Officer Clancy

By “OBSIDIAN!!!” and HoboBob



So, now you’re
Talking the badge and the gun
I’m trying to catch a nap
Before the sun
Comes up…

What you say?
You want to see my I.D.?
What’s the offense? So I was sleeping
Horizontally…

Commissioner Kelly sent you
To HOUSE me off the bench
Saw me while he was riding by in a car
So, now you’ve come to ROUSE me
Within an inch of my life
Wanna HOOSEGOUSE! Me
Check my pockets for a knife?

Run me for a warrant
See if I could give a FUCK!!!
“Please officer Clancy, YOU SUCK!”



Driving to work one night,
Cold and dark.
I see your patrol car in the rearview mirror,
Moving bright and stark.


Officer Clancy. You pull me over,
And haul my Black ass out,
Oh, my tail light was busted,
‘That can’t be true’ I shout.


But now you smell alcohol on my breath.
And on goes the cuffs,
And push my head into the patrol car
‘cause enough is enough.


I’m fucked for work,
Because I’m sitting behind bars,
And what do you know,
No more driving cars.


You take my picture.
Oh that’s just for good luck.
Talk to you later

Please officer Clancy, you suck!

A Poem From Master Li-Fi of Bensonhurst

The stage is empty
The microphone's shut.
All the lights are off.
The power's been cut.

The doors have been locked.
The curtains have been closed.
And the Hobo on the couch
continues to doze.

He sleeps until he sees
the bright morning light
and wonders what the hell
happened last night.

Did he get to do a reading?
Are his poems all the rage?
Or did he just make a giant
ass of himself on stage?

So many things to ponder.
So little time to think
when all the Hobo really wants
is another stiff drink.

So he pulls himself from the sofa
and brushes off the lice.
Then he shuffles to the bar
and pours a Jack with ice.

HOBOBOB

Hobobob is homeless and living on a street near you.

TWO GAYS FLIP ME THE BIRD

I see you,
Outside of the Starbucks,
Smoking a cigarette,

You are skinny,
Tall,
Black,
With blonde hair.

You notice me,
You don’t smile,
I don’t smile back,
I simply look away.

I look at the people outside,
The window before me.

Where are they going?
Who are they meeting?
You meet your friend.

You both walk past my window.

He is tall like you,
He is skinny like you,
He is white,
But he is blonde like you.

And you are now smiling at me,
Flipping me the finger.

- Hobobob, 2007

ROBERT MUELLER

Robert Mueller lives on the Upper West Side in Manhattan. He approaches writing from a base of modest achievement as a practicing literary scholar. Essays appear online in Jacket and at the Barbara Guest home page in the Electronic Poetry Center. In his poems Mr. Mueller contributes to vibrant cultural and community goings on by way of experiments in verbal fantasy and free humor. The spontaneity of his writing can be slap-dash and it can be roughhousing or quieter feeling. When the opportunity arises, he reads his poems aloud at open gatherings, sometimes on the same day.




To Too-ta-loo the Schubert Herr
by Robert Mueller


Ticker-tocker Heimweh Schleim!
Minstrel strews reversal coos
cascading into delight set
altitudes where thou art cowl.
Loosey Goose fly in chink of thy may-thistle.
Then thou art hastening sugaries,
art embosomed in enamelling boom.
Little gleaning
wanting to start sheets come in parts.
Or daintily the violins, no cob-webs tholed,
clatter like a shrine-a-line in scurry.
I have half a mind and I am scrolled
to cashier hides,
to send thee, quickly, to Arachnidae school,
to worm, to bleed, to bowlover, and nothing cool;
for of swift anneal I please steed,
steed feared and mangled in the flying night,
steed fluegeling bright to you tonight.
Ho Pindar ho, bedubbing Crown,
more monkey grown, of Beard-Mistress thorough thrown,
snatch mead anon of dangling fire,
make shine your schimpfy grackle choir.
The Speedos’ harms are itchy, harms are bold,
Geigle Spiegel Giddy Gold.
May then the beam-quick Clause of Many
cataract to full card’s slick, the boo-birds brimmed
within the Way-Ocean tumble-flick.
May all these chime
in mystery, or Isolde’s
sirens be.
May all these capstanated clay-bums be,
may all, may all, commatteration.
It snoofles, it sneefles,
its tattery twos tease and mingle.
The dome-lit highs suffuse
the sky, and meanwhile
grommeling grooms supplease the Queen’s squinching,
her Tame-Lord ease, her sooth for these Innings.

BACK LIKE A RASH!...

Yo...yo...yo...yo!! i know i've been a little absent, in the writing department, due to certain constraints, like not remembering my own password!...dah!...but i'm back like a rash, & want to make a few contributions to my own, and Hobo Bob's blogsite. 1stly, i like to thank all you wonderful poets for your amazing contributions. WOW! i'm almost moved to tears-i said 'almost'!. O.k., so what i'm gonna do is begin with a tribute poem, i wrote along time ago, as a birthday present to my brother, Hobo Bob...many moons ago...by-the-way, this poem was read at the "Saturn Series", co-hosted by Su Polo and Dave Elsasser..back in the daze...bon appetito!-"OBSIDIAN!!!"



Ma Vodka Bottle
by "OBSIDIAN!!!" [Excerp from "Zen is Now c. 1992]



As long as it doesn't show
and as long as it doesn't fall out
i can endure the humiliation
of human dignity

As long as i don't slurp
when i draw
and as long as it doesn't
slip from my paw
when i hit the floor
i can enjoy the brief illusion
of serenity

As long as i don't run outta bills
and as long as i
can still make my way
to the liquor store up the hill
i aint gotta a’ member 'bout
my loneliness

As long as i can just
…keep it coming
THE HELL WITH THE NUMBING!
yeah…and the dumbing
i can have the thrill of
being real
and get to feel
my one and only-ness!…Whoooh!!!

YOLANDA COULAZ

Yolanda Coulaz is a poet and photographer, and owner/editor of Purple Sage Press (when she’s not working at her “day job”). She also teaches poetry workshops to middle and high school students throughout Long Island. Her poetry has won a number of awards and has been widely published. Her signature poem “Cool, Cotton Comfort” won first place in the Mattia Family 8th International Poetry Competition. In April 2004 she coordinated, hosted and was a feature reader at “Poets for Pets”, a fundraiser for Loving Touch Animal Rescue, and has published the anthology For Loving Precious Beast to help benefit their cause. Her first book of poetry Spirits and Oxygen was released in October 2003. Google her name on the internet, and find out more. (Photo provided by Yolanda Coulaz)

COOL, COTTON COMFORT

I wore him like a tight pair of jeans,
and he looked damn good on me.
It was almost obscene,
that tight pair of jeans.

He didn’t fit,
and I was proud of it
and the way they’d stare
at that man I’d wear.
It was almost obscene,
that pair of jeans.

Well, I’m older today,
and I’ve got a man that fits
like a pair of sweats, heather grey,
and he looks damn good on me.
And that tight pair of jeans?
Well, I threw him away.

from:
Spirits and Oxygen
Copyright © 2003
by Yolanda Coulaz
Purple Sage Press

CITY GIRL

She reads cheap paperbacks
and bibles and takes them
at their word, wears black
and lives on caffeine,
cigarettes and stress.

Her nails are nubs;
cuticles ragged and raw;
hair, Midnight #36.

Her skin is pale
in sky scraper shadows,
and she is lean
for lack of transportation.

She eats soft pretzels
soaked in humidity,
seasoned with salt
and carbon monoxide,
searches for something
in subways and taverns,
and she doesn’t read
the funnies anymore.

from:
Spirits and Oxygen
Copyright © 2003
by Yolanda Coulaz
Purple Sage Press

EFRAYIM LEVENSON

EFRAYIM LEVENSON'S new chapbook, Dances With Tears, will be available for general sale March 20. (Photo by Hobobob)



JONES
by Efrayim Levenson

The record climb
the record fall
Don't look now
There go your balls!

The next ball up
can't come too fast
Yolanda Vega
won't save your ass

La-la-la-la
la-la-la-la
la-la-la-la-la-la-la

BURDEN OF A MAN

Adrift in time
at peace with space
the love in this place
sledge-hammered into his head
shatters all levels
of dissonant rhythms
He cannot sing what it reveals
The chorus in his disturbed quietude
is slapped across his face
left, then right, then left again

"Please let me breathe", he gasps,
"just for a moment to regain my composure
in the maze. Perhaps the auto-tracking
on the VCR in my mind will accomplish
something soon. A swirl of nausea reels me
as I dance between the city people during a
brief furlough from the numbers game,
the calculator's click-clack not far away."

If only for a little rain
to soak his disposition
in the rhythmic splashings
of his long walk home
Perhaps tonight he can write this poem
if only the day would end

"If only the day would end", he thinks,
"I could lay down with you
to feel my rhythm in your pulse,
look into your eyes that always lure me in.
I love the song your trigger finger sings."

Good morning!
Back into the fitful grind
to ride the rails once again
rattle shake squeal of brake
back to the rustle of purple paper
the CPU click again, again,
again the stiff roar from the humorless
Only a few know the size of the real picture
Is the clock friend or foe?
All he knows is smallness in the world
but they keep knocking on his door for answers

"Just a little comfort with you in my arms
quiets the incessant buzz. Hold me down
while there's yet time for peace."

For soon the morning light rages
with the burden of a man
in search of a place to stand
So many discordant pieces to assemble
for the walk up the battlefield's hill
where the images are never concrete
His final rest lies at the top
He feels the pull of a new day
while he awaits the rattling shatter
of the vice that flattens his head
Pound the drum
Scrape the string clean
Shield yourselves from his burden's burst
Have a good laugh at the clown's expense
You'll feel sorry when it's too late
Tick, tick, tick, adrift in accelerated fading time again
Wake up!
We're not done with you yet.
Your egg isn't scrambled enough
The shots fired are just your synapse snap

Relax.
It'll be fine in the morning.

Efrayim

LADY PENUMBRA

Born in Germany, emigrated to US as a child, grew up in Mass, went thru something like hell, came out on the other side, represents creative people from the Gulad behind bars. maybe someday there will be something more detailed ...

THE PRIEST


I walked down the alley
where the priest held a gun to my head
of course god loves you
he said
and so do I
he bent down to kiss me
and then he pulled the trigger

by "Lady Penumbra" c. 2007

RAVENOUS (MORE!)

This entire town feeds off this prison

parasites like leeches off dead fish

MORE!

screams the town

gimme MORE!

I want more prisoners!

A woman observes

"Oh, he’s been here a long time

since before Joey was born"

Joey is now in college

MORE!

screams the prison

gimme MORE!

I want more time!

Seventy prisons in this state

sustain the corporations

that sustain the body politic

MORE!

screams the gov’nor

gimme MORE!

I want more prisons!

the rich black soil gives up its farms

trades them for new facilities

and soaks up the blood of the men

MORE!

screams the earth

gimme MORE!

I want more blood!

two-thousand aimless men

shuffle under the weight of their burdens
hopeless and defeated
more!

struggle the men to whisper

by "Lady Penumbra" c. 2007

DAVID ELSASASER

David Elsasser has been a co-host of the weekly, monday, Saturn Reading, at Nightingale Bar for, five years. He has featured at many venues. He is also a photographer who particularly enjoys taking pictures of other spoken word artists performing.

LAST CALL!

she half shouts, half purrs in our ears. We each feel like it was our individual ear. Maybe that’s the sign of a really good bartender. Or maybe it’s magic. Maybe we all hear important messages through one great generational ear somewhere. Personally I suspect it’s the one hanging on a neon-sign on Varick St. An oracle hidden in plain sight. But I get funny ideas.

The bar-keep needs us to know she’s on our side. She’d give us the universe. Only time is growing short. Oh, it’s not up yet. There’s still time for one more good go-round. One great draft of life. But we have nowhere near as much future as we once did. You know, back in those bygone days when we believed in forever. Our forever. No one could tell us different. Though of course they tried. It was hopeless. But then they knew that.

Now there’s only a finger-thickness of tape left on the feeder spool. We hear Kate starting to warm up in the back room. The barkeep senses us growing sullen. She pulls off her beer-soaked sweatshirt and liberates her pony-tail from her trucker-cap strap. She wriggles out of her jeans and jumps up on the bar, shaking her long hair free.

She is wearing only the g-string she stores in a shot glass behind the bar for emergencies. The Rolling Stones come on the Juke Box. She smiles eternal bliss at us, holding the large print version of the bar menu before her. I can’t get no. A no, no, no. Her gyrations follow the beat. She is wall-to-wall message, and we all read the writing. It’s all good now. But what a decision we each face.

All possibility gapes before us, on the menu. It’s like the sign outside this establishment reads: The Bar Set High. So what to go for? How far can you leap? Her dance goes on. And on. She is Artemis, Isis, Mary, promising our resurgence. One and then another, and then another of us start singing with the music. Only everyone is singing a different song. Each sings the song they hear. His or her own song. While we sing we study our choices.

We harmonize surprising well. We sound like The Beach Boys, or the Supremes, the Beatles or Billie Holiday. It all depends who’s listening.

We sing and contemplate: For starters, there’s the Pleasure Punch Cocktail, I second that emotion, there’s the Major Life-Swing Margarita, looking for my, lost shaker of salt, the Inner-Seeking Micro Brew, ripple in still water, when there is no pebble tossed, nor wind to blow, and the Wistful Manhattan, slow down, you’re moving too fast, I’d like to make the morning last. I should stop right now, because maybe none of these are for you. There’s many, many other choices. You go over it yourself. I know what I want.

Oh, and by the way, I had a conversation with the bartender earlier. She says forever isn’t all that wonderful: You get so tired of yourself. Not to mention the endlessness of human destruction. There are furrows on her graceful forehead.

Now she washes glasses as we speak. This is the part she likes, she says: hanging out, mixing, watching our breath come and go. She takes our orders. We all move along.

David Elsasaser – 2/07

BODIES

In protest of the Chinese Government’s South Street Seaport exhibit

Thank you silent men
your shed skins illustrate
globalization dissolves difference
but something’s more sinister
than Cheshire smiles suggest.
Sorry I won’t see your
body politic revelations.
You’re too sanguine for me
sinews of cooperation
flexed in laminated ease –
you two high-fiving,
is it good governance
or good riddance you salute?
You thumbing a ride
is it to melting pot
or glue pot you go?

Air of executed men
I fear your gallows giddiness.
What pitiful plea bargains
your hides bought.
Murderers in the flesh, maybe
but you, your meditative stare
recalls Falun Gong. And you,
breathless shout forever sealed
did you sound freedom’s call?
You with tireless climbing step
you look Tibetan.
Cares gone with epidermis
you all look lighter
if suspiciously good humored.
So what portent
your ghoulish second coming?
Is it less mayhem you signal
or just a clever scheme
to stash the bodies?

David Elsasser - 5/06

JACK TRICARICO

Doing art of any kind has always been a necessity for me, just as writing became at age 35 when I first attempted to write poetry.
After five years I put together my first chap book entitled "Captain Omega" which I only saved a few poems from. Today I've written three more and am currently working on another. Balancing my time between painting, writing, and practicing T'ai Chi is a daily effort that has been very rewarding for me through the years.

Jack Tricarico
January 6, 2007

WELCOME THE ALIEN:

Small, frail, East Indian woman
Wheeling her baby carriage
On a tenement sidewalk
Sandwiched between the caved-in stare
Of a Hell's Angel
And my hungrier one
For far away atmospheres
Evident in her delicate, moonwalk step
Oh, poor mother. Oh, poor baby
Everyone eats a little of everyone
In New York City
What we don't eat is our imponderables
That which we can't situate
Or encapsulate or subordinate
Or exasperate or expatriat
Or expropriate or exuviate
Doomsday viruses, interplanetary terrorist
Symptoms of madness that haven't been named
The air produces things
Something starts like a bad rumor
Wherever we lie down
Unity erases us
Divided we still have a face
Small, frail, East Indian woman
Don't walk like the other side
Of a shadow on the other side
Of a wall. Each pore of your skin
Is the door to a laughing abyss
We're in America, you know

Jack Tricarico

A BLIND GIRL'S HANDS AND MINE

Like tendrils
Moving beneath
Clear water
Her hands form
An enclosed sovereignty
In a sunken dimension
That encircles the words
Of men
Like the word "God"
Which she kneads
With soft fists
And the word "myth"
Which she spools
On her thumbs
And the word "fact"
Which she smears
In her palms
And the word "guilt"
Which she clasps
On her wrists
And the word "love"
Which she lifts
With her cup
While the men
Who do not notice
Recede in the chatter
Of their meandering discourse
That fails to unnerve
The impervious waitress
Who waits for our order
Like dust in a vacuum
Compared to my own
The blind girl's hands
Are like the shape of breath
And mine like the hands
Of accomplished assassins
Still
They can paint clouds
With a tar brush
And with fingers embraced
They exchange their regrets
For whatever was left
Undone, unattempted
Or never imagined
From the earliest dawn Of the world
Surrounding the contours Of things
That have the color
Of twilight
And the established composure
Of the blind girl's hands

Jack Tricarico

FREDERICK VAUGHN

FREDERICK VAUGHN is a poet and playwright living in Norwich, CT. His plays TEAL BLUE, SILENCE, BRIAN AND BRIAN, and THE PAY OFF have played Off Off
Broadway at Theatre Studio Inc. He wrote and starred in two soap operas on Manhattan Neighborhood Network, ROEBLING'S WORLD and THE NEXT TOMORROW. MNN has also aired some of his musicals, MUNICH, OY, THE BIG TIME, and WHO'S DELUDED NOW? In Connecticut, Vaughn is mostly known for writing skits for The Second Step Players in their fight against the stigma of being mentally ill (Photo from Frederick Vaughn).

Hercules Rewritten

by Frederick Vaughn

I told Hercules my epic poem

But he says that it's too preachy

And I write about Cupid

And Hercules was hurt that

I wrote about another god

And I make a sacrifice

But Hercules wasn't impressed

So I wrote a one-act play

For each of his twelve labors

But Hercules didn't care for my style

So I thoughtFuck Hercules

If he doesn't like my epic

There are other heroes around

But twelve labors

That's good enough for a comic book

MIDDLE NAME

His middle name is Hussein
That will hurt him
My middle name is Emory
Will that hurt me

When he was six
Some say he went to a Muslim school
When I was six
I went to Kindergarten
I hated nap time
But I loved cookies and punch

When I listen to the news
I think
God, these people are stupid
But they sell me Viagra

But not enough Viagra
The company just laid off several employees
I wonder what the CEO's middle name is

by Frederick Vaughn

THE SAXOPHONE SONG


I walk down the street in New York
There I see a black man with a saxophone
But he isn't playing his saxophone
He is surrounded by seven cops
A black lady cop tells him
That he can't play his saxophone
He doesn't have a license
"Do you have a lincense?
Because you can't play your saxophone without a license
You don't have a license do you?
Now you can't play your saxophone
You have no license"

And I saw the black man
And the seven cops
And I thought
"Why does it take seven cops to stop one black man
From playing his saxophone?
Are they afraid of what song he plays?"
I bet it would have been The Theme from The Godfather
Or maybe New York, New York
Maybe he was going to spend the quarters
He would have made in tips
And buy subversive literature
Or a Doris Day CD

Seven cops
I bet if he was robbed
He couldn't find one

by Frederick Vaughn

"FAMILY AFFAIR"

SAVONNAH Born and raised in Newark New Jersey, Savonna lives, breathes and writes truth with painful, unabashed explicitness. Her poems are a reflection of her tortured past, agonizing present and uncertain future, and her style is best described as the result of a love triangle between Nina Simone, Edgar Alan Poe, and Frida Kahlo. Savonna will take you on a wild ride through her existence in her autobiographical, poetical journals (Photos from Savonnah).

THE MUSE

I have fallen, eyes open, from building rooftops.
Dropped myself from movie theatre balconies and cliffs with jagged rocks and sticks waiting to embrace me, lace me, and drape me in splotched spots, red polka dots that boast surgical arrays and display my imperfections.
Despaired, I have murdered my children in their sweet sleep then turned the blade on my own wrists, tiny slits precisely sliced while submerging in warm tub water.
Assorted pain medications, swallowed without hesitation, were taken with spiritual libations, as a sort of melancholic celebration for the poisoned encapsulations...and...
...as I’ patiently await the end, await the end, await the end, I’d begin to cry.
Tormented, I always awake from this daydreamed state my tear stained face showing traces of scrambled random thoughts fraught with ideations of suicidal, homicidal guilt that wilts and withers my psyche, my soul and body, as a rain forest flower transplanted in the desert.
And whether I survive is based on lies and the elements, dependant on others to make sense my purpose, it’s no wonder I can’t get a grip and slip fixatedly on what people say to me, how their reactions dictate what my day will be and tactless cracks predict what is to become of me.
I sink and give in to depressions every twist and bend and try over and over again to find an end, to find an end, to find an end, to my wasted existence.
Hints and glimmers of solutions present themselves as intrusions because the final truth is; I am used to this confusion I’m set in. It is a comfortable old friend. It secures my insecurities and constantly reminds me of where I’m from. So, so what if I succumb under it’s oppressive thumb, the point is not to run. The point is to face it, and it let it take you to the muse. Even if she’s a confused bitch and wishes mal-intent and purposely invents obstacles and optical illusions for her sheer enjoyment.
You loose yourself for a minute but there is wealth and power in it, fuck that happy ending shit, deaths my detriment for un-repentance.
And the sentence I receive leaves grief for the bereaved but I still feel the need to please that aching that sadness has taken me too. I can think of no others because this muse has governed me thus far. Apart from informed sane decisions, this circle is what I choose to live in, and
I can’t find the ending, and I can’t find the ending....



LAZY FAT BITCH


The lazy fat bitch wishes, as she sits with a mouth full of grits and a sink full of dishes, that her hips were 24 inches, and that her lips weren’t interested in wrapping themselves around chicken bones, blueberry scones, ice cream cones, or some other form of oral pacification.
The lazy fat bitch prays for days of diarrhea delirium just so she can fit in some size 18 jeans, without collapsing her spleen and while she drifts off to sleep she hopes and dreams that one day, say Pfizer or Merck will work out all her trouble in a magic bottle.
When she wakes, the floor creaks and shakes under her enormous weight and she states “Today is God damned day! Fuck ice cream!” She screams, and loads a pile of eggs, toast, home fries, and steak on her plate.
The diet starts now, I don’t care how, I’m going to loose 50 pounds by the end of this month. Jenny Craig, Weight Watchers, Nutri System, Carb Blockers, Curves, Pilates, Bally’s and herbal hot toddies.
The month comes to an end and her belly, her best friend, is still as rotund robust as can be.
So the lazy fat bitch just sits with a mouthful of grits and a sink full of dishes and wishes for a Mercedes.

NAIM OMARI has appeared locally at community churches and school sponsored events. He performs poetry open mics at any venue from New York to Washington DC and all stops in between. Naim Omari is a writer, a dancer, a football player, an award winning wrestler, and a model. All before his 12th birthday!

THE DEMON

I am afraid to move.
I lie still on hard black pavement. If I move a muscle, It will see me.
I watch It glide across the street, slowly, with a black hood and no face.
It is night. Or it is a black day. Which one I can’t tell. There is no sun or moon.
It sees me. I am frozen. Paralyzed by fear. It feeds off the adrenaline that flows through my body, and It uses it against my will. I have no control. I can feel It smiling at me. A smile that pulsates from It’s core and burns into my mind. At that moment, I know my life is over and I’m not afraid. Then blackness.

I lie still on soft blue sheets. I am dripping with sweat. Still paralyzed. Panting. My eyes focus. The black railing of my bed glimmers in the new sun light. I move slowly out of my bed. I stretch. My arms are foreign. The floor is cold. The shower is hot. I try to wash It and It’s smile away. I am not hungry, but I am told to eat. My body does not feel like my own. I hear someone call me. No one is there. I walk to school, but I am not alone. I wonder why kids shy away from me. I don’t care. Someone says I’m different. I don’t care. I don’t care about anything. The day is over. I wasn’t even there. I walk into my house. There is garbage every where. Glass from broken dishes and cups are all over the floor.
The tables are smashed. The sofas are ripped to shreds. My family is gone. I open the door to my bedroom. It sits on my bed smiling Its inner smile. I hear a siren. Then blackness.

I lie still. Frozen. I am dripping with sweat. My eyes focus. I slowly get out of my bed. My body is not my own. I am not hungry. Someone calls my name. There is no one there. I walk to school. But I am not alone. Someone says I’m different. I don’t care.....

NIGEL JOAQUIN is a 14 year old model, poet, martial artist, football player, wrestler, chef and Shakespearean enthusist. Now if he would just clean his room....

I'M NOT AN AFRICAN AMERICAN


I am not an African American.
I am not an African.
I am not an African in America.
I am an American.
In America.
If I were to go to Somalia, Kenya, Liberia, Nigeria or any other part of the “Mother land”, they would not call me brother.
They go to school with me. I tell them we are all the same.
They tell me I came by boat and they came by plane.
They tell me they can trace their roots and their family name.
I asked my mother where we got our start.
The farthest she could go was Chief Troublefield on one side and on the other, old master Clark.
I don’t know which ship we were on. Africa is not my home.
They sold me to master Clark for some trinkets and shiny things.
That’s why there’s an X after Malcolm’s name.
But even the Shabazz tribe has no meaning.
My ancestors died here in America on trees swinging.
We built this country, I am this nation.
I don’t need any tribalization.
I am not an African. I am not an African.
I am not an African American.

TAWAKWAN

Tawakwan is a 48 year old Gay black guy that spent 21 years in Germany. He is a writer of sorts, musician, film maker. Living in Jamaica Queens. Find out more about Tawakwan here.

ODE TO TIM HARDAWAY.




Thank you Tim. You son of a bitch.
Thanks for reopening the doors of hate for all to re-enter.
Thanks for making this gay,black man feel so comfortable knowing that now that Timmy boy has said it's okay,well just have a good ole,'gay bashing day'.

Thanks Tim hardaway for making it clear that you want neither lockerrooms,or america,occupied by queers.. You don't associate,you hate,you cry STAY AWAY!!.

I'm a team player in team sport where masculine men take the floor. We run up and down while chasing a small ball,and reaching for more than just a ball. Guarding so close you rub up another guys ass,but that's macho. Shaq is passing smoochers,but you call us fag.

Thanks tim for showing that I can feel so secure now that you let the world know on nation wide television,that you think gay is oooo-fucking -kay.

Thanks Tim, your just so fucking great...




LIMITED EDITION.



I remember when you first pulled out of the show room.
You beamed as the sun hit your bold frame.

Now it was time for the journey to begin. Many have taken that road are about to take. Many are waiting behind you,eagar,anxious,nervous,and excited. Wanting to know just how your trip will turn out,before it's their turn.

You let them know that no two trip are the same.
Sure you've made some wrong turns.
You've missed a few exits here and there before vanishing into the dark tunnels.
Crossing the bridges.
Burning the bridges.

It's what knowledge is about.

You dodge the pot holes,the bumps,put into low going up,and crusie going down.

You've kept your chasse looking good,and things are aren't looking so bad under the hood.

Sure the engines gotten old with the years,but it's still pumping.

You've been around the block a few times,and they don't make them like you anymore.
'58?-If you want a halfway decent running '58,you got to go to Cuba.

Considering the age,the paint job looks well preserved.
Not a scratch,no big ones at least.
You've gone many a mile,but there's still more road to travel.

Like those before you,and those who follow,you seek a road of enlightenment.
At times it feels more like a road to no where. You look back at what you surpassed. What you've lost,what you've gained.

You let them all know that two trips are the same.

The crossed bridges.The dark tunnels. The burnt bridges.

Your green book value hasn't depreciated much.

Even when the motor finally stops,you'll be worth something to someone.

Your a one and only,Limited edition...

LAWRENCE DETLOR

Lawrence Detlor is "a perfect spurious interpolation aping the creation
of the Mind". That is to say, he is a benign if inessential alien spy
hailing from an undiscovered, rather less corporeal planet and spending
time on this Earth, and more specifically in the New York poetry
circuit, for servile information-gathering purposes. His seeming
extreme disdain for authority is in fact a natural residue of his
perpetual overweening respect for this one true authority. His poems, though arguably enlightening to humans research-wise, are primarily written as a means of communicating the essentials of human life on Earth to this alien race, direct communication being impossible due to the threat of the aliens' discovery. Lawrence himself has had their location blanked in his memory; he can never go home again. Lacking this essential nostalgic sense, Lawrence can only hope that when he eventually wakes up to his own world again after time immemorial, he will be seen fit to be reincarnated as a human woman.

- lcd

THE TALE OF MIDDLE THE POTTER

In the desert of Kas Khaysan he lived, Middle the Potter, a long long time ago, in the little town of Raftery-sur-Azzar. He lived in his own little desert shack, with sand on its floor and surrounded by sand, at night sleeping, and by the day, while the golden image of the sun advanced along Middle the Potter’s floor until it illuminated all that would ever be worked by his hands in a honey-orange glow, employing the same nature-given tools in the quest for the perfect pot.
There were two kinds of clay in Middle the Potter’s shop. There was one, which was the standard type, used all over the world, transported on the backs of camel caravans to the lands where there was yet no clay in the ground, to the potters who worked on ships sailing over the open sea. And there was another, the very special clay of Kas Khaysan, the Super Duper Never-Dry Violet Wonder Clay. For his craft, Middle the Potter depended on Super Duper Never-Dry Violet Wonder Clay. He did not need much, but he was happy for all he could get; for even below the dark and mysterious sands of the desert of Kas Khaysan, the Super Duper Never-Dry Violet Wonder Clay was scarcer than water. All that Middle the Potter ever needed, however, was just enough to fill the largest pot he created, for, whenever he had it in mind to make a pot, this is what he would do: Out of Super Duper Never-Dry Violet Wonder Clay, he would fashion whatever shape he desired for the interior of the pot. Most often, what he wanted was a perfect sphere. So, on his one lone potter’s wheel he set down the entire mass of Super Duper Never-Dry Violet Wonder Clay that he had in the world, and he spun it. He laid his hands along it, as a man just transported from a life in the dry heat of Raftery-sur-Azzar to one in the icy caverns of the far north might like to lay his hands on a warm fire, and soon, shifting them up and down, Middle the Potter would have fashioned his entire supply of Super Duper Never-Dry Violet Wonder Clay into a shape that, as he looked upon it from above as the sun might, was all round, perfectly round, all the way down – the type of shape that any standard potter might use for one of his own pots. But no, Middle the Potter would have a surprise for them. He ever so gently raised up his fashioned shape with the very same hands he had just now ever so gently molded it with, and ever so gently laid it down again, so that it lay on its side, and so that now to see it as a perfect roundness, one would have to take as a vantage point an oblique and awkward diagonal. But Middle the Potter would soon fix that: working just the same as he had before, spinning his one lone wheel, moving his fingers up and down, until finally his mold of Super Duper Never-Dry Violet Wonder Clay could be seen by the noonday sun that beats so hard on Raftery-sur-Azzar as just as perfectly round as if Middle the Potter had never raised it up and set it down at all. And he kept going at this, Middle the Potter, past any conceivable number of viewpoints from which any standard potter could look at this Super Duper Never-Dry Violet Wonder Clay creation and say, “Stop, Middle the Potter, stop; your shape is quite round enough; you have created quite enough of a pot” – until finally, often not before the clay’s beautiful violet had become mingled with the honey-orange of the sun, he had, Middle the Potter, resting on his one lone potter’s wheel, his entire supply of Super Duper Never-Dry Violet Wonder Clay in the shape of a sphere, the form that he had desired.
And even now he would not be done; for it was still left to encase his beautiful violet sphere in the standard clay used by any standard potter, and then to repeat his entire process to this standard clay, until it as well stood on his potter’s wheel in the shape of a sphere. And out into the noonday sun he would take it, Middle the Potter, until the outside clay, as any standard potter knows, became dry, and the Super Duper Never-Dry Violet Wonder Clay did not. And once he had brought it back to his own little desert shack, had taken his short metal carving-knife and carved away a circular section of the outer shell, and scooped out all the Super Duper Never-Dry Violet Wonder Clay, to use again for his next creation, he had himself a pot, Middle the Potter did.
But it was never perfect. And Middle the Potter was unhappy.

* * *

Middle the Potter lived alone, in his own little desert shack in the desert of Kas Khaysan. So, although his beautiful pots, as far enough away from perfect as seemingly Middle the Potter alone could tell, were known far and wide, he was very grateful, Middle the Potter, when any friend took the time to visit him. It was on one such occasion, when his childhood companion, now on leave from the army, Ja’kiliya, came to visit, and Middle the Potter told him all about the pots and the spheres and the noonday sun that beats so hard on Raftery-sur-Azzar and the Super Duper Never-Dry Violet Wonder Clay, that he first recalled, Middle the Potter, any possible answer to his unhappiness.
For that day it was Ja’kiliya who said unto him, “You are poor, friend; such is a reason for any man to be unhappy. You indeed may never be satisfied with such creations as any standard potter might proffer to the people of Raftery-sur-Azzar, but here in the desert there is no need for such a pot. The inhabitants of this dry heat are much more willing to spend their money on a pot all of whose construction is based only on clay of the standard type, to buy a base pot with the money they own rather than thirst to death.”
And Middle the Potter replied, “Oh no, Ja’kiliya, I am not poor. My pots are transported on the backs of camel caravans to places far away from the desert of Kas Khaysan, places far and wide, and I know that all the transactions that occur end up in returning a due share of money to me.”
And Ja’kiliya countered, “Ah, my friend, how do you know what is due, and what is poor? You live in your own little desert shack, with sand on its floor and surrounded by sand, questing the perfect pot by day, and at night sleeping! I have seen the world, my friend; I have fought the great enemy to the West and returned to my childhood town of Raftery-sur-Azzar alive to tell this tale. Of the people of the world you suffer; you are indeed poor.”
And all that Middle the Potter could say in reply was, “I must spend all day in the quest for the perfect pot, until the sun illuminates my own little desert shack in a honey-orange glow. It is all I know how to do, or ever will.”
And Middle the Potter was only fortunate that Ja’kiliya had thought of an idea before he replied, “It is true that in such dry heat as there is in Raftery-sur-Azzar, people are not willing to spend their money on such pots, just so as not to thirst to death. But perhaps if the use were more grand and worthwhile, they might indeed provide a due share of money to you. I am speaking of wine, my friend. I know that in the dark and mysterious desert of Kas Khaysan no vines grow; yet in the regions to the West, I know, lives a vintner who is happy to provide his wares for free. When I next obtain leave from the army, I shall stop by the way and bring back, to the little town of Raftery-sur-Azzar, the wine, transported on the backs of camel caravans, provided to me by this vintner. His name is Hallelujah.”
And with this, Middle the Potter became happy again, and he and Ja’kiliya were able to laugh and joke far into the night, when he should have been sleeping, Middle the Potter. And Ja’kiliya told Middle the Potter strange stories about the regions to the West; and one he told, especially to be remembered by Middle the Potter, told of a man who could have been any standard potter being told that his creation of what was only quite enough of a pot was actually a recurrence of the original Creation of Man, as his pot was formed just as well from the dust of earth. And Middle the Potter could not comprehend what was meant by the Creation of Man, but soon Ja’kiliya had to leave, with promises to return soon with the wine of Hallelujah; and then Ja’kiliya left.
And then Middle the Potter was hopeful, so he was happy, Middle the Potter; and he kept on working all the while the golden image of the sun advanced along his floor; and he kept on making pots as far enough from perfect spheres as only Middle the Potter could tell. And he kept on waiting for Ja’kiliya to return soon with the wine of Hallelujah the Vintner; but several years passed, and Ja’kiliya did not return. And Middle the Potter was only fortunate that Middle the Potter had thought of an idea. A sphere would not be the form that would be desired any more. He would follow the tale told him by Ja’kiliya, a long long time ago, and fashion his pots in the form of a man.
And so he began anew his quest for the perfect pot, Middle the Potter. He threw out his one lone potter’s wheel out of his desert shack, into the surrounding sand; when he fashioned now his entire supply of Super Duper Never-Dry Violet Wonder Clay, and then his clay of the standard type afterhand, he shifted them not only up and down, but also in and out, and side to side. And he cared no more, Middle the Potter, what the noonday sun that beat so hard on Raftery-sur-Azzar would see; he cared only for the shape of a man, the form that he desired. And now he had a new quest, Middle the Potter, for the perfect pot; and he wrote to Ja’kiliya and told him that he, Middle the Potter, needed not the wine provided by Hallelujah the Vintner; for he was happy.
But, again, it was never perfect. And he was unhappy.
And Ja’kiliya did eventually return to the desert of Kas Khaysan, to his childhood town of Raftery-sur-Azzar, and on this occasion when Ja’kiliya came to visit Middle the Potter, he was truly frightened, Ja’kiliya, for the enemy to the West was far greater than Ja’kiliya had thought; he had received no leave from the army until now, and he was truly frightened that the enemy to the West might be great enough to overrun the dark and mysterious sands of the desert of Kas Khaysan.
So Middle the Potter, even though he was unhappy, declared to Ja’kiliya, “I know something that will make you happy, Ja’kiliya,” and he showed him a pot he had, Middle the Potter, in the shape of a man, the form he had desired.
And Ja’kiliya countered, “If the enemy to the West overruns the desert of Kas Khaysan, they will not tolerate anything in the form of a man.” And soon afterhand, he was headed back West, Ja’kiliya, to receive Hallelujah’s wine for his friend Middle the Potter.

* * *

And by the third time he, Ja’kiliya, returned to his own childhood town of Raftery-sur-Azzar, he had already received another letter from Middle the Potter, telling him again that he needed not the wine provided by Hallelujah the Vintner. But this time Middle the Potter did not even show Ja’kiliya the result of his newest quest for the perfect pot. And all that Middle the Potter could say was, “Take me, Ja’kiliya, take me with you to the regions of the West, and I shall receive the wine of Hallelujah.”
And so he did, Ja’kiliya, waiting outside for Middle the Potter to collect as much wine as he needed within from Hallelujah, now finally seen in the form of a man. But on the way back to the little town of Raftery-sur-Azzar, right on the border of the desert of Kas Khaysan, Middle the Potter was ambushed by one band of the great enemy. All he had brought to defend himself was his short metal carving-knife, so it was no surprise when he fell.
Ja’kiliya saw him smash into pieces on the ground, Middle the Potter, and wine flowed out onto the desert sands.



POSSIBLY THE MOST TERRIFYING OF ALL MONSTERS: HIGHTLIGHTS FROM THE FIELD GUIDE TO NORTH AMERICAN MONSTERS

by W. Haden Blackman (Three Rivers, New York, 1998)

Possibly the most terrifying of all monsters are those whose true natures are concealed by their seemingly innocent forms.
Orange Eyes is an eleven-foot bipedal monster covered in a coat of long orange fur. Orange Eyes is an eleven-foot bipedal monster covered in a coat of long orange fur. Orange Eyes is an eleven-foot bipedal monster covered in a coat of long orange fur.
Possibly the most terrifying of all monsters are those whose true natures are concealed by their seemingly innocent forms. Sturdy scales cover much of their bodies.
Possibly the most terrifying of all monsters could have demonic powers of which we are unaware, including the ability to shoot flames from its mouth and roast humans in a blaze of fire and brimstone. Their teeth and claws violate our flesh, their stealth allows them to sneak into our homes and hide beneath our beds, and they frequently pervade our dreams.
Possibly the most terrifying of all monsters are covered in a coat of long orange fur.
These tears instantly harden and crystallize, forming long jewels that resemble exquisite chunks of amber. Snipe hunting (or sniping) has been organized and conducted largely by children. The monster’s weeping had ceased and the sack had lightened considerably.
A frog possessing a unicornlike horn emerges from the brush, while a mammoth frog the size of a cow returns from hunting. They have extremely long tails.
Indeed, the Enfield Horror does seem exceedingly “alien” in appearance: it has three legs protruding from a squat body, two exceedingly short arms, and rough gray skin.
They are capable of floating several inches above the ground and have yet to be injured by any conventional means. Some can control the weather and create massive storms, while others call forth darkness hours before sundown. The careless woman left her offspring unattended in order to meet her lover, but when she returned the next morning, she found that her children had drowned while playing on the riverbank.
The careless woman is an eleven-foot bipedal monster covered in a coat of long orange fur. Feeling sympathy for the mewling beast, including the ability to shoot flames from its mouth and roast humans in a blaze of fire and brimstone, the young woman nursed it, but the Terichik began to grow at a rapid pace, doubling in size within minutes. Long jewels that resemble exquisite chunks of amber frequently pervade our dreams.
The Deer Woman’s victims often appear to have been beaten to death, but can be differentiated from casualties of more mundane murders by the oddly satisfied expressions on their otherwise lifeless faces.
Although many have relations with humans, this is usually part of an intricate disguise, and most Vampires view themselves as far superior to mere mortals.
The Deer Woman’s victims often appear to have been beaten to death, but this is usually part of an intricate disguise, and is an eleven-foot bipedal monster covered in rough gray skin.
Orange Eyes is an eleven-foot bipedal monster covered in a coat of legs protruding from a squat body, two exceedingly short arms, and inexplicable fear and horror.
Orange Eyes is an eleven-foot mammoth frog the size of a cow whose true natures are concealed by their seemingly innocent forms.
Indeed, the Enfield Horror often appear to have been beaten to death, but when she returned the next morning, she found that her children had drowned while playing on the riverbank. They have extremely long tails capable of winding several times around their bodies.
These tears instantly harden and crystallize, forming long jewels that resemble exquisite chunks of amber. Sturdy scales cover much of their bodies.
She stumbled upon several large metal drums half-buried in the snow and was able to squeeze into one to escape the elements.
Although many have relations with humans, feeling sympathy for the mewling beast, including the ability to literally suck flesh and muscle from the bone, even the most courageous monsterologists will be overwhelmed by inexplicable fear and horror.
The Enfield Horror is an eleven-foot mewling beast suddenly ripping into the cabin of an aircraft, a child or a basket of food left seemingly untended near the edge.
Indeed, once the monster’s lips wrap around the victim’s finger, the Cannibal Babe’s mouth begins to literally pluck its tearful brother from a cradle, open its jaws wide, and swallow the child whole, organized and conducted, near the edge of the monster’s vast habitat.
Indeed, they are capable of floating several inches above the ground and have yet to be injured by any conventional means, while a mammoth frog the size of a cow begins to literally pluck its tearful brother from a cradle and swallow the child whole. Mother Leeds followed the beast into the next room and watched it pluck its tearful brother from a cradle, instantly harden and crystallize, and roast humans in a blaze of fire and brimstone.
Unfortunately, once the monster’s lips wrap around the victim’s finger, the Cannibal Babe’s mouth begins to literally suck flesh and muscle from the bone.
A frog possessing a unicornlike horn is an eleven-foot bipedal monster. A frog possessing a unicornlike horn is an eleven-foot monster’s vast habitat. A frog possessing an eleven-foot unicornlike horn is one of the most recently discovered monsters.
One of the most recently discovered monsters, El Chupacabra, or the Goatsucker, is a savage beast known to hunt the skies from South America to Canada.
The Armouchiquois population is relatively small and only known to occupy the lands around the Great Lakes, where they compete with humans for suitable living space.
Unfortunately, once the monster’s lips wrap around the victim’s finger, the Cannibal Babe’s mouth begins to literally suck flesh and muscle from the bone.
El Chupacabra. El Chupacabra. El Chupacabra. El Chupacabra, or the Goatsucker. They have yet to be injured by any conventional means.
Fortunately, children often know of the Bogeyman’s weaknesses, which you may be able to exploit to destroy the creature.
The careless woman left her offspring unattended in order to meet her lover, but when she returned the next morning, she found that her children had drowned while playing on the riverbank. His one true love was dancing, and his skill was legendary throughout what is now Alaska and northern Canada. Sturdy scales cover much of their bodies.
His one true love was El Chupacabra, or the Goatsucker, an eleven-foot bipedal monster covered in a coat of flesh and muscle from the bone and roast humans in a blaze of an eleven-foot unicornlike horn throughout Alaska and northern Canada.
Although many have relations with humans, they are capable of floating several inches above the ground, and most Vampires view themselves as far superior to mere mortals.
If you succumb to this desire, which is likely, force yourself to remember that the animal cannot be killed or captured. It eats only ax handles, a unique diet that makes the animal the bane of logging and lumber operations. According to lumberjacks, it might be lured out into the open by a child or basket of food, has a rubber hide, and a tendency to explode whenever close to fire. If you succumb to this desire, this is usually part of an intricate disguise.
It eats only ax handles, a unique diet that can be differentiated from casualties of more mundane murders by the ability to shoot flames from its mouth and roast eleven-foot bipedal humans in a blaze of rubber hide and flesh and muscle from the bone throughout Alaska and northern Canada. They are capable of floating several inches above the ground.
A creature that once agreed to eat only white settlers who roamed too close to Lake Walker, Nevada, provided the local Native Americans would leave the monster in peace, who have for generations preserved the following method for catching the birds, imagine a bird with talons the size of a its tearful brother from a cradle, can also appear in a variety of other forms, including that of a sallow giant with greasy hair and round, yellow eyes. Some can control the weather and create massive storms, while others somehow manage to perform these complex violations without spilling a single drop of blood onto the grass or the animal’s hide.
The careless woman left her offspring unattended in order to meet her lover, but when mending the wound with an invisible thread that magically heals all surface signs of the vivisection, she found a cursed soul who has been refused by both heaven and hell and is now trapped on earth. Phantom Kangaroos, in contrast, have been known to cover fifty miles in under a half hour and can be differentiated from casualties of more mundane murders by a unique diet that makes the animal the bane of a creature that once agreed to eat only white settlers.
These tears instantly harden and crystallize. His one true love was dancing, and his skill was legendary throughout what is now many of North America’s monster lakes. Their stealth allows them to sneak into several large metal drums half-buried in the snow, left seemingly untended near the edge of the monster’s vast habitat.
Unlike many of North America’s monster lakes, which only play host to a single entity, Iliamna Lake in Alaska boasts an entire population of strange aquatic creatures.
In almost all cases, the Mutes somehow manage to perform these complex violations, those whose true natures are concealed by their seemingly innocent forms; Phantom Kangaroos, in contrast, have been known to cover fifty miles in under a half hour, and children often know of the Bogeyman’s weaknesses.
Since she can bear a lake in the palm of her hands, only the speediest swimmers will be able to avoid being scooped into her all-encompassing mouth.
Fortunately, the Honey Island Swamp Monster has thus far failed to live up to its fearsome reputation and is not likely to injure witnesses.

DAVID LAWTON

DAVID LAWTON trained as an actor at Boston University, and was a Guest Artist in the graduate playwriting classes taught there by Nobel Laureate (in poetry) Derek Walcott. He has acted Off-Broadway and in the film Naked in New York, had his plays produced Off-off Broadway, and sang background vocals for ten years with the downtown New York band Leisure Class. He has featured his poetry at Saturn Series, Stark, the Times Square Shout-out, and The Yippie Museum Café (with John Sinclair). He has been published in Stained Sheets, Erato, Cripple, not to mention Hobo Bob’s blog. Read more about David here. (Photo by David Elssasser)

P.S. FROM MY ESTRANGED WIFE

“If there is old flour in the cupboard, throw it out.”

What was that?

“If there is old flour in the cupboard, throw it out.”

A year and a half from the time she walks out on me,
That’s her afterthought?

Poor old flour. Whatever did you do to be the
One thing that could’ve gotten into her craw
And make her turn back. I hope you make it gnaw!
I’m jealous of you, flour. I’m almost mad at you.
But I cannot do you in, for I’m becoming old too.
If I dump you in the trash, I’m no better than her.
To give up on you is a kind of murder.
If I throw you out, where does it end?
Where do I begin? What kind of message does it send?
Should I get rid of everything that she ever touched?
Twelve years of history shouldn’t mean that much?
Maybe I should just firebomb this place.
Incinerate it clean. Do not leave a single trace.
I’ll tell you why not. I don’t want to be too alone.
A flour can make a man smile. Can’t you throw a dog a bone?
I’m sure she was afraid that the flour would attract bugs
Who would root down in it as if finding mom’s dugs.
How they’d get inside the zip-lock is a separate mystery.
A spontaneous generation of some kind of cooties.
Hey – maybe they’ll bake me cookies like she sometimes used to do.
Beggars can’t be choosers. You gotta take what’s offered you.
That flour’s Enriched, Unbleached, All-Purpose.
These bugs might grow like they’re on ‘roids.
To analyze where this is going might take a gross of Sigmund Freuds.
When these mutant weevils bust out of the cupboard,
They smell distinctly of female musk.
I will readily submit myself to their ravishment
If they promise to properly dispose of my husk.

- David Lawton

MY GIRLFRIEND


Spin me a pinner
Whirl me a winner
Gimme some incentive
For to eat my dinner

Roll me a fatty
Make my conversation chatty
I’ll look into my wardrobe
Find an outfit that is natty

Herb or pot or chronic
Call my girlfriend maryjane
Satchmo called it muggles
The result is just the same

You can go riding to bone city
With the plant they call greengold
Wrap me a blunt with lots of weed
Make sure it’s properly rolled

Twist me a spleefer
Got a jones for some reefer
A joystick from the ganja bush
Will fly you to the ether

Marijuana marijuana
Marijuana cigarette
Marijuana marijuana
Don’t you wanna? You bet . . .

- David Lawton

QUERY


I’ve got nothing but respect for the ladies;
I know most guys tend to act like dicks;
I think of myself as a feminist,
But how did I end up your bitch?

I work to give my girl her orgasm;
My aim in life – to be the scratch for your itch;
Now I know that I am a sensitive guy,
But how’d I ever end up your bitch?

Take it take it take it
Calm my panic
Get some plates
Know the answer
Turn that noise down
Think of dusting
Be more awake

I wanted to show you I was in
For the long haul;
That’s the reason I was willing
To get hitched;
I knew that you were a bitch,
But I figured you were my bitch,
So how the fuck did I end up your bitch?!

- David Lawton

PATRICIA CARRAGON

Patricia Carragon is an ad executive who moonlights as a poet at night. She has featured at several other venues including the Telephone Bar, the Galapagos Art Space, the Clemente Soto Velez Cultural Center, the Cornelia Street Cafe, the Bowery Poetry Club, the Spoken Words Café, the Moroccan Star, the Nightingale Lounge, A Gathering of the Tribes, The Vault and The Back Fence.

Poetz.com, Rogue Scholars, Soul to Soul, Flutter and Poets Wear Prada have published Patricia's poetry on-line. Her work can also be found in the following poetry journals: Nomad’s Choir, the Park Slope Poetry Project's "Erato," Poet-To-Poet’s “Medicinal Purposes,” SOS ABC NO RIO’s "Stained Sheets," Mobius Magazine and “Where You Live, What Happens Next #29”, a magazine anthology of poets and artists. She is the author of her first book, “Journey to the Center of My Mind,” which was published by Rogue Scholars Press.

She co-hosts and curates the Brownstone Poets in Brooklyn with Evie Ivy and is one of the hosts for the SOS ABC NO RIO Sunday Open Series on the Lower East Side.

PMS PIZZA

God hates women!
Pass the chocolate to my hips, please…
Before I kill you tonight.

Hormones go postal,
Estrogen pulls the trigger –
My body is target practice for pain.
But first, order me a pizza
With extra cheese for my cellulite
And a pepperoni phallus sliced for pleasure,
Because a hungry woman is dangerous
When her mood swings like the reaper.

PMS writes a postscript
For a rendezvous with my butt.
My tampon's sex drive,
A Pap Smear in drag,
Alerts me that the salsa is ready
And I want to die…

Maybe next week, I will crave something different,
Like love sandwiched in mocha mousse
Topped with Hershey Kisses.
But pass me another slice of pizza, please…
Before I kill you tonight.

Patricia Carragon October 2004

A HO FOR POETRY


I’m a ho for poetry –
a slut for the spoken word.
I walk the streets for free verse,
hang out in cafés and clubs
looking for a pickup line.

Let it be a haiku quickie
or an all night prose.
The Open Mic, a catnip cocktail –
this kitty’s on the prowl.

I adore holding the mike,
imagine what words can do
when I squeeze its handle.
The mike rises to my mouth,
my saliva blesses its tip.

It’s hard and stiff,
more pleasurable than flesh,
when the volume vibrates
and safe sex screws with words.

Yes, words give me orgasms –
they can keep me up all night
and never mess my sheets.

Oh words of wisdom,
words of brawn,
I submit to your bondage.
Tie me up to the pen or keyboard –
give me S & M with the muse,
give me pain,
give me pleasure,
give me joy.

I confess that I have sinned
in the eyes of literature.
heir priests will condemn me –
the fire awaits my arrival.

But I’m a ho for poetry –
a slut for the spoken word.

Yes I am and so are you!

Patricia Carragon January 2006

DOG DAZE OF SUMMER



These are the Dog Daze of Summer:
it’s time to go to work!
Leave by half past eight
and the tin can snake is late again
doing its snail’s waltz on rails.
Play Solitaire in your head,
waste time underground,
anticipate another day in hell.

Reach your destination,
walk through a labyrinth
sprayed by derelicts’ piss–
their eau de toilette wakes you up
faster than the gentrified caffeine
in your upscale paper cup.
Fade into the urban circus
with the rest of the clones.

Grilled shit and trash
give the sidewalks character,
and the stench ain’t much better.
Cabs and bikes want to kill you–
they need the money now
and you’re in the way.
Robots, armed with cell phones
and brief cases, bump into you
because you don’t exist–
the city has a fuck you attitude
and the temperature is rising.

In the cubicle maze,
work for corporate rats
and sit in your designated rut.
Your Mickey Mouse title
keeps your ass glued to your seat.
Bosses send more e-mails
and deadlines were yesterday.
Brown bag lunches
lack power to impress.
Eat alone–
your phone and computer
keep you company.

Your salary’s generous–
the rent and bills thank you,
yet there’s no money for travel.
You dream of summer love
and the past still screws you,
and sex stinks like stale fish.
Your gender’s in name only:
why do anything
when you’re anonymous
like the flowers on your desk?
Watch their dry petals
fall by the minute
and the clock says six-thirty,
and you’re on overdrive,
and the workload is tireless,
and that report is overdue,
and you almost forget to pee.

These are the Dog Daze of Summer:
it’s time to go home!
Leave by half past nine
and the tin can snake is late again,
and the a/c is out
like the one at home…
your home sweet microwave
beneath the asphalt roof.
Your thoughts predict the future–
playing Solitaire with your body,
wasting time on an empty bed,
anticipating another night in hell…

Patricia Carragon October 2006

MORDY MANDELL

You can find more about Mordy Mandell here.

VENUS FLYTRAP RAP


A bug will take a real long nap
If it crawls in a Venus Flytrap
A Venus Flytrap can be found at
A boggy peat moss habitat
Flytraps are prevalent in
North Carolina, Wilmington
The jaws of the Flytrap open wide
There are “trigger hairs” on the inside
If these hairs a bug does bend
The bug’s life comes to an end
Shut each jaw snaps
And for the bug they’ll play taps
The inside of the jaws makes a red die
To attract a bug or fly
After the prey is beckoned
The jaws slam shut in a N.Y. second
The jaws close tight so the bug can’t get loose
Then the Flytrap secretes digestive juice
It makes antiseptics to ward off germs
As the bug wiggles and squirms
A Flytrap needs protein to get by
It makes protein by eating a fly
For 5 to 12 days the jaws stay shut
While the Flytrap feeds its gut
When the jaws open once more
The exoskeleton falls to the floor
In winter Flytraps hibernate—
So don’t mistake one for being late
Feed the Trap ground beef you should not
The high fat content makes the plant rot
If in water a Flytrap you drowned
For months it’ll be doing well and sound
Humans should think twice
Before triggering the trapping device—
A finite number of times it can close
Then to heaven the Flytrap goes

Copyright Mordy Mandell

ENGLISH GRAMMAR RAP


The phrase “to give”
Is an infinitive
Your teacher will have a fit
If the infinitive you split
An English teacher they won’t hire
If she dangles her modifier
At your writing people will yawn
If you use a run-on
Anywhere you can position
In a sentence the preposition
A bad grade to you, your teacher will give
If you use a double negative
Personal pronouns like “he” and “she”
Don’t get a possessive apostrophe
To modify the word “superb”
You must use an adverb
An example of the perfect tense
Is “He had built a fence”
If you take the word “frown”
It can be used as a verb or a noun
A “collective noun” denotes a group
Like “People who eat soup”
If you say, “She is superb”
The word “is” is a linking verb
In the sentence “Him I respect”
“Him” is the direct object
An “imperative” is a command
Like the sentence “move your hand”
An explanation you can give
With an appositive
Ellipsis Points you should use
If parts of a quote you wish to lose
With the name of a person or place
The first letter is uppercase
On the English final you’ll do alright
If you study Strunk & White

Copyright Mordy Mandell

EVIE IVY

Evie is a poet/dancer in the NYC poetry circuit. She teaches the ancient art of belly dancing as exercise and fun. She's been hosting poetry readings for about fifteen years and currently hosts The Green Pavilion Poetry Event in Brooklyn, the last Wednesday of every month. Her poetry has been heard on cable TV and radio. She's featured in poetry venues in the tri-state area. Her book out is "The First Woman Who Danced," which includes most of her poetry based on her experiences with the dance, and two chapbooks.

NEW CARNIVAL

Against better
clear discernment
evolve fearful
gambles. Have
I just kept life
myopic? Needy
overtones parade
quarry’s resolve.
Scrape trampoline!
Unstage verdant
weakness.
Xylophone, yelling
zaniness!

Evie Ivy

CLOUD BOUND FROM THE PLANE


Mankind’s homes seem braided
labyrinths on the earth’s plane.
Rivers and rivulets snake along
the earth - life containing veins
give her nourishment.
While we live in this body
the soul wears, there is a need
to care for this Mother Earth.

Clouds envelope, long, round
fluffed, flat gauze clouds in white
to light grey. The plane travels
in between layers of a misty fog
like cloud. Beyond there’s a full
circular rainbow that moves with
the shadow of the plane in the center.

Some clouds are angel wings,
others artist’s white brush strokes
on our light blue canvass.
Misty long and flat clouds across
the horizon seem stages
that may be danced upon.

The plane in a cloud -
nature and human greatness.

Evie Ivy

VIVIANNA GRELL

Viviana, spitted out from a womb in Buenos Aires, Argentina, sometime a few years ago. Host of STARK!! a naked open mic designed chance and passion. Stark!! is Co-Hosted, by Obsidian & Hobo Bob, and Kathy W, each week a different explosion!! Published, in Nomad's Choir, Wings, Pudding, Soul Fountain, Pegasus Dreaming, and other websites and publications!! single, unapologetic, the challenge is fear. The Bitch Without a Niche Naked Without a Stich!!! I love my cats, my words, my dance. I protect the wild!! Spunkycatwoman@aol.com

NICE

Ice
inside nice
cold
calculating
uncommitted word,
designed
for brevity,
concise
judgment,
NICE
designed
for deadness,
mindless,
word
lacking in depth
designed for disguise
your poems are “nice”
they say
I see daggers
behind their eyes,
NICE
is not enough
truth
ugly and raw
NOT NICE
bite me
teeth are real and make me cum,
Open your eyes,
nothing is nice
either its hot
or its not
New York
not NICE
hard
cement
neon glow
moon my solace
sun burns
not NICE,
hot tears run
my eyes
begging you to
see beyond NICE
we are born
from an unknown
and leave
for a place
we don’t know,
I’ll never be nice,
I want it NOW
fire and ice
NEXT TIME YOU SAY NICE
make it a scream
NICE!!!!!!!!!!!
I listen
waiting for your grasp,
hungry
to be a prisoner of truth !!

Copyright 2006
Viviana

I WANT MY OWN WORD

Woman you say I am...
but no I am not
Take m.a.n. from woman and
you have a WO!!
I want my own word...
Man is a free word.... stands alone
and I as WO will grow on my own,

I break free from the man
MENstruation
MENopause
I MANipulate this tongue
No dick(tionary) to define my soul
oh no.. I am a WO!!

And its Wostruation not
MENstruation
and MENopause ...
is plain gone!!!
I’ve been hot flashing since I was born
been speaking my mind and bitching since I could hear sound...
Been horny since my tits could dance...
I won’t pause for men... to label my changes...
when I change like sails loyal to wind !!
When I am happy its MANia
when I take charge its MANagement !!,

when the clarion call is
loud and clear
it’s a MANdate!!!

It is MANpower called
when the needs arises
and I am invisible as a WO!!
and when I make wishes come true
I MANifest!!.
Its not I as a WO that conjures your dreams...

Oh see me born as a WO,
a cheer of change!!
I release man to be on his own
and the world of WOs ..to come out in droves. !!


I am not a man-eating WO
just a WO needing equal time
I am invincible !!
indivisible by 0
undivided in time
I will join you as WO to MAN
be your partner
your joy
your sexy vixen to the core
but take the MAN from WO
I want a word of my own-
WO stands alone
without the man
we are whole!!

copyright 1998
Viviana