Beat Poetry's topics - tribe.net

Beat poetry

frankslice — Wed, 25 Apr 2007 13:04:44 GMT

Sorry for sounding like a dummy, but these questions needs answering;

1- What is beat poetry and how is it different to any other poetry?

2- I think that will do for now but be prepared for further questioning...

Frank

posted in Beat Poetry - 5 replies

New Hunter S. Thompson Documentary

petunia — Wed, 23 Jan 2008 22:03:56 GMT

Dear Friends,
This is a VERY funny and poignant film director Blue Kraning made about Hunter S. Thompson. You can follow this link to where the trailer is posted up on Tribe:

http://people.tribe.net/ef16dbc2-...e40916ff6d

or you can follow the other links to his website www.gonzopatriots.com to see the trailer and buy the film.

I went ahead and copied the text from the tribe page below so you get a better idea of the work.

Please support the spirit of independence in which this film was made AND BUY THIS FILM !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Much Love To All,
Lisa Ferguson (aka Petunia Maple Cake)

New Hunter S. Thompson Documentary
This is the trailer for the fun-loving but poignant film that is a tribute to Gonzo journalist, Hunter S. Thompson, and a document of how his legacy continues to live on in the hearts and minds of his fans. Blasted!!! follows the many "Gonzo Patriots" across America that volunteered their personally owned artillery to fulfill the good doctor's last wish to have his ashes fired from a cannon. Before Johnny Depp became involved with the ceremony, and paid over 2 million dollars for a professional fireworks company to blast his friend's ashes from a 200 foot tall 'Gonzo fist,' an essay contest was held by the Aspen Daily News (at the request of Hunter's family) to see who would be available to provide the service of firing his ashes. Over 50 private cannon owners applied and though these letters were published in Harper's magazine, these brave men and women, who had come forward to fulfill the dying wish of their hero...were eventually forgotten.

DVD's for this film can be purchased at www.gonzopatriots.com

Blue Kraning, Los Angeles based documentary director and Emmy Award winning writer, has just released the DVD of his film, Blasted, The Gonzo Patriots of Hunter S. Thompson, which recently premiered at the Starz Denver International Film Festival and the Rotterdam International Film Festival.

Three years in the making, this film is a tribute to a great journalist and renowned physician. Kraning says the film, “is intended for any fan of Hunter S. Thompson or just anyone who likes to see large stuffed animals blown to bits by a homemade Bowling Ball Cannon fired by a man in a purple polyester suit, or see transgender Civil War re-enactors blast their aptly named mountain howitzer...’Lucrecia,’ while reciting Hunter’s wisdom. I made this film entirely as a one-man-band, in the tradition of Gonzo individuality and artistic freedom, so I will be distributing the film entirely by myself by selling the film off my website at www.gonzopatriots.com”

"Hunter S. Thompson embodied the American ideals of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Blue Kraning's Blasted!!! is a twisted, anarchic, fun, and funny tribute to Hunter, those ideals, and Americans who don't merely mouth the Declaration of Independence, but live it." - Michael Simmons, The Huffington Post

“These are not the famous actors, politicians or even journalists. These are Hunter's readers who are “his people” in the purest sense, an army of thoughtful citizens who are inspired by Hunter's work and who do a fine job of carrying on his legacy.” –Anita Thompson, wife of the late author, Hunter S. Thompson
Posted by

posted in Beat Poetry - 0 replies

Abramelin

Rainbow_Watcher — Thu, 06 Dec 2007 08:48:58 GMT

I have a poem, six photos, and the cover photo published in the Winter 2007 issue of Abramelin: The Journal of Poetry and Magick (http://www.abramelin.net/).

posted in Beat Poetry - 0 replies

On The Road 50 years later - a live performance

Bridget — Fri, 30 Nov 2007 05:53:26 GMT

I want to let you in on a GREAT show happening this Sunday
in SF.

THE IMPONDERABLES featuring Sam Flot
celebrating the 50th Anniversary of Kerouac's On The Road.

Accompanying Sam Flot will be Jeff Miller and Phil Ferlino of
New Monsoon, and Tim Carbone of Railroad Earth.

8:30 or 9 showtime

The Connecticut Yankee
100 Connecticut St
San Francisco

posted in Beat Poetry - 0 replies

New poem

Rainbow_Watcher — Sun, 01 Apr 2007 18:36:38 GMT

http://people.tribe.net/rainbow_watcher/blog/4f973813-37fe-4e09-bff6-870b0d4567fd

Israel Images – SEO Series #2</a>

Israel Kamakawiwoole sings from the speakers here in Jerusalem, his Hawai’an poetry,
love poems, free love poems to my ears, weaving through Israel. It’s Israel, a new breed,
multi-cultural historical Israel, who could make a map of Israel with Israel Kamakawiwoole,
with Israel news no song, no poem most of the time, no love poem for those who cry out,
america call I infidel Israel Jihad. Now renounced, terror they war why do they war oh
America call I infidel. Israel. Jihad. And the other side, the Israel Palestine side, the Israel travel
map to questions so complex that from Beirut to Jerusalem, Iran to Israel, Syria to Israel

what is Israel travel? A love poem for Israel a love poem for Palestine an Israel image, so many
Israel images, Israel maps torn asunder and taped back together, the Jerusalem Bible singing to
Iz, Israel Kamakawiwoole, singing his Hawai’an poetry, his love poetry, his mystic music into
the tapestry while I wonder on my Israel tour, in this Israel weather, who in Israel power state united
can be state or states of disillusion meant in the Jerusalem hotel for Israel sex, God and liberty
for all? I’ve got the Jerusalem vibration, the Israel tour, the Palestinian Israel dance of thundering

rhetoric and bombs and rockets and it all leads to Israel war, Eichmann in Jerusalem, a confusion
of fever and doubtful conclusions amidst corruption sealed into the history of Israel one more time.

http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/434/e87/434e87cd-2971-410e-b940-4b53292a4b6c

posted in Beat Poetry - 0 replies

Gigslist - ShowBiz News, jobs, auditions, tips, resumes and resources.

deborahpaulino — Sat, 24 Mar 2007 21:49:19 GMT

Gigslist - ShowBiz News, jobs, auditions, tips, resumes and resources.

OoooooooooooooooooO
Listings are from Gigslist.org Main Board from the past 7 Days.
Ooooooo

Greenbelt, MD - Crew and Auditions, April 9-10 FreeJobs
OutOftheBlackBox Theatre Company (O2B2) will hold auditions for "Volpone," a new adaptation by Bill Jones of the play by Ben Jonson http://www.gigslist.org/index.php?name=News&file=article&sid=696

Arts Resources Wanted for Industry Directory
Submit your arts site, group, tribe, mailing list, publication to the Arts Job Bible for free and Free membership to Gigslist.org and free listing. http://www.gigslist.org

Touring - Guitar Tech for the Wallflowers Paid Jobs
Seeking touring Guitar Tech for the Wallflowers.
http://www.gigslist.org/index.php?name=News&file=article&sid=700

The Arts Job Bible 831 places to find jobs, casting calls, crew, talent, funding, networking, and industry contacts in Acting, Music, Music Industry, Theatre, Backstage, Film, TV, and Video. Regularly updated with new listings. Only $6.95 at http://www.gigslist.org

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Music/Special Events Management Agency (3-4 person office) seeking a Full-Time Administrative Assistant http://www.gigslist.org/index.php?name=News&file=article&sid=699

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Rock music needed for upcoming film FreeJobs http://www.gigslist.org/index.php?name=News&file=article&sid=698

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Small commercial post-production facility in Santa Monica looking to fill facility receptionist/concierge position. http://www.gigslist.org/index.php?name=News&file=article&sid=681

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Graduate Film Directors seeking actors for their next project. Duration: 6 Hours spread over 3 days, starts April 5 - Non-Union artist contracts http://www.gigslist.org/index.php?name=News&file=article&sid=680

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Equity Principle and understudy positions Seeking: Actresses who can sing and move well. http://www.gigslist.org/index.php?name=News&file=article&sid=679

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Established production company casting for female lead for a unique and witty daily show. http://www.gigslist.org/index.php?name=News&file=article&sid=678

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Casting qactors for Korean / Japanese Web Drama . Duration: 13 days (Not Everyday) , starts March 25th. http://www.gigslist.org/index.php?name=News&file=article&sid=677

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Need location scouting for outdoor dance music video and dance art piece. Need about 5-6 locations in Northern CA. http://www.gigslist.org/index.php?name=News&file=article&sid=676

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In this position, you must be friendly and have desire to work weekends. A car, internet and email are a must!! http://www.gigslist.org/index.php?name=News&file=article&sid=675

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New York Film Academy seeking an Administrative Employee whose main function will be establishing and maintaining contact with student candidates. http://www.gigslist.org/index.php?name=News&file=article&sid=673

Seattle WA - AV Tech Paid Jobs
National event staffing agency is looking for a basic Trade Show AV Tech http://www.gigslist.org/index.php?name=News&file=article&sid=672

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Interviewing the following:3D Artists –Must know XSI, Maya and 3D Studio Max. Compositors - Must know Shake, Fusion and After Effects. http://www.gigslist.org/index.php?name=News&file=article&sid=671

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Affinity Models has Female Model Jobs in Northern California http://www.gigslist.org/index.php?name=News&file=article&sid=669

Seeks position in the entertainment production sector Resumes
Objective:Secure a position in Entertainment Productionwhere I can utilize my professional skills to help bring creative projects to fruition. http://www.gigslist.org/index.php?name=News&file=article&sid=668

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Don't miss this amazing opportunity to audition for upwards of 20 short films - all LEADING ROLES. One easy on-camera casting session. http://www.gigslist.org/index.php?name=News&file=article&sid=667

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Motion Graphics Designer: 2D or 3D AnimatorSan Jose, CA Portland, OR Seattle, WA http://www.gigslist.org/index.php?name=News&file=article&sid=664

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The Theater Company at DeBaun Auditorium, located on the campus of Stevens Institute of Technology in Hoboken, New Jersey, is seeking http://www.gigslist.org/index.php?name=News&file=article&sid=663

Thursday, March 15, 2007 Read full article: 'New Jersey - Directors, Musical Directors, and Choreographers'

New York, NY - Guitarists who Sing Paid Jobs
The New York Kids Club, with four Manhattan locations, is seeking Guitarists who Sing to perform during classes and class transitions.
http://www.gigslist.org/index.php?name=News&file=article&sid=662

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NYC's Dance Makers, Inc., non profit Dance Company seeking dancers of all ethnicities for upcoming performances at Theatre Three http://www.gigslist.org/index.php?name=News&file=article&sid=661

Sarasota, FL - Intern Pianist Paid Jobs
Florida Studio Theatre, a professional Equity regional theatre, is seeking an intern pianist for the Theatre’s active Children’s program http://www.gigslist.org/index.php?name=News&file=article&sid=660

Los Angeles CA - On Camera Assistant Paid Jobs
Prestigious On Camera division of major commercial agency seeks an assistant to three agents. http://www.gigslist.org/index.php?name=News&file=article&sid=659

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Search is on for Happy Little Vegemites News
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Los Angeles CA - Actors for independent film Paid Jobs
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America's Premiere acting and modeling academy, John Robert Powers San Ramon is seeking an energetic and professional receptionist. http://www.gigslist.org/index.php?name=News&file=article&sid=655

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New Vista Theatre Company seeking to fill out its crew for the final production in its premiere season. Also looking for load in help. http://www.gigslist.org/index.php?name=News&file=article&sid=654

Manheim, PA - Assistant Costumer Paid Jobs
Design Opportunity Possible - Pennsylvania Renaissance Faire is looking for someone to step up to the challenge. http://www.gigslist.org/index.php?name=News&file=article&sid=653

NYC - Stage Manager, Sound Person, Stage Hand FreeJobs
This is a Lesbian Comedy Variety Show.One show only on Saturday May 12. Would need a few rehearsals to learn cues. http://www.gigslist.org/index.php?name=News&file=article&sid=652

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HD, NYC-based series looking for LA Production Assistant to PA for 1-3 days for interviews March 19-21. Note: Members Only Listing - Gigslist.org membership is free http://www.gigslist.org/index.php?name=News&file=article&sid=651

James Miller: Delays, Delays at REDCAT, Los Angeles, March 20th Events
James Miller Man and machine carry out a techno pas de deux performing delightfully inventive "short stories" for trombone and digital signal processor. http://www.gigslist.org/index.php?name=News&file=article&sid=650

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Center for Asian American Media seeking Post Production Supervisor for SF-based independent digital feature by established Director. http://www.gigslist.org/index.php?name=News&file=article&sid=648

San Diego CA - Plus Models & Alternate Sizes FreeJobs
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Rohan de Saram at REDCAT, Los Angeles, March 16th at 8:30 p.m. Events
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Members can also post their web sites and myspace pages in the Production Directory and direct links to their demos and reels . Gigslist.org membership is free please click: http://www.gigslist.org/user.php?op=register&module=NewUser

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posted in Beat Poetry - 0 replies

always accepting submissions

whyvandalism — Sat, 24 Mar 2007 15:54:08 GMT

always accepting submissions
why vandalism? is an online arts journal currently accepting submissions from visual artists and writers of poetry, fiction, and gonzo. We also publish original art/film reviews and essays.

www.whyvandalism.com/

posted in Beat Poetry - 0 replies

why vandalism? online literary and arts journal

whyvandalism — Fri, 19 Jan 2007 19:14:51 GMT

February 2007

why vandalism? is a brand new online arts journal
currently accepting submissions from visual artists
and writers of poetry, fiction, and gonzo. We also publish original art/film reviews and essays.

Writing
We do have a fondness for new, experimental writing as well as thoughtful work in traditional modes.

We strive to publish only notable and very interesting work. Beware.

http://whyvandalism.kiwibeak.com/

posted in Beat Poetry - 2 replies

The Beat Museum

Yolanda — Mon, 02 Oct 2006 05:29:40 GMT

The Grand Opening Of
Our New Location Was
September 27, 2006

posted in Beat Poetry - 4 replies

the link

Yolanda — Mon, 02 Oct 2006 05:30:27 GMT

http://www.thebeatmuseum.org/grandopening.html

posted in Beat Poetry - 0 replies

Wiping Walt

beausoleil — Sun, 03 Sep 2006 09:36:28 GMT

I read Whitman
on the toilet
during my morning
shit and think,
clearly one act
of the two,
clearly, is
the most poetic

one speaks of
my country, of
wars and its
fortunes, of
flesh-paper'd
books in infinite
volumes on the
indefinable sort
of personal
triumph, and of
this it speaks
so clearly

clearly it is
music and it is
tactile and
tracing from the
depths yawning
hushed beauties
sprouting wings
with clear
piercing cries

clearly from
the seat of
bold bodied
consciousness
I think, clearly,
I spend too
much time on
this toilet

Whitman is
drowning in the
bowl of man
and with a
swift nod of
appreciation I
wipe the excess
poetry from my
ass, so I can
shit clearly

posted in Beat Poetry - 3 replies

Frankie Never There

beausoleil — Sat, 26 Aug 2006 05:10:56 GMT

Your son, my father, wanted a picture of me to put beside your bed in case some spark of recognition might come to you, so this is what you get, a picture of me as I am.

wow, how long have
I been here, how
long have I been
curled up in this
ball watching meat
drip from my bones
and slither silver
liquid anguine in
ever-tightening
concentric circles
around my blue
deflating head?

I remember the
skull from which
the flowers of
flesh grew and
covered the
ground so soft

I begin to remember
the smell of a
dream I had in
your strange and
large empty bed

my dreams seemed
borrowed from the
apartment itself,
from the building
that watches us
twitch in our sleep
and cry out names
of people we've
never met and I saw
it all from every
moment it leans
against itself in
the summer air and
sighs from the
foundation rocking
us like the unborn
bound in its gut

I walk the
sidewalks you hung
over your wrists

I sit in the dark
of your basement
where small animals
came to die alone

a mother of bricks,
of AC fluid and the
scolding of roaches
who told us that one
day we would be
princes just as they
are and maybe in our
dreams we believe it,
that we could crawl
on bold black legs
and eat away the
insides of this
world until it was
just a shell for us
to sleep in, just
like this, like those
of us who peer
through mortar like
barely open eyelids

I could stir through
the night until it
was one tepid pool
of sweaty sheets

I could grit my
teeth and kick away
the lightness of
your touch, but
there's something so
soft I didn't see it

these are not my
dreams, the footsteps
in a slow pour
through the ceilings
and floors, the
ineffable hum of
electric things piled
up in dark corners
of organs leftover
from the 1920's or
or 30's or whenever
she was a child, a
brick tossed through
the sky, a brick that
has chosen now to
land and crumble

maybe some phantom
of youth creaks up
your stairs at night
and knocks on one
of your many doors

maybe I'll howl upon
your roof for every
moon you saved for
later until they
built up so much
you couldn't see
past the gray-white

they call it
Alzheimer's, but I
think you just
forgot what it's
like to cry for the
continuity of life's
many absurdities
and now you can't
even cry for the way
the inhabitants of
our dreams scurry
about in their
little compartments
as if they were just
one and not a
multitude of dramas
buzzing away in
little glass boxes

at least cry for
me dreaming of
myself through your
vacant window eyes,

and tell me why it
is I am sleeping
inside your dreams,
remembering lives
you've forgotten

posted in Beat Poetry - 1 reply

always the duck, never the goose

kalleco — Tue, 22 Aug 2006 04:54:01 GMT

today when i was walking
i happened to look behind me--
(you know that feeling you get
when you’re being followed...
not the one where it is the cops
and not the one where it is your annoying kid brother,
but the feeling in-between)
and not surprisingly it was my old friend Death
i had to do a double-take
(partly because i was looking right into the sun
and could not make out a distinct face
and partly because i could’ve sworn
that Death was eating a blue Otter Pop
and he said that we were out of blue)
so i purposefully slowed down
but kept walking as if i didn’t see him
(though he was pretty obvious about it--
the whole “leaving destruction in his wake” thing,
not to mention the Converse that squeaked and squished
like he’d been running through the sprinklers again)
and when i reached the corner,
i stopped even though the signal said “Walk”
and i waited
and waited,
eager at first, anticipating
(like at a surprise birthday party
when someone says “She’s here! She just pulled up!”)
and then sort of impatiently but still excited
(crouched under the table and wondering
‘How long does it take to get out of the fucking car?’)
and then losing interest in the game altogether
so i turn to face Death as i say, “What took you so long?”
(because i’ve been ready and no one likes to be stood up)
only my friend isn’t there,
having found someone much more interesting to play with
(he’s one of those people who prefers the chase
or he likes to be in control
or he’s a typical guy
or one of those other lines to explain
why someone isn’t there for you when you need them)

posted in Beat Poetry - 1 reply

manny

kalleco — Sun, 20 Aug 2006 04:39:42 GMT

i don’t know why you are hanging around here
pretending that we are somehow connected
to each other or to some idea that somehow
still feels real to you (if not, me)
i have had enough of the playground
and the playing house
i am old enough to drink wine without suspicion
and it doesn’t make sense for the bottles
to sit on the shelf collecting dust
while i wait for you to come home
there once was a life that wanted to start
and i am happy to let it go
because you had some idea of how it could be better
without me in it (or perhaps, you)
yet you linger here waiting for me
to pick up the memories of an imaginary past
and reminisce with you about all of it
without lying or crying or dying
and i don’t know why it matters to you
to be here now
when i have already stopped playing the game
when i have already grown up
and forgotten you (or really, me)

posted in Beat Poetry - 0 replies

((distantOextant))

beausoleil — Fri, 11 Aug 2006 03:07:11 GMT

papa sun
in a papasan
in a way
milky and warm
synapses fire
from denim-clad hips
and I slip
headlong, hurried
through spinning skies
smooth silver crafts
clamor up the spine
in space
only fear is
tangible
cold and real
the crash of
satellites
teeth grind
the gears of
a black beauty
screaming
solar flares
casting spells
in nervous arcs
like tiny hairs
trembling
and the hushed things
eclipsed by bodies burning
perforate my muscles
tearing through
stars howling
from the heart
out here
I feel alive
and afraid
because she is alive
and afraid
my black beauty
afraid to feel
as she does
enjoying every
moment of it
because this is truth
this fear
this is the
tingling vision
of self
cast into the other
this is the
final frontier
and I am
comforted
knowing at least
I can hear
myself scream

posted in Beat Poetry - 0 replies

mind our own business

beausoleil — Fri, 04 Aug 2006 19:27:30 GMT

no one doesn't look insane walking up a mountain

arms swing into wild gestures, eyes squint and disappear in the mad mist

add rain and a vagina and madness grows pearly white canines

me, I always look crazy, always walking up the back of a great sighing priest

before I take a smoke break to drink 2, 4, no, 8! cups of coffee

and I write about how crazy you all look

and I write about how crazy it must feel to be all you crazy fools

add a little creamer and I'll write as if I'm already there

I'll catch eyes with the wise old dog face of something this isn't

I'll rip the sky to shreds and free the whales to their fall

I'll unbutton my lip and weave a story of our common thread in destruction

I'll tape this to a pipebomb and plant it somewhere downtown

ka-bloom, baby, ka-bloom

with exploding hearts we'll stop to smell the hot licking petals of unhesitated flowering

we'll comment on how nice of a day it is for a stroll through gardens of burning desire

we'll celebrate cancer and the births of our children in the same breath

until Buddha or the feverpigs of our minds sneeze it all away

I drink too much coffee and can't stop pissing all over these pages

I smoke too much and I swear the smoke is a pen

narrative circulates in our lungs and pushes its buzz

first person is a chill killer, second person is a shotgun in the mouth, third person is nearly anonymous

what? are you alright? have you pricked yourself on a point of view?

keep telling your stories until you disappear without a trace

don't worry about becoming one of THEM (gasp! one of THEM?!?)

even a lonely jerk like Bukowski knew the importance of being good to his fellow man

gather your storms, see him through the eyes of swirling hurricanes and sunlit garbage

strike like lightning the sweet meat of his being

embrace his devils and details and boast his angels as he boasts

sing the lyrics of his shy banter and crown him with burning brush

don't forget that he is an infant, a corpse, and a man stuck in the middle

don't forget that he is Christ, that he is mud and dandelions before the city

that he is the father and son of the eschaton

that he is the son of the sea, fists of sand, a face that knows its salt

walk the stone paths of his castles and sit in the room that his love built long ago

even as it collapses in bitter rains and floods you in soiled miseries

there are many darks of night but only one night

he knows this, his bones rattling the truth to its many harmonies

he knows the bottom of his heart from which he climbs

he is a dark, you is a dark, I is a dark, I is you is he is she is one long night of many stars

we shine so mad dangerous wild deranged from the punched out holes of black

how could I not be amused, not be one to walk with you like flesh peeling from a burn?

how could I not drink 2, 4, 8, no, 10! cups of coffee and write every step of the ascent?

I'm here to say I'll see you there, I mean, when I get there, that is

posted in Beat Poetry - 0 replies

Cheeseburger motel

Fri, 04 Aug 2006 07:59:34 GMT

Here I stay,
Back and forth I flay,
How many cheeseburgers did I eat today?
Six, seven, eight?
Nine, ten, eleven?
Among the plastic cartons and french fries I play
How will I pay?
When I exit this vicous cheeseburger algorithm?
All is not well
Elvis checked out an eternity ago
Where will I stay
After this Hell
This fast food apocalypse
Of the soul?
In a dumpster I'd say
Out the back
With the rats
Of this Godforesaken
Cheeseburger motel

posted in Beat Poetry - 2 replies

mountainous things

beausoleil — Thu, 03 Aug 2006 23:47:23 GMT

so I live on a mountain now
where I do mountain things
like walk up and down the mountain
and try not to slip on rocks
when I'm walking downhill
down the mountain, that is

so I thought I was clever
doing such clever things
like when I am very, very clever
and I feel the gravel skid
and I go tumbling down
down the mountain, that is

posted in Beat Poetry - 2 replies

Yo Yodi

beausoleil — Mon, 31 Jul 2006 19:32:25 GMT

Thunderously I
blundered a riddle
on the rise and
fed my voice to the
eyes of a coyote in
bloom and doom
dancing upon the
dusty lap of dusk's
long-legged crawl
to arms, until my
words returned like
lizards running
through the rain,
through the sagging
grass, through the
vow of the Silents,
deep, sonorous,
bruising in blue
rings, grown in
manure where truth
sings and peace
dances wet and clean.

I tend my beasts
tending to hear only
the howling of
history, but if man
is a meditation, it
will forever remain
a mystery why some
winds lie still in
the lowest valley no
matter the moon or
moan of ancient
lusts as mountains
thrust towards the
clear blue skies of
release and the seas
sigh to carry a sound
so painfully brief.

What calls loudest
caused the shrouds
and shadows, proud
and primitive, pale
in the dark of
eclipsing mist,
one holy word after
another, smothered
by the next but
wanting to break
free, to escape
the sentence, each
word a poet
exposing a prayer,
a kiss, an
abandonment of this
desperate heart and
Hell's great hunger.

Tension grows
impatiently waiting
to stalk the head
of its flowering
in a wake of cold
sweat swimming
towards the fall,
but like the waxing
moon melted and
frozen in its
reflections and the
tides dreaming,
drawing foaming
smiles in the sand,
I remain sinking
into myself, into
the open hands of my
grandfather's clock.

But wait, the wise
and wordless one is
waking, beneath the
slithering of my
subconscious,
stirring beneath the
worms and words of
dark, damp holes,
no body so holy in
the dirt, but this,
this silent rush of
lava lain on the
heart, having molded
the arteries and
given my blood its
heat and art, devours
the island of man,
rock by rock by head
by head, bleeding
the eternal quiet
of slit-eyed gods.

Mindless purity pulls
on vibrating strings
and unravels the
fibrous thing of a
noose of a brain in
motion waves pushing
forth only a breath,
none of the rest,
stupid and pure,
lured by a moment
in the bare sea,
naked in the dark,
on the dark, dusty
road, spelling
nothings with
sparklers in the abyss
of its smoky whisps
curling and unfurling
the path within.

Oh, the beauty of a
hawk who brings the
rains to start again,
and whether or not
the feathers will rot
and shine death's
black and blue hues,
I step back and I do
nothing for the
hustle of whores,
the thoughts
clamoring for empires
in neon fires first
frozen in the sacred
empty texts of
illusion's interior,
confusion's crackle.

Celebrating the fool,
open heart and ears
allowing the sound
that sings wind-
blown thieves to
steal everything but
the feel, I brought
back just one false
phrase, only the joke
of all days and the
tinge of all nights,
the question of
queerest introspection
in slow stations of
revelatory vile revile,
posed as thus: am I
this? am... I... this?

posted in Beat Poetry - 3 replies

sister blister

beausoleil — Tue, 01 Aug 2006 18:44:05 GMT

small fingers crack concrete
that's how i felt back then
5 minutes ago, that is
until glances rubbed raw
on the gritgrain underside
of pink blossom howl

seems so strangely familiar
like skidmarks in
a lovers' panties
your sudden frenzy to
comfort my disgust
to soothe my mind
with clean white cotton

the neverenough will ooze
like it did from my lips
when it was your turn
and you just sighed
and my cracks sealed
with sleep nonothingnever

in this city the cries
scratch at us beneath
the sidewalks and we step
over the place between
to spare the backs of mothers
written about only in letters

well, i have a letter for you
it's bloody fists and little
teeth of cement flying up
through this hot stinging
gravity of getting to the
bottom of you and blistering

it's slipping through the
gunky rusty pipes of your eyes
pulling the drain
watching you spill all
of your stupid little guts

it's the desperate fingers of
angels running hot up and
down your body sticky saline
slithering through knots and
the ties that bind you to the
mast of your sinking feeling

this is my letter, darling
gagging growing in disgust
swinging through itself
appearing naked through
windows of jet black ink

can you smell the beast
banging at the bars of his
cage? do you think it'll
simply fade away into the
ambience of this dance of the
jackhammers sort of night?

flush if you must, but
it still floats around the
black bowl of your eyes
clogging up the passages
of my letter, of children
to the silent call of graves

trust me
trust me
trust me
trust me
TRUST ME

i only want you to
trust me, if for nothing
else but to smash you
to pieces and meet you
again in the rubble

posted in Beat Poetry - 0 replies

Alexander The Large in wonderland (English beat poetry)

Wed, 28 Jun 2006 11:57:23 GMT

Alexander The Large in Wonderland, English beat poetry
"You don't need to be a motorist to join The RAC," the brown eyed deep dish plastic name badge, Veronica Smith, pretty and petite in her indigo pleated skirt and banker type uniform, freckly brunette tells me. I want to take advantage of her and the coupon in the local paper. Free rail travel for all new members. Our hands are all over each other; and I somehow finish up in the kitchen secreted in a cupboard, a jibber aboard. And they are hectors who enter to pester by trying to insist with too polite coughs that I exist in some undefined space within the maze-like vortex of their cupboards and really don't belong among their packed lunch in this distorted reality. Their biscuits are so nice to munch on though! My last memory on waking is of a horde of cakes and chocolate flakes and this irate guy on my case, outside of my cupboard, giving it the Mister "We're not too pleased that thieves are joining the Royal Automobile Club and stashing themselves, like train huggers, in our cupboard and eating our luxuries". And I'm just trying to stuff as much as I can in my face because by now I've sussed this must be a dream and that soon I'm fated to awake.

Sussed - understood
Jibber - train hopper
Hector - rhyming slang, ticket inspector

posted in Beat Poetry - 4 replies

small talk

kalleco — Sat, 24 Jun 2006 18:45:05 GMT

you are becoming a story i will start someday
with words like “once i knew this guy...”
or “i had this friend who...”
or “i used to know someone like that...”
not so much a story, i guess, as an amusing anecdote
that i can tell over drinks
with whoever decides to take your place

posted in Beat Poetry - 1 reply

vampire

kalleco — Sun, 09 Apr 2006 01:27:05 GMT

i am your vampire
but you won’t invite me in
don’t you remember how this works?
i provide the passion, the intensity,
the dark, and the depths
you have the life and the blood,
the days of brilliant sun
you know the rules
and you know what i need
but i can’t come in
if you don’t let me

don’t get me wrong...
i’m not the needy one
you are the one who needs someone
to scorn or hate or disregard
i justify you
i make you better
just by existing
at least i make you better than me

but i am the strong one
i am forever
in my endless soulless nighttimes
i am unburdened and free
ageless, guiltless, lifeless
with the world at my feet
every door open to me
well, except for yours

posted in Beat Poetry - 1 reply

time out

kalleco — Sun, 07 May 2006 22:52:35 GMT

i can’t understand
why you have time
for writing about yellow aliens
or sketching naked girls draped in draperies
or going to farewell parties for people you just met
time for tivo and myspace and xbox
time for mass email forwards about president bush
(yes, he is stupid--at least when it comes to things like
being the president, and thinking, and speaking,
but you don’t have to fill up my inbox
with details of his mental misadventures)
time for secondhand thrift shops where you find $3.00 shoes
or movie groups and book clubs
or drinks after work with an ex-co-worker
time for a spanish class to brush up on your skills
or an aerobics class to lose those last few pounds
or a workshop on science experiments you might use with your class
time for trying new recipes
or a weekend in tahoe
or a day in the city just walking around

because for me to understand
why you have time for all these things
means i understand why you fill up every second of every day
with every possible person and experience and sensation
and still have nothing left for me

posted in Beat Poetry - 1 reply

The Cleveland Beat Poets...

confetta — Mon, 22 May 2006 00:29:17 GMT

Cleveland Dreams is a new tribe that
includes the art, history, stories, poetry,
visual poetry and writings of the
Cleveland underground poetry scene
of the late 60's.

tribes.tribe.net/clevelanddreams

Cleveland Dreams is a Tribute to
the Cleveland Poets Including;

• d.a. Levy
• Russell Atkins
• Kent Taylor
• Russell Salamon
• Tom Kryss
• Jau Billera
• RJS
• Geoffrey Cook

"in the days unborn
you will find my brothers
ARMED with words you havent
even dreamed of.
Cleveland
you will move
or be plowed over—
eaten by vultures
like a corpse
digested
& slowly
change … "

—d.a. levy, from "letter to cleveland"

Cleveland Dreams
tribes.tribe.net/clevelanddreams

posted in Beat Poetry - 0 replies

all strings attached

beausoleil — Sat, 15 Apr 2006 06:32:51 GMT

that dog is an
island and his
shadows chew
with mouths open
and little bits
of iris falling
from the slobbery
gnashing teeth
of black hunger
stretched across a
bare patch of dirt

luxury trains of
the great
forgotten country
loop in and out
of ears perked
like electric
antennae for
distant satellites
of quiet towns in
the night sky
undulating and
sinking under all
rising stars

what's the point?

really.

what's innocence
when to unite
the head with the
tail you have to
get used to the
taste of shit
and slither through
darkness dragging
the old tin cans
from failed marriages
annulled by raw
knees and the last
kiss of departure?

Abraham Lincoln
farts rainbows
and fucks like
a watermelon
tangled up in
the vines of
history rolling
along in chills
and fruit all
springing from
the spine of
the sequined
non sequitur

I really
don't know
anymore,
or care

it's all so
easy, so
easy to feel
free with the
sun in my
eyes and
forgetfulness
in my anamnesis
growing up
like costume
shops on the
boulevard of
squeaky trumpets
and rattling bones

panting, pacing,
Fernando went
hogwild on a
crystal bowling
ball and pens
fell to paper,
then further down
between the lines
like hitting that
perfect vein and
watching honeysuckle
bloom and slip
through stained
glass fingers

God bless America

yeah, with a
big rubber dick

I have everything
I need in jigsaw
jazz and that joke
you play with
scissors and glue
made from the lame
horse you never
brought out of the
stable even as it
burned pink and blue
from roof to hoof

drums swell and
crack at the
surface for hearts
beating through
chests as the
beginning and
end of the tunnel
wrap around and
become the same
scaly cloaca you
sucked from when
your eyes closed
and dangled from
kite strings

fuck, man

no glue can
hold me

the shadows of my
memories swirl
around an open
mouth gnawing on
the bones that
hold them together

posted in Beat Poetry - 0 replies

conscientious objector

kalleco — Sat, 15 Apr 2006 01:49:13 GMT

I used to be more thoughtful
literally
used to do more thinking
about life and everything and nothing
and just now I caught myself thinking
well, at the end of it,
and i said, I've got to focus
CONCENTRATE
GET BACK TO WORK
which is how I knew I'd been thinking
because at the time
I didn't know it was happening
and I thought it's funny how my thoughts
or at least the thinking of them
has become something to avoid.

posted in Beat Poetry - 0 replies

A Chance at the Maze

Od — Sun, 09 Apr 2006 16:17:49 GMT

.

A Chance at the Maze

This way
Or that, with
No going
Back.

The past dumps us off at
This present moment, which
Conceals every possible
Future.

We think we choose,
With glittering visions
In mind, when all
We really do

Is take one step
In any direction
And the rest
Follows

.

posted in Beat Poetry - 0 replies

may I always remain unappreciated

beausoleil — Tue, 04 Apr 2006 18:24:38 GMT

if you go a
week without
showering,
changing clothes,
and looking in
a mirror, you
might begin to
feel invisible

you might feel
like a ghost
passing through
someone else's
machine or like
a virus in a
body you will
never understand

now I know why
old black men
with rope belts
talk to
themselves on
the street,
shouting their
dirtiest words
through their
twisted faces

there's nothing
to hide if there's
nothing to see

all we really
fear to lose
is the favor
of strangers
when all
else we value
is eternal
and always
within reach

I'm done with
flowery language

it's a mirror,
a convex wall
of eyes that
can't see me
talking to
myself on the
street with a
golden rope
belt and a
shopping cart
full of neon
monologues

you can
only see
what's
looking back
at you

with everyone
staring at
themselves
so hard, do
you think
anyone actually
sees you?

get stoned on
cheap pot and
wander around
the city

you can go
naked, tell
secrets, rob
banks in
unseen alleys

no one will
see your
desperation
to be seen

you are a ghost
passing through
their machine,
a haunting wind
coming in through
the window on the
other side of the
house, a cold
draft lost in
familiar circulation

maybe that's why
I feel like my
trips to faraway
places happened
to someone else

I wash myself
away in the
leaking air
conditioner
shower of
strange faces
and I course
through downtown
veins like an
unseen purity

when there are
no clouds in
the sky, no one
looks directly
at the sun,
though it lights
up the world

if art is what
you can get
away with, my
art is the
shamanic cloak
of anonymity

and right now
I walk the
streets of your
memories and
sing to myself,
unheard, unseen,
unobstructed

posted in Beat Poetry - 2 replies

for ellie

kalleco — Wed, 05 Apr 2006 02:53:04 GMT

i can stay with you
and clean up the messes
or just gloss over them
with air freshener and
lavender-scented words
to keep you happy

or i can keep my words
away from you altogether
locked away
like an unpredictable dog
who tends to bite when
you expected a lick and
a wet-nosed nuzzle
maybe you should have gotten
the cocker spaniel
or a soft pillow

i can be something other than
sad gloomy depressed
introspective introverted
challenging argumentative
angry hopeless frustrated
picky petty fickle flirty
insecure worried frightened giddy
high-maintenance low-energy
pessimistic negative questioning
passionate extreme ambitious
all or nothing me
if it is what you need
i’m sure i can be
as monotonous and complacent,
as happy as you

i can do anything you want
because i love you
and love makes all things possible
or so you say
just remember:
this is what it costs
this poem is the receipt

posted in Beat Poetry - 1 reply

april fool

kalleco — Sun, 02 Apr 2006 08:16:36 GMT

haha, you laugh,
but who’s the fool now?
me with my rotten picnic basket full of fruit
(i might need that mango, but the kumquat
is admittedly just for show),
plastic cutlery -- for what? you eat the fruit with your hands!
and proposals just waiting for your rejection
(but you’ll consider it, right? no? at least look thoughtfully solemn
while you ruin the luncheon i’ve carefully planned
not to mention, my life, which has not been planned, or at least not carefully lived)
OR you?
looks like the joke is on you, my friend
he who laughs last (and all that other nonsense...)

posted in Beat Poetry - 1 reply

search party

kalleco — Sun, 02 Apr 2006 07:57:05 GMT

(this is an OLD one, but i spent a week at home and was reminded of it. the spacing's all off here on tribe, but i think the meaning's still pretty much the same.)
-----------------------------------
I thought I heard your voice outside just now
or inside, upstairs maybe in some room I don’t go in
like my brother’s room because his world is on his floor
and I don’t want to step on something and break it
because I might be held responsible for that kind of thing
and I’m not ready for that
or my parents’ room which is breakable in a different way
with the almost white just vacuumed carpet
and I don’t want to leave a footprint because they will
know I was in their world and I’ve tried so hard to
not be a part of it
or the guest room with the outdated computer and my mom’s
sewing machine and dress patterns and clothes in the closet
from another time, from another life it seems and I’d like
to go in there and try them on but I won’t fit and I don’t
know what would happen if I did
or my room which is so bright and has pink flowers even though
I don’t particularly like pink and has so many posters I can’t
tell where the wall begins or at least I think that sometimes

and if it’s my room why can’t I take it all down,
put away the pink and the posters and the high school mementos
and paint the walls green like a forest that I can walk into
and lose my way and not worry about being rescued
or hearing anyone’s voice
or seeing things familiar
or recognizing the path
or being recognized on it

(Phew)
For a minute there I lost myself

posted in Beat Poetry - 0 replies

epic: when you're too stupid to say it in fewer words

beausoleil — Fri, 31 Mar 2006 18:50:59 GMT

the unknown flowers in the
corner of a wandering eye,
given as offering to the
swelling waves of novelty

you can not drown

you can only see

dear sannyasin, the
sun is in line with
your third eye,
burning holes in
comfortable insulation,
peering nakedly into
the loving glare
of the universe

I am looking at
you, bountiful beauty

please, oh please
see through me

boil my blood and burn
the tips of my fingers
with everything I touch

let no callous
develop on my flesh

show me no mercy and show
me the way to give none

give me nothing and take
everything away so it's
just you and I, eye to eye,
I and I in holy communion

I want to be dirty and
feel perfectly clean

I want to ride on the
backs of bumblebees and
grace the world the way
clouds grace blue skies

I want a summer breeze
in my lungs and fertile
earth in my guts

I want to sing for the
blumenkraft and dance
among meteor showers

I want to be

did I ever tell you about
the tauroboleast in the
year of the turnabout sage?

godless, thus headless, he
sat at the edge of the ocean

a former blues singer
now with no mouth,
he'd learned to
constrict and relax
the various pipes
showing through the
cavity that once
began his neck

he sang to me
in a series
of squirts
and gurgles

he sang to me a
story of his time
spent in the desert

having no eyes and no
ears, he had no reason
to stand upright to
assure his fellow man
of a mutually
inclusive existence

his arms and legs grew limp
and he slithered like a
sidewinder through the rolling
hills of desert sand, leaving
trails of an obsidian fluid
which secreted from his pores

one day a priest followed the
trail to a rock on which the
tauroboleast was sunning and
offered him a golden head

the tauroboleast swallowed
it and passed it through
his body as hot fecal matter
oozed from his asshole and
the priest watched in horror

"off with his head,"
cried the coyote

we make gods of the headless
and they make fools of us all

we put masks on beauty and
spit up hot desert sand

I saw the future
in a pile of shit

it was bloodless decapitation

it was life passing
through the esophagus

it was everything
we are afraid of
and all that we want

Buddha laid face
down in the dirt
and Christ laughed
at his own fart jokes

Zoroaster ate a soup of
ash and Ganesh got the
fuck out of the way

I sat godless, thus
headless, at the edge
of the ocean and sang
to poets in a series
of squirts and gurgles

it was everything you wanted

I want to be a train
crawling over the
tiny wrinkles of
overlapping waves in
the St. John River

I want to wrap myself in the
gentle flaking of my echo

I want to ride beauty
bareback and kicking

I want to leave nothing implied

I'm reaching out and seeing
into the heart of a mother,
smoking filterless cigarettes
and swallowing fire at the
edge of a strange garden

I pick flowers and present
them to the ground beneath

I am the multi-petaled warrior
swinging a soft green sword
through the air with a cry of
peace that fills the skies

I am the sun in bloom
in every digestive system

I am eternal and flowing

I am slowly coming
to realize that I
AM and nothing
stands in the way

it is the divine right to receive

posted in Beat Poetry - 0 replies

HOWL'S 50th

Noelle — Fri, 31 Mar 2006 03:43:32 GMT

Anyone going to the celebration at Columbia?

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see the pro-active in my retro-active

beausoleil — Thu, 30 Mar 2006 05:53:11 GMT

sometimes I think my
poetry is a collection
of thoughts received by
me from a future self

I wonder how you
can have echoes
when you thought
there were no walls

"Watch your bike!"

an old man sits on a
park bench drawing the
line between bums with
limps and business men
with limps but no pride

giggling and gnawing
at the plastic wrap
of his 305's, his
voice grates me and
riddles me with holes

I am in bed again
surfing the crests
of twilight and
wondering what it
would be like to
go back to then

would I change
anything or would
I say hello to an
old dream in flight
now perched on a
high branch?

I didn't even
come close to
hitting you
and my drunken
sway is only for
maximum enjoyment

but I understand the
need to call across
the stillness and
unite the two halves
of a new clock

I am in the back of
a car feigning sleep
and becoming certain
that tonight will end
two months before

I will be in bed
wondering why I
didn't let that night
turn into another day

the brakes bring
me to a stop and
compress my speed
into the rapid
eye movements of
my dream self

the noise creeps up
on me like odorless
dark hands from the
bushes beside his bench

I am in space now
in the black expanse
thinking of the
birth of the universe
and my home planet

wondering if I would
change anything or if
I would say hello to
my one dream in motion

"Watch your bike!"

"Oh. My bad."

posted in Beat Poetry - 0 replies

stillness is sexy

beausoleil — Tue, 28 Mar 2006 18:30:08 GMT

I wanted no limits but
she gave me no time,

and I don't know who
to dedicate this to.

It seems to apply
to so many situations.

There is always a feeling
of things being rushed,

rushed beyond the moments
that make it worth it,

beyond noticing the way shadows
make spiders on the ceiling,

beyond the rising desire
to make your skin crawl.

I like guessing what
you ate for dinner,

by the smell of your breath
climbing up from my chest.

Whoever you are,
whatever you ate tonight,

I want to be inside you.
It's hummus, isn't it?

posted in Beat Poetry - 1 reply

shave and a haircut (straightfiction)

beausoleil — Mon, 27 Mar 2006 18:40:54 GMT

plugged in
tugged down
alpha, beta
theta, delta
bayou blistering
your swamp
of brainwaves
fucked up
and fucking
the beast
sprung from
the tongue
head down
south and
kundalini will
rise again
snakes sun-
baked on
rocks of
inner lakes
in pools
of sweat
we will
go down
dear girl
and by
the incandescent
light of
great scales
we will
rise again

posted in Beat Poetry - 0 replies

the abacus of asses gone bust

beausoleil — Mon, 27 Mar 2006 01:04:53 GMT

let me tell you
a story about the
metanoid android
and Mrs. Sippy

they made love in
mud and they
made war on
time, yellow fingers
wrapped around
other yellow fingers

locked fibers
of the sun's
garment they wore
on parade through
the downtown
of their love

past old brick
decontamination
showers and older
souls carrying
poetry around
in soapboxes

well, on this day
Mrs. Sippy's river
of tears was
glittering for the
love of the sun
and her banks were
moist and tingling

you know the
metanoid android
dove in and
swam up her
dissonance kicking
like mad past
fish and angels

swimming for the
ultimate liberation
of knowing that all
connections must
start somewhere and
they start right here
and right now

in the jewelled
networks of your
nerves slithering
like snakes in the
tree of knowledge

I'll go out on a
limb and say he
even made it to
the other shore

tired, soggy, ready
to lay his head
down between a
rock and a hard
place or to
dive in again and
float downstream

but Paul, it
is like dying,
like drowning
in love so
flowing and free

still he kisses her
with footprints in
the sand and her
tides lap them up

yeah, yeah, yeah
blow it, man, blow
it through skulls

blow it through
hearts soft from
the swim and blow
it out your ass
when it's all
said and done

counting Mrs.
Sippy 1, Mrs.
Sippy 2, Mrs.
Sippy 3, until
the river
runs dry

wondering why they
call you driftwood
when you sink like
a fucking stone

posted in Beat Poetry - 0 replies

Sunday is a bb gun.

beausoleil — Sun, 26 Mar 2006 02:07:04 GMT

the nature of the beast
is nurtured in bright
stretches of being, born
into being, born into
wild hearts full of
weeds, green and growing

born and being, born
and breathing, making
real the unreal, as it
grows up from the roots

this strange fruit is a
flowering of your guts'
soil and soul nutrients

burn what you want,
ashes blow away in the
wind and something new
will always grow

to be born and being,
slowly seeing into the
sun, intimate caresses
of body and warmth, wet
fresh breaths, multilayered
prayers for bright planets

pulling consciousness into
motion, calling self to play
in the twinkling grass of the
cosmos, singing to the poet
in weeds, green and growing

across scales, pulsing
energy from root to
thought's leaves and
arrives and ever-forever
severed attachments

baby, even when lulled
by a gentle wind I am a
wild, wild heart, my weeds
are growing for the born
and being, every last
god damn stalk and soul

and yet I think we
may be growing apart

posted in Beat Poetry - 0 replies

wellness is a craft

beausoleil — Fri, 24 Mar 2006 22:42:22 GMT

cancer cells and America
is buying, a particle of
dust, a spark, a butterfly
jumping smoke rings, no
dogs running, no paws
padded, grit, grime, greed
generated in the mouth

still we kiss with tongues
with nipped buds

I don't swallow what I can
not see, I can't see you
behind veils of sleep

drop the pen and rise
above, above mohawks
and miseries tailor-made
for any vacancy, I can
only fill my holes with
love and watch it come
out the other side

savor fruit's sugar,
loopholes, loose lengths,
m-branes, monkey brains
sizzling on the Pan

every circle is a spiral
if you dream in depth

my spiral flames and
smolders at the point of
creation, elation, silent
and screaming, teaming
with clear instructions
clearly mistaken as the
game beneath the game
beneath the game rises
to the surface

blame's written in the
fault lines and washes
away with wet waves of
seeing, freeing perceptions
in conception

don't fuck yourself with
contraception, don't bleed
without a space for the
river to run, be strong, be
wrong, be as much as the
day is long and song babbles
on in the crystal pylons of
morphogenetic geometry

the tower will fall and
shatter and you will limp
through the memory in
tatters, but in the moment,
in every pure momentum is
the sum of earth, water,
wood, earthly goods
unearthed and birthed into
the black womb of space

don't race past your
pleasure, don't pass
yourself for lasting
beyond time's mustard
seed clock

climax maxed and mixed
unfixed in the flow of
tao-dried hair, dreadlocks,
dread not, dead rots in
layers but unending life
lies at the core

drift to the center and
devour the fringes,
it's the hour of bright
tinges tinting eons,
electric warriors spanned
in this space laced with
clean moving nutrition

eat well, sleep well,
be well, waking from
beneath the ground

awareness is aware of
this bliss and right
about now you are too

you are awake

posted in Beat Poetry - 1 reply

breakdance for rain

beausoleil — Thu, 23 Mar 2006 19:23:58 GMT

there's a dead indian laying in my garden

there's a soft petal push on a collapsing skull

bathed in the light of a pointing finger

flashing, strobing, ripping me wide open

red light slips across cracked black walls

I'm writing poetry with a cigarette's bright ember

dotting dusting eyes, signing X's in the skies

hips moving, lips proving the impact of our ground floor

I want more, more, more, and I GET IT

every second of every first bludgeoning

this is the better part of the knife

this is the better life

fists rot but still the spirit swings

towards third eyes, raindance radiance drizzling on soft cheeks

today I moved to a new place in my mind

we had a housewarming party of cowboy hats and Christ in spurs

you swing to the rhythm and I swing to the quickness

we fuck for friends and we fuck for the goodbye

scratching at the surface, plumetting at the core

intersecting lines and bright lights, you're slipping

into the grinning darkness of before

ladies and gentlemen, the ineffable illumination

he'll be gone come the fall

falling sleep in strange places, waking where it matters most

posted in Beat Poetry - 0 replies

j.t.

kalleco — Sun, 12 Mar 2006 01:05:41 GMT

i just don’t want to keep this up
this love this dream this longing
tired of driving
so far just to see you
it’s not the drive
because i need the time to think
about everything
(except what i’m doing
with you
(for you))
it’s not the drive that wears me out
it’s the arriving
and then the leaving
that goes on every second in between
because the love the dream the longing
is wearing out
stretched so thin by hiding underneath it
(and being hidden
from everyone else
(but mostly just me and you))
like a blanket too raggedy to show
security blanket, really,
because the whole thing is too
dangerous painful
to put away
to pack up and move on
but you need to as much as i need
to hang on to this
a love a dream a longing
that doesn’t give or breathe or grow
and just won’t die either

posted in Beat Poetry - 1 reply

leggo my preggo!

beausoleil — Thu, 02 Mar 2006 05:12:51 GMT

buddha babies, they
desire not the milk
metabolizing their own
under the bodhi tree of
mommy's shadow
I love you, buddha babies

posted in Beat Poetry - 3 replies

First touch of Ferlinghetti

Noelle — Wed, 22 Feb 2006 03:13:49 GMT

I'm a high-school student, and I just came in contact with Lawrence Ferlinghetti's "Coney Island of the Mind"...and man, oh man.

I borrowed it from a favorite peer before last block today, and I didn't really open it until I was at the library after school. After I had made my way through the first two pages, I couldn't stop. I put off German homework to read it. I put off socializing to read it. Hell, I even put off Neal Cassady's letters to Kerouac (the bus one - with the virgin and the other broad) to read it.

Nonetheless, I was SO IMPRESSED with it. What personality! What word use! What consonance! It was an English kid's wet dream.

I haven't been too familiarized with the SanFran poetic renaissance, but I really look forward to getting into it after this little number. Any suggestions?
(bare with me if I seem like an annoying-beginner-child)

posted in Beat Poetry - 1 reply

"public transportation blues"

Atomic — Wed, 22 Feb 2006 02:40:17 GMT

"public transportation blues"

meanness...

vitriol...

seething apoplectic apocalyptic
insanity - -

ruminating
like three infernal evangelists
on speed
with Tourette's
broadcasting concurrently on
three overlapping frequencies - -

(okay, just take a Clonapin)

desperation
from lack of insulation;
mass-murderer, serial killer, vigilante...
pest control - -

when
"today is the first day of
the rest of your life"
is an insidious, heinous
threat
from the hoi polloi
and
"Miller time" becomes
a kiss
on a boo-boo
that happens to be a
compound fracture...

WILL EVERYONE PLEASE TAKE ONE STEP
TOWARD THE BACK OF THE BUS!!!

2003 by ATB

posted in Beat Poetry - 0 replies