Saturday, June 26, 2010

J.D. Nelson

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The Hollow Hoot of the Iron Owl

(Written on a graph paper napkin)

Around the 5th I know of.

Fake walk or schwa.

I feel like an average monster
without the suction cups.

Hoot of the winking sharm.
This cloud of chains.

A mirror Earth in my rear view.
One brain is missing.
It isn't funny.

A robotic crow is an English monster.
Snowflake Rooster is a wooden monster.

Morning is missing.
The wood hoof.

The spyglass aroma of tomorrow.
I call it black and make rainbows.

Toronto is a demanding village.
I can't happen all at once.

Darth Vader cookies.
The frog in Pampers.

Thursday, June 24, 2010

J.D. Nelson

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


Was it yesterday or not the morning? I speak little, boiling noise of the heart. I smoke and study little words. Morning ark in head. One morning the ribs.

One pheasantyear.

Grafted hand is none of that black water. The Mars of Kokig.

Ohlumbus the buyer with mood and fingers. A dusk of purple. The hygienic ghoul.

Oh, sope, the old one if that was a vampire with Denver wheels.

• • • • • • • • • • • • •


In Black Sabbath jeans. Princeton in every blade of grass. The trout of stomachs in Nottingham. America is the peach with beetles. The Dallas of forty-one a dollar ago. Stinking of plenty, another blue knight with beans and the secret yarn. 'Umbling or humbling?

ENDING: With liberty and justice for all of God's monsters.

• • • • • • • • • • • • •

Magic "G" the Golden Wok

The angry capitol of Colorado. The Trenton of my youth. The grass in the morning with bull. The complete STAR WARS in memory. The moment in a yesterday blue. Artful Charlie, the buffalo who smokes on Sundays. The future is Frankenstein. Scream the day. Normal eyes in Mars of the room. The Judas Priest kid at the arcade. Glass, maybe denim. The other day was the other day. Mothership day of Christ in the future. How about now, tonight? Denver loves bargains.

• • • • • • • • • • • • •


J. D. Nelson (b. 1971) experiments with words and sound in his subterranean laboratory. His bizarre poems and experimental texts have appeared in many small press and underground publications. Visit for more information and links to his published work. His audio experiments (recorded under the name OWL BRAIN ATLAS) are online at OWL NOISE 0, his album of experimental spoken word, is available as a free download at J. D. lives in Colorado, USA.

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

Ivan P.

~ ~ ~ ~

deep in the
hawks dream of
hairy tongues
and squeaky words from
rusty codices

~ ~ ~ ~

stewbums drowse entangled in hollow sunbeams:
it's only fluid flesh full of clear skies and summer songs

~ ~ ~ ~

have i ever stolen a handkerchief from a living saint
a wing from a tortured angel
a ground from a mumbling worm
a bedtime horror story from a child
a shit from a bull
a sun from a blind dog
a water from a laughing fish

~ ~ ~ ~

night is for empty freight trains
and raccoons endlessly gulping the moon
drunken policemen and hungry
noisy trees; joy for spiders
calm for the souls of butchers

~ ~ ~ ~

when bolsheviks came to power scriabin
already entertained
with his insanity whoever he had found
on the other side so
lenin just quietly
smelt chamomiles time and
again and idly dreamt of
hot nuns
in the northern convents

calm spread along his bald head and
the forests of holy russia
full of sacred three-legged hares
winged pedophiles
and pious worm-eaters

Sunday, June 20, 2010

Russell Streur


We died in the dust.

We died in the rain.

We died on the hills in the arms of our fathers who came and who died and hung from the crosses and died in the darkness and ashes with our mothers before us.

We died in our beds and we fell from the cliffs and died on the rocks.

We drowned in the sea and we died in the summer and we died the day we were born in famine and plague.

We died on the mountain by fire and stone.

We died in the mouths of hyenas in the jaw of despair and we died in the valley leaving footprints and bone.

We danced on the flood and we climbed on the shore and we stood in the cave in the eye of the lamb and our veins and our lungs were the sound of the drums on the moor in the song of the heart and the hymn of the dove.

We rose out of mud and we came out of clay.

We came out of the tomb and the mouth of the fish and we rose from our graves to the hour of earth from the weave and the warp and the loom of the night.

We came from the ark and the maze and we rose from the dew and we came to the day with the loaves of the bread and the skins of the wine.

We walked on the water and we walked on the moon and we walked on the streets of diamond paved cities in impossible joy wearing dresses of light.

We rose out of dirt and rode on the wind and we wrote on the walls and came up from the wreck of our ships in unfathomable deep with the heart of the ocean passed through by the storm.

We came with the flame and the wand of the stars in our hands on the third morning of May and we came out of desert and we swam on the tides with the breath and the word and the names of our gods on our lips: and like heroes and ghosts and lovers survive.

Thursday, June 17, 2010

Wild Bill Blackolive


Suddenly Cassidy was out of prison. He was out slightly early, I think. I never got this exactly, he was doing seven years, I understood, though he caused trouble, next I think he was doing eight, but he did seven and a half.

His parents (white, middle class, loving) had arranged an apartment in Oregon, somewhere for him and mighty Chantel. Suddenly they emailed me from Austin, Tx. Then Cassidy called, from Austin. Suddenly they were in Corpus Christi, 20 miles from Aransas Pass in the Coastal Bend. Next they were here, Aransas Pass, Tx 78336.

Years back now in my living with my old mother Cassidy had contacted me, asking for my zine, BLACKOLIVE’S LAST LAUGH, telling me in one breath on paper he is an anarchist punk rocker doing 7 years for stealing socks. He was into zines. Likely all in first paragraph, I forget exactly, he spoke of having trouble because he proclaimed he hated “cops, racists, Nazis.” In Oregon prisons the officials would set the skinheads upon him, try to get him killed, as these nazi groups are the bigger gangs in the US Northwest. Next letter or so I heard his complaint the officials had let the skinheads steal all his books and papers (even his toothpaste) in his cell when he was out. At that point he was already contacting folks everywhere, Google Cassidy Wheeler. In our correspondence he got changed to different prisons in Oregon 4 times, for organizing, agitating. I got the ACLU into it, twice in those early years took calls from them while they visited prisoner Cassidy Wheeler, though when the 911 madness had them too busy for me and Cassidy, I quit them.

Correspondence always was aggravating. They would turn my envelopes to him back in any redneck excuse. They tried to get him killed and he fought a lot or sat in solitary. My first question to him had been: Are you a crazed hundred twenty pounder or a bold two hundred twenty pounder. His answer: I am more the crazed two hundred twenty pounder.

Meantime, he was reading, consuming. Dear Reader, Google Cassidy Wheeler.

I met him here and was surprised how average his size, pudgy, six one, smallish hands but medium bone structure, though a large head. For him to be any kind of true two-twenty would have taken a lot of weight lifting in prison, which mostly he did not. He had written that fighting he usually does alright. Here, in Aransas Pass, he told me, well, they see your eyes, and probably then back off. OK.

I am sitting here with Lyla who was ninety March 7 or 8 of 2010. A decade ago here Medicine Dog was young and troublesome, requiring two


runs per day, but now he is 13, very arthritic. I have young Choyota, my female spayed from Lyla’s pressing in stress, after two litters with Medicine. Choyota is coyote/chow. Choyota is highly intelligent and still feral, and Lyla might barely pet Choyota, who is beautiful but Lyla identifies with Medicine and his arthritis. I sit here looking back….

How childish was I, stupid with females, obsessive. Firstly, being alien, I had to build myself against other male inanity. I like to fight. I guess this is OK, hell, it allowed me some asthmatic peace.

Cassidy called from Austin. He, and as well Chantel, knew people in Austin. Chantel had old friends in Austin while Cassidy knew these couple housemates, one a black guy who had done thirty something years in solitary before freedom, who looks pretty good, and his buddy this white individual who had traveled by bicycle thousands of miles in Asia. I did not this time get to find out how he knew these two stalwart men. I never this time did get to inquiring from Cassidy information particulars. His parents had presented this Oregon apartment for him and Chantel but he would there be on probation. Cassidy had had to move on. I said to him, hell, come on down, so what it is Xmas, you are family.

This was getting into holidays of Xmas of 2009. In that purpose was also here Mike Olive, fortunately. When Mike was in Corpus Christi twenty miles over with Judge RD Hatch III and David (Bix) Bayless, Cassidy/Chantel were getting off bus in Corpus. Mike called here asking was Cassidy in Corpus yet and they could ride with him and Hatch and Bix.

Cassidy and Chantel just missed that ride, were on bus coming straight to Aransas Pass, no stops in between somehow. As Lyla’s great helper Janet was leaving for her day, suddenly Cassidy called in Aransas Pass. Janet headed home but passing the bus stop she looked and saw this likely couple, with their packs and sacks. Astute Janet cell-phoned me, asked me to describe Cassidy. I did so poorly rather, she hollered from her car at him is he Cassidy Wheeler, and he said he was and Janet picked them up and brought them to here. I called over to Hatch’s Aransas Pass house then, where had arrived those three fellows and they came over and met Cassidy and Chantel.

Forsooth, Kelly Olive was also here, had just come in. Kelly entered house in Medicine Dog clamor (the favorite, next to their keeper) to see Mike and Hatch and Bix and Cassidy, Chantel. Maybe Kelly got here before did these others. Accept mine weak memory, Dear Reader, but I recall, still on my thoughts of being large or small in rat prison, I waved and laughed that Cassidy is not even bigger than we are. Chantel is short and plump and pretty and the alert woman, trying to gather this scene, she is a young 38, a 9 years older than Cassidy, both are Aquarius like is earthy Kelly who though is Aquarius, social. Cassidy’s knowledge came on in, of his work from imprisonment in the US where prisoners can get hands on books, often. Chantel mostly sat quietly. She was impressed I asked if


she is Aquarius. She has not believed in Astrology. I had guessed Cassidy’s sign during our correspondence, though he is earthy, is on

the cusp of Earth sign Capricorn. Astrology is not my bag, I sometimes see possibilities, over decades, examples without greater study.

I presented my guests to their upstairs bedroom. A small room and double bed, this was the parents’ room. Now Lyla is too crippled to come upstairs.

At that point Cassidy had shared his West Coast good weed with Kelly and me. Kelly had to get back to Seguin, as usual. Lyla then was being unbothered. Mike was here, for Lyla, and memory has it to be next day was Xmas Eve. This was the least celebrated Xmas in history of Billy Eugene’s and Lyla’s kids. Lyla did not attend, I barely remember opening a couple gifts.

Cassidy had this passel of herb shop drugs from liberal Oregon, some to smoke, some to drink. The smokes seemed nothing good as pot, but there was this smoking herb that was witch doctor mind fuck. I did a bit with Cassidy, could see the effect was reality destruct like DMT. Cassidy said it is related to DMT.

That next early day, Lyla took greater pain in her legs and I helped Mike get her with wheelchair into pickup he had from Kelly’s Olive property on Medina River Hill Country – no correct license on farm truck so it be. Mike went with Lyla to Emergency in Aransas Pass, Tx 78336, this small town Emergency that is very busy unto chaotic.

I already had slugged down this large concoction Cassidy had fixed up, for we three, on deck, in chairs, looking out over country crazy crank desperation road and gnarled oak brush at Aransas Pass city limits.

Cassidy interestingly is the one person I have met other than myself who says he is a psychic adventurer. He said so, in years of prison reading, when he got my THE TORTILLA HIKE. He had been given his 7 or 8 years, he was this white delinquent already hip to computers and psychedelics. Right. He said to effect, hey, I hadn’t known you were such a “psychic adventurer.”

By time he and Chantel were here I had been days uncomfortable in my condition bodily. I have damaged joints of shoulders I now am outflanking, in routine, to repair, repair the joints via easy and long movements. I had been having trouble sleeping on shoulders, particularly my left, and it was giving me too much pain, this morning Mike took Lyla to Emergency in Aransas Pass. Psychedelics are blood thinners, and I knew stoned on psychedelics I would be free then of pain. There was more excuse to get whacked, and anyhoo we had Mike Olive to care for Lyla.

Before slugging down Cassidy’s concoction, we firstly this morning had done some smoking. Of these smoking herbs, Cassidy again gave me the related DMT thing, and this takes a human personality… into this warp.

The above writing is an extract from a longer work by Wild Bill. BEATNIK will inform anybody who's interested when the full story is available somewhere.

Friday, June 11, 2010

Russell Streur


She is sitting next to him.

He is sitting next to her.

They are sitting there together in a disconnected diner left unnamed and they are sitting there together on the corner of a couple streets in Greenwich Village 1942.

He has one more Lucky Strike to smoke and she has one more dollar bill to spend and they are sitting there together with nothing left to say and no place else to go.

She is dressed in red and he is dressed in blue.

They are sitting there forever with Europe burst in flame and armies marching east and no one but themselves to blame for getting swallowed by the beast and they are sitting there forever while Jimmy wipes the counter top and florescent minutes tick toward closing time.

They are sitting there together with their alibis intact but the reasons for their lies forgotten, they are sitting there together but neither one remembers the things that drew them close, everything they had in common dried up bit by bit and peeled tore and chipped until an unforgiving wind kicked up one day and blew each piece away, they are sitting there together with no way in and no way out, whatever set them free somehow came a prison:

I demand a new deal
I demand a different deck
I demand another hand

I demand a different tune
I demand a new pitch
I demand another key

I demand a different number
I demand an alternate solution
I demand a recount

I demand another chapter
I demand a free verse
I demand a blank page

I demand a different testament
I demand a new asphyxiation

Baby meet me later on
Meet me at that place we know
I’ll have the engine running
Don’t forget to bring your gun.


The king is dead,
Ten thousand years in seven hells his soul to spend
The prophet cries

The gods have fled
This jackal’s dance and poisoned feast at last to end
And other lies.

But this the sooth
The bed we lie upon
By Ishtar’s tooth
Tonight in Babylon:

We plant the vine beneath the purple star
Drink Arbela wine from silver cups of Balthazar
Till seven planets rise.

No arrows Persian bows will loose
No shadowed doom to enter here or tongue confuse
When dawn the darkness blinds.

No towers
And no temples fall,
No hand but our’s
Is writing on the wall.


She’s a real fox
Shivers and knives
Blades of glass and ice
At midnight by the docks

She’s good in bed
An untamed shrew
Walking 42nd Avenue
Another woman in red

Who picked the apple from the tree
And traded Eden for a kiss
As Adam claimed

And God agreed
But whispers from the serpent hiss
Eve was framed.

Russell Streur is a resident of Atlanta, Georgia. His works have appeared in 50 to 1, 63 Channels, The American Dissident, Black-Listed Magazine, Camroc Press Review, Censored Poets, Half Drunk Muse, Juked, Lost Magazine, Megaera, Opium Poetry 2.0, Poets Democracy, Raving Dove, Sleep. Snort. Fuck., The Blanket: A Journal of Protest and Dissent (Ireland), Poems Niederngasse (Switzerland), and other publications.

He edits The Camel Saloon, a bar for dromedaries, malcontents and jewels of the world. Which one are you?