My name is Nathan Nobbe and I am sending a sampling of my poetry for your publication consideration. If accepted for publication I would like to be considered for receiving print copies of your magazine. Also, if you would have further interest, i do have several other poems I could make available. Thank You.
On My Knees
I used to strut around my stuff
Pretty cocky in what I did.
I could laugh and wink and flirt a bit
And tell everyone the world I’d seen.
But sometimes it happens that we
Can’t explain a thing or two,
And for me it wasn’t a woodsman’s axe
That chopped me down to size.
It so happened that so it was,
That it was a pot smoking’ mama
That put me on my knees.
Now I could talk a good game of politics,
Philosophize and reflect on God.
Give advice to anyone who cared,
Walk upright and without a damn.
But lo let me tell you a thing,
A thing I’ve learned since then.
For a man a woman has more power
Than any other thing,
And for me that fact was proved to me
When I met the one that sapped me good.
The one for me that had the power,
That one the one I’ll tell you indeed,
It was a pot smoking’ mama
That put me on my knees.
Awakening
Asking for help
But why was it not
Sought
When digging the hole
You’re now found in.
The digging seemed fun,
Or at least held some promise,
Or reason.
How is it you finally saw.
That the sunlight no longer touched you?
That the breathing was difficult?
Was unfulfilling?
Or was it the walls that define
Now a perimeter of your existence.
Rescue me.
Throw down a rope.
Give a ladder.
I swear I will never do it again.
Reach out the helping hand.
It is there.
In front of you there.
Grateful and appreciative, yes
Thankful be.
For one more chance
Your freedom reprieved.
Vapor Visions
Surrounded by sale and trade and commerce
The modern world well lit.
The unattainable goal is near,
And draws my attention e’en though
Distractions appeal.
Differences reconciled.
A new goal appears. Or so I think.
Plans are pursued.
And where my focus had been
Is now gone away.
As I go toward the one,
The best I have ever seen.
My plans are in full motion,
Another yet appears.
This one is clearly distant,
An investment I cannot afford.
Now what of the other?
It has disappeared.
Was not at the end of the plan
As I had been convinced.
Must have been a distraction but
Now where is the real.
Many visions arrive, then pass by
My attention now fleeting
A direction is not there.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Well, 4,500 of my ancestors were beheaded for returning to paganism after forced baptism.
According to the Talmud, I am Jewish, because at one point, I converted to Judaism. Therefore, to Jewish reasoning, I am apostate to Yahweh and his Torah (Law) to his people.
However, according to how I (and most people) would label myself, I am a gentile, zero percent Jewish. My last name “Sass” means “Sahson” or “Saxon” in the Old Saxon language. Old Saxony is in the northern part of Germany just below Denmark. My ancestors were “annexed” into the state of Germany in 1866 at the close of the Austro Prussian war. “Prussia” became the modern nation of ‘Germany’. Thus, I am Saxon by blood, but my ancestors are really Saxons swallowed by the modern nation of Germany. My relatives in Germany hated the Kaisers and the Nazis, but were swallowed anyways. We are not Prussians (Germans) we wanted our independence. I am sure the modern nation of Kenya encompasses many tribes. The Saxons were a Germanic tribe, so were the Angles, Jutes, Frisians, Bavarians, Thuringians, etc etc etc. However, over time, these tribes became the modern nation of Germany. The Prussians were the war mongering anti semitic german bastards. Though, to be blunt, once Christianized, all converted heathens became anti semites, as Christianity is anti Judaism. In the first crusade alone, the germans murdered 1 million jews before the armies left Germany for the Holy Land. Christianity breeds intolerance, i.e. there is only one true god, one chosen people, one way to eternal life, everyone else is wrong, convert or else… This is the mentality I hate.
I learned about my ancestral heritage after I left religion. I wanted to know if I was not created by “god” then what my heritage was, as Christianity is NOT an African religion either. It is a Jewish religion and Italian religion (Roman). All non Jews and non Romans who are Christian, most had their ancestors forced into Christianity. It was spread by the sword historically, just as Islam was. The most ancient religions on the planet, that pre-date Monotheism, were polytheistic. If I were to chose a religion, I would chose the religion of the pagan Saxons. At least it is my heritage, and not a foreign religion. Africans were better off before they were made Christian, and Christianity is a foreign religion to them as well. JMHO…
Robert Sass
According to the Talmud, I am Jewish, because at one point, I converted to Judaism. Therefore, to Jewish reasoning, I am apostate to Yahweh and his Torah (Law) to his people.
However, according to how I (and most people) would label myself, I am a gentile, zero percent Jewish. My last name “Sass” means “Sahson” or “Saxon” in the Old Saxon language. Old Saxony is in the northern part of Germany just below Denmark. My ancestors were “annexed” into the state of Germany in 1866 at the close of the Austro Prussian war. “Prussia” became the modern nation of ‘Germany’. Thus, I am Saxon by blood, but my ancestors are really Saxons swallowed by the modern nation of Germany. My relatives in Germany hated the Kaisers and the Nazis, but were swallowed anyways. We are not Prussians (Germans) we wanted our independence. I am sure the modern nation of Kenya encompasses many tribes. The Saxons were a Germanic tribe, so were the Angles, Jutes, Frisians, Bavarians, Thuringians, etc etc etc. However, over time, these tribes became the modern nation of Germany. The Prussians were the war mongering anti semitic german bastards. Though, to be blunt, once Christianized, all converted heathens became anti semites, as Christianity is anti Judaism. In the first crusade alone, the germans murdered 1 million jews before the armies left Germany for the Holy Land. Christianity breeds intolerance, i.e. there is only one true god, one chosen people, one way to eternal life, everyone else is wrong, convert or else… This is the mentality I hate.
I learned about my ancestral heritage after I left religion. I wanted to know if I was not created by “god” then what my heritage was, as Christianity is NOT an African religion either. It is a Jewish religion and Italian religion (Roman). All non Jews and non Romans who are Christian, most had their ancestors forced into Christianity. It was spread by the sword historically, just as Islam was. The most ancient religions on the planet, that pre-date Monotheism, were polytheistic. If I were to chose a religion, I would chose the religion of the pagan Saxons. At least it is my heritage, and not a foreign religion. Africans were better off before they were made Christian, and Christianity is a foreign religion to them as well. JMHO…
Robert Sass
Short Bio: John Grochalski lives in Brooklyn, New York
if i had it my way
i would be in bed right now
in my torn boxer shorts
in that t-shirt that my wife gave me
the one with the sweat
and wine stains on it
i’d have the covers pulled up
just high enough
the torn brown sheet over the windows
stretched to keep out the light
the curtains drawn
sealed together with some of my wife’s hair clips
there’d be a bottle of wine
on the nightstand
it would be cheap red wine from france
my glass would be full
i’d have tom waits playing
he would be singing
i hope that i don’t fall in love with you
on the half-broken sony cd player.
one of the cats would be resting on my belly
the other would be at the end of the bed
resting between my feet
of course you’d be there too, dear
you’d have your glass of wine
resting on your stomach
waiting for me to refill it
outside there’d be no voices
no cars and no dogs
there’d be nothingness
sweet bliss and nothingness
the world would stay like that
the whole day
silent and black
while we drank glass after glass
of the cheap french red
and made our way through tom waits’ whole catalog
the world at large would go to hell
if i had it my way
but we know it’s never my way, baby
you’re at home right now
sick with a cold for two days
i’m on this morning bus again
reading the same bad novel that i started
reading yesterday
going to work
forever hustling to make a buck
for the electric company and the landlord
for the pleasure of all those other faces
that i’ve never even seen.
growing old with me
i call my mother
she’s the only person that i call
i call her once a week, mostly
she likes to hear my voice
in pittsburgh they got two feet snow, she tells me
she and my father just got done spending six hours shoveling
i tell her that i wish i lived near home
so that i could help them
so that they didn’t have to keep shoveling
my mother likes this
she’s been on me about moving home for years
we talk about my great aunt’s funeral
it was friday before the snow came
my mother read a eulogy
she said that everyone was crying
even your father, she says
my father is like me
it takes a lot to make him cry
i ask my mother how everyone was at the wake
she said they all were all holding up okay
how’s uncle phil? i ask
well, he was okay, my mom says
he looked tired and old
he and my great aunt had spent fifty-two years together
he just got so old going through this, my mom says.
fifty-two years will do that, i say
when we get off the phone i go into the living room
my wife is sitting there with a can of natural light
i can hear the neighbor’s television
through the walls
it is a loud, numbing sound
it is the kind of sound that wakes me up at three
in the morning
with heart palpations and a general fear of the world
i sit down with a beer
i tell my wife that i don’t know if i can
handle this bitch anymore
i think we better think about moving
this makes my wife angry
she tells me that if i’m so mad
maybe i should go and knock on the woman’s door
and tell her to turn her tv down
she says that we all make noise in this place
that she can hear me down the hall and around the bend
singing songs while i make dinner
i tell her that she’s full of shit
my wife drains her beer and tells me
that she’s not moving anywhere
that if i want to move i can go move by myself
i’ve heard this line before
she says that nearly everywhere we go
it’s me, not them
that line is new to me
so we sit there in the living room
the big game turned down low on our set
something loud and animated playing through our walls
i think about my great aunt’s funeral
the one they had before all of that snow came
i think about what my mother said about my great uncle
about how tired and old he’s gotten
then i look at my wife, pouring herself a glass of wine
from the bottle we have sitting on the floor
she looks angry and sullen
and once again i’ve caused it
we’ve been together for twelve years
she still looks young
but i wonder what they’ll be saying about her
when i’m laying there in the casket
about how tired and old she’s gotten
growing old with me
how a life with me has taken its toll on her
for the most part they’ll be right
but honey, i guess i just want to tell you
that i’m sorry right now for all of the
stress and shit that i put you through
just in case i forget
i want you to know that i’m sorry right now
instead of you thinking it
when i’m laying there, cold and gray,
done with everything
with everything finally quiet
and at peace.
just how i like it.
the last man
i look up
from a book
realizing that i’m
the last man left
on the bus
it feels good
for a second
like the apocalypse
like getting a wish granted
but i know this bliss
will not last
i wonder
what’s next?
what comes next?
unsatisfied so easily
suddenly thinking of
oscar wilde
who said:
in this world
there are only
two tragedies
one is not getting
what one wants
and the other is getting it.
and ain’t that the fucking truth?
henry
henry worked in the wine store warehouse
before i got a job there
he had to leave because he got drunk one night
and got hit by a car staggering across a main drag in buffalo
the accident put him in a coma
broke a bunch of bones and such
when he got out he was confined to a wheelchair
henry’s brain didn’t work the way it had before
all of the guys at work talked about him like he was dead
when his family wheeled him in for a visit
henry would shake hands with everyone and sit
in his wheelchair while the guys crowded around him
they’d talk to him about the old days
but he couldn’t say much back
he’d nod and look around the store wide-eyed
henry’s smile was crooked too
when he left everyone would scatter
but throughout the day you’d hear stories about the guy
how he liked to drink beer and scotch and listen to rock and roll
henry liked the alt-country stuff like ryan adams
and the drive-by truckers
the guys said he was surly but had a pretty sharp wit about him
his girlfriend worked wine sales
she had about a dozen years on him
and before the accident henry was fucking bar whores
up and down delaware avenue
she had no clue that he was doing it
they told me that i would’ve liked him
they said he and i had a lot in common
i reminded them of henry a little bit
i was surly and i had a sharp wit about me too
i liked ryan adams and beer and scotch
the last time henry came in, the guys introduced me to him
his handshake was light and he had slobber on his shirt
i felt like i was at a wake
after a while i couldn’t stand the sight
of henry and his wheelchair
of the guys fawning over him
of his cuckold girlfriend wiping his mouth
as his parents stood there with stiff smiles
i went back and did my job
which i hated every second of
soon the guys were all back in the warehouse
they were laughing and telling stories about henry
the time henry drank a six-pack in under five minutes
the fat, black chick henry fucked at fletchers bar
the time he drove his car into a wall
all the good old stories about henry
they talked about him for about an hour
as i hauled cases of wine and kept to myself
then someone mentioned the sabres game from the other night
and everyone in the warehouse
started talking about something else.
sunday morning at 130 bay ridge parkway
sitting in the quiet
as the coffee brews
i hear the ancient chinese bitch next door
banging pots and slamming doors
talking stiff staccato
to her grandchild
the one who sounds
like a pack of elephants
when she runs
soon it’ll be the television
through my walls
for the rest of the day
but sitting here right now
8:20 on a sunday morning
130 bay ridge parkway
it is mostly silent and still
somewhat serene
at the beginning
of another long-ass day
in america
if i had it my way
i would be in bed right now
in my torn boxer shorts
in that t-shirt that my wife gave me
the one with the sweat
and wine stains on it
i’d have the covers pulled up
just high enough
the torn brown sheet over the windows
stretched to keep out the light
the curtains drawn
sealed together with some of my wife’s hair clips
there’d be a bottle of wine
on the nightstand
it would be cheap red wine from france
my glass would be full
i’d have tom waits playing
he would be singing
i hope that i don’t fall in love with you
on the half-broken sony cd player.
one of the cats would be resting on my belly
the other would be at the end of the bed
resting between my feet
of course you’d be there too, dear
you’d have your glass of wine
resting on your stomach
waiting for me to refill it
outside there’d be no voices
no cars and no dogs
there’d be nothingness
sweet bliss and nothingness
the world would stay like that
the whole day
silent and black
while we drank glass after glass
of the cheap french red
and made our way through tom waits’ whole catalog
the world at large would go to hell
if i had it my way
but we know it’s never my way, baby
you’re at home right now
sick with a cold for two days
i’m on this morning bus again
reading the same bad novel that i started
reading yesterday
going to work
forever hustling to make a buck
for the electric company and the landlord
for the pleasure of all those other faces
that i’ve never even seen.
growing old with me
i call my mother
she’s the only person that i call
i call her once a week, mostly
she likes to hear my voice
in pittsburgh they got two feet snow, she tells me
she and my father just got done spending six hours shoveling
i tell her that i wish i lived near home
so that i could help them
so that they didn’t have to keep shoveling
my mother likes this
she’s been on me about moving home for years
we talk about my great aunt’s funeral
it was friday before the snow came
my mother read a eulogy
she said that everyone was crying
even your father, she says
my father is like me
it takes a lot to make him cry
i ask my mother how everyone was at the wake
she said they all were all holding up okay
how’s uncle phil? i ask
well, he was okay, my mom says
he looked tired and old
he and my great aunt had spent fifty-two years together
he just got so old going through this, my mom says.
fifty-two years will do that, i say
when we get off the phone i go into the living room
my wife is sitting there with a can of natural light
i can hear the neighbor’s television
through the walls
it is a loud, numbing sound
it is the kind of sound that wakes me up at three
in the morning
with heart palpations and a general fear of the world
i sit down with a beer
i tell my wife that i don’t know if i can
handle this bitch anymore
i think we better think about moving
this makes my wife angry
she tells me that if i’m so mad
maybe i should go and knock on the woman’s door
and tell her to turn her tv down
she says that we all make noise in this place
that she can hear me down the hall and around the bend
singing songs while i make dinner
i tell her that she’s full of shit
my wife drains her beer and tells me
that she’s not moving anywhere
that if i want to move i can go move by myself
i’ve heard this line before
she says that nearly everywhere we go
it’s me, not them
that line is new to me
so we sit there in the living room
the big game turned down low on our set
something loud and animated playing through our walls
i think about my great aunt’s funeral
the one they had before all of that snow came
i think about what my mother said about my great uncle
about how tired and old he’s gotten
then i look at my wife, pouring herself a glass of wine
from the bottle we have sitting on the floor
she looks angry and sullen
and once again i’ve caused it
we’ve been together for twelve years
she still looks young
but i wonder what they’ll be saying about her
when i’m laying there in the casket
about how tired and old she’s gotten
growing old with me
how a life with me has taken its toll on her
for the most part they’ll be right
but honey, i guess i just want to tell you
that i’m sorry right now for all of the
stress and shit that i put you through
just in case i forget
i want you to know that i’m sorry right now
instead of you thinking it
when i’m laying there, cold and gray,
done with everything
with everything finally quiet
and at peace.
just how i like it.
the last man
i look up
from a book
realizing that i’m
the last man left
on the bus
it feels good
for a second
like the apocalypse
like getting a wish granted
but i know this bliss
will not last
i wonder
what’s next?
what comes next?
unsatisfied so easily
suddenly thinking of
oscar wilde
who said:
in this world
there are only
two tragedies
one is not getting
what one wants
and the other is getting it.
and ain’t that the fucking truth?
henry
henry worked in the wine store warehouse
before i got a job there
he had to leave because he got drunk one night
and got hit by a car staggering across a main drag in buffalo
the accident put him in a coma
broke a bunch of bones and such
when he got out he was confined to a wheelchair
henry’s brain didn’t work the way it had before
all of the guys at work talked about him like he was dead
when his family wheeled him in for a visit
henry would shake hands with everyone and sit
in his wheelchair while the guys crowded around him
they’d talk to him about the old days
but he couldn’t say much back
he’d nod and look around the store wide-eyed
henry’s smile was crooked too
when he left everyone would scatter
but throughout the day you’d hear stories about the guy
how he liked to drink beer and scotch and listen to rock and roll
henry liked the alt-country stuff like ryan adams
and the drive-by truckers
the guys said he was surly but had a pretty sharp wit about him
his girlfriend worked wine sales
she had about a dozen years on him
and before the accident henry was fucking bar whores
up and down delaware avenue
she had no clue that he was doing it
they told me that i would’ve liked him
they said he and i had a lot in common
i reminded them of henry a little bit
i was surly and i had a sharp wit about me too
i liked ryan adams and beer and scotch
the last time henry came in, the guys introduced me to him
his handshake was light and he had slobber on his shirt
i felt like i was at a wake
after a while i couldn’t stand the sight
of henry and his wheelchair
of the guys fawning over him
of his cuckold girlfriend wiping his mouth
as his parents stood there with stiff smiles
i went back and did my job
which i hated every second of
soon the guys were all back in the warehouse
they were laughing and telling stories about henry
the time henry drank a six-pack in under five minutes
the fat, black chick henry fucked at fletchers bar
the time he drove his car into a wall
all the good old stories about henry
they talked about him for about an hour
as i hauled cases of wine and kept to myself
then someone mentioned the sabres game from the other night
and everyone in the warehouse
started talking about something else.
sunday morning at 130 bay ridge parkway
sitting in the quiet
as the coffee brews
i hear the ancient chinese bitch next door
banging pots and slamming doors
talking stiff staccato
to her grandchild
the one who sounds
like a pack of elephants
when she runs
soon it’ll be the television
through my walls
for the rest of the day
but sitting here right now
8:20 on a sunday morning
130 bay ridge parkway
it is mostly silent and still
somewhat serene
at the beginning
of another long-ass day
in america
Monday, February 15, 2010
AIM LOW
destitute, abandoned and scared no more time for crying I share my gifts amongst the world all the while I'm dying my body mind and soul they wither and they crumble I sit alone in blood soaked clothes hearing voices as I mumble I try to pray but can't form words so I carve my prayer into my arm with a blade blood drooling down the stairs my prayer's complete my prayer is carved I seal it with a kiss with blood soaked lips I hit my smoke and ash into my piss It's below me mixed with blood I crack a smile my prayer is answered and I'ts this to be here bleeding on these stairs aim low you'll never miss
kalifornia
The Price
I lie there dead staring up at the stars i feel the wind on my face from the passing cars. my body is cold bloody and broken i'd still be alive if he had just spoken. he use to watch me from afar to him i was a falling star. he saw me and he made a wish that my fucked up life would inspire him to write poems that made people admire him. a little attention in exchange for my soul but when his life is over he'll join me in this hole.....hope it was worth it asshole
kalifornia
gutter love
forbiden fruit i got the loot she holds out the apple in her flesh filled suit. so i chomp the apple it's like i took viagra the razors cut my mouth t's flowin like niagra. blood is runnin down my chest. look up at her and smile and put her to the test. i lunge foreward and open wide biting on her tits i taste her warm flesh in my mouth and the razors open slits. i raise up spit out the blades and gaze at her a bit. she smiles at me with blood soaked lips she sparkles in the sun. she leans against a piss drenched dumpster. now were havin fun!! an od'd stiff a dirty needle that's our bedroom decor. we fuck on top of broken glass...hey that's what alleys are for!! we make sweet love and swap some blood in our golden palice the glass becomes diamonds the piss becomes wine and the dumpster a golden chalice. we climb inside and lie in wait licking our lips with malice for those who pass. they open the lid with disgust to throw away their trash. we pull them in and slit their throats and rid them of their cash. we laugh and giggle and count our money drained bodies lay between us then we jump out get a room at the ritz and let their showers clean us. from filth and disgust to luxury we lay in white robes on the bed. the we do some H go to the club and sit under the strobes. we sip our drinks and smile looking over the dance floor made up of youthful flesh and blood and with our they will grow from east to west north and south there will be blood covered streets. so if you want to join us keep a look out for my girl with the razor filled treats. she'll feed you well your mouth will swell with blood as you enjoy. you smile she leaves your soul dissapears now your our little toy.
kalifornia
kalifornia christmass
merry fuckin christmass drowning in our excess. presents candy and booze. some of us take an eternal snooze. we take a gun and blow our head off we have no family just a bottle of smirnoff. so when you open your presents remember the peasants who are dyin in the gutter. when you put butter on your bread someone is blowin of their head. happy birthday asshole thanx for all the hassle. thanx for creating a day when in order to receive love you have to pay for a present that you can't afford. you'll get nothing from me cause are'nt my lord but just this once i'll make a wish that your dead and gone and sleep with the fish cause then we'll be rid of this day and all over this country we'll be able to say. no longer is it your birthday but just another day
kalifornia
A.D.D.
indulge in drugs and sex roast marshmellows at fiery car wrecks collect diseases feel the wet blood on your skin dry during soft breezes stare at the sun just for fun have a siezure and stop breathin come to seathin with rage rip people into pieces the carnage never cieses as long as i'm breathin when i'm in jail i float through the bars and flip cop cars with my mind never kind the meaning of the word is foregn to me pee on the alamo never go slow through red lights end bar fights with an ak jack santas sleigh drop his ass at 3000 feet in the street he's not a kittin and won't land on his feet but on his head his fat ass bled all over the place now sell the presents on ebay take the money buy some heroin and an ak sit on the runway high as hell shotin at planes all day then play chicken with a 747 die go to heavin shoot god smoke some weed with the angels eat devils food cake and ice cream fuck'em make 'em scram put'em on my team get my cell call my demons in hell tell'em to meet me on earth give birth to my satanic army a reporter comes up to me and says "you just won the spernatural superbowl whatcha gonna do now?" i say "we're going to disneyland to report to our leader the true antichrist mickey mouse"
kalifornia
thank you for considering publishing my poetry
destitute, abandoned and scared no more time for crying I share my gifts amongst the world all the while I'm dying my body mind and soul they wither and they crumble I sit alone in blood soaked clothes hearing voices as I mumble I try to pray but can't form words so I carve my prayer into my arm with a blade blood drooling down the stairs my prayer's complete my prayer is carved I seal it with a kiss with blood soaked lips I hit my smoke and ash into my piss It's below me mixed with blood I crack a smile my prayer is answered and I'ts this to be here bleeding on these stairs aim low you'll never miss
kalifornia
The Price
I lie there dead staring up at the stars i feel the wind on my face from the passing cars. my body is cold bloody and broken i'd still be alive if he had just spoken. he use to watch me from afar to him i was a falling star. he saw me and he made a wish that my fucked up life would inspire him to write poems that made people admire him. a little attention in exchange for my soul but when his life is over he'll join me in this hole.....hope it was worth it asshole
kalifornia
gutter love
forbiden fruit i got the loot she holds out the apple in her flesh filled suit. so i chomp the apple it's like i took viagra the razors cut my mouth t's flowin like niagra. blood is runnin down my chest. look up at her and smile and put her to the test. i lunge foreward and open wide biting on her tits i taste her warm flesh in my mouth and the razors open slits. i raise up spit out the blades and gaze at her a bit. she smiles at me with blood soaked lips she sparkles in the sun. she leans against a piss drenched dumpster. now were havin fun!! an od'd stiff a dirty needle that's our bedroom decor. we fuck on top of broken glass...hey that's what alleys are for!! we make sweet love and swap some blood in our golden palice the glass becomes diamonds the piss becomes wine and the dumpster a golden chalice. we climb inside and lie in wait licking our lips with malice for those who pass. they open the lid with disgust to throw away their trash. we pull them in and slit their throats and rid them of their cash. we laugh and giggle and count our money drained bodies lay between us then we jump out get a room at the ritz and let their showers clean us. from filth and disgust to luxury we lay in white robes on the bed. the we do some H go to the club and sit under the strobes. we sip our drinks and smile looking over the dance floor made up of youthful flesh and blood and with our they will grow from east to west north and south there will be blood covered streets. so if you want to join us keep a look out for my girl with the razor filled treats. she'll feed you well your mouth will swell with blood as you enjoy. you smile she leaves your soul dissapears now your our little toy.
kalifornia
kalifornia christmass
merry fuckin christmass drowning in our excess. presents candy and booze. some of us take an eternal snooze. we take a gun and blow our head off we have no family just a bottle of smirnoff. so when you open your presents remember the peasants who are dyin in the gutter. when you put butter on your bread someone is blowin of their head. happy birthday asshole thanx for all the hassle. thanx for creating a day when in order to receive love you have to pay for a present that you can't afford. you'll get nothing from me cause are'nt my lord but just this once i'll make a wish that your dead and gone and sleep with the fish cause then we'll be rid of this day and all over this country we'll be able to say. no longer is it your birthday but just another day
kalifornia
A.D.D.
indulge in drugs and sex roast marshmellows at fiery car wrecks collect diseases feel the wet blood on your skin dry during soft breezes stare at the sun just for fun have a siezure and stop breathin come to seathin with rage rip people into pieces the carnage never cieses as long as i'm breathin when i'm in jail i float through the bars and flip cop cars with my mind never kind the meaning of the word is foregn to me pee on the alamo never go slow through red lights end bar fights with an ak jack santas sleigh drop his ass at 3000 feet in the street he's not a kittin and won't land on his feet but on his head his fat ass bled all over the place now sell the presents on ebay take the money buy some heroin and an ak sit on the runway high as hell shotin at planes all day then play chicken with a 747 die go to heavin shoot god smoke some weed with the angels eat devils food cake and ice cream fuck'em make 'em scram put'em on my team get my cell call my demons in hell tell'em to meet me on earth give birth to my satanic army a reporter comes up to me and says "you just won the spernatural superbowl whatcha gonna do now?" i say "we're going to disneyland to report to our leader the true antichrist mickey mouse"
kalifornia
thank you for considering publishing my poetry
Friday, February 12, 2010
SHORT BIO
Mike Berger, PhD is bright, articulate, handsome and extremely humble.
I hold a doctorate in psychology. I am now retired
and writing poetry full time. I have only been writing
for a year. I have had good success publishing.
Thanks for your
consideration. I hope you like the poem.
Best,
Mike
DOOMED
My girlfriends giggle and joke.
They talk of love in the back
seat. They take bets on who
will be the first. I can't tell them
how horrible it is.
Mom has a bad heart and is too
sick, so dad turned to me. It hurt
and I'll never get used to it. It makes
me sick when he comes in my room.
I must endure in silence; telling
would kill my mom. I've gone from
being daddy's little girl, to being
a piece of meat.
I loathe all men and most boys;
they are all after the same thing.
You're like a toy, there for their
pleasure. On the day I turn
fifteen next month, I'll run away.
Mike Berger, PhD is bright, articulate, handsome and extremely humble.
I hold a doctorate in psychology. I am now retired
and writing poetry full time. I have only been writing
for a year. I have had good success publishing.
Thanks for your
consideration. I hope you like the poem.
Best,
Mike
DOOMED
My girlfriends giggle and joke.
They talk of love in the back
seat. They take bets on who
will be the first. I can't tell them
how horrible it is.
Mom has a bad heart and is too
sick, so dad turned to me. It hurt
and I'll never get used to it. It makes
me sick when he comes in my room.
I must endure in silence; telling
would kill my mom. I've gone from
being daddy's little girl, to being
a piece of meat.
I loathe all men and most boys;
they are all after the same thing.
You're like a toy, there for their
pleasure. On the day I turn
fifteen next month, I'll run away.
Hello!
BIO: Henry "Hank" Sosnowski, South Chicago born Polish-American followed his gypsy heart across America from Alaska's Aleutian Islands to North Carolina's shore. Following Brecht's edict that an artist must "First feed the face, then talk right and wrong," Sosnowski worked as a newsboy, caddy, fry cook, steel worker, blues musician, pipefitter, pool hustler/card shark, landscaper, railroad brakeman, auto part salesman, actor, warehouse manager, woman's clothing rep, waiter, missionary, writer, Alaskan game warden, book store manager, morning DJ, corporate VP, marketing director, dishwasher, factory worker, car salesman, handyman, customer service rep, janitor, teacher, hot rod show promoter, Internationally published poet.
Sosnowski currently lives and teaches in Reno, Nevada, inspiration for his one-man traveling show: "Write Before Your Eyes! Hank the Revelator - Live on Stage 24/7!" For one week, Sosnowski comes to town to write/perform/live on an outdoor stage replica of a 1930s writer's; garret, melding written, spoken and performance art.
Sosnowski is the winner of the 2006 Sierra Arts Foundation Writer's Grant and voted back to back Reno's best poet by Reno News and Review.
Enclosed are poems to be considered for publication. My poems have appeared in more than 3 dozen publications. I live in Reno, NV, where I work as an English and Poetry professor.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
Sincerely,
Henry Sosnowski
Life Force
Toes tangled
hair too
lost in each other
like sun fed moon
all light
all reflection
all same.
Tide runs
fear ebbs
washed out
to sea.
Tranquility
covers us
in salty fluids
of our own making.
Wrong Reflection
You can feel
the rush
down to
your toes
when the cop
in your rearview
hit’s the party lights
and your trunk
is loaded
with bad news.
Probable Cause
If you’ve had
more than six
sex partners
you probably
have herpes.
If you’ve had
less than six
sex partners
you’re probably
a comic book collector
living in mom’s basement.
Desdemona of the Heights
My head
in your lap,
on your back stoop,
from this angle
the midnight blue sky,
pinpricked sliver,
frames you.
Leaning forward
your hair shrouds the stars
a scented auburn curtain
narrowing around me,
shutting out their world
closing on your kiss
BIO: Henry "Hank" Sosnowski, South Chicago born Polish-American followed his gypsy heart across America from Alaska's Aleutian Islands to North Carolina's shore. Following Brecht's edict that an artist must "First feed the face, then talk right and wrong," Sosnowski worked as a newsboy, caddy, fry cook, steel worker, blues musician, pipefitter, pool hustler/card shark, landscaper, railroad brakeman, auto part salesman, actor, warehouse manager, woman's clothing rep, waiter, missionary, writer, Alaskan game warden, book store manager, morning DJ, corporate VP, marketing director, dishwasher, factory worker, car salesman, handyman, customer service rep, janitor, teacher, hot rod show promoter, Internationally published poet.
Sosnowski currently lives and teaches in Reno, Nevada, inspiration for his one-man traveling show: "Write Before Your Eyes! Hank the Revelator - Live on Stage 24/7!" For one week, Sosnowski comes to town to write/perform/live on an outdoor stage replica of a 1930s writer's; garret, melding written, spoken and performance art.
Sosnowski is the winner of the 2006 Sierra Arts Foundation Writer's Grant and voted back to back Reno's best poet by Reno News and Review.
Enclosed are poems to be considered for publication. My poems have appeared in more than 3 dozen publications. I live in Reno, NV, where I work as an English and Poetry professor.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
Sincerely,
Henry Sosnowski
Life Force
Toes tangled
hair too
lost in each other
like sun fed moon
all light
all reflection
all same.
Tide runs
fear ebbs
washed out
to sea.
Tranquility
covers us
in salty fluids
of our own making.
Wrong Reflection
You can feel
the rush
down to
your toes
when the cop
in your rearview
hit’s the party lights
and your trunk
is loaded
with bad news.
Probable Cause
If you’ve had
more than six
sex partners
you probably
have herpes.
If you’ve had
less than six
sex partners
you’re probably
a comic book collector
living in mom’s basement.
Desdemona of the Heights
My head
in your lap,
on your back stoop,
from this angle
the midnight blue sky,
pinpricked sliver,
frames you.
Leaning forward
your hair shrouds the stars
a scented auburn curtain
narrowing around me,
shutting out their world
closing on your kiss
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
My name is J. Kingston Reed and I am submitting the enclosed poems, "Hello Dear Friend" "One Paddle Ping Pong" "From Thoreau to the Children" "Fargo Found" and "It's true that I am ageless" for consideration in (A Brilliant) Record Magazine.
I am a poet and general creative writer. I call Houston home, for now. I've published a few articles on poetry for The Paisano, the newspaper at University of Texas-San Antonio. I also worked for the student television station at University of Arizona, where I cut music and pasted clips of celebrities and athletes into small boxes. I read my poetry at local bookstores on occasion and was recently featured on Kyle Hubbard's Who Do You Believe In? mixtape. I enjoy space for a blog on Juvenation, a place for Type 1 diabetics.
Hello Dear Friend
What lies in simple chaos now? Impossible
sunbeams in dear, wicked, wicked punishments, see?
Blindfold yourself, or that beautiful nude, look now--
Can you see, right now, punishment for consecration?
By some strange mischance, I feigned sight as colors ran
black to confusing pastel and I saw hatred
in twinkling eyes, that divine spark, soleprints from Mankind.
Where are my shoes? Where are my shoes? Please! Please! My shoes.
And her concealed character's sight bled quivering
quills for a drawn on clog, outside-the-lines mukluks or three.
Prostitution of character is a priest's strength.
Holocaust...Holocaust...scream criminal's insane fury.
The Eternal...numberable...numberable
pleasures, the questioned insolence of youth, your prayer?
You! Me! Stars! We shine in all directions behind,
simply chaos, I fear. Sunbeams on you do not shine.
Yes, but, where are my shoes? How will I walk this tread?
One Paddle Ping-Pong
I had heard that dirty windows obstruct our view from a world less frightening,
but I clean with rag and clean smells and tortured cataract,
yet still, the glass reflects, reflects, reflects smudges
etched with crosses, sickles, stars, and hammers.
But nevermind that tolerance I cannot see
flowing through the whitest and rightest in some variation of red, white, and blue.
If the mirror shows that tolerance, I had better clean it too,
for the feeling leaves me clawing at that window, dirt under nails.
So outside sun shines, rains fall, trees throw fruit
at people hiding in shade behind the veil of their religion,
and I cannot see them, I cannot see them, no they are not here.
I am alone.
In this windowless room, trundle bed rolls out that knowing
does not depend on windows, rolls out pins in the mattress.
From Thoreau to the Children
I feel some chance in harsh dissolving step
and try to find a question tied to hands,
since buried time, for time, below deep sands.
My body stiff, my pulse and head at depth,
now pulled aloft by Soul, and find no debt
between its gentle warmth and flesh too tight.
This chance, the chance, behind cruel morning's night
must bend the only bridge, connect those lands.
But quick! Please steal away from chance so dead!
Don't fall-- don't tear-- your Soul, don't let astray
and here: how She made Leaf ring in your head
and wind now flows from Heart to Hand, not away.
So walk with chance and let it go, hold firm
to all you have, be dead within your urn.
Fargo Found
Fargo gets ready for possible evacuation,
threat from the Missouri River.
It's only smart to think about worst-case
scenarios, and
five adults and an infant, rescued by helicopter.
If you have kids, small and so forth,
evacuation would scare the tar out of them.
It's true that I am ageless
Interesting how we are more like Her than Him, flash rather than knell.
I am a poet and general creative writer. I call Houston home, for now. I've published a few articles on poetry for The Paisano, the newspaper at University of Texas-San Antonio. I also worked for the student television station at University of Arizona, where I cut music and pasted clips of celebrities and athletes into small boxes. I read my poetry at local bookstores on occasion and was recently featured on Kyle Hubbard's Who Do You Believe In? mixtape. I enjoy space for a blog on Juvenation, a place for Type 1 diabetics.
Hello Dear Friend
What lies in simple chaos now? Impossible
sunbeams in dear, wicked, wicked punishments, see?
Blindfold yourself, or that beautiful nude, look now--
Can you see, right now, punishment for consecration?
By some strange mischance, I feigned sight as colors ran
black to confusing pastel and I saw hatred
in twinkling eyes, that divine spark, soleprints from Mankind.
Where are my shoes? Where are my shoes? Please! Please! My shoes.
And her concealed character's sight bled quivering
quills for a drawn on clog, outside-the-lines mukluks or three.
Prostitution of character is a priest's strength.
Holocaust...Holocaust...scream criminal's insane fury.
The Eternal...numberable...numberable
pleasures, the questioned insolence of youth, your prayer?
You! Me! Stars! We shine in all directions behind,
simply chaos, I fear. Sunbeams on you do not shine.
Yes, but, where are my shoes? How will I walk this tread?
One Paddle Ping-Pong
I had heard that dirty windows obstruct our view from a world less frightening,
but I clean with rag and clean smells and tortured cataract,
yet still, the glass reflects, reflects, reflects smudges
etched with crosses, sickles, stars, and hammers.
But nevermind that tolerance I cannot see
flowing through the whitest and rightest in some variation of red, white, and blue.
If the mirror shows that tolerance, I had better clean it too,
for the feeling leaves me clawing at that window, dirt under nails.
So outside sun shines, rains fall, trees throw fruit
at people hiding in shade behind the veil of their religion,
and I cannot see them, I cannot see them, no they are not here.
I am alone.
In this windowless room, trundle bed rolls out that knowing
does not depend on windows, rolls out pins in the mattress.
From Thoreau to the Children
I feel some chance in harsh dissolving step
and try to find a question tied to hands,
since buried time, for time, below deep sands.
My body stiff, my pulse and head at depth,
now pulled aloft by Soul, and find no debt
between its gentle warmth and flesh too tight.
This chance, the chance, behind cruel morning's night
must bend the only bridge, connect those lands.
But quick! Please steal away from chance so dead!
Don't fall-- don't tear-- your Soul, don't let astray
and here: how She made Leaf ring in your head
and wind now flows from Heart to Hand, not away.
So walk with chance and let it go, hold firm
to all you have, be dead within your urn.
Fargo Found
Fargo gets ready for possible evacuation,
threat from the Missouri River.
It's only smart to think about worst-case
scenarios, and
five adults and an infant, rescued by helicopter.
If you have kids, small and so forth,
evacuation would scare the tar out of them.
It's true that I am ageless
Interesting how we are more like Her than Him, flash rather than knell.
On Virginia "Going Rogue"
Way to GO, Virginia! At a time when Toyota has been soundly chastised for concealing safety problems with its products, and Oprah is actively recruiting for her "No Phone Zone" distracted driving campaign, Virginia is "GOing rogue" and raising its speed limit to 70 MPH! Irony aside, statistics show that will mean MORE crashes, MORE lethal impacts, and MORE people killed. But what the heck, the state's economic burden will be LESSened by their numbers and the elimination of salaries for law enforcement with no one to chase. And since MORE fuel will be consumed by those driving at higher speeds, there will be MORE tax revenue pouring into the Commonwealth's coffers. With motorists whizzing around the state in record and "potty friendly" time, there will be LESS need for the newly reopened rest stops. Laissez faire est savoir faire? I think not. This move is a continuation of the disregard for human life shown by Tim Kaine's closure of the Welcome Centers. Will someone please put a STOP to that?
Karen Ann DeLuca
Way to GO, Virginia! At a time when Toyota has been soundly chastised for concealing safety problems with its products, and Oprah is actively recruiting for her "No Phone Zone" distracted driving campaign, Virginia is "GOing rogue" and raising its speed limit to 70 MPH! Irony aside, statistics show that will mean MORE crashes, MORE lethal impacts, and MORE people killed. But what the heck, the state's economic burden will be LESSened by their numbers and the elimination of salaries for law enforcement with no one to chase. And since MORE fuel will be consumed by those driving at higher speeds, there will be MORE tax revenue pouring into the Commonwealth's coffers. With motorists whizzing around the state in record and "potty friendly" time, there will be LESS need for the newly reopened rest stops. Laissez faire est savoir faire? I think not. This move is a continuation of the disregard for human life shown by Tim Kaine's closure of the Welcome Centers. Will someone please put a STOP to that?
Karen Ann DeLuca
THE PIERCING
by Vic Cavalli
At 3:33 p.m. on August 19, 1979, Andrew Monaco was almost killed by his conversion experience at Fat Vic’s Striptease Club and All-Night Smorgasbord.
He’d come in as usual at 3:00 p.m. for a double screwdriver and had settled into his red padded chair in the cool dimly lit area next to one of the dancing poles at the tip of the pitchfork runways.
There were thirteen alcoholics, each minding his own business, scattered around the poles like stray gunfire, nursing their drinks, waiting for the striptease artists to appear.
The smoke-soaked blood-red wallpaper surrounding them looked like a massive coagulating wound.
Then the music began, the lights dimmed, and Julia came out. She danced the usual tease patterns to prepare the drunks for the circulating hookers. Julia was dark and beautiful, and Andrew thought of a sapphire saxophone as he watched her strong curves sway. Then she was done—just like that—and wiggled off stage in nothing but her high heels.
Then Jessica appeared, her long red hair still partially wet from the shower. She did the same thing with her beautiful body as Julia did—strongly swayed, showed it all, primed the pump for the hookers and took off naked.
Finally, at 3:26 p.m. (he remembered because he looked at his watch as he took a bang of his screwdriver), Angela appeared. Andrew concentrated. She was perfect, blonde, tanned. She seemed extraordinarily clean. Like the others, she executed the typical teasing moves for the transfixed drunks, but Angela did so with a pure awkwardness. There was nothing nasty about her perfect body. During the climactic
section of her teasing routine, she targeted Andrew—motioning him to sit closer, on one of the red leather stools right at the stage’s edge. Gently swaying, for Andrew alone she removed the final white slivers of her clothing; her pubic hair was precisely trimmed and fresh; and then less than a yard from Andrew’s face she lay her body down, arched her back and spread her goddess legs as wide as possible—it was a feature article snapshot right out of Gynecology Research in Review—and suddenly a white spotlight shone on her vagina. Andrew was shocked at what he at first thought was a small surgical instrument, but after whacking back his double screwdriver and focusing his failing eyes, he realized that Angela’s clitoris was pierced and dangling from it was a beautiful white gold crucifix. She froze in that sacrificial posture of surrender as Andrew stared. Then he felt silvery hot flames licking at his ears, a sharp thrusting pain in his liver, trembling beginning in his loins and emanating throughout his limbs, then a sense of nausea, then a sense of volcanic surging—his skull felt like it was bursting with lava, or with the scattered OO buck shot of a bungled suicide attempt. With a spike in his eye he gazed at Angela’s crucifix. She seemed a pure marble statue. The Jesus was perfectly centered between the crosshairs of his eyes and nasal passages. Her fragrant genitals were a dew-drenched morning garden of fresh blood-red roses; the intensely detailed Christ on the cross was white hot; and then a crashing thrust of white molten snow blinded him and forced him to his knees; hundreds of candescent clear floodlights flashed on—he heard his screwdriver glass shatter and Angela scream. Then all went black.
Andrew woke up in the club toilet, racked with pain and covered with urine and broken glass. He staggered to his feet, out of the can, through the silent club, and through the door onto the street. He felt like a routed mole in the scorching sunlight and began shouting “Repent!” to the countless corpses outside.
He hollered for twenty-one days and nights—never touching a drop of liquor or a cigarette—and for the first time in his life everything was beautiful. Then he stopped shouting. Instead, to each person he passed on the street, he whispered, “Jesus is the Son of God.” And although he never carried a sign, he was insulted and attacked in alleys. Once he was nearly pelted to death with Lysol cans. But as he gradually healed, existence became increasingly profound, delicate, and beautiful. And he began lighting a candle daily in front of the statue of the Sacred Heart in the north-east corner of the cathedral at the centre of the city that once held him like a coffin. And he never returned to Fat Vic’s.
Vic Cavalli
by Vic Cavalli
At 3:33 p.m. on August 19, 1979, Andrew Monaco was almost killed by his conversion experience at Fat Vic’s Striptease Club and All-Night Smorgasbord.
He’d come in as usual at 3:00 p.m. for a double screwdriver and had settled into his red padded chair in the cool dimly lit area next to one of the dancing poles at the tip of the pitchfork runways.
There were thirteen alcoholics, each minding his own business, scattered around the poles like stray gunfire, nursing their drinks, waiting for the striptease artists to appear.
The smoke-soaked blood-red wallpaper surrounding them looked like a massive coagulating wound.
Then the music began, the lights dimmed, and Julia came out. She danced the usual tease patterns to prepare the drunks for the circulating hookers. Julia was dark and beautiful, and Andrew thought of a sapphire saxophone as he watched her strong curves sway. Then she was done—just like that—and wiggled off stage in nothing but her high heels.
Then Jessica appeared, her long red hair still partially wet from the shower. She did the same thing with her beautiful body as Julia did—strongly swayed, showed it all, primed the pump for the hookers and took off naked.
Finally, at 3:26 p.m. (he remembered because he looked at his watch as he took a bang of his screwdriver), Angela appeared. Andrew concentrated. She was perfect, blonde, tanned. She seemed extraordinarily clean. Like the others, she executed the typical teasing moves for the transfixed drunks, but Angela did so with a pure awkwardness. There was nothing nasty about her perfect body. During the climactic
section of her teasing routine, she targeted Andrew—motioning him to sit closer, on one of the red leather stools right at the stage’s edge. Gently swaying, for Andrew alone she removed the final white slivers of her clothing; her pubic hair was precisely trimmed and fresh; and then less than a yard from Andrew’s face she lay her body down, arched her back and spread her goddess legs as wide as possible—it was a feature article snapshot right out of Gynecology Research in Review—and suddenly a white spotlight shone on her vagina. Andrew was shocked at what he at first thought was a small surgical instrument, but after whacking back his double screwdriver and focusing his failing eyes, he realized that Angela’s clitoris was pierced and dangling from it was a beautiful white gold crucifix. She froze in that sacrificial posture of surrender as Andrew stared. Then he felt silvery hot flames licking at his ears, a sharp thrusting pain in his liver, trembling beginning in his loins and emanating throughout his limbs, then a sense of nausea, then a sense of volcanic surging—his skull felt like it was bursting with lava, or with the scattered OO buck shot of a bungled suicide attempt. With a spike in his eye he gazed at Angela’s crucifix. She seemed a pure marble statue. The Jesus was perfectly centered between the crosshairs of his eyes and nasal passages. Her fragrant genitals were a dew-drenched morning garden of fresh blood-red roses; the intensely detailed Christ on the cross was white hot; and then a crashing thrust of white molten snow blinded him and forced him to his knees; hundreds of candescent clear floodlights flashed on—he heard his screwdriver glass shatter and Angela scream. Then all went black.
Andrew woke up in the club toilet, racked with pain and covered with urine and broken glass. He staggered to his feet, out of the can, through the silent club, and through the door onto the street. He felt like a routed mole in the scorching sunlight and began shouting “Repent!” to the countless corpses outside.
He hollered for twenty-one days and nights—never touching a drop of liquor or a cigarette—and for the first time in his life everything was beautiful. Then he stopped shouting. Instead, to each person he passed on the street, he whispered, “Jesus is the Son of God.” And although he never carried a sign, he was insulted and attacked in alleys. Once he was nearly pelted to death with Lysol cans. But as he gradually healed, existence became increasingly profound, delicate, and beautiful. And he began lighting a candle daily in front of the statue of the Sacred Heart in the north-east corner of the cathedral at the centre of the city that once held him like a coffin. And he never returned to Fat Vic’s.
Vic Cavalli
Monday, February 8, 2010
Dear Mr. Logan--
Please consider the following two poems--"Born Again in Stone" and "The Long Journey" for inclusion on your site.
I live and write in New Jersey, and my poems appear or are forthcoming in numerous print and online journals. My first chapbook, IIlusions Delusions and Dreams: Visions of the Surreal in Art (Naissance, 2009) was just published and is available from chapbookpublisher.com.
Sincerely,
Neil Ellman
Livingston, NJ
Born Again in Stone
Yesterday
On the 25th of December
In the year of my death
I was turned into a stone.
I felt nothing
Saw nothing
There were no sounds
But I knew somehow.
There was a stillness
Never night, never day
No way to know
But I did.
For the first
And only time
I felt solid and defined
Content as the earth
As only the earth does
When it knows
The soft emptiness
Of life.
It was Christmas Day
When I was born again
Into a nativity
Of chiseled stone.
The Long Journey
Some of us are left.
We avoided the main roads
Circled the sentry posts
And slept in old barns
With faded tobacco signs
And rusted cars
With their seats removed.
The coyotes howled
And left their marks
But we covered ours over
Leaving no trace.
The first died of thirst,
A man who said
He had a family in the south--
Two sons, he said,
Who would go to school
And read his letters
And have children
Of their own;
The next of despair--
He sat by a tree
And stared at
The inconsiderate sun
Breathing slowly
And finally not at all;
The others went later--
One shot from behind
The rest of white heat
And black starvation
The last by a rattlesnake.
It’s just over the horizon now
And whoever is left
May see our El Dorado
Before we die.
Please consider the following two poems--"Born Again in Stone" and "The Long Journey" for inclusion on your site.
I live and write in New Jersey, and my poems appear or are forthcoming in numerous print and online journals. My first chapbook, IIlusions Delusions and Dreams: Visions of the Surreal in Art (Naissance, 2009) was just published and is available from chapbookpublisher.com.
Sincerely,
Neil Ellman
Livingston, NJ
Born Again in Stone
Yesterday
On the 25th of December
In the year of my death
I was turned into a stone.
I felt nothing
Saw nothing
There were no sounds
But I knew somehow.
There was a stillness
Never night, never day
No way to know
But I did.
For the first
And only time
I felt solid and defined
Content as the earth
As only the earth does
When it knows
The soft emptiness
Of life.
It was Christmas Day
When I was born again
Into a nativity
Of chiseled stone.
The Long Journey
Some of us are left.
We avoided the main roads
Circled the sentry posts
And slept in old barns
With faded tobacco signs
And rusted cars
With their seats removed.
The coyotes howled
And left their marks
But we covered ours over
Leaving no trace.
The first died of thirst,
A man who said
He had a family in the south--
Two sons, he said,
Who would go to school
And read his letters
And have children
Of their own;
The next of despair--
He sat by a tree
And stared at
The inconsiderate sun
Breathing slowly
And finally not at all;
The others went later--
One shot from behind
The rest of white heat
And black starvation
The last by a rattlesnake.
It’s just over the horizon now
And whoever is left
May see our El Dorado
Before we die.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Please consider the following poems for publication.
Over 200 of my poems have appeared in more than one hundred journals in the U.S. and Canada, in Japan and Australia, and the U.K, including: Real Angry Poets, Quills, Unfeigned Coffee Fiend, Detour Memphis, Why Vandalism?!, Plum Ruby Review, Vox Poetica, Outcry, The Hudson Review, Whisper, Poetry Space, Dangling Verbs, Writers Forum, Poesie, Cafe Del Soul,
South Jersey Underground-Issue 6, Protest Poems, Poetry Stop, P&W, elffin&elffa, and many others.
I have had a series of chapbooks published in the 1980's by 4 Winds Press, such titles as "Doors and Windows",
"Dancing in the Eighties" and "Slow Burn".
I have had two poetry books published, the first "Teardrop of Coloured Soul" in 2005 and my latest one released in Jan. of 2010 entitled "I Walk Naked into a Cloud". Also this year i am awaiting final publication of "The Rushing Stream of Desires" and "A Yellow Sunshine night" (both in pre-production)
Chris is also the founder and Editor of P&W (http://triangularduck.bravehost.com), an online literary emagazine.
Prancing Silent
Sunrise finds the heart aching to be unzoned,
uncalled for, distressed.
Plastering billboards with advertisements
of no discernable benefit to anyone.
Buy this, buy that. Feel this way
or that. Slip into phrases
that bound the eyes.
Seeing the blind walk
across the rushing of
the cars. Making it, surviving;
arriving two steps behind the
rest.
Useless verbs that are
understood only
by the symbols of
racing numbers
in a chart.
They bind the answers.
They control the end.
The beginning a vowel
expressed by cups of
tea in a bathroom.
Ugly signs that are
re-zoned for alternative
religions.
Homosexual men prancing
their silk perversions
on an unsuspecting room.
We always buy the latest
edition of the newspaper.
The headlines announce
the arrival of
the lies.
The Door
The door is open.
Spirits race out into the dark.
They are escaping.
Re-inventing death.
I am one of the spirits.
I am one of the lost.
Escaping into the dark.
The door closes.
Slams shut
Now I am outside.
Lonely spirit lost.
Lonely voice screaming in anguish.
Horrors upon horrors.
Night upon black.
Hot wind sears thought.
I think but I am thoughtless.
Cavern of space
with empty eyes.
Sockets of disease proliferating
in jangled tones of sombre.
Grey moon.
Overshadowed undercurrents
of lisping lips.
Are they mine?
Are they mine?
I don't know how to love me.
Useless thinking wasted on
emotions that are shapeless reunions
of sliding weeds.
I am growing a skin.
It is bleeding.
The door is my answer.
Slam it shut.
Don't let the tears out.
They may define my state of mind.
But in truth,
they are shallow.
So am I.
Vanish Without a Trace
Vanish without a trace, my dear, and
I'll celebrate your funeral with roses
and wine. Jiggle like a fat man wrapped
up in his religious point of view. Speaking
this and that to a sleeping audience.
Craving the super delicious tangles of
frivolous delights. Vanish without a
trace, my dear, and I'll sing your praises to
every dead rat in the alley. Put you inside a
big plastic bag and keep you captivated in
the corner of the room. When the bugs come
out to play I'll say it's your fate and dangle
my opinions in your mind. Electric rock and
roll blasting off an old stereo, guitars jangling
to the beat of a brand new horizon. Flagrant
infractions of parliamentary rule will get
you banned from the ice cream parlour.
And we can put your smoldering bones
into a grinder, letting the smell assault
the politically correct neo-nazi's. Change
the sign if it offends the mind, change the
word and create a new perception. Vanish
without a trace, my dear, and Ill vanish
myself right after you. I'll go away and
you won't have me to hate anymore. We
can both pretend that all of this matters.
Waving Me Away Like A Dime Store Hooker
Her eyes
represent her thoughts,
waving me away
like a dime store hooker.
Pushing against
the silence
of
temporary distance.
Her simmering
perceptions
swallow me like
a dinosaur from
a 1940's movie.
Plastic, obvious.
My blue skin
is telling
my white nails
to scratch away
the pictures.
Do not absorb them!
We dare not
stop to
ask for directions.
Men do not do this.
Women do, and it is
this direction
you have selected
to promote.
Her skin
is freezing red.
Mingled with
the
dozen or so
hallucinations
she has
trapped
inside of her.
We cannot
be the
same
religion anymore.
You've converted
to your
own cathedral.
Forgetting
Forgetting.
That's the soul's answer to the locked doors
that confront you in the path.
Open the eyes and see
the zero that has become you.
And when the danger comes, let the
forgetting become a mantra.
Let it flush away the diseases
of yesterday's disasters.
When the yellow sun shines, ignore
the grey skies that have
defined you.
Be the empty that you can be.
It's the solution to the
falling asleep at the wheel.
And when the pencil lead breaks,
sharpen the axes to begin
the hacking away.
Let the zone alarms arrive,
and make them the purpose
of your ashtray heart.
Forgetting.
It's the most obvious solution
to the drowning of the
sense of being.
And when the rain starts to fall,
hold the radio
in your arms and let
the electricity
snapple your brainwaves.
Leave without saying goodbye.
Chris G. Vaillancourt
Over 200 of my poems have appeared in more than one hundred journals in the U.S. and Canada, in Japan and Australia, and the U.K, including: Real Angry Poets, Quills, Unfeigned Coffee Fiend, Detour Memphis, Why Vandalism?!, Plum Ruby Review, Vox Poetica, Outcry, The Hudson Review, Whisper, Poetry Space, Dangling Verbs, Writers Forum, Poesie, Cafe Del Soul,
South Jersey Underground-Issue 6, Protest Poems, Poetry Stop, P&W, elffin&elffa, and many others.
I have had a series of chapbooks published in the 1980's by 4 Winds Press, such titles as "Doors and Windows",
"Dancing in the Eighties" and "Slow Burn".
I have had two poetry books published, the first "Teardrop of Coloured Soul" in 2005 and my latest one released in Jan. of 2010 entitled "I Walk Naked into a Cloud". Also this year i am awaiting final publication of "The Rushing Stream of Desires" and "A Yellow Sunshine night" (both in pre-production)
Chris is also the founder and Editor of P&W (http://triangularduck.bravehost.com), an online literary emagazine.
Prancing Silent
Sunrise finds the heart aching to be unzoned,
uncalled for, distressed.
Plastering billboards with advertisements
of no discernable benefit to anyone.
Buy this, buy that. Feel this way
or that. Slip into phrases
that bound the eyes.
Seeing the blind walk
across the rushing of
the cars. Making it, surviving;
arriving two steps behind the
rest.
Useless verbs that are
understood only
by the symbols of
racing numbers
in a chart.
They bind the answers.
They control the end.
The beginning a vowel
expressed by cups of
tea in a bathroom.
Ugly signs that are
re-zoned for alternative
religions.
Homosexual men prancing
their silk perversions
on an unsuspecting room.
We always buy the latest
edition of the newspaper.
The headlines announce
the arrival of
the lies.
The Door
The door is open.
Spirits race out into the dark.
They are escaping.
Re-inventing death.
I am one of the spirits.
I am one of the lost.
Escaping into the dark.
The door closes.
Slams shut
Now I am outside.
Lonely spirit lost.
Lonely voice screaming in anguish.
Horrors upon horrors.
Night upon black.
Hot wind sears thought.
I think but I am thoughtless.
Cavern of space
with empty eyes.
Sockets of disease proliferating
in jangled tones of sombre.
Grey moon.
Overshadowed undercurrents
of lisping lips.
Are they mine?
Are they mine?
I don't know how to love me.
Useless thinking wasted on
emotions that are shapeless reunions
of sliding weeds.
I am growing a skin.
It is bleeding.
The door is my answer.
Slam it shut.
Don't let the tears out.
They may define my state of mind.
But in truth,
they are shallow.
So am I.
Vanish Without a Trace
Vanish without a trace, my dear, and
I'll celebrate your funeral with roses
and wine. Jiggle like a fat man wrapped
up in his religious point of view. Speaking
this and that to a sleeping audience.
Craving the super delicious tangles of
frivolous delights. Vanish without a
trace, my dear, and I'll sing your praises to
every dead rat in the alley. Put you inside a
big plastic bag and keep you captivated in
the corner of the room. When the bugs come
out to play I'll say it's your fate and dangle
my opinions in your mind. Electric rock and
roll blasting off an old stereo, guitars jangling
to the beat of a brand new horizon. Flagrant
infractions of parliamentary rule will get
you banned from the ice cream parlour.
And we can put your smoldering bones
into a grinder, letting the smell assault
the politically correct neo-nazi's. Change
the sign if it offends the mind, change the
word and create a new perception. Vanish
without a trace, my dear, and Ill vanish
myself right after you. I'll go away and
you won't have me to hate anymore. We
can both pretend that all of this matters.
Waving Me Away Like A Dime Store Hooker
Her eyes
represent her thoughts,
waving me away
like a dime store hooker.
Pushing against
the silence
of
temporary distance.
Her simmering
perceptions
swallow me like
a dinosaur from
a 1940's movie.
Plastic, obvious.
My blue skin
is telling
my white nails
to scratch away
the pictures.
Do not absorb them!
We dare not
stop to
ask for directions.
Men do not do this.
Women do, and it is
this direction
you have selected
to promote.
Her skin
is freezing red.
Mingled with
the
dozen or so
hallucinations
she has
trapped
inside of her.
We cannot
be the
same
religion anymore.
You've converted
to your
own cathedral.
Forgetting
Forgetting.
That's the soul's answer to the locked doors
that confront you in the path.
Open the eyes and see
the zero that has become you.
And when the danger comes, let the
forgetting become a mantra.
Let it flush away the diseases
of yesterday's disasters.
When the yellow sun shines, ignore
the grey skies that have
defined you.
Be the empty that you can be.
It's the solution to the
falling asleep at the wheel.
And when the pencil lead breaks,
sharpen the axes to begin
the hacking away.
Let the zone alarms arrive,
and make them the purpose
of your ashtray heart.
Forgetting.
It's the most obvious solution
to the drowning of the
sense of being.
And when the rain starts to fall,
hold the radio
in your arms and let
the electricity
snapple your brainwaves.
Leave without saying goodbye.
Chris G. Vaillancourt
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Flicker and Fade
The streetlamps flickered overhead again. On and off they alternated in kind until at last they lingered on. There were two dark sticks down below, edging closer to one another, on and off, on and off.
One reached for the other, paused and dropped away. The other returned in kind the subtle movements and like a mirror displayed their whole story at one glance. The street emptied but they filled it once more under those old lamps.
Alone, yes, alone no, one reached and then the other looking up and around, making sure their expression was bereft of subtle suggestion. This territory was conquered; dare they reach another region before the fall? On and off, on and off.
Those dark sticks, floated there adrift in the whirling tide pulled toward and away once more and then they were vanished. The street below silenced again as the first robins alit the line above the lights, flicker and fade and then the day anew. On and off, on and off.
Michael Ramirez
Linoleum Line
By
Michael Ramirez
I stood there,
hot-eared and flush-cheeked
with my back propped against
the chair back
spine-strong,
We stood there,
spring-loaded,
fingers going
red and white waiting
for what was next,
The space between
our feet shined
a wispy track
from the kitchen light
dangling overhead,
"Here it is" I thought,
as his hand rolled up
and flew across my chin,
I now knew he would be
my father never again.
The Downbeats
by
Michael Ramirez
The jazz man came with the quatrain tied to the last lowly note...he played
longer than my sadness as I hid my face behind my hands...hopin' the truth
wouldn't find me there. He kept playin' and I kept hidin' waitin' for his phrase to end.
I wanted nothin' more than to call him my friend, but he kept stabbin'
me in the heart with his agonizin' tones. I wrenched my fingers tight blockin' out the bad news, but it just kept on comin'. The Russian poured on
the next layer with his cymbal, quietly etchin' out the perimeter...
ta-tap,ta-tap, ta-tap.
It was all I could do but pick up my hat and walk outside...away from
their subtle cruelty...into the night air to clear mind and lungs of that damned
jazz. Walkin' down King Street, I saw 'em all-the queens, the fairies, and hookin' girls...
I felt an affinity for them, they were real...in a world full of plastic grass
and vacant stares...these urchins were the glue that kept everything together.
As long as they were around janglin' in the street, I felt like the world
made sense.
Old Hector sat at the spot...the bus bench at the corner of King and fifth. He barely tried to hide his bottle of Maker's Mark anymore, the patrolmen never came out this way...just as well. I ask old Hector, "Where's the fire, Hec?"
He rocked silently,
head down, shoulders hunched. I ask him again, "Where's the fire, Hec?" He sat there lookin' like a dead dog. His buddy, Nacho called from upstairs in the window, "He no hear you Mr. Sunshine...He no hear so
good no more."
I put a dime, a nickel, and three pennies into the can at old Hector's feet and went on my way.
The streetlamps flickered overhead again. On and off they alternated in kind until at last they lingered on. There were two dark sticks down below, edging closer to one another, on and off, on and off.
One reached for the other, paused and dropped away. The other returned in kind the subtle movements and like a mirror displayed their whole story at one glance. The street emptied but they filled it once more under those old lamps.
Alone, yes, alone no, one reached and then the other looking up and around, making sure their expression was bereft of subtle suggestion. This territory was conquered; dare they reach another region before the fall? On and off, on and off.
Those dark sticks, floated there adrift in the whirling tide pulled toward and away once more and then they were vanished. The street below silenced again as the first robins alit the line above the lights, flicker and fade and then the day anew. On and off, on and off.
Michael Ramirez
Linoleum Line
By
Michael Ramirez
I stood there,
hot-eared and flush-cheeked
with my back propped against
the chair back
spine-strong,
We stood there,
spring-loaded,
fingers going
red and white waiting
for what was next,
The space between
our feet shined
a wispy track
from the kitchen light
dangling overhead,
"Here it is" I thought,
as his hand rolled up
and flew across my chin,
I now knew he would be
my father never again.
The Downbeats
by
Michael Ramirez
The jazz man came with the quatrain tied to the last lowly note...he played
longer than my sadness as I hid my face behind my hands...hopin' the truth
wouldn't find me there. He kept playin' and I kept hidin' waitin' for his phrase to end.
I wanted nothin' more than to call him my friend, but he kept stabbin'
me in the heart with his agonizin' tones. I wrenched my fingers tight blockin' out the bad news, but it just kept on comin'. The Russian poured on
the next layer with his cymbal, quietly etchin' out the perimeter...
ta-tap,ta-tap, ta-tap.
It was all I could do but pick up my hat and walk outside...away from
their subtle cruelty...into the night air to clear mind and lungs of that damned
jazz. Walkin' down King Street, I saw 'em all-the queens, the fairies, and hookin' girls...
I felt an affinity for them, they were real...in a world full of plastic grass
and vacant stares...these urchins were the glue that kept everything together.
As long as they were around janglin' in the street, I felt like the world
made sense.
Old Hector sat at the spot...the bus bench at the corner of King and fifth. He barely tried to hide his bottle of Maker's Mark anymore, the patrolmen never came out this way...just as well. I ask old Hector, "Where's the fire, Hec?"
He rocked silently,
head down, shoulders hunched. I ask him again, "Where's the fire, Hec?" He sat there lookin' like a dead dog. His buddy, Nacho called from upstairs in the window, "He no hear you Mr. Sunshine...He no hear so
good no more."
I put a dime, a nickel, and three pennies into the can at old Hector's feet and went on my way.
Nefarious arcadia
It was all for naught until the windstorm.
Regeneration unto the lotus.
One can’t apologize any longer.
It was divine to know pantheism.
We held onto hope. We thought it would die.
A quicksilver lesson brought unto us.
Two days marks the retribution of sin.
We fell from my dreams, neatly on the cross.
I wish I had stayed, not fled as the fox.
A splashing fire and vitality.
Three shades a crowd. Isosceles notion.
I now know why the lonely drink wine.
You brought Armageddon to none but me.
A star fall from the ore of alchemy.
For you I would live against these red bricks.
You are between alpha and omega.
This morning light shattered any distaste.
One more breath of the syndrome before me.
Five masks were there, waiting for the pious.
This is why man searches for righteousness.
Vivify The Ocelot
I feel like my new self again.
Duality knows what I mean.
My other side has a dormant day.
Were the sun moves the pyre.
I've never felt so incarnate.
The war never built its own scales.
Who is invulnerable beyond theyre creator.
Supposing they decide existence.
A desicion of security the celts never knew.
But back to the main point.
No man can escape the vice that addicts all life, Death.
It's never scary when you have riches though.
At least thats what ive been shown.
Veil
Last night,
twin of last mourning.
Oceans depicting truths.
Quiet time,
forever more.
Clear the air.
Distain and secrets,
left untouched.
A funeral for euphoria.
Returning sounds best.
Needless Without Dismay
This is a new harvest of ambition.
Lies are as corrupt as the moonlight.
But afternoon nightfall’s bring my glee.
If I give myself names of morals I will fall.
So at the end of a new fool I will learn.
I’m born without trump cards like a new thought.
Confident decisions are nothing without suspense.
I've waited for me watching the sand.
Countless and ironic I fill my glass.
Simplification revives stagnant nostalgia.
Ageless are words like the seven I love.
A cell wall is broken waiting for fixation.
Regret is floundering weakness.
Migration is awaiting brief silence.
Dystopia bound are the paths I reject.
Like Plato I grant you a token of trespass.
My roman abilities are convent.
I covet the water for being immortal.
I’m regenerating my eyesight for life.
And yet renaissance dreams plague my modern mind.
I’m glad I understand nothing.
And someday everyone else will.
Son of Solomon
It didn’t feel like august.
It hadn’t showed itself.
The sky was all but fogless.
As the books wait on there shelf.
Who knew the river flowed like wine?
Who knew that I would feel divine?
The confidence of grace of stone.
The windless waves have seldom shone.
I can’t remember seeing her.
With wood died green and black and gold.
A heavy chain, the scent of myrrh.
From martyr passion I feel cold.
Standing
This moment capture.
I can seize it.
I won’t forget this.
To myself.
No one really can.
I don’t even need to see.
I just need those vibrations.
I’ll just change for good.
I promise I will.
To you all.
Who will watch?
Those freeing.
Hopes.
Never hopeless.
Until the wrecking wind.
But I can’t worry about that.
Tannen Dell
It was all for naught until the windstorm.
Regeneration unto the lotus.
One can’t apologize any longer.
It was divine to know pantheism.
We held onto hope. We thought it would die.
A quicksilver lesson brought unto us.
Two days marks the retribution of sin.
We fell from my dreams, neatly on the cross.
I wish I had stayed, not fled as the fox.
A splashing fire and vitality.
Three shades a crowd. Isosceles notion.
I now know why the lonely drink wine.
You brought Armageddon to none but me.
A star fall from the ore of alchemy.
For you I would live against these red bricks.
You are between alpha and omega.
This morning light shattered any distaste.
One more breath of the syndrome before me.
Five masks were there, waiting for the pious.
This is why man searches for righteousness.
Vivify The Ocelot
I feel like my new self again.
Duality knows what I mean.
My other side has a dormant day.
Were the sun moves the pyre.
I've never felt so incarnate.
The war never built its own scales.
Who is invulnerable beyond theyre creator.
Supposing they decide existence.
A desicion of security the celts never knew.
But back to the main point.
No man can escape the vice that addicts all life, Death.
It's never scary when you have riches though.
At least thats what ive been shown.
Veil
Last night,
twin of last mourning.
Oceans depicting truths.
Quiet time,
forever more.
Clear the air.
Distain and secrets,
left untouched.
A funeral for euphoria.
Returning sounds best.
Needless Without Dismay
This is a new harvest of ambition.
Lies are as corrupt as the moonlight.
But afternoon nightfall’s bring my glee.
If I give myself names of morals I will fall.
So at the end of a new fool I will learn.
I’m born without trump cards like a new thought.
Confident decisions are nothing without suspense.
I've waited for me watching the sand.
Countless and ironic I fill my glass.
Simplification revives stagnant nostalgia.
Ageless are words like the seven I love.
A cell wall is broken waiting for fixation.
Regret is floundering weakness.
Migration is awaiting brief silence.
Dystopia bound are the paths I reject.
Like Plato I grant you a token of trespass.
My roman abilities are convent.
I covet the water for being immortal.
I’m regenerating my eyesight for life.
And yet renaissance dreams plague my modern mind.
I’m glad I understand nothing.
And someday everyone else will.
Son of Solomon
It didn’t feel like august.
It hadn’t showed itself.
The sky was all but fogless.
As the books wait on there shelf.
Who knew the river flowed like wine?
Who knew that I would feel divine?
The confidence of grace of stone.
The windless waves have seldom shone.
I can’t remember seeing her.
With wood died green and black and gold.
A heavy chain, the scent of myrrh.
From martyr passion I feel cold.
Standing
This moment capture.
I can seize it.
I won’t forget this.
To myself.
No one really can.
I don’t even need to see.
I just need those vibrations.
I’ll just change for good.
I promise I will.
To you all.
Who will watch?
Those freeing.
Hopes.
Never hopeless.
Until the wrecking wind.
But I can’t worry about that.
Tannen Dell
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