Sunday, September 28, 2014

"cool blue waters"


Scott Tammaro is 52 years old & still breathing. In between breaths he's been known to make lots of art (photos, collages, writings) that no one has really seen much of. He's mostly self-taught but did earn his BFA in Fine Arts from Youngstown State University in 2009. He's the official flaneur/jester/skypilot @ The Universe, & a right time fool zen moment lunatic and (often) an undependable clod rushing around on adrenaline running around in circles wondering if LOVE & KINDNESS is going to save the world or not. He loves candy & talks too much.


"cool blue waters"


A couple weeks pass. Scott continues to not sleep.
Laying in bed, staring up @ the white ceiling of his bedroom, Scott dreams of bridges & 
                              jumps & 
landings in cool blue waters.
Scott pinches himself to see if he's awake but wonders if he's dreaming. His wet clothes make his bed damp.
Deep 
down inside of the water Scott somersaults in easy flow while a musical score plays dreamy pop music. He screams for awhile then stops when a school of fish ask him to please be quiet.
He's disrupting their class. (again)
Scott's breath is running 
out. 
He wishes he had bigger lungs & more time. He wishes he had gills but doesn't wish to be a fish. Ever.
He always found fish dull, with their anti stare & poised lips.
4 days later Scott spirits into a mild sleep consisting of 3 minutes of sleeping followed by 1 minute intervals of tossing & turning.
His total time = an unspecified amount that slips by him.
It must be mentioned that there are ten 10 minute bathroom breaks. Bonus minutes allotted if the bathroom reading material requires it.
(or if the toilet clogs up)
A month passes. Another month passes. Scott's gotten used to hearing brain hum. Occasionally there's a muted vibration. 
His breathing is short bursts. 
His eye blinks have ceased. 
He no longer dreams & 
his bed is now dry. 
A desert
in 
long
doses.

Thursday, September 25, 2014

dead porn stars / Wesley, the rebuilder of dildoes


 Karl Koweski is known as The Polish Hammer.

                                         dead porn stars

masturbating to
dead porn stars
becomes a sort
of spiritual
necrophilia
for the
morally bankrupt

Savannah
23 forever
as famous for
the famous men
she fucked off screen
as she was
for the men
she serviced through
three hundred titles
ending prematurely
with a bullet
to the temple
a sacred suicide
for the profane goddess

Anna Malle
so named
for her ravenous
sexual appetite
mauled in an
automobile accident
a JG Ballard epilogue
to woman known
for never saying no
finally penetrated
the wrong way

Erica Boyer
the eighties glam queen
toned, high-chested
aerobicized ass
lubricated with
embalming fluid
following such a
pedestrian death
run down in the street
by an off duty cop

dead porn stars
replaced by more
anonymous flesh
interchangeable names
blank faces for hot loads
they will die too
in some interesting form
or other generic fashion
while the
spermicidal holocaust
continues
unabated


                     Wesley, the rebuilder of dildoes

Wesley says
he’s added another
feather to his cap

dildo rebuilder

last Friday
his sole ex girlfriend
texted him
complaining about
a broken vibrator

personally
I question the veracity
of such a situation

I ascribe to the
Mitch Hedberg philosophy

if “an escalator can
never break only
become stairs”

then I posit
a busted vibrator
can only become
a dildo

regardless
Wesley says
it didn’t vibrate
but by the time
he left it was
shucking and jiving
just fine

Wesley goes on
to describe
in mind-numbing detail
the assortment of
gears and ball-bearings
he shuffled
in order to make
a vibrator out of
a dildo

maybe I’m out of line, here
but if a woman calls
to tell me her
vibrator has become
a dildo
I’m going to assume
she wants me to fuck her
and act accordingly

this statement
stymies Wesley
who can only stutter
that she would
not be his ex
if she still
wanted sex

which leads me to think
next time she calls
with a vibrator
that can only be
a dildo
Wesley should suggest
she go fuck herself
with whatever
is available


Monday, September 22, 2014

INTERVIEW: MIKE MERAZ


Name? Mike Meraz

Age?
It’s 4:22 am and I am tired. 43

Location?
Whittier Ca. for now but plan to be in Long Beach later.

How long have you been writing? Since I was in high school, but seriously since I was 30. When I say seriously I mean with the intention of being published.

Do you have a specific writing style? I am trying to create my own which is probably a bastardized version of many writers: Kerouac, Bukowski, Brautigan i.e. all the writers who I’ve read and admired.

Do you write as a career? Yes but it pays very bad.

Do you write full-time? I write when poems come to me.

What do you consider to be your greatest accomplishment as a writer? I suppose being able to stay in the game, to keep writing poems. I had writers block from 2009 to 2011 and it wasn’t a good experience.

What is your ultimate goal as a writer? To quit my day job and make a living off my books. To sit in a big chair, drink beer and accept royalty checks.

What is your greatest challenge as a writer? Keeping things fresh, reinventing myself, staying relevant.

What projects of yours have been recently published? I have a book of quotes out called Black-Listed Thoughts published by Propaganda Press. Some free stuff online through Free Penny Press: Writhing & Alive and The Art of Work. I have a book of poems from Dog On A Chain Press called Watching It Burn and a new book out by Epic Rites Press called 43.

What are you currently working on and what inspired this work? I have been writing a lot of poems lately about women. I hope to collect these poems into a chapbook one day.

Where can we find your work? At Dog On A Chain Press, Propaganda Press, and Epic Rites Press. Also if you google my name/poems a lot of stuff will come up.

How often do you write? I’d like to write everyday but sometimes it doesn’t work out that way. I write when poems come to me, I am not a “sit down” writer. I am usually on the go, in my iphone or on a notepad.

       How do you react to rejections? I just send the poems elsewhere. It is usually a matter of taste. I don’t take it too personal.

       How do you react when one of your submissions is accepted for publication? I think when I first starting getting published it was a big high, now it’s a sign that I can still write publishable work, which is a relief.

       What is your best piece of advice on how to stay sane as a writer? Don’t take yourself too seriously. It’s fatal.

       What is your favorite book? I tore apart Kay Redfield Jamison’s Touched With Fire in a matter of months, I also did this with John Berryman’s The Dream Songs. I suppose that is a good sign I like a book.

       Who is your favorite author? I don’t have a favorite. I like many.

        If you could have dinner with one fictional character, who would it be and why? Henry from The Dream Songs because he is so fucked up.

        What is the greatest occupational hazard for a writer? Becoming self-satisfied and big headed.

      What is your favorite word? ahh

      What makes you laugh? Irony

      What makes you cry? Heartbreak

What is your preferred drink while you write? Beer or coffee.

Beach or Mountains? Beach though I’ve had some memorable mountain hikes.

Cats or Dogs? When I was young I would have said dogs, but as I’ve grown older I tend to appreciate cats more.

The Beatles or The Rolling Stones? The Beatles, I had a Beatles Documentary obsession a few years back, couldn’t stop watching the damn things.

Jimi Hendrix or Frank Sinatra? Hendrix.

Shakespeare or Bukowski? Bukowski


     Please provide as much or as little of the following information as you’d like.

Personal website/blog: Don’t have one. Google me.

Facebook profile or page: Mike Meraz

Twitter profile: Same, though I’m not there much.

Other page(s) or profile(s): I run a online lit mag called Black-Listed Magazine: http://black-listedmagazine.blogspot.com/

      Books for sale and/or press: Watching It Burn/ Dog On A Chain Press, 43/Epic Rites Press, Black-Listed Thoughts/Propaganda Press.

      Anything you’d like to share about your country, its people, or native animals? No, not really. It’s 5:15 am. I either have to go back to bed or make a pot of coffee.      

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

No More / The Crawl


Jonathan Butcher has had poetry appear in various print and online publications including: Electric Windmill Press, Gutter Eloquence, Underground Voices, Dead Snakes, The Blind Vigil Revue and others. His second Chapbook 'Broken Slates' has recently been published by Flutter Press.


No More

In that flat you rented, that gave us shelter
after clubs, the morning sun's nagging beams
never offering any form of comfort.

Through the blue glass of the bottle I see your face,
pretending to sleep, but with your usual sly grin, again
sending me shivers.

The others that lay around the tiled floor in
sleeping bags, like fragile snakes awaiting to shed
their now useless skin.

I take my last sip, and approach the balcony and exhale
the last of the smoke, and allow it to cloud over this view,
that at this time loses its beckoning edge.

The sparrows that cast tiny shadows upon the
passing stolen cars offer us a little melody, and once
again we promise, never again, never anymore.



The Crawl

Entwined with those cold winds, edging our way
home; stoned, and wrapped up against the world that
has yet to inflict its climatic evils upon us. We held
our collected breaths, our lungs heavy under the onslaught.

You, stood on the corroding brick wall, that surrounded the
sky-rise flats, the lights of which stared down upon us like
a thousand disapproving eyes. Each one however, seemed
as blind as the last, raising their eyebrows at our
every move.

We left those squalid rooms of peeling tiles that curled
at the corners like sun blistered, peeling skin. The walls
as blank as they where damp, yet as inviting as the
abandoned super-market, that our idle hands could never
leave alone.

At the bus stop we leave tags and crumpled Rizlas, the
shelter at this time offering cover from the passing blue
lights and neighbourhood watch. Our sly laughter offering
a welcome distraction from any mis-interpretation, our
hands never bound.

As the breeze settled, through the transparent screens,
that were shattered into tiny fragments like mud stained ice,
we once again halted the orchestration of this shambolic
parade, and again remain the drunken conductors of
a soulless chaos.   

Saturday, September 13, 2014

Untitled Poems by Mike Meraz


Mike Meraz lives and writes in Los Angeles, CA. 


My step mom
Says poetry
Is something
Children
Do

I think of all
The poets
Who have helped
Me along the
Way

Kerouac
Bukowski
Brautigan
Plath

Hooray
For the
Children.


*

We kissed
In the pouring
Rain
Like some
Stupid
Romantic
Comedy
 
Then we
Broke up
Under the
Hot
Sun
Like in some
Chekhov
Novel
 
Then I wrote
About it
Later in the
Style of the
Street
Poets
 
Everything
Is
Art.


*

A book with pages
A girl with love,
Some things actually do
Make sense.


*

You made
Your stand in
An old house in
New Orleans
2 blocks from
Bourbon
Street
Like some 
Rumi of the
Red light
District

You penned down
Every instance
That shined
Light
Or
Captivated

You ate
All the Southern
Style
Foods

Even fed
Cats

Ate up all
The 
Magic

Til one day
It 
Ended

Just like
It
Began

With hell
On your
Heels 

And
Poems in
Your 
Head.


Wednesday, September 10, 2014

REVENGE OF THE FITTEST / I AM ADDICT / A NEW DAY


Jay Passer hails from San Francisco but sleeps on a bed of nails in Oaktown. He hates the Yankees, loves cats and elephants, and won't answer his cell phone for fear of extraterrestrial intervention. His newest chapbook, At the End of the Street, is available from corrupt press, based somewhere in Europe. One may view his novella, I Can't Wait to Never See You Again, on the inimitable arthouse-slash-brothel, Horror Sleaze Trash


REVENGE OF THE FITTEST

how many times down to the last quarters and dimes
headed for the store to discriminate the cheaper bottle of vodka
the street like an eyesore to the spine after lack of sleep,
the itch of epidermis defeating
full body armor.
we’re quite alike, me and my enemies.
they crawl the ceiling in myopic territory, staring down 
with microscopic litanies of radar,
communing surely with alien intelligence
bent on enslavement of every rapture.
I don’t mind much, kill on sight,
fingertip against the fruit fly
using the bottom of the drinking glass against the cockroach,
staring at me from the verticality of hotel room
floor, with feelers bold and contingent on
ten million generations of progeny,
conspiring to consume the food supply
not to mention will to survive.
which is fine I guess, we as a species haven’t really been
very much the genteel hosts, let alone life of the party:
and even then our ship mates
don’t bother to discriminate.


I AM ADDICT

I am addict
of small rooms
lots of loud noise
I can't prevent
and pornography
in my head
not bodies per se
but oil percolating
running slim
beneath the ground
I am sound as I notice
the dubious air
sneaking features a floor above
somebody the son or daughter
of another 
motherfucker
plots and plans the demise
of my conscious
insignificance
it is no small rule
a blue pint bottle
a little whitewashed fool
girl reckoning womanhood
demon asthmatic hands amidst
clouds ponying up for pollution status
I am big feet
gray hair and brain
need shampoo
a break from logic and opera
industrial streets
refrain



A NEW DAY

just after 6 a.m. eyes reeking hate and a fight
the garnish of love grumblingly succumbs to victory
so we celebrate get a steak
drive to the store over paved-over soil
jacked on foreign oil buy some beef
salt and pepper it good then broil
kitchen good and filled with smoke
drinks in hand smile of wine traffic going by
who cares there is a sun up there it’s just you and me
celebrate and toast ‘to the roasting flesh’
can’t wait to eat yank it out of the oven slice off
ends against the grain once taught to do by a sot
at a campfire years ago after a U.S. Government commodities score
St. Johns Santa Fe New Mexico
that bastard used my pocketknife he later pocketed for good


Wednesday, September 3, 2014

Anthem for the Age / The Peahen / Ice Cream Honeymoon



Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri. Nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, he has had poetry and fiction published in various publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/


Anthem for the Age


Two evenings a week
he goes to Melissa’s,
to talk and to fuck.

They talk first,
they fuck later.
Summer, fall,

winter, spring,
nothing distracts them.
They are to each other now

what they were at the start:
someone to talk to,
someone to fuck.



The Peahen

         A dream wrought by curry

Somewhere in Mumbai
great fans whir against the ceiling

as the old madam reigns
from her rocker and has

the girls come out, one by one,
picks this girl for her own

won’t let me pick mine
from those she has parading.



Ice Cream Honeymoon

On a sunny day
in Harvard Yard
blonde from Norway weds
son of chieftain 
from Rwanda after 
both receive degrees 
with high honors.

They drive off
in a silver Porsche
touring America
on their honeymoon
until they're stopped
in a small town.
A taillight's out.  

The officer says 
"You're the first 
salt and pepper  
I've ever ticketed"
and the bride says
"Sir, we're your first 
hot fudge sundae."