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--Henry Mescaline
When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Two from Misti Rainwater-Lites
Skeletons
bored out of my fucking mind
reading the lives of strange women
women who have casting calls
and musician boyfriends
women whose days are filled with
wine
drugs
anal sex
too much e-mail to deal with
honey, your photos may be flawless
but your attempts at poetry suck
donkey dong
tell me more about your kitty cat from hell
the parties you throw
the favors your friends leave behind
all the readers who stalk you
because your life is so much richer
and prettier than theirs
you stick a finger down your throat
but can't make yourself puke
my sympathies
america loves
her skeletons.
Before Falling Asleep
tonight before falling asleep
you defended your masculinity
like it was ever in question
I'm A Grown Person
Even The Biggest Fiercest Bears Like To Cuddle
you protested
this was after you said
In A Ga Ga Goo Goo
making me laugh
earlier you told me that you prayed to Berchta
for me
before we met
I whispered prayers of my own
I prayed to the stars
I cried drunk to Otis Redding by candlelight
feeling each year of my life
had been a waste
we have a lifetime left
many more nights ahead
of you snoring
as the fan whirrs
me awake
a restless sentry
a questionable angel
wanting to protect and preserve
our happiness.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Two from J.D. Nelson
nice bug softy
peeling peaches
dripping wet
w/ love & sweat
eating & grinding
& dripping,
making a big wet mess --
this will make some snort.
this will shine like a magic lantern
in the darkness of the forest.
I jump off & demand a refund.
the chicken choked her.
it was dry & she wanted some
cheeseburgers instead.
my sickness has been
cured like a honey ham.
smoked fish shack
jerky time, all right.
come on, pal --
this is the 1970s. get
with it
get it
right next time.
reach deep into those pockets
& don't stop until I explode.
sheepy eyes
counting sleep
& making marks,
keeping track,
putting it all together
by the light of an oil lamp,
by the end of your tail,
finish your cigarette
& come inside.
5:15 AM
bird chirps &
a frantic bat
a little further west
a few more
moments of darkness
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Two from Frank Walsh
HURRICANE LAMP
“It was not a normal hurricane...”
-- Bush, in his address to the nation from New Orleans,
Thursday, 9.15.05
Was she a giant spider escaped
from the rings of Saturn,
or a mutated crayfish crashing the barricades
piled in the brink like mashed potatoes
and gravy, or was She a lightning bolt spooked
out of the black and blue lagoon, or a passing
fad taking the market by storm,
or was she just visiting the wet-land bayou
that army corps of engineered no more
and like a mother of four
living hand to mouth got pissed?
If not the heart the liver and spleen
have been tore out of the country
soul first left to rot in the delta
by the tens of thousands poor
and the hurricane lamps
and the hurricane oil lighter than water
unless one counts the toxins,
fry-later grease and the Malathion
run off to kill the insects in the fields
of share-crops where the Mississippi
rolls over bucks for the combines,
cotton wicks drowned in the boxes and those
in the confines of bloated wharves
gone to deep six in the gulf
between the haves’ and the have nots’ husk.
The baby jazz smothered in their cribs
and the blues men blown over into the dark
drink like rum and coke nothing’s changed
and as usually no bureaucrats charged
not one croc in the public works to be
held accountable again and little you
and little me dismissed by fat cats
and Hollywood TV without a peep
unsung solidarity for them in New Orleans
and the muddy proscenium of the deepest South.
One of the sacred cities of the continental cut
with St. Augustine and San Antonio exposed
on either side where the soul of America
quickens from a skip to a back slide.
Where will Nature strike the nine pins next?
What does it all mean, should we pray to God
on our knees when the ministers and priest
have lost before the open and shut eyes
of the dispossessed, the working mother of four
who survives pay check to pay check and huddles
with the rest of them people in the bottom lands
filled up like a bowl without no cereal or soup tho’
but what else is different, nothing has changed.
Unless you can catch a glimpse in the poisoned
sheen waiving like the flag but black and overturned
the slave ships ghostly prowed toward the blocks
block after blocks slave auctions without terminus
or old Ponce De Leon privateer and skinner
of muskrats whose ghost would be less fearful
than most being a Frenchman stoked the high ground
for a Quarter frequented by intoxicated tourists
Northern for cous- cous and gumbo and a vodoo
tease in the yellow fever of the souvenir news.
Speaking of the turn of the screw what agency
will comfort if not the poor minority and Cajun
parishes perished under the surge in the cycle
gone made hotter than hell and globally warmed
to a irreversible burn but the creatures of the mojo
midnight witching hour in the silvered glass,
the aristocratic vampyre, pathetic zombie hordes,
and even a loupe-garue or two, when its obvious
from the tube there’s not even a place for the living dead
to lay their heads but then again perhaps all these
things have got themselves an office in Washington D.C.
Nothing ‘round these parts, nothing ever changes much.
So on the third day I caught the Lousiana Governor say
cease and desist the search and rescue in effect
get your shot guns loaded
and the billy clubs spit shined
‘cos there’s poor people roving behind the picture-
windows, Walmart, K-mart, Quickie-mart
must be defended at all costs, money floats the whole damn
network, as visions of ownership danced
in their profits’ heads, the disparate are
racing off with diapers, colored televisions, and bread
and bargain basement semi-automatics to kill the living
dead.
Eighteen holes cut short for the vacationing Feds.
The mass media spun and monopolized
same old same old to keep us hypnotized
looter and helicopter rerun nine to five
obscuring the truth that the poor are sodomized
day after day under the boots of a corrupt
and underworldly government top to bottom.
What are systems, lies, dirty deals
in face of the homeless panning for a meal
when the wrath makes all the church bells peal
The gods send plagues and catastrophe
against the common people when tyrants reign
so that them folk will rise up against those
in power who rile and ruin the humane
Earth and sign the times with monster births.
Nothing ever changes but there’s chance
a third or fourth party might emerge at last.
Let those who dodge just desserts stay in a fog,
our Creator has proved more powerful than their God.
9.8.05
WATCHTOWER
There's a catch
to cinch
then dismiss
and move on
There's a pomegranate
in a park
that no one's
allowed to enter
To tip the scales
in favor, despite
indications are
rumored to still
exist in some form
or other not
necessarily recognizable
through the back lash
the barricades hold
water yet remain
invisible to the habitual
and the violent
It is not reported
that sometimes
small children return
home with odd
but exceedingly old
pieces of the real
war in their overalls
or clenched in their fists
I saw one once
teetering on the edge
of a thousand storey
parking garage
It was darkling
twilight's last gasp
not the thing itself
but atmospheric
projection,
even transference, this
stage of cruelty would
want you to think so
If you are a Buddhist
you might as well be a red
man, the wasps
smell blood that well
in their opinion
two plus two
is in their pocket and
the truth they can spell
as a public drunkenness
they have resources
up the yin-yang
even Death can be
absorbed
behind their eyes
or injected into
your head of cabbage
when the chicken embryos
are fascinated
television snow
still in the stable market.
Luckily some
interbreeding is bound
to slip in the heat of
the peak under the wire.
7.1.05
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
SAD SONG
by Tony Nesca
got jazzed all around livin’ easy,
got jazzed man,
she says do it like this baby, just like this!
phone bill too heavy
brain gone missing
long slit vodka-orange
sinatra manhattan crazy,
maybe mind gone wild sharp-left like
secrets in the prairie sky bookstore
lights up happy living
she walks out of the dream straight
into blow-job trumpet like chet baker
high on shrooms, ain’t nothing working man,
sun comes through torn blinds
coffee-can half empty
bird with crystal-white memory
whiskey-stain on the kitchen floor
black and white cartoons on the television
old dog howls
burnt toast flies through the air
half-empty marijuana bag vodka on the brain
her toenails painted dark purple
his beard lined with grey
hangover-morning settles into the room
“hello” she says,
“i love you” he says,
the sadness begins…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
poem
by Steven Rineer
Don’t play pool. So
Go to bars to simply
Drink score C or shit & look for
Blackouts in the tornado of the wrong drug
Dealer’s number; I lose more fights
Than I win but a 200 lb. man has trouble with me and
I laugh in the midst of a concussed skull day after day
I sweat and vomit the whole of the earth.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
SMOKING
-Papa Osmubal
I asked what he was doing.
“Thinking,” he said straightforwardly.
“Like a puff?” he asked,
handling me a stick of cigarette,
a matchstick in between his fingers.
I grabbed the offer.
“What connection do thinking
and smoking have?” I asked anew.
“Can one think without smoking?
Or can one smoke without thinking?”
He looked straight and deep into my eyes
and said nothing.
He puffed his cigarette and contemplated the smoke
that hovered around us like ripples and memories,
like a desert full of voice.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Faces And The Voices And The Rest of It
by William Taylor Jr.
I wake up
and call in sick to work
because some days the faces
and the voices
and the rest of it
is just a bit too much
and time is needed to just stare at walls
or get righteously drunk
or do nothing at all
which seems to be a dying art
in a dying world
it is a Sunday afternoon
and I walk along Geary Boulevard
until I find a bar that has no name
just a doorway to a darkened little room
an escape hatch from the day
I duck in there
and the bartender is kind
and easy to look at
I order a beer and she gives me that
and a shot of something on the house
I look up at the television screen
and see the city of New Orleans
underwater
and a voice says, hey Elvis
I turn my head
and at the end of a bar
a blonde woman old enough
to be my mother
flashes her tits
I smile weakly and buy her a beer
glad to have found
a new place to hide.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
THREATENING THE MUSE AT GUNPOINT
by Cynthia Ruth Lewis
They say that every word ever written,
every poem, every notion
ever put down on paper
is merely a "recycled" idea
snatched out of the air from someone else;
remnants of a previous thought
randomly plucked out of the sky,
an expression interpreted through
a different mind to be adapted
in their own manner...
considering the amount of writing
I've been doing lately,
I haven't caught a damned "whiff"
of anything
hell, I'm so desperate,
at this point I'd settle for a fart
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
SAD THINGS
by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal
I see sad things.
I want to drop out.
I swallow stuff
to end my pain,
batteries, coins,
anything that
could do me in.
If could get a
hold of a gun,
I could do a
better job of it.
I'm tired of
seeing sad things.
I'm tired of
hearing voices,
which won't let me
rest. How can
I get a gun
in this place, we
can't even get
cable TV.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Does She
by Stephen J Golds
Does
She
Recollect
The fortnight
When I wore
The
same
Boxer shorts
For a week
And
We
Watched nothing
But
The best movies
And shit daytime television
And
We would stay up all night
Drinking Irish coffee
Kissing – fucking – making love
To Sting and Bryan Adams LPs
We danced
Slow dances
Like we were at the school disco
Instead
Of just her bedroom
The time we swore on
The moon
And
The Heavens
Have things changed
I hope not
Have my boxer shorts changed
Yes
Mescaline is the perhaps pseudonym of
noted writer/critic Henri d'Mescan, who, after
escaping execution at the hands of a French
War Crimes tribunal, altered the American
literary landscape forever with a series of
plastic fantastic creations partially
assembled in Multifesto: a Henri d'Mescan
Reader, forthcoming from Spuyten Duyvil
(http://www.spuytenduyvil.net/index1.htm),
and co-edited by Davis Schneiderman and
Phoenelia Yeer.
Note: Sonnet 29 is "Shakespeare mixed with
Marcel Duchamp's Mona Lisa..."
Blender of Love, Poetry Super Highway, Baby
Clam Press, Zygote In My Coffee and Poor
Mojo's Almanack. My poems have also
appeared in Central Avenue, a monthly zine
based in Albuquerque. I live in Albuquerque
with my new husband, Michael. We aren't
starving. We have microwave popcorn.
~Misti Rainwater-Lites
http://www.geocities.com/mistirainwaterlites
sounds in his subterranean laboratory. The
results have appeared in many online and
print publications, including 'The Best of The
Dream People Poets' chapbook.
Fun-Fact: J.D.'s favorite coin is the American
Buffalo Nickel.
Visit his website for more information:
http://www.MadVerse.com
living and working in Philadelphia.
nohbard@gmail.com
Tony Nesca was born in Torino, Italy
in 1965 and moved to Canada at the
age of three. He was raised in
Winnipeg but relocated back to Italy
several times until finally settling in
Winnipeg in 1980. He taught himself
how to play guitar and formed an
original rock band playing the local
bars for several years. At the age of
twenty-seven he traded his guitar for a
Commodore 64 and started writing
seriously. He has self-published six
chapbooks of stories and poems and
three novels and has been an active
contributor to the underground lit
scene for ten years. He currently
resides in Winnipeg.
www.tonynesca.blogspot.com
school in sf. etc. etc. not much in print or
online. like to read write listen to music
drink. trying to quit.
be normal.
Southern China. His children make his
home an eternal spring. His 5-year old
girl's name is Man Lok, which means
Nobel; and his 3-year old boy's name is
Man Hou, which means Good
Culture.
His previous books are parnaso- a
poetry collection in Tagalog, and
Lighthouse- a poetry collection in
English.
He has been anthologized in Synaptic
Graffiti: Slam the Body Politik
(Literature and Art on CD, Australia,
2004), Mitochondria: an Anthology
of Rarities and Loose Ends (USA,
2004), and Honoring Fathers: An
International Poetry Collection
(University of the Philippines Press,
2005).
His poems have found home in various
publications, online and hardcopy.
with his wife, Anise, and a cat named
Trouble. He is a self-labelled misanthropist
and frequently refuses to answer the door or
the telephone. He likes beer and wine and
sitting alone in quiet rooms. His poetry and
stories have appeared in the small press
and on the Internet for over a decade now.
He is the author of numerous chapbooks, the
latest being "The Bones Of Things" from
Marianas Trench Press. His first full length
volume of poetry is in the works from
Centennial Press.
www.williamtaylorjr.com
years now, I'm an asshole at times, and my
work has appeared in Underground Voices,
Remark, My Favorite Bullet, and elsewhere.
