace.com/sundroprays

www.myspace.com/glenstill10kpoet

www.myspace.com/sundroprays

you have presented

something many have felt and experienced

here and presented it to us splendidily with a

it is a gift to see it woven masterfully

Wonderful work you two

voice that dances in unity here as beauty in visions

thank you poet and poetess :) Comment by Nic St. James

WolF Flesh cut beyond commodity, marked beyond the mundane directional - the original recordings -
WolF
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.

Antony and I have been pushing through myspace and poetry circuits for nearly two years now together and aside from him being a dear friend, I have watched his work develop and expand like a nuclear bomb - totally powerful and nearly a sheer force of its own. But this guy is disciplined and works hard. This is a poet I respect, admire and read as much of as I can. 5 Comment by Cyndi Dawson

and read as much of as I can. 5 Comment by Cyndi Dawson Wolf by Antony

Wolf by Antony Hitchin

BIO: A.D.Hitchin is a poetry and prose writer published extensively in small press and independent journals including ‘Blaze VOX‘, ‘Ditch’, ’Dogmatika’ and ‘3AM’. His ’The Holy Hermaphrodite’ chapbook has just been released by Shadow Archer Press. You can catch newly updated experiments at:

www.myspace.com/antonyhitchin

http://antonyhitchin.blogspot.com

The Feel Of the Brush 'Towering Greed' shouts NY papers under gray skies, gray skies
The Feel Of the Brush
'Towering Greed' shouts NY papers
under gray skies, gray skies
running, dim watercolors, painted on the
back of glass reflections, on the heads of
gold capped skyscrapers
People expecting something it rained down
as nothing
it
rained in California wetting
a
drought of banktrupcy;
it
rained down Chicago where imposters
stepped in for shadows--
Tore a hole in a canvas of unemployment
with a paper congress turning the other cheek
against panes of glass on the Towers of Greed
Men carrying their lives, filed in animal skins
scurrying to steel trains, and how easily they bend, both
men and trains when currency is in question
The towers reached into a heaven where 10,000 gods
compete for medals, this olympic hunger feeds from
their mouths as they lick their lips with faith
faith in a system, a system of faith, a thousand sleeping
humans sleeping on streets, missing their boarding time
on trains leading to golden capped towers.
Those most swollen, ingested of lead, plump fingers on
the air-brushed dollar, they throw change down,
they rain change down upon the heads of the sleeping
wanderers 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 like
the eyes of a blind man into the blind sky guessing at
the melting colors, the strength of steel, the utter
blandness of a canvas stretched of 'Towering Greed'.
The Feel of the Brush
By Cyndi Dawson
When future civilizations find records of our downfall
- this will be one they will use to piece together what
happens when greed runs amok - Comment by
Glen Still
www.myspace.com/insideofoutside
66
Empty Streets Imagine if images reflected through store front windows were kidnapped by extinction. No
Empty Streets
Imagine if
images reflected through store front windows
were kidnapped by extinction.
No more homeless cries were heard
from the voice of hope
starving for just one nickel
one dime
maybe a quarter.
Imagine no more traffic jams
during rush hour;
No obscenities polluting the air
with frustration
As restless souls drive
through streets of desperation
just trying to avoid the car wreck
of economic pressure.
Imagine
walking down sidewalks once filled
with many colors of emotions
and now seeing invisible faces.
no eyes staring back at you;
no crowded noise filling your eardrums
with everyday words.
Imagine if it was all taken away
and we were left with
empty streets.

7

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

a pleasure to read - thanks so much! Comment by Rich Follett Empty Streets by Tarringo

Empty Streets

by Tarringo T. Vaughan

www.myspace.com/tauros0427

American MaN American man thinks American man sees American man wishes He had this, that,
American MaN
American man thinks
American man sees
American man wishes
He had this, that, and these
American man is foolish
American man can be much better
To impress American woman
Using labels, lies, and jewelry
Even though American woman
Can see through his tomfoolery
American man role models
What American boy should be
The future of (man)kind remains
American man will sadly repeat
American man is empty
American man should read
American man is gullible
American man is in need
The sequence of painful ignorance
Unless new evolution is in store
American man without a doubt
Will remain American poor
American man lacks knowledge
To non-American cries
American man must listen
If he ever wishes to become wise
Spread love to humanity
Help others become greater
Is American man’s obligation
(American man don’t wait until later)
Of the image he portrays
American man is so much better
For when American man begins
Civilization will be much clearer
American man stop sleeping, wake up!
American man look in the mirror

8

American Man by Amanda Barnes

www.myspace.com/muserenae

8 American Man by Amanda Barnes www.myspace.com/muserenae If only American men, would listen to you Amanda

If only American men, would listen to you

Amanda keep writing.

It’s Hard These

Days

There was an old man walking solemnly alone snot hung dry to his unshaven face he smelled of day old garbage and cat shit

I wanted to give him some money but I had none it’s hard these days

I got home the screen door is broken

Goddamn dope heads

I think of myself and that drug dealer I robbed when I was drunk

the screen door is fixed when she walks thru her auburn hair glowing beautiful in the dim light

could only afford 25 watt bulbs it’s hard these days

can’t afford cable no t.v. if I could

lift the couch cushion no change she beat me to it

she cooks dinner tonight

spaghetti again no sauce or cheese this time

go outside

walk across the street to my neighbors house he’s a lawyer doing just fine

lots of crimes being committed these days

pluck a rose from his wife’s garden

I I I I I I I It’s Hard These Days by Jeff Sibley www.myspace.com/johnnydepth13
I
I
I
I
I
I
I
It’s Hard These Days
by Jeff Sibley
www.myspace.com/johnnydepth13

9

he watches from the window and grins it’s not a friendly grin he’s showing me how much bigger his cock is than mine

go back home

she’s just bringing out the noodles

place the rose beside her plate

It’s the best I can do baby

know she replies its hard these days.

Can damn sure relate

hell I empty my change jar at least once a

and we eat lots of spaghetti

thanks

Comment by d n beth

month just to get by till months end

round here

for the imagery Jeff

sweet touch placing the rose beside her plate

peace

db

10

These worms drown on the cement As my throat drowns in selfishness And sickening pity
These worms drown on the cement
As my throat drowns in selfishness
And sickening pity
From the split bleeding pain
Of my breast
In disconnected thoughts
The desires of echoes
Mud amplifies sticky doubt
Acid rain burns the layers
Of me away
Those that felt you
Those that cared
Skinless we fall
Like sundried worms
Half baked
Dried in the sun
Exposed and forgotten

The use

of personification here is fantastic! Great feature, 10K and wonderful

writing, Nic! I don't believe that you will ever be forgotten! Comment by Twaddle

It comes and goes

lives and dies, and often is born again

Acid Rain

High desert showers cleanse the browned earth Quenching the animal and human thirst Insects danced in those warmed showers

I used to know

Before they were washed away to their arroyo death

Gray days in Georgia cover my failures Washing away my glimmers of light

I spoke to him of oceans

Oceans within his eyes As “whore” slipped from his lips He failed to see

The puddles molding clay and deadened compost Linger and sit upon my heart this morning

A

song my sign that what is felt

Is

not always reciprocated

Like the child’s heart I still wear

know that the love is not going to come from anywhere This moment

I

know that the love is not going to come from anywhere This moment I www.myspace.com/479504957 Acid

www.myspace.com/479504957

Acid Rain by Nic St. James

Introspection by Renae Fréson www.myspace.com/muserenae
Introspection
by Renae Fréson
www.myspace.com/muserenae
I am exactly where I belong well oriented within the vast, intangible grid intersecting (in)sanity
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

This was brilliant. It's one of those wonderful poems that you can chew on for ages. Dissecting it over and over again and knowing that each time you find a new meaning to it, finding something new, something different, something personal only to yourself each and every time. Thank you Renae, this was a pleasure to read Comment by Rob Shepherd

The Answer is Let me paint a picture for you. please enlighten this confusion! I'm
The Answer is
Let me paint a picture for you.
please enlighten this confusion!
I'm standing up straight,
not like I usually do because I'm tall
and all that but –
holding my childhood in my right hand
and my future in my left.
The past always carries a little more
weight to it but it's ok,
my right arm is stronger,
Besides… I can't go home
I gave away everything I own,
except my cello, because honestly
it sings transcriptions of my soul.
They took what I offered gladly,
it can keep the balance.
My feet shuffle to a cliff's edge.
There are a million different things
I could call it but let's just say
it's the line where all emotions
divide and reassemble under
even those old broken toy cars
that I used to love so much,
even my swollen books
with pages ripped out.
War and Peace, On the Road
and all of my Blake poems.
So no.
a longing for something more
I can't go home.
Not now.
The wind is blowing, strong
like it wants to punch me,
like it's trying to say
"You're seventeen boy, go home"
I'm a calm kinda guy
but those words just frustrate me,
make my toes curl.
Sometimes I wish I would have listened
To my mother when she said
the answer is there is no answer
but I'm seventeen. Reckless maybe.
The wind should take its best swing
at my cheek because a black eye
would speak louder than any poem
I have ever written.
What about all these questions
that I can't answer
like…like where will this path lead me?
why am I…what am I doing?
It would just be there,
not a particle doubting its role.
Just living and full of blood,
trying to heal itself.
Just living and full of blood, trying to heal itself. The Answer is there is no

The Answer is there is no Answer by Cameron Lange

www.myspace.com/cameronlange

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

12 Comment by NewAmba

Mind Bump

Mind Bump www.myspace.com/2headedbaby Cover art by Vic Swan Watching needy baby birds across the alley from

www.myspace.com/2headedbaby

Cover art by Vic Swan

Watching needy baby birds across the alley from my stu-

dio

needy unfulfilled, person on a shrink talk show "

it sounded

listening to a

squawk

in desperation

feed

v!C

me

simultaneously

like "feed me

be enough

and I sensed that it would never

mind bump by Vic Swan

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

i should be dead by now

i shouldn't care at this point

i should instead

be forgetting where i live and counting pennies for the third time and looking for my book on zen masters taking my meds if i didn't already propping feet up reminding myself to get gas before going to the next dr's appointment and where i put

my toenail clippers instead i'm going through the alphabet again trying to remember the name of the girl with the single two inch hair growing out of her strawberry shaped nipple.

Antique Roadshow by Tyler Collins www.myspace.com/tyler_amazing Tyler - this is an exceptional poem with great

Antique Roadshow by Tyler Collins

www.myspace.com/tyler_amazing

Tyler - this is an exceptional poem with great structure & in my mind, perfect in what poetry is - a tantalizing beginning a great ending Comment by 10kPoets

14

You were pretty like gold So I sold you To 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 old And your skin wrinkled- Reverse alchemy. You were a lump of coal. So they took you to the attic And you rotted up there. You were quiet And didn't scream for help When you needed to scream for help- So you died a statue.

I was sitting on my couch

Eating 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 programs And my thumb got tired And I left it on Antiques Roadshow.

An old woman brought you in- Said she found the statue in her attic And the man examined you But not as closely as the boys Used to examine you. He said you weren't worth much, That back in the day companies Produced a lot of you. You were worth more then Than you're worth now.

TheThe

GardenGarden

Flora, fauna, perennial woe in the garden: the bedroom- the nursery- crow call cradle- Lazarus
Flora, fauna, perennial woe
in the garden: the bedroom- the nursery-
crow call cradle- Lazarus tomb- black soil hole
the clock vine spins, canterbury bells toll
opening, wilting
fertile soils sow
Calla Lily ghostly glow white in the night
you open your petals so slow
offering promises of fragrant nectar
but your insides were eaten by insects long ago
Delicate moth, searching for the moon
always getting caught, battered and bruised in street lights
powdered wings, torn and translucent no longer fly
Lady spider spins a gorgeous home
glistening 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, buzz
songs or laughter? an omen maybe?
small bone fragments- cremation remains rattling in a tin can
It's just her shell you now see
but the sound still remains
baby's breath, bachelor's button, bleeding hearts,
snapdragons, stinging nettles
nurturing soil, life-giver, ever-birthing mother
watch your children and the insects dance together
eating, searching, pollinating
blooming, wilting, death
the
women dress in uniforms: pretty floral threads
hiding from the peeking moon as it humbly begs

#

#

#

WOW! Excellent word choice; I felt as if I was trapped in the spider web.

15 Comment by

benT-gRim

The Garden:

by Sarah Nella Vanilla

www.myspace.com/sarahnel

if I was trapped in the spider web. 15 Comment by benT-gRim The Garden: by Sarah

yyyyy

Thawing the Ice Queen’s Heart

y

Thawing the Ice Queen's Heart by C. Lucas Smith

www.myspace.com/waiguoren

Heart by C. Lucas Smith www.myspace.com/waiguoren If all hearts would thaw, that they first know that

If all hearts would thaw, that they first know that they are frozen! Wishing those that know too well "the cruel" a better day. Nice poem. Thought provoking/heart rending Comment by Alt
16

seven nights they lay together brother and sister, as siblings might her frozen heart between their chests biting and burning, as lovers might on the third night its ventricles thawed making their bodies sticky with blood they touched it with their hungry fingers and pressed it gently against their cheeks oh, how they smiled oh, how they smiled then!

seven nights they lay together brother and sister, as siblings might her frozen heart between their chests biting and burning, as lovers might on the fourth night it began to tremble its atriums quivering like gelatin they placed it upon a satin pillow and gazed at it in innocent wonder oh, how they laughed oh, how they laughed then!

seven nights they lay together brother and sister, as siblings might her frozen heart between their chests biting and burning, as lovers might

on the y seventh night it began to thump

its arteries hissing and gushing

they lifted it to their lusty lips

and filled their bellies with her love

oh, how they wept

oh, how they wept then!

She’s

Free

She lays there sobbing pain visable in her eyes scars of fear, bleeding tears

~

Broken Ripped Deep cut

Open wounds

~

fear, bleeding tears ~ Broken Ripped Deep cut Open wounds ~ love's pain inflicted the power

love's pain inflicted the power of the beast restricted

~

she whispers life is beauitful now I'm free

She's Free

by K~D09

www.myspace.com/feb121

Great imagery. It took me through the pain Comment by - Brandy aka GoldieSpeaks

great write

E c h o e s of Sylvia
E c h o e s
of Sylvia

18

E c h o e s of Sylvia 18 Echoes Of Sylvia [Dedicated to Newamba] by

Echoes Of Sylvia

[Dedicated to Newamba]

by Francoise

www.myspace.com/feb121

It was when I heard you read ''Daddy'' on the radio

It 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 anyway And the voices for Three Women breaks me Breaks me. I have to avoid it Though I want to read it, Therein is the very essence of female suffering. And I heard only two weeks ago that her one remaining son

Had committed suicide, Just a small paragraph in a newspaper Giving them reason to rehash the details Of her extraordinary death And life. And she was a vessel waving goodbye Goodbye. How could she

A writer like that makes you want to throw away your pen

Because she wrote as an art form,

Not just scribbled emotions on a piece of paper, Though she would probably say it was And the tulips were too excitable, Their floral faces had judging eyes Making it difficult for her to sleep at night And their redness spoke to her wound. They were symbols of freedom

Freedom,

When she was trying to submit to the hospital life.

Sylvia will go on and on Like an echo An echo. My heroines have always been Emily Bronte and Violette Leduc But Sylvia will echo Echo in my heart.

I was quite honored when Francoise wrote this. The best thing any artist of any sort can do is to inspire somebody else to create. And I'm glad that my reading of "Daddy" inspired this amazing piece from Francoise; it's one of her best, and one which vocalizes the way I feel

about Sylvia, too. Thanks for featuring it, Glen. Defintely is one of my

favorites

Comment by Newamba

Glance

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.

www.myspace.com/glenny_the_poet

Glance by Glen Lantz

you. www.myspace.com/glenny_the_poet Glance by Glen Lantz Love the poem, love the cool tones, subtle on one

Love the poem, love the

cool tones, subtle on

one level and explosive on another. An obvious talent with an interesting curve ball thrown in

the man on the blue cross isn't distinctly shamanistic but the overall vibe really is. Comment by Cyndi Dawson

artwork

19

20

Blue Man On the Cross Glen Lantz The piece is titled “Blue Man on the
Blue Man On the Cross
Glen Lantz
The piece is titled “Blue Man on the Cross.” This artwork is made with
acrylic paint on a canvas sheet. This piece combines dark broad brush
strokes with small little dabs of the paint brush. The two techniques
create an interesting combination that presents the viewer with the sense
of movement. Also, I wanted to combine the dark and the light within
this piece to display the duality of human nature. We as humans are
both 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 take
life way too seriously. Thus, it is helpful to stand back from our daily
lives every once in a while and embrace the absurd and irrational.

GettingGetting NakedNaked atat WorkWork

andand

RecitingReciting ShakespeareShakespeare

Getting Naked at Work and Reciting Shakespeare by Newamba www.myspace.com/newamba
Getting Naked at Work
and Reciting Shakespeare
by Newamba
www.myspace.com/newamba
Reciting Shakespeare by Newamba www.myspace.com/newamba This is truly amazing. As you may know French people
This is truly amazing. As you may know French people believe in being naked at
This is truly amazing. As you may know French
people believe in being naked at least part of
the time every day
This was a great adven-
ture, real liberation, awe inspiring. I was sad to
think that you died at the end but I have a feeling
you will be back. A great movie/poem.
Comment by Feb (Francoise)
21

Sitting in desolate isolation entrapped by a cubicle My boredom melancholy counted by ticking clocks Water coolers burping passing time like hour glasses Co-workers gossiping about the celebrity couple that punched a nun in the face And adopted a one legged orphan from Sri Lanka with rabies named Pujuma

I can no longer bear the monotony

So I jump onto a table in the middle of the room And begin to scream out a Shakespearean sonnet Tearing off my work clothes with each stanza Instead 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 head

And strap on running shoes with no socks No 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 yell Some laugh, some gasp

A lady faints, a man spits out coffee and drops things

My frightened turtle shrivels in the cool air-con But I care not For today I am free

I run into my bosses office

Turning around and bending over,

I sing "Don't worry, Be Happy" in B Flat and slap on my buttcheeks for rhythm

Not even exiting his conference call, I don't think he notices the intrusion

I wave "ta-ta" and run down the hall to the elevator

A 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 elevator Getting 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 key

People scream and point and cover their children's eyes It's amazing the reactions that a naked man running down the street smoking, 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 mall

Crawling with suburban zombies and credit crunchiness

Climbing up the escalator, I begin to give the Gettysburg Address Suddenly I'm shot in the back of the head by a deranged Burger King employee on a homicidal rampage

I die instantly

I'm still naked

TraNSCeNdence I saw him Out of the corner of my minds eye Darkness of the
TraNSCeNdence I saw him Out of the corner of my minds eye Darkness of the
TraNSCeNdence
I saw him
Out of the corner of my minds eye
Darkness of the room
belied the whisper of his shadow
I reached
is real
hell,
I can feel!
Hovering on the corner of the couch
to touch,
forever is a long time coming
who can measure moments
in fractions
A panther in black
waiting
watching
I turned my head
my legs curled up
knee to chest
Id know those eyes anywhere
Winter chill covered the room
it transcends beyond the longing
dont leave me now
you have stayed in the shadows
watching
I felt your eyes
cloaked in darkness
I woke each night at midnight
The purgatory saints
gaze at my blistered flesh
orgasmic, they sigh
sleight of hand is my friend
and they bought it
like Patty Hearst
My thirst remains unslaked
yet I have won the right
to drift as a spirit
or move upward and onward.
I choose wanderlust
because I have chosen you.
sound of crow
nestled on powerline
you had been watching me sleep
sitting at the foot
If you take my hand now
of my bed
I would leave this world
cried its sound of underworld warning
I
couldn't breathe
close enough to touch
when my eyes opened
Drift away in the dream
under a lovers moon
It
couldn't be you
I
smelled
Invisible black wings
enveloped my essence
the scent of your cologne
dangling in the breeze
My lips claim yours
to steal your pain,
I would know those lips
clinging to the curtain
I would know that taste
and I froze when our eyes locked.
Could it be
could
it
blowing
in a window I didn't open.
ripe watermellon and strawberry wine
in the heat of a summer afternoon
but purgatory was calling
and I was falling
fast and away
The echo of longing
in your velvet voice
graces my misty presence
amid crow feather rustle
and a dead sparrow smile
I transcended to the next level
your eyes pleaded as I faltered
but I could not stay
My hand outstretched
but
I
am gone.
And as I stand naked
amid stone columns
flogged for past transgressions
You have never left my heart
The music of the heavens
rains down with shooting star
filling the night with
the promise
passion never dies
Take me with you.
I smile like a demon
knowing that the pain
me with you. I smile like a demon knowing that the pain Transcendence B y WORDMACHINIST*

Transcendence

By WORDMACHINIST*

1 22

& Angelheart

www.myspace.com/wordmachinist

www.myspace.com/angelheartwxyz

I feel as if I've been gently flown through the night air then laid to rest in a large, plush bed. This has a wonderful haunting tone that

is combined with gracefulness. Very nice

Comment by Til

23

ON THE ABANDONED VIADUCT NEARBY

she chooses the abandoned viaduct passing while mime country eyes when sights like these are
she chooses the abandoned viaduct
passing
while mime country eyes
when sights like these
are eternal
enough
sink into
the shutdown
red shattered
sunset
above the work-in-progress
never finished
construction
bird alike
&
so very
alluring
to
the altering arlequin's
mannequin
eyesight
&
the viaduct opens:
&
the vigilante
fully
aware
of the cut
starless
womb
inviting
she chooses to go
cool
&
I follow
&
quiet
though that's not
exactly
just a few drops of sleep
routine
& we're in
&
we're not exactly on stage
this time
& the passing world's
there are many here spirits
that choose not to stay
musical
none of our
business
that choose not to stay musical none of our business ON THE ABANDONED VIADUCT NEARBY by

ON THE ABANDONED VIADUCT NEARBY by A.J. Kaufmann

www.myspace.com/kaufmannpoetry

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

24

DeepDeep

EllumEllum feelsfeels thethe bluesblues

The sun just begins to set, falling under the tops of the character buildings, emphasizing an abandoned feeling. Dilapidation butted up against gentrification. It has become like a modernist’s dream, all fragments of what had been. The dried brown droppings of graffitied trees mingle with the spring weeds peeking out of the sidewalk’s cracks.

The street performers, the counter cultural, and the musicians have all chosen to run from the juxtapositioning of gang banger bars and wealthy new housing developments.

The homeless man with a stocking cap of red and dirt asks me, “Do you know where to score?” “Nope” I mutter, walking quickly away afraid to know the reality of what goes on around each corner.

Here the derby queen was taken down by police for yelling about her right to walk on wheels. She was taken into custody then with a bloody face and knees.

There’s a familiar crowd standing in a haze of tobacco fog,

all with intricately painted sleeves of flesh. “Come on in” he tells me “We’ll finish inking in that new tat.”

“I can’t”, I reply,

"Today I am a flaneur.”

Just behind the next building from the incense scented tattoo studio

is a forgotten corner

of cardboard boxes and empty bottles.

It smells of urine

and decaying food.

Yet there are signs that someone calls this place home. (A blanket, a backpack,

a pair of shoes.)

That familiar sensation of fear flows through my body like being submerged in an icy tub.

The faces of so many artists, like Willie, Kurt and Eddie, stare out of the window where the now nameless famous bar used to be.

“Panoptikon Thursdays here 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.

www.myspace.com/poetecho Deep Ellum Feels the Blues by Mary McLaughlin Loved it--reminds me of my city
www.myspace.com/poetecho
Deep Ellum Feels the Blues
by Mary McLaughlin
Loved it--reminds me of my city
Comment by Damion
Rainbow Lips Rainbows dripped from my lips & I spoke in Technicolor slips Ticker tape

Rainbow

Lips

Rainbows dripped from my lips & I spoke in Technicolor slips Ticker tape eyes prattle
Rainbows dripped from my lips
& I spoke in Technicolor slips
Ticker tape eyes prattle on & on
& my sandstone hands spill onto the floor
The tape nears the end of the spool
Clatters and sputters out
The strips of paper lay in ribbons round my feet
Letting the cocoon harden
Waiting through the season
Teetering on the edge of this amorphic plane
Dancing on the verge of the matrix
Bellowing without sound
Spilling my noxious gases into space
Hanging my rainbow in the galaxy of disguise
& I suddenly got amnesia
Starting to strip off all my clothes
Spitting in my hand spreading the colors
Some kind of new hallucination
Reflects in the mirror
Yellow red blues to greens
Dance on the glass
My heavy hands scratch the glass
Under the radar of satellites
That whisper a million deaths waiting for me
To explode with my thirty wings
Flapping straight into the arms of salvation
Bending outside my body the soul
Released itself from the confines
Of my one man side show
Searching for my family
& the heat of my breath
I can feel them breathing
Breeds diamonds like man-made sand castles
Kneeling down praying for me
Like an oasis to my station
That spins on the axis of the earth
Steady & relentless gravity keeps me down
Empty of tape my words echo
In the silence of my mind
Resonating in this head trip
What is the beginning or the end
Forgetful my friend
Cause I am the hues of the earth
The shape of the sky
The top of the mountain
Melting the snow caps
Covering the world in sand
With my sweeping hands
An alchemist on a sentimental high
Stealing all the art
Assuming the treatment of the mad
Abstractly insane with no remorse
Independently morose
Caving into the sullen rage
Of this metamorphosis
But if I stand real still and quiet
& my safe return
Spilling my ticker tape ideas
Into their brains confusing them with metaphors
& trickery
I dance a jittery nervous tic
Belting out letters on the tape
A smorgasbord of words
Leaving them to wonder if I mean anything at all
If I meant anything to them at all
Then again I spread my thirty wings screaming
The devil is in front of me
Demanding my sacrifice
& a sad goodbye
And I sail a million miles away
From sane
Leaving my reflection standing alone
In the mirror
Fingering the diamonds
Wondering about the next trip to the shrink
& then everything will be ok
Until I decide to fly again
then everything will be ok Until I decide to fly again Rainbow Lips by John Sweet

Rainbow Lips by John Sweet

25 www.myspace.com/johncsweet

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

Crafting A Muse

26

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
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
with what I should have crafted in the first damn place crafting a muse by Yossarian

crafting a muse by Yossarian Hunter

www.myspace.com/yossarian_hunter

Wonderfully done Yoss. Crafted beautifully none the less Comment by ~g~ дžŕāęł

ONE NIGHT STAND

left&leaving

www.myspace.com/beforwesaygoodnight

by

WOW!! Such Truth

piece

This is an amazing

by Re-Verse

Comment

I am reliving

Last night 3 bottles of What ever we brought home

I still don’t remember leaving

I must have picked you up at the bar down the street

I bet you where the most beautiful girl in the place

I hope I was charming

I am pretty sure I was

Why else would have you come home with me

I hope I was lovely

As I ranted Blacked out with speech

I woke up naked

couldn’t figure out why I hadn’t went to bed as I always do With my clothes on from the day before

I Walked into the bathroom and there you

were

In the shower

You spoke over the water falling Told me that you Loved how I mumbled That I spoke so clearly In tune

to

How beautiful

Zelda was

And shook while I ranted for an hour While talking about how

Kerouac

Reinvented

The American novel

I finished pissing

Brushed my teeth Paused to collect your wallet to Remember your name

You caught me Told me that it would be perfectly O.K If we remained strangers Even though it would be lovely to have a one night stand again

I wish I could remember how we got here

Thanks for not stealing my computer

I hope I can remember what a lovely time

we got here Thanks for not stealing my computer I hope I can remember what a

One Night Stand

we got here Thanks for not stealing my computer I hope I can remember what a
ms. taken ms. taken by Christian Alvarez www.myspace.com/christianalvarez There is so much to absorb in

ms.

taken

ms. taken by Christian Alvarez

www.myspace.com/christianalvarez

taken by Christian Alvarez www.myspace.com/christianalvarez There is so much to absorb in this. Very thought provoking,

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

i need help

as a chord rings out everything i care about

is in a constant state of goodbye even this

is yesterday

everywhere is anywhere

everywhere

i see dead people and close my eyes everynight

i know the west won the sun

i know my kick will shout the

paid devil out soft like a thought clear like your culture dropped and broken slipped and watched fade away

the sound in my ears is equal oppertunity but unspoken picked up taped together

a new

if not to win but to make same mistakes again and lose

and then thats when i wonder just what the fuck it really takes to pace passion? how to live and die in fashion? naked and screaming

asleep

awake and dreaming lost and found the bass is in my chest and

this situation rides and slides changes and rearranges itself up and down from side to and back and i cant even keep up

i had to walk away and now all i want is to come back attack and validate mate with fate life is exactly what i just made of you

miss taken id

all day long everyday I think about mostly impossible stuff I guess
all day long
everyday
I think about
mostly
impossible
stuff
I
guess

without much rest

the world peace or save the world fluff mostly not the lofty kind

peace or save the world fluff mostly not the lofty kind mostly not by Sate www.myspace.com/thebadnun

mostly

not by

Sate

www.myspace.com/thebadnun

though, if asked

I would say

yes

through thickly reddened

lips

sounding insincere

like a breathy, breasty,

beauty

in a pagent

and

mostly not of the lust for stuff

I'm all shopped out of joy and that kind of rush

that's

for sale

ammasing worth

accumulating

 

The fluid musing, the emphasis changing

a greed for girth

in the refrain

very nice write, Sate

and

29

Comment by Connie Stadler

mostly not for the love of

the many with their desultry dim-ness

and sycophantic dotings to love some and not hurt the rest

is all that is plausably mustered

no the nub of my musings is

about the matter of matters and how they all and myself could ever be transposed not scientifically and authentically agreed aloud but of things silly minuet willful cosmic fanciful crazy evil seemingly drastic and not dilute

but, realistic?

mostly not

The 100th Time

30

Do you want to run away with me play your guitar on the street corner
Do you want to run away with me
play your guitar on the street corner
hat lying on the ground
I'll rest my head on your lap
while you play the guitar
this time for yourself
the songs in your heart
I have an old 1920's derby
in a box in the closet
we can toss it on the back seat
and just drive away
I would whisper
Mister, I love you
for the 100th time today
You can play for the people
I can dance to your song
pass the hat around
When we get enough change
we'll buy breakfast
sit on the beach and eat
watching lovers walk by
children flying kites
Do you want to run away with me
keep driving till we are lost
drive till we're everything found
then toss me in the back seat
and make love to me there
for the 100th time today
as you make love to me
for the 100th time today
I will give you
the rest of my bagel
write a poem on the bag
you'll laugh
kiss me good morning
for the 100th time today
Do want to run away with me
play your guitar on street corners
hat lying on the ground
I
have an old 1920's derby
Do you want to run away with me
to a tropical island
you can buy a camera
I will buy you a parrot
in a box in the closet
we can toss it on the back seat
and drive away
(we can drive away)
won't you just drive away
with me
you can take photos with tourists
while I sell sea-glass bracelets
off a blanket on the ground
and that old derby
in the back seat
When we have made enough
we can buy lemon aid in pineapples
lay on the beach in the sun
watching old people hold hands
children building castles
Drive away
(drive away)
like in my dreams
we have done
for the 100th time today
like in my dreams we have done for the 100th time today The 100th Time You
The 100th Time
The
100th
Time

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

the 100th Time by C. Nyla Alisia (Ward)

http://www.myspace.com/spiritwild

10KPoets Caught Me Lurking and told me to put my pants back on and come
10KPoets Caught Me Lurking
and told me to put my pants back on
and come out with my hands up
Article by
Pantifesto's Porntastic
10K Poets recently put me on the spot with the task
of writing a National Poetry Month article. I'd barely
been talked into calling in and stuttering over my
own words and suddenly we're talking about me
hosting a new concept poetry show. Wow. I'm still
warming up to the sound of my own voice and the
idea that I'm any kind of 'poet.' April of this year, it
just so happened that instead of working, I spent a
lot of time in bed with National Poetry Month and
poetry radio shows. Coincidentally, April ʼ 09 was
the first entire month I ʼ d had off of work in at least
seven years. Until I ʼ d started becoming familiar with
various 10K Poets & associated folks on myspace,
it never would of occurred to me to listen to a live
poetry radio show.
til the sun comes up.
Count me in!"
Glen Still:
"I know when I've written a 'good poem'
pisses me off”
when
it
Issac Seal of BadWriter aka ʻ Analept, ʼ the first per-
son with the 10K Poets banner to befriend me on
myspace once wrote a poem titled “I fuck poetry”
Newamba likes to use poetry to punch males and
females in the testicles.
Nic St james:
April and May have come and gone and there is too
much to say. I ʼ d say by National Poetry Month
2010, I will have processed 2009 ʼ s close encounter
of the third kind and the meetings of the minds with
entities such as Newamba. Here it ʼ s perfectly ac-
ceptable to believe in conspiracy theories and
enjoy the sex when you are abducted by aliens. In
lieu of pretending like I'm an expert on poetry, I'll
just explain what a positive experience it has been
to be a part of this community.
(excerpt from 'Soft Slow Love')
"Writing to be safe is not honest and writing safely
is 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. If
you ʼ re hanging out with me, if you ʼ re in one of my
poems
you
ʼ re not innocent.“ Speaking of, I think
When I first started listening, I wish I'd kept better
track of which poet said what and when. That ʼ s
something I ʼ d like to do more of in the future. As I
began collecting quotations from various poets, I
realized that whatever type of writer I categorize
myself as on any given day, I feel I ʼ m in good com-
pany among the 10k Poets. Here ʼ s some examples
of some things that got my attention:
Mr. Sibley ʼ s piece, ʻ What if god had a myspace
page ʼ is one of my many favorites. In this poem he
tells god:
and don ʼ t give me that fucking footsteps in the sand
speech
sure it ʼs poetic and quaint
but not true
just a good answer to a question you were not
ready for.
Dred Sista Ren:
"Poetry is an act of violence
it's
supposed to move
people with words. It's an avenue to everything you
It reminds me of your book
written by a bunch of your stoner friends
feel in your gut and in your spirit
if
it wasn't for
bullshit, we'd be talking about daisies"
This statement helped to alleviate any doubts I had
of myself as a poet or writer. After hearing that, I
said to myself "well shoot I ʼ ve got a bunch of bull-
shit and a bunch of daisies and I can foolosophize
chewing mushrooms
blooming
bending their minds to believe you are what you
say you are
31
I could carry on and on quoting poets, but I won't! For me, showing my
I could carry on and on quoting poets, but I won't!
For me, showing my creative self makes me feel
more vulnerable than taking my clothes off in front
of someone. Henry Miller once said, “reveal your
true self and they will mutilate you.” I wonder, if it
is also true if you never reveal your true self, you
will only mutilate yourself from within.
for a an depth frolic within the big picture. 10K
Poets caught me lurking and told me to put my
pants 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, but
why don ʼ t you write an article for us?" About what?
I asked . His answer: “Whatever you want.”
I know for certain I don ʼ t speak only for myself
when I say that poetry, chose me like a disease, but
not 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, I
sneeze and it drips from my nose. If I didn ʼ t get it
out I ʼ d choke on it and die. Poets must respond to
folks who say, “but I thought poetry was supposed
poetry can throw down
with the stealth of a ninja
to be pretty
I speak for myself and perhaps for some of the
great souls that brought me to 10K Poets - I ʼ m
blessed to be twisted; without this sour refreshing
hint of citrus there ʼ d be nothing but a bland glass
of water here, an unbuttered piece of toast. I enjoy
being madd with this sickness and this fever. These
fantastic hallucinations are
better than Paramount Pic-
tures. Better a so called poet
than a mass murderer I
know the handwriting ʼ s a
mess but like I said before;
at least the splatter is con-
tained neatly on this paper.
In my case, sometimes the big picture gets way out
of hand and where it becomes tricky to write about
any particular subject manner, poetry can throw
down with the stealth of a ninja. With poetry it is
possible to swallow so much more information in a
single bite than by reading this seven page article
or something as tedious as an entire book.
I'd previously had little experience exchanging
ideas and processes with any
type of writers. Before the inter-
net, my writing first evolved via
crops of spiral notebooks multi-
plying in my closet. That is to say;
it did not evolve much. It was like
an inbred children whose pictures
I didn't keep on my desk. I didn ʼ t
(if you didn ʼ t want to be in-
volved in any splatter, I was-
n ʼ t talking to you and Iʼ ll see
you later over at Salon.com
or the New Yorker)
want to bring them to the com-
pany picnic. 10K Poets came in
as a social services type role and
is helping me to socialize them.
By doing this they are preventing
me from burying them under the
porch.
Prior to this task, my private
intention was to make a
careful study of the 10K
Poets organism as a whole.
Much of my writing prior to
identifying myself as a poet
was focused on the reflec-
tions of certain necessary in-
teractions with various
organizations and institu-
tions. Sometimes I hand-
picked the organizations and
corporations, and other
times circumstance picked
them for me. I ʼ m always up
I was baffled when people first
started asking me to read my writ-
ing. Out loud! Why would anybody
want me to do that? My family has
always acted as if my writing were
an infectious disease such as lep-
rosy or a deviant behavior like
bestiality. In being a writer, I've al-
ways feared being perceived as
the unibomber or Louise
Fitzhugh's 'Harriet the Spy'. Per-
haps this is the reason why until
recently; as much as I enjoy read-
ing and writing, I ʼ ve paid very little
32
attention to the people behind what I read, de- voured volumes of books without paying
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 or
she to write.
My inclination to write has not helped me to win any
popularity contests. Now that I ʼ ve had an opportu-
nity to reflect on my prior lack of interest in learning
more about people whose minds function similarly
to mine, I guess it comes down to socially condi-
tioned self loathing.
Some people are just born with Hunter S. Thomp-
son disorder. Some people just want to drink and
write about their terrible jobs like Charles
Bukowski. Some people want to do chemical exper-
iments on themselves like Timothy Leary. Some
people just want to explore whatever religion they
can invent after drinking a six pack of Papst Blue
Ribbon. Other writers like Lily Burana and Diablo
Cody look for literary golden nuggets at the bottom
of a brass pole. Henry Miller wanted to say 'fuck
you America' and run away to Paris to write about
drunks and whores.
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 may
be at a party acting perfectly normal and the next
We want to put a real live poet in
every McDonalds Happy Meal.
minute may disappear into a room to be alone with
a qwerty or a black and white composition note-
book, possibly not emerging for 72 hours. I don ʼ t
know if that is more of a relief - that I ʼ m not alone
in my affliction, or that disappointing - that I ʼ m not
that original. I was astounded to learn I was cer-
tainly not the first person to alter my consciousness
and play with a pencil and paper.
I apologize if you came here for the poetry and here
I am carrying on. Well, get ready because coming
In my creative writing class, English 201 or some
shit, after our first assignment our instructor at the
community college was not impressed that over half
of the class made sure to include gratuitous and
largely pointless sex, violence, or drugs in their sto-
ries. I was one of those students and went on to do
many 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 millions
of people before me had sought their own alterna-
tive quests for the American dream. If you ʼ re any-
thing like me, you didn ʼ t come into the world
knowing that somebody else already wrote your
equivalent to 'Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas'. You
feel a little embarrassed about it at first but live and
learn from these experiences and continue to write
foolishly in a way that your family finds terribly em-
barrassing.
soon is 10K Prose. After that maybe we ʼ ll do 10K
Poetry and Polo Society, 10K Poets Professional
Wrestling League, 10K Poetry and Topless
Caberet, 10K Poetry and BBQ Ribs, 10K Poetry,
Chino Bandido Drive Thru and Pottery Barn, 10K
Poetry and Garden Supply. We ʼ ll definitely be work-
ing on the the prose site at least, but as you can
see - the possibilities are endless. We want to put
a real live poet in every McDonalds Happy Meal.
Let us hang up our own '10 billion Served' sign.
When as children we ʼ re introduced to characters by
Dr. Seuss and Lewis Carroll, the 'just say no' world
can be confusing. Drugs apparently make some
people stupid and other people smart. I guess
that ʼ s where the Terence McKenna factor comes in.
My theory is that if you ʼ re gonna take a trip, it ʼ s a
good idea to familiarize yourself with the destina-
tion and to remember that James Frey already
wrote 'A Million Little Pieces'.
Unless we ʼ re born into the right circumstance, it ʼ s
seems to be a difficult world to be a writer or any
type of creative person afflicted with some sort of
thought process. Dominant culture tries to placate
us with dumb-dumb entertainment and education
and convenience store snacks. The scientific com-
munity tells writers we ʼ re predisposed to chemical
dependency, poets are even more prone to suicide
than say dentists. People look up their noses at us
for our unusual behavior, and predisposition to
being in the wrong place for the 'write' reasons. We
stay up all night sometimes and stalk poems and
stories in the dark and when we go to sleep, we
dream upside down, sideways, backwards, for-
wards and of course, in color. I think that maybe
we ʼ re crazy because until the internet, the existing
channels have prevented us from knowing one an-
other or even ourselves.
I ʼ ve found that the 10K Poet ʼ s programming can
work like medicine or at least like a mood altering
drug. It is an excellent gateway drug, to the right
33
poets, writers, books, music, and artists. Certainly everyone has different tastes, but if there isn
poets, writers, books, music, and artists. Certainly
everyone has different tastes, but if there isn ʼ t
something at 10K Poets for everyone, the beauty of
maybe not some people, but that ʼs their problem.
it is that we can conceptulize it make it happen. Or
else, those people can continue to enjoy Lady
Gaga and Fox News, Pat O ʼ Reilly, or the 700 Club
or whatever else it is that they do. The neat thing
about poetry is that it can get you drunk and it if you
need to, it can get you sober. You can use it as a
love potion, an aphrodisiac, or a scalpel to dissect
a brain, a heart, an institution, or an organization.
You can use it to play God, to find God or to be
God. Some people masturbate with it. It ʼ s more
complex and practical than most Americans under-
stand. If you really hate it, you can always use it as
toilet paper.
If you can trick someone into to reading a poem, it ʼ s
easy 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 music
and it ʼ s over. For now, I still have a lot to learn
about what ʼ s going on at the 10K Poets music sites.
Glen Still, founder of 10K Poets says “We're going
to put out the best material that we can; hopefully
people will like it and it will spread through the net-
works that we have.” So bring your words, your
music, your beatboxing skills, and your ideas and
let us produce them together.
If you want, poetry can be like an egg, scrambled,
boiled, poached. Or it can be can be smoked out of
a hookah or baked into brownies. Though I started
If you see a niche that needs to be
created, conjure up your own
concept and come to 10K Poets
listening to the "Daily Happy Hour", "Poets Dream
in Color", and "Nic ʼ s Poet Bar" with my eyes closed
and semi-sedated due to medical reasons, after I
was back on my feet, I found a new favorite activity
of mine has become walking or riding my bike with
The 10K Poets Radio podcasts attached to my
head. For me, the juxtaposition of nature, urban im-
ages, and the people in the street takes it to an-
other level. I ʼ ve laid down in the grass and spaced
out to poetry shows and watched the clouds change
colors and float over treetops. I have no idea how
people can sit there in front of a LCD monitor, listen
to the show and participate in the chat all at the
same time. There ʼ s no right or wrong way to listen,
but speaking as someone who was a part of the Ri-
talin generation, I ʼ m just telling you what works best
for me. I think it would be great if I could take in a
show over a loudspeaker in the park while drinking
a 40. If enough of us come together and exchange
ideas, maybe someday there'll be something to do
in our public spaces besides watch the hobo
olympics.
If there is anyone out there who is not yet tuning in
or participating in the 10K Poets programming, I im-
plore you to start doing so immediately. I won ʼ t
promise you that you ʼ ll like everything that you hear
but if you ʼ ve found yourself at the 10K Poets Zine
in the first place, I imagine some of it will work
nicely. The neat thing about a live poetry show
these days is that if you don ʼ t have the attention
span to sit down with it at the moment, it doesn ʼ t
have to be live. You can fit a ton of it in an IPOD
shuffle and walk the dog with it. If you think some-
thing sucks, don ʼ t be afraid to fast forward to some-
thing more your style. If you see a niche that needs
to be created, conjure up your own concept and
come to 10K Poets and they will help you start your
own show. For now, I ʼ m still learning from the mas-
ters, taking notes, seeing a speech therapist and
sitting back watching and occasionally stuttering
out the occasional live poem.
I ʼ d like to one day follow certain poets as if I were
Leeza Gibbons from Entertainment Tonight. For
now, I ʼ m 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 would
take it if I were in their shoes. All of these people
have created such an amazing platform for dis-
course. I ʼ ve been procrastinating and hesitating for
Thank you everybody for reading, listening, creat-
ing and making the most out of participatory media
available through 10K Poets. Let's all take advan-
tage of this opportunity to take back our own minds
and make our own media, whatever it is.
a couple of months to try and come up with an ad-
equate interpretation of 10K Poets. I ʼ d like to mix it
up with Kool-Aid and tell everyone to drink it. Well,
www.myspace.com/
34
1
albinoprincessofdarkness
If If I I speak speak of of this this history history I musn't forget

IfIf II speakspeak ofof thisthis historyhistory

I musn't forget

I'm cheap

you'd judge me

I curl up my lip

like I do you

I confess

Unforgivably cliché

If I tell this story

I must remember

There will be plenty who don't like what I have to say

It is an open invitation

tight lipped smiles to my face titters to my back wrong assumptions false correlations these things sting nearly as if I thought they were true makes me want to confess to things I didn't do

Consider the whore

my mother was the first to call me that anyone else usually also referred to me as his girlfriend

(whichever one *he* was)

And no. No! he was never my pimp

I confess

that I'd like

to confess

(On my knees)

I confess

I'm guilty of witholding what I'd prefer to get off my chest Maybe my mother would love me if I got down on my knees

And said, Mother please! Forgive me! everything on earth and above in heaven

is exactly as you say it is And yes,

I confess

I'm an enormous whore

I confess

I'm guilty of many things But if I confessed to that I'd be guilty of being a liar

I confess

like my mother

I pass judgment like gas

I point my finger

I titter

I laugh

Look!

She comes on crutches

The one legged whore!

Towering over the gutter 5 feet, 6 inches on high

I'd like to give her a hand only if I didn't have to

touch her

I am the whore

In the apple of my mother's eye she is me

I confess

I don't thank my mother

I'm any different than she says I am she points her finger at everyone she points it at me

she says

Repent you sinner! You slut!

I point mine back Didn't you know you're fat?

obese

Your god says gluttony's a sin!

I confess, that I said that

And then i confess

I was too busy pointing

at the one legged whore

I didn't see the story

in the sunken black holes in the middle of her head

I gazed into space in

the darkness where some of her missing teeth used to be

I ran my tongue

over orthodontially

straightened teeth but I'm afraid I look down my nose 1 35
straightened teeth
but I'm afraid
I look down my nose
1
35
I didn't hear this place in her face begin to talk She said my momma

I didn't hear this place

in her face begin to talk

She

said

my momma fed me red Kool Aid drink in a bottle turned tricks left me in my crib changed my diaper when she had spare change She said

Honey

before 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 crack before 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

www.myspace.com If I speak of this history by Pantifesto's Porntastic wow, wow and wow. If
www.myspace.com
If I speak of
this history
by Pantifesto's
Porntastic
wow, wow and wow. If I sound stupid and
at a loss for words I confess it's because this
was hard hitting, raw and dazzling. And that's
no lie.
Comment by Cyndi Dawson
/albinoprincessofdarkness
36
1

The

Rails

we are waiting on a cold train platform. the sun is rising to our left
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. "Grü β Gott,"
we say.
they hand us Saint Christopher medals
to protect us on our journey ~
cheap tin idols stamped out by
some 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 spires
and baroque architectures of a city
that is strangely sinister in its beauty
a femme fatale
just waiting for us
to take that crazy taxi ride
over cobblestone streets
to arrive at her guarded door
where she will greet us
with naked breasts
and lead us to the bar.
(our futures
to be read in the swirling sludge of Turkish coffees)
a tangle of bed sheets on the floor.
and
is that Dixieland Jazz playing
on 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 washboard
scratching 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 escalator
of vertigo
taking us there
at frightening speed
to a bottom we cannot see.
one misstep,
and surely we will fall all the way to Hell.
one misstep, and surely we will fall all the way to Hell. The Rails By Scott

The Rails By Scott Clark Farley

www.myspace.com/artskid

hang on. watch your pockets. gypsies are born here. prostitutes pose on streets as women.
hang on. watch your pockets.
gypsies are born here.
prostitutes pose on streets
as women.
beauty is deceiving.
at any moment
the stained glass gothic cathedral will shatter,
raining down
a fury of reds and oranges.
the gargoyles
stare 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 trouble
with your open face. it started with the nuns
and
one-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 upon
the worthlessness of the Crown.
let's go
buy 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 now
your taxi fare is gone.
the side streets are ripped up heaps
of 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 of
things.
curio cabinets protecting the trivial tshatshkes of a
half
life
the tin medals melt in our pockets

Such a gritty intense piece! Excellent attention to detail in the imagery. Comment by Raison D'être Lailah Saafir

advancing

38

there were no winners in the second world war, just the collective sigh of relief that followed, that it was all over; bones could be counted many were missed. many were dead. millions of families, people were displaced… and the little boy traced the photograph of soldier dad with love and tears

he died far way in a foreign land defending liberty, a real life statue, a lady more than just a concept defending those on the run freeing those who had been herded like sheep by men gone mad raging monsters and battle tanks.

tin toys

marched one by one into the box under his bed safely retreated.

good night, father love you wore a proud uniform and i needed you so

i will carry you in my heart close to my chest be strong, be brave for mommy love alive in this rising sun we’ll walk hand in hand husband and fatherless; my metal limbed reminder my favourite toy my tin soldier a constant reminder like the bullets that killed made of steel engraved, cast around my neck now, advancing…

of steel engraved, cast around my neck now, advancing…  Advancing by Sean Reddan www.myspace.com/seanreddansound

Advancing by Sean Reddan

www.myspace.com/seanreddansound

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

This piece "Dreams of a Poet" is an abstract piece done with pen and ink

This piece "Dreams of a Poet" is an abstract piece done with pen and ink and originally was used with my series "Death of a Poet". It was done in the eighties and the mask represents my dreams under the influence of poppie plants. It was also a winning piece in the "Cherry Blossom Festival" in Atlanta in 83. - Ray

www.myspace.com/yargooligan

in Atlanta in 83. - Ray www.myspace.com/yargooligan The tough decision by Jarlid Shadows Jarlid - complete

The tough decision by Jarlid Shadows

Jarlid

- complete to an earth-changing-if-answered question; and yet forget the earth-changing- answers within

Comment by Chris

so many people parallel the moments

The tough

decision

Standing here under the hot lights in line with construction workers and over perfumed grandmothers

I wait my time

It is up to me

the question gnaws at my gut; will I make the wrong choice and learn to live with the consequences or break loose from the stereotype.

I can see the look of self concern

on everyone's face except the child peeking at me from behind

his grandmother's skirt.

Damn

why is this so hard to decide? Even in youth the question was thrown at me the answer rehearsed thrown back at the asker. Now it is my time to focus because the question is coming

"would you like fries with that?"

Letters Home Mama, As you know I have never written a letter before and so

Letters Home

Mama, As you know I have never written a letter before and so not sure how it is supposed to go But I am sure I'll be better Each time I write back home Will write more.

Mama, Today we had to lay real low in the dust With hands over our ears The flaming Gods flew high over here And took little Mickey away from us Will write you back

Mama, Tommy is on his way back home Sure HIS mama will be glad to have him back Not sure she'll be so glad though to see the limbs that he now lacks Will write back

Mama-they tried to break me Father- I survived today

Mama, Food is getting in short supply

Jamie has lost so much

weight

Hunger makes it hard to fire Harder even to fight

Still we keep watch tonight good things come to those who wait Will write again

Mama,

Davey saved me today

The shells kept raining down he pushed me far enough

away

as he laid his body down Will try and write everyday

Mama-they keep trying to break me

Father-I only just survived

today

Mama,

I was coming home in a week but now I gotta do 3 more

weeks

I am tired and I am weak

But I will be back to speed Will be back soon To father and you Will write again soon

Mama, am coming home sooner than before And I won't be alone

There's another 40 more Will call you by phone On Searge's mobile Your loving child

Mama-they tried to break me Father-I really tried to survive today

Mama,

I guess you got the news

I'm not all you'd wished for

me

This wasn't what you and father would would choose But I hope I done you and father proud

As you see the flag raised

high

and the voices sing aloud The roses they chose are

beautiful

I hope you like them too

I have dedicated them to you

For when they fire the 10 gun

Salute

Please don't be sad Don't be angry or mad

But say, that's my child there

tonight

And they have done us all

right!

Born - 10-05-78 Came home far too late

40

Letters Home by Rob Shepherd

www.myspace.com/blackshotbob

40 Letters Home by Rob Shepherd www.myspace.com/blackshotbob This made me cry like I haven't for years.

This made me cry like I haven't for years. More

people need to see this

Comment by SweetTalk~CultVault's Siren~

MANY more. Kudos

Napalm

He died about two years ago now, A raging alcoholic that died as a result
He died about two years ago now,
A raging alcoholic that died as a result of an
upper GI bleed,
As a result of chronic alcoholism,
As a result of his prior death in 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.
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.
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.
Upper GI Bleed;
3% mortality rate,
His shell made it back stateside long enough
to give me a last name,
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 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.
I was disappointed by the answer.
Each pulse becomes treason,
Pumping towards slow drip tragedy,
Drowning 'bluebird,'
Drip drop fade,
Vietnam;
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
41
Nicely penned. As a Vietnam veteran myself all I can say is that your father

Nicely penned. As a Vietnam veteran myself all I can say is that your father is missed by all of this brothers that 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 more than forty years now and it has gotten us absolutely nowhere. Now I worry for today's troops. Will they get

the same non treatment that we got from the VA, from this great government of ours. Doubtful

am 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 that

Anyway

sometimes. Great job Dan Comment by Retro Poet

And

my salute to a fellow vet. May God finally give him some peace.

Napalm by Kellett

www.myspace.com/dk_d

amongst warless eyes, With more war, And less I. I found him dead and naked
amongst warless eyes,
With more war,
And less I.
I found him dead and naked outside his bathroom,
Rant child feather wall,
Sleek in the matters of me and me,
Carcass shutter light,
Looking for apology,
In a last breath,
I could see where he fell against the wall and slid
down to the sitting position,
He had been sliding down for a long time,
Since St. Patty's Day, 1967.
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
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.
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 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.
I found black mold in the sink,
The poems were unfinished,
The mold was thriving,
That is what surrender,
Looks like.
42
He Was [Plot 875, Space I] Breakfast was on my mind when I crawled into
He Was [Plot 875, Space I]
He Was [Plot 875, Space I]

Breakfast was on my mind when

I crawled into bed around 2 a.m.

After falling asleep to the voice Of Sigourney Weaver narrating

Planet Earth.

I wanted waffles, nothing fancy

Just a plain waffle alongside An omelette with cheese and Mushrooms, ham or bacon. Either way, I was determined to have it!

I woke up later that morning

Smoked and sat around reading When suddenly I thought tacos

Might be a decent alternative to

A waffle and an omelette,

But, the wild wind was blowing

All night and all morning long

In the south bay, it was cold,

More coffee sounded like just the ticket on this blustery afternoon.

Out in San Pedro The Waffle and Omelette Shop Serves steaming hot jo And breakfast until two in the afternoon For us late risers or retired folks. We knew what we wanted and They knew just how to give it to us. We devoured our food in an instant

And washed it down our empty Bellies with warm caffeinated tar.

I paid the bill and we walked out

Underneath the blue sky and let the wind Blow our hair into our faces Feeling the coolness with our whole bodies We wondered what to do, where to go To live out the fullness of the day.

It seemed hopeless, so we smoked

And drove up towards Western on 11th Heading towards palos verdes drive,

I noticed the cemetery on the left.

As we passed the grassy hill covered with Headstones and flowers, I wanted to turn Around, and visit Henry, who

I knew was still alive, but has

Been resting for fifteen years now.

We drove over to the main office,

Went inside to get directions and

A map. The guy inside asked me

Who I was looking for and when I Told him, he made no obvious reaction.

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

He Was [Plot 875, Space I] by floatin baby J www.myspace.com/thefloater81 Nice. I heard you

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-

And yes, funny how in the presence

of what you find meaningful, the wind can sway

trees and bring song and dance and the very essence of breath. A living moment indeed, shared even with the dead Enjoyed Comment by Kellett

terday

shared even with the dead Enjoyed Comment by Kellett terday It was then I regretted telling

It was then I regretted telling him, wasting My breath, I should have played it cool And said he was my grandpa or that he Was 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 place And that we might have trouble locating it, But, I didn't believe him. We walked out and Drove up to the ocean view hillside, parked, Got out of the car and began to wander up The green hillside amongst grave stones With names of people we had never known As the wind blew our hair into a wild frenzy And froze our ears. It took me less than ten Minutes to find the headstone with fighting fists.

There was an old rollie placed directly on The headstone, it was stuck, I know because I tried to pick it up, it barely budged, but I Loosened its grip and eventually the wind Blew it away as I stood there beside the grave Of the man we all talk about, the man we've Read, listened to, watched in film clips and studied Over and over and over and over and over again, That man now buried right beneath the grass on The side of the hill where I was standing.

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

The wind, birds, cars running, clouds, everything- Seemed more real than it had just prior to That moment. Looking around, colors spoke,

I realized that no matter how much we want to get Away from each other in life, we are all stuck With each other in death. You never know who You're going to get stuck next to, unless you Planned ahead or have a crap load of money.

We walked away and got back in the car

I thought about the words, "Don't Try" and

What Henry must have meant or what exactly He was referring to by those words. Somehow,

I think I will never truly know what he meant because When I think back on what I know about The life that Henry lived, I know he never Stopped writing no matter how many rejections He received from editors who couldn't tell a good Poem or story from their damned reeking assholes.

Despite my uncertainty, I still went home Feeling full of warm coffee, apple cinnamon waffle And cheese omelette. I felt refreshed by

The cool wind and the sunshine and all I could think About were the days just passing me by while

I sit behind this desk click clacking, typing away Until something comes and it feels like Times when time doesn't feel like it's Progressing in time, but Henry was, he lived, And now he is more real and alive than ever.

The Bukowski Divide:

Poetic Genius or Literary Sacrilege?

By Constance Stadler

www.myspace.com/nywvprof

Sacrilege? By Constance Stadler www.myspace.com/nywvprof Introduction Henry Charles “Hank” Bukowski was born in

Introduction

Henry Charles “Hank” Bukowski was born in Andermach, Germany on August 16th 1920. He died on March 9th 1994. He and William Burroughs are arguably the poets who have made the most pro- found impact on poetry today. But if we look at Burroughs he is: a) primarily a novelist and b) with Byron Gysinas the ʻ father of the cut-up ʼ , an influential but far less controversial ʻ force ʼ than Bukowski. With over 60 books in poetry and prose in print, Bukowski has been described as “the man whose once-ex- pressive appetite for life continues to sustain his cult hero status beyond the grave”. Indeed, this statement is corrob- orated factually. In the aftermath of his death he has become what has fre- quently been described as a ʻ world wide- industry ʼ . Translated into more than 20 languages, with dozens of Bukowski- connected internet sites, his publishers, as of this date, have plans to release and re-release his books for sometime to

come. Indeed, much of his success can be traced to his life-long close associa- tion with editor/publisher John Martin at Black Sparrow Press in Santa Rosa.

To understand the Bukowski phenome - non, some knowledge of his life is requi- site. His German mother and his father, an American serviceman, met during the American occupation of Germany at the end of World War I. Bukowski was brought to the US at the age of 2, hoping for a brighter future. This bright future, though, soon evaporated at the onset of the Great Depression. Bukowski ʼ s father, like many at the time, was more often than not unemployed, and Charles felt his fulsome frustration brutally. In poems such as "The Death of the Father" as well as the autobiographical novel Ham on Rye, he shares much about a painful childhood. Regular beatings with a razor strap were the norm, as he put it:

“So you see, my father was a great liter- ary teacher: He taught me the meaning of pain - pain without reason.”

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

45

as “the man whose once expressive appetite for life continues to sustain his cult hero status
as “the man whose once expressive appetite for life continues to sustain his cult hero status

Thus poets of today knew of Bukowski as not only a poetic force but a living, breathing, inspiration/mentor. He was the ‘great poet’ of their adolescence.

His depression deepened by an ex- tremely bad case of acne vulgarism that produced boils all over Bukowski ʼ s face and back, boils so painful that they had to be surgically incised so that they could drain properly. As one doctor says in Ham on Rye, it was "[t]he worst case I've seen in all my years of practice!" (131). This malady scarred the teenage Bukowski in many ways. Permanently pock-marked by the ordeal-- made emo- tional refuge into adolescent friendships or cliques, where appearance plays so often the tipping point between accept- ance and banishment, next to impossible for the young developing poet. Because only "the poor and the lost and the id- iots" (Ham on Rye, 155) seemed willing to acknowledge and accept him, the young Bukowski later became their champion in the body of his work. He constantly made the case for the virtues of their honesty and hard-won dignity vs. the arrogance and superficiality of the indifferent masses.

Drinking thus became Bukowski's voca- tion, until, that is, he started writing se- riously around 1960. Then drinking and writing were his vocations. Necessitated by the fact that none of his jobs paid enough for him to survive, he worked as dishwasher, truck driver and loader, mailman, guard, gas station attendant,

46

stock boy, warehouseman, shipping clerk, post office clerk, parking lot atten- dant, Red Cross orderly, and elevator operator, among other things.

Bukowski worked at a Los Angeles post office for eleven years, the longest term

of employment he ever held. And in 1969, having had some hard-earned suc- cess as a writer through the little maga- zines and small presses, he made the difficult decision of quitting the post of- fice and trying to make it as a writer. He was forty-nine and on the verge of emo- tional collapse; he was paying child-sup- port and living in a rented house. Steady or sufficient income through writing was far from certain. In an unpublished letter to Carl Weissner, dated "sometime nov. 1969," Bukowski explains that "I have one of two choices-stay in the post office

and go crazy

at writer and starve. I have decided to starve." Thereafter he finished his first

novel, Post Office. And through Carl Weissner, a young German editor, he sold the West German rights to Notes of a Dirty Old Man. His income was still poor but sufficient to allow him to write full-time.

or

stay out here and play

Besides an increasing income from Euro- pean publications, when the screenplay was written for Barfly (1987), the film

Besides an increasing income from Euro- pean publications, when the screenplay was written for Barfly (1987),
Besides an increasing income from Euro- pean publications, when the screenplay was written for Barfly (1987),

based on his reputed alter-ego Henry Chinaski (Ham on Rye), he had reached a level of financial comfort and high lit- erary renown. Importantly, save Allen Ginsberg, almost all the beat poets (al- though Bukowski was never so identi- fied) had long passed at early ages. Thus poets of today knew of Bukowski as not only a poetic force but a living, breathing, inspiration/mentor. He was the ʻgreat poet ʼ of their adolescence.

The Debate Begins

To his legions of fans, he was of mythic stature in his San Pedro lodging over- looking a dingy harbor, ʻ an adorable bas- tard ʼ , the voice of Everyman , that rose to offend, challenge, stimulate the com- placent, and to console the disenfran- chised for whom a life of dull or back-breaking, soul stealing labor was a choice without options in repeatedly de- nouncing the poetry of intellectualism and ʻ sappyʼ disconnected adorned senti - ment he responded with “naked, disturb- ing, compelling, repulsive, vicious ʻ truth ʼ ”. But Bukowski did not disdain how he was increasingly being seen. As he said in a South Bay interview of 1981, "Genius is the ability to say a profound thing in a simple way" (33). For those who concurred, he was the idol of mil- lions.

His critics are equally as opinionated. Calling him a ʻ talentless foul mouthed chauvinist/misogynist ʼ skims the surface, rolling off much as similar attacks on Henry Miller. The noted Bukowski critic, the poet and editor of The Melic Review,

C.E. Chaffin, offered a blistering critique in a famous tri-partite decimation:

I should first remind the reader that he may be the best known American poet in Europe today, and for two reasons: 1) His language is simplistic; and 2) The at- titude in his main body of work matches the prevailing atheistic pessimism among intellectuals on the continent. It is not Bukowski's renown I question, an unreliable indicator of quality in any case, but 1) His lack of craft; 2) His lack of transcendent values; and 3) As above, that he represents the final breakdown between life and art in poetry.

Chaffin continues in finding Bukowski confined to the limits of his own persona. As substantiation he offers the following about “Henry Chinaski” the protagonist in much of Bukowski ʼ s fiction. Bukowski ʼ s first name was Henry and “[i]f readers doubt this assertion, I urge them to consider the details in his sto- ries — like one lover's bad teeth, red hair, speed habit and trash-filled Ca- maro, or the blue Volkswagen Bukowski drove around LA (one hopes occasion- ally sober).”

As to Bukowski ʼ s inability to aspire to any ʻ transcendent values ʼ , Chaffin is re- lentless:

Bukowski made his reputation by unashamedly and non-judgmentally recording a lifestyle of fatalistic, atheis- tic hedonism — which is really not hedo- nism but its opposite, a sort of terminal anhedonia medicated with booze and sex as distractions — an attitude not far re- moved from the Marquis de Sade, who believed ʻ Whatever is, is good. ʼ " He re-

47

— an attitude not far re- moved from the Marquis de Sade, who believed ʻ Whatever
— an attitude not far re- moved from the Marquis de Sade, who believed ʻ Whatever

jects with ʻ great umbrage ʼ the editor ʼ s prefatory remark: “…chronicle this writer's inner and outer life, from child- hood to the present — and an astonish- ing and heroic life it is." With the substitution of "and a tedious and anti- heroic life it is.

He then moves to his final indictment - an absolute absence of style by citing what is ʻ obvious ʼ : bad journalism with ʻ passive gerunds and hap-dash line breaks at best. ʼ He offers this poetic ex- cerpt as ʻ self-evident violationʼ :

from junk

sitting in a dark bedroom with 3 junkies, female, brown paper bags filled with trash are everywhere. 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 and Medi-Cal.

Continuing with the same work, he com- ments on Bukowski ʼ s treatment of ʻ great writers ʼ.

48

they pulled Ezra through the streets in a wooden cage. Blake was sure of God. Villon was a mugger. Lorca sucked cock. T.S. Eliot worked a teller's cage.

Most poets are swans, egrets.

Now, all the daggers are out:

Here is sloppy metaphor, reductionist history and uncertain sense. Does he mean that these poets were exceptions, like himself, suffering indignities? Or that their lives were distinguished from the ordinary, especially by indulgence in the sordid? Does he mean they dived lower in the gutter, or in Blake's case, flew higher? And what do egrets add to swans as a trope? Egrets stand above the muck while swans glide on the sur- face — hardly the best equivalent for cock-sucking, mugging, and dehumaniz- ing work.

The noted poet Duane Locke is just as harsh in a different vein. In my recent in- terview with him, he responded to a question on the origin of his poem:

“Post-Modern Love Song ʼ with a fierce attack:

I am trying to remember what caused me to start the poem. What I remember is that it started from a memory of a review of one of my poems. The reviewer was an aficionado of Charles Bukowski and published a little magazine dedicated to the writing of Charles Bukowski.

was an aficionado of Charles Bukowski and published a little magazine dedicated to the writing of

This Bukowski lover singled out one of my poems for severe criticism. The se- lected poem was one in which I wrote about a love affair using Hegelian termi- nology. He said I should have known better than to use such abstruse, recon- dite, erudite, polysyllabic language for a love poem. He must have been disap- pointed because I did not use any ob- scenities or those meaningless “four letter words,” which are the most used words in the lower, middle, and upper class vocabularies, the I-they, non-self owned, slave mentality vocabularies.

Now this Bukowski lover did not use the words I used above in describing his strictures, but used some commonplace colloquialisms derived from an I-they, non-self owned, slave mentality manner of communication.

categories who are not enemies of po- etry. These exceptions are difficult to find, but these few will save poetry from disappearing in “Our Age of Stillborn Po- etry.”

What can be summarized from these damning critiques? Besides an impover- ished knowledge of poetry to the point that it cannot be called poetry, Bukowski is seen as fixated on his own persona, devoid of all but the basest of values, and foreign to the requisites of even po- etic sensibilities of any form. Moreover, his impoverishment of words made all but base language acceptable in much of modern poetry. Finally, he was primi- tively unaware of philosophy or post- modern thought that defined the autonomy of an “authentic self ʼ , let alone poet.

I assumed that qualifications as con- ceived by this Bukowski lover to be a poet are ignorance, insensitivity, and emotional deficiency. The condition of being affected with the disease of autism is necessary and essential for writing in the Bukowski manner. …

I do not consider Bukowski a poet at all, but a non-poet. He is only an I-They, non-self owned slave mentality writing for other I-They, non-self owned, slave mentalities. His popularity is due to the fact that most Americans hate poetry and seek to destroy poetry by finding a surro- gate. The most outstanding destroyers of genuine poetry are found among our col- lege professors, poetry critics, poetry scholars, literary magazine editors, the non-poets who falsely believe and have faith they are writing poetry and now e- zine editors, although there are a few rare exceptions in the above mentioned

49

Saying all this, Bukowski had not a few scholarly defenders:

Gerald Locklin, a writer and professor at California State University, Long Beach, and long-time friend, stated in admira- tion: "What he taught me is that you can

make poetry out of your daily life," Lock-

lin says "You don't have to wait for the

great moments; it doesn't have to be

love, death, war."

In a major retrospective in The Guardian

on September 2007, Tony O ʼ Neill makes

a strong case for the beauty of

Bukowski ʼs poetry:

In the rush to file away Bukowski as a booze-addled fluke, his ability to lay down a truly beautiful line has often been overlooked. Take these lines describing the genesis of Los Angeles:

“this land punched-in cuffed-out divided held like a crucifix in a deathhand” Or take his poem Tragedy of the Leaves

“this land punched-in cuffed-out divided held like a crucifix in a deathhand” Or take his poem
“this land punched-in cuffed-out divided held like a crucifix in a deathhand” Or take his poem

which ends with the heartbreaking lines:

“and I walked into a dark hall where the landlady stood execrating and final, sending me to hell, waving her fat, sweaty arms and screaming screaming for rent because the world has failed us both.” Writing several articles on Bukowski for “Poetry Circle: Contemporary Poetry Forum”, Jay Dougherty further argues such snippets are representative of ge- nius. He identifies ʻ trademark ʼ Bukowskian qualities:

A keen ear for the musical quality of nat- ural, everyday speech; an ability to in- fuse significance into desperate, dreadful moments of his own life and those of others without becoming ba- thetic or sentimental; a tremendous facil- ity of listing and juxtaposing details of everyday life with abstraction either to set a scene or to vivify a theme; an artis- tic distance from his subjects which al- lows him to find humor and nuggets of wisdom in even the most dismal sce- nario, his own or others'.

He

Bukowski ʼ s ʻ mastery ʼ :

then

links

T.S.

Eliot ʼ s

work

to

"the tragedy of the leaves” …shows Bukowski at his tightest lyrically. The first line, "I awakened to dryness and the ferns were dead," sets the reader down abruptly into a world as raped of hope and promise as Eliot's first line in "Gerontion": "Here I am, an old man in a dry month." But Bukowski's details re- main close to home, not alluding to mythologies but the realities of the downtrodden, a permanent wasteland as much of circumstance as of choice: "and the empty bottles like bled corpses / sur- rounded me with their uselessness." The poem sets a scene soon to become fa-

50

miliar to Bukowski readers: stripped of hope for work and seeing less sense in struggling with the average man than dying as a no-sayer, the poem's protag- onist remarks upon the daily struggles of the desperate, finding some comfort, fi- nally, in the truths that allow him to un- derstand their frustration.

Eliot ʼ s greatness without the ʻ preten- tious ʼ hyper-intellectualism, is a point to be heartily celebrated.

He shocks the literary establishment with his aliterary style and his blunt lan- guage, his eagerness to "make it new," as Ezra Pound would say. He brings the American language alive on the page, the way it is spoken by the average American, and thereby delights readers who have long been disenchanted by lit- erature's antiseptic content and alienat- ing austerity.

Conclusion

Bukowski ʼ s epitaph has provided insights for fans and critics: “Don ʼ t try.” For crit- ics it ʼ s quite simple: “He didn ʼ t.” For the devoted reader this was acclimation that life was meant to do, feel, be and then express. In conclusion, this article makes no pre- tense in resolving this heated contro- versy; there are uncountable numbers on either side. It aims to let readers know that this controversy has left a deep im- press on the shape and form of poetry today. Thus perhaps it is best to leave the reader with one of his most noted poems in the hope that they will seek out more and consciously determine what the writing of Charles Bukowski means to them.

the tragedy of the leaves

I awakened to dryness and the ferns were dead, the potted plants yellow as corn; my woman was gone and the empty bottles like bled corpses surrounded me with their uselessness;

the sun was still good, though, and my landlady's note cracked in fine and undemanding yellowness; what was needed now

was a good comedian, ancient style, a jester with jokes upon absurd pain; pain is absurd because it exists, nothing more;

I shaved carefully with an old razor

the man who had once been young and said to have genius; but that's the tragedy of the leaves,

the dead ferns, the dead plants; and I walked into a dark hall where the landlady stood execrating and final, sending me to hell, waving her fat, sweaty arms and screaming screaming for rent because the world has failed us.

The Tragedy of the Leaves By Henry Charles Bukowski

51

and screaming screaming for rent because the world has failed us. The Tragedy of the Leaves
and screaming screaming for rent because the world has failed us. The Tragedy of the Leaves

last

pledge

I pledge allegiance to the disunited hopefuls of America, United under one rainy newsstand To
I pledge allegiance
to the disunited hopefuls
of America,
United under one
rainy newsstand
To the tenement apartments
with families,
Who eat food
as communion
with their God
To the greasy spoons,
to the five and dime,
To the inevitable haircut
at the side street barber
To the only liberty
that stands on Liberty island
in the harbor
To make a mortal mark on the world,
to create an immortal memory for all.
And just one friend to say cheers, At the local bar over an after hours'
And just one friend
to say cheers,
At the local bar
over an after hours' beer
52
cheers, At the local bar over an after hours' beer 52 Last Pledge by Yvon Cormier

Last Pledge by Yvon Cormier

www.myspace.com/proteanview

Considering current circum-

the postulates of sum of

posi-

tioning a poem with America as a

the greatest economists

stance

memor

Comment by Jason Neese

is not too off balanced.

White

Flag

White Flag Slipping on a thin rope, stretched to its limits. Mind racing and filled to

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, faces places

Worn out scenes played over and over and over

I’m at war At 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.

53

lullaby. Eyes rolled back and see the white flag waving. 53 http://www.myspace.com/SamaraR White Flag by Samara

http://www.myspace.com/SamaraR

White Flag

by Samara

This is a good write. "Eyes rolled back and feel the white flag waving" Like that a lot. Think it’s the way music can make me feel after the stresses of life get to you. Music can take away so much stress - Comment by Francis P Blue

Take This Red

Flag

Take This Red Flag it didn't matter that no one knew exactly what they were doing

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

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

it seems to me I am the one who has had to learn how to sacrifice and so what if i have some secret pleasures of my own use 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 of satisfied grown up smiles content to have me pinned down but i realize my sacrifice was always my choice

it has taken me closer to a true reality and penance of a deeper sense and 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 limits to bring through something i knew to be true

whatever. take this red flag you think i am waving and place it in your databank of all the things i've done wrong in your eyes

take this red flag i'm done with these masquarades to prove myself to everyone

that i can be everything you imagined me to be

Take This Red Flag by Glorianne Kada

54 www.myspace.com/sundroprays

Red Flag by Glorianne Kada 54 www.myspace.com/sundroprays I am so very much with you. I feel

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

To What is Familiar

Returning to what is familiar

by Kat Solomon

www.myspace.com/katsolomon

what is familiar by Kat Solomon www.myspace.com/katsolomon This is soooo deep and inspired me Great poem!!!

This is soooo deep and inspired

me

Great poem!!! Comment by Maya Baby

this

is how I feel A LOT!!!

55

My case of emotional amnesia has broken In the middle of the inky black night Doubling me over with intense pain Surrounded by sweat soaked pillows and sheets My terror ridden cat screeches out of the room My screams matching her fear The demons return to their familiar posts Fear reestablishes itself as the principle gatekeeper Of my heart which has been shredded

Many times over by misplaced hope And failure to see the truth of reality, Fear nods its head in ascent Allowing the cruel bastard of poor self esteem To troll the inner recesses of a heart That was once On the mend, Foolish, foolish woman Fear shrieks inside me You should have learned your lessons by now Happiness is illusory, a pipe dream As phony as the progress you’ve convinced yourself You 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 depression Come back to what you are well acquainted with How 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 numbness To return

Pre-fossilization

[When There’s Still a Face to Tear Off]

Secular imprints of scripture on the high horse, vaccination placing pearls of indifference meagerly before bulimic-eyed swine measure for water in demarcative gesture, hands whirring towards an expansive variety of living the wind-up motif a hand-me-down existence wrinkled to a cog, shuffle the ballast toward misnomer of fortune where everyone is asking you "Did you see that?" and you didn't, or, if you did it wasn't the same thing that anyone else saw, and you feel foolish language bottled and sold here to the most flattering bidder just hang around for the finale pulls words like swollen arrows from the sockets of conscience trying not to spray you with failure when the rupture exposes bone and a fistful of leaking poems

56

Pre-Fossilization [When There’s Still a Face to Tear Off] by analept (BadWriter) www.myspace.com/themastercopyisaac
Pre-Fossilization [When
There’s Still a Face to
Tear Off]
by analept (BadWriter)
www.myspace.com/themastercopyisaac
So much passion possessed into
these words, this poem
A fistful of
leaking poems, a great way to end
a great poem. :)
- Comment by Celeste
Days to Remember Java, butter cookies and elevator music This civilized world brings me into
Days to Remember
Java, butter cookies and elevator music
This civilized world brings me into
Today
Squandered
Those hours of sleep yesterday
Missing the gentle swell of snowflakes
Shivering while this coffee warms me
Inside out, inhaling roast aromas
Enjoying
Delivery
Strings plucked humming waves
That melody fills me with longings
Take me to the rolling seas and share
Footprints washing away quickly
Rhythmic tides
Velvety carpet
Soothing warm sands of time
Missing not a moment of today
Yes, let not a moment slip away
57
not a moment of today Yes, let not a moment slip away 57 www.myspace.com/sweettalklil Days to

www.myspace.com/sweettalklil

Days to Remember By Sweettalk~CultVault's Siren~

Nice

Comment by Kellett

58

the Awakening When your spirit did first seize mine, I was overwhelmed with the power.
the Awakening
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 rose
Inhaled 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 soul
To 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 by Tony Vassilion

www.myspace.com/tony_vassilion

Awakening by Tony Vassilion www.myspace.com/tony_vassilion A new day can be our lifetime when we ponder the

A new day can be our lifetime when we ponder the magnificence of the light, the beauty, the warmth, the life that the sunshine in our lives has to offer and give to our very being beautifully written and wow! Sent me on a trip in a matter of seconds peace Comment by TiaLola

How to Destroy a people First of all, teach your own children, with their mothers
How to
Destroy a people
First of all, teach your own children,
with their mothers milk, with the songs
that you sing to them at night,
that they are entitled; that the land
has always been theirs.
Over and over again,
until the other people who share this land
are made almost invisible;
so that they become mere shadows
to be brushed out of the way
of your sun.
Don't show your children
the maps which shows that other land
subsumed, gradually vanishing
from year to year.
Justify what you do
with the profound suffering
that your people endured;
let that blind and deafen you
to the suffering of others.
Trap them into an airless corridor
of land,
deny them access to their water sources,
tell your selves that you're entitled
to all their resources.
Destroy their olive groves,
deny them the choice
of their own leaders.
Build up an army that leeches
upon the hearts of all your men;
create over and over again
an 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 then
allow yourselves to weep
and send up prayers
for the maimed and murdered children
that lie beside their lifeless mothers,
traumatized and dazed.
Would you rather bring down the world,
than face up to the reality
of what you are doing to
your own humanity?

59

the reality of what you are doing to your own humanity? 59 How to destroy a

How to destroy a people by HeartsSong

http://www.myspace.com/heartssong

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

I’ve realized the r e a l i t y o f Te l e
I’ve realized the
r e a l i t y
o f
Te l e v i s i o n
Liquidize my melting brain
Watch it slowly flow down my drain
Yes
It's our fault
Blame us
For making famous
A shameless
Ignoramus
What's her name?
What's his name?
Why do they put them selves to shame?
Television is so lame
Let's burn it I proclaim
Or at least turn it off
Why must I watch a talent less fool loosing their cool?
Is this reality?
No
Just another freak show
So reaching for the remote
I turn over
Yes no surprise
This is so wrong
How low will they stoop?
Look at this nincompoop
As my brain cells regroup
My girlfriend slept with my Transvestite Uncles,
cousins, Mothers, naughty naturalist neighbour's son
Oh what bloody fun
All sitting there
As I stare
While they wash their laundry in the public eye
It's enough to make you cry

60

in the public eye It's enough to make you cry 60 I've realized the reality of

I've realized the reality of television by Francis P Blue

www.myspace.com/francispblue

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

The Distant Scream i keep hearing this distant scream and i can't tell if it

The Distant Scream

i keep hearing this distant scream and i can't tell

if it is a child or a woman or a

bird

sometimes it sounds like a siren and other times like music

some kind of operatic high note

a piercing one

i feel it in the filthy dungeons of my heart

and in the dark pathological alleys of my memories

i know you don't hear it

because

i can see by the expression on your face

that

it is not affecting you

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

but later on today

when you ask me what i am thinking

i am going to lie

today when you ask me what i am thinking i am going to lie THIS DISTANT

THIS DISTANT SCREAM by James Crafford

www.myspace.com/jamescrafford

I feel that deep awareness/self protected reservation in

this one

rich write! the feeling

and then go seek out that sound!! ~!!!" but that's just

me ;}

Comment by Sarah Free

both raw exposition and sturdy composition

but I want to say "Don't lie!! Tell!!

excellent piece Jim

another

light as dipping bud tracing air with colour sparing the dark from its boundary lips
light as dipping bud
tracing air with colour
sparing the dark from its boundary
lips whispering clean
the dirt of me
the nuance of particle
claiming space as ours
the touch is almost
& yet everything
&
history
&
is blood
& back
here
where
we do not know
& yet everything

further from here

The

Inconclusive

kisS

where kisses begin wars

the blush of mouth

& forward future where love is the gossip of permanence tittle-tattle of eternity

62
62

the inconclusive kiss By Gillian Prew

www.myspace.com/wordjunkiespace

This poem is created like a pendulum moving forward and back- ward, unable to choose a direction to move. As a single moment

which can expand in time or to be frozen in present and thus to

dissolve in the past. This is brilliant!

Comment by PaulV

I Can't Stop Nodding My Head To This Song

I Can't Stop Nodding My Head To This Song 63
6 4 I Can't Stop Nodding My Head To This Song By M for Mag(i)cant

64

I Can't Stop Nodding My Head To This Song By M for Mag(i)cant

www.myspace.com/464559229

I always like your poetry even though it seems a bit edgy

and dark at times, but there is such a wonderful curiousity and sense of humour in

your words. I REALLY like how your presentation has taken shape too in the last while since I began following your words. Comment by Glo

Well my dear neighbor

Ghost

in the Attic

A time capsule of our own pictures,

A time capsule of our own

A time capsule of our own pictures,
A time capsule of our own pictures,

pictures,

A time capsule of our own pictures,
A time capsule of our own pictures,
A time capsule of our own pictures,
A time capsule of our own pictures,

where we stowed away stories that were

written by you and me.

making

a breath of childish whispers that were spectre of light They encompassed that space, the laughter rhythm and rhyme.

Ghost in the Attic by Angelheart

www.myspace.com/angelheartwxyz

in the Attic by Angelheart www.myspace.com/angelheartwxyz This is excellent! peace and love. Comment by Justin

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

Hiding in Grandma's Attic we had our own secret space blocks built into fortresses Story lines changing dimension one moment we were

"Lost In Space" Pretend spaceships gliding through

time

Hoist Your Petard

I

was Leia and you were Luke,

(

I thought it was Retard)

Danger Will Robinson

Teddy was Chewbacca and he didnt mind not in the least.

Danger

Falling into piles of pillows that were cosmic dust

chasing each other with pretend sabres that even mice didnt venture,

I had a secret compartment there

pictures, stories that were written by you and me.

A time capsule of our own making

a breath of childish whispers

that were spectre of light They encompassed that space, the laughter rhythm and rhyme.

into the dusty corners

where we stowed away

After Grandma died, many years later

I climbed the rickety stairs, hearing the squeak with each step sending shivers up my spine

Light trickled into tiny window frame, webs hung like Irish Lace

a dowery of her ancestory

forgotten toys I bent to touch, lingering with a smile over cups still set with foccilized Oreo on tiny plate Han Solo sitting next to Ballerina Barbie faux date in progress Closed my eyes and I could almost hear his laugh the cousin who kept me company each summer quick to laugh, and to joke damn he always cheated at jacks.

I sat cross legged

reading the story we took turns writing

wondering

why family drifts like sand and noone meets in summers anymore like our parents always did, Why did this story have to end

Closing my eyes

I almost drifted back,

into another time and space

out of the corner of my eye

I could have sworn

I saw the hazy shape

of a child looking back at me

a whisper of touch

on bare leg was all I felt

Was it real

66

i

and pauper

i

a n d

am

a m

prince

r o g u e p r o p e r

I Am

i am

and

smart

i a m

meal

crumb

and

dumb

s e n s i t i v e

a

n d

n u m b

i

am

kind

and

cruel

i

a m

f o o d

and

stool

i

a m

s t r o n g

a n d

w e a k

 

bold

and

meek

i am

boring

a n d

f r e a k

 

i a m

b e l o w

a n d

i

a m

a b o v e

i am

pull

a n d

i

a m

s h o v e

i a m

h a t e

a n d

i

a m

l o v e

o v e i a m h a t e a n d i a m

i am by Michael Egidio Quigg

www.myspace.com/worksofq

In so few words you said so

much

by

John(Coyote)

Comment

l o v e i am by Michael Egidio Quigg www.myspace.com/worksofq In so few words you
I Am Woman Behold, and bear witness to the vision Woman Wrapped in passions silk
I Am Woman Behold, and bear witness to the vision Woman Wrapped in passions silk

I Am Woman

Behold, and bear witness to the vision Woman Wrapped in passions silk Radiating power and sensuality Seeds of the universe ripe Rolling hips and swell of breast Fully rounded, sweetly soft Graceful in turn of hand, and lips

I Am Woman by Sweet Clover

www.myspace.com/mypaintedlife

Creator of the divine world Woman Begetter, of warriors Strong and benevolent Kings Aut