REUBEN EVANS

Reuben Evans

I saw
Street lamps burning orange phosphorus illuminating the pavement
And
Early morning refuse left out in the cold for rats
And
Lovers through windows speaking quiet words that slide into the ear
And
Radio 4 turned down on the Shipping News at half past five a.m
And
Young men in baseball caps with cider quoting Chaucer
And
Taxi drivers that don't like driving but do out of habit
And
Middle ageing mothers scratching holes in children with their eyes
And
Lonely old men wishing conversations that never happened or will
And
Lights on red even though there is no one there
And
Late night girls smoking against the cold
And
Police sirens shrieking to each other through the dark
And
Seven Chinese restaurants in the Jewish quarter closing
And
The last bus fumbling for cold change sharing seats with drunks
And
Screaming men bleeding on tarmac crying for parents
So
I turned the other cheek thinking maybe the view would be better
But it wasn't.

Beatnik: Business As Usual (Well, Sort Of)

For all of my millions of devoted readers--and more pertinently, for those who have sent submissions to this site--no, Beatnik hasn't ceased to exist. But your esteemed editor is having problems with his new landlord and estate agent over the installation of a phone line, and therefore currently has no internet connection.

Business will continue when I have time and funds to rent a pc at Northampton Library, which is where I'm writing this post from, but you won't see the rapid turnover you've grown used to, at least not for a while. Please check back every now and then, though. We like your company here at the Beatnik! And once I've sorted my landlord, my agent, my head and my backlog of emails out, production should resume at something like a regular pace.

That's the hope anyway. The way things have been going since my house move I no longer feel able to take anything for granted exception the likelihood of a plague of faeces descending on us all.

APRIL-MAY MARCH: Four Poems

Gag in the Afternoon

If you could empty your lungs
of all the poison
you would hope that it would improve
your insides

Shades of Klezmer
jagged coughs jolt
as you hack.
Your husky asthmatic whisper
causes quite a stir

Hum in the bar
triumph over smoke
fight the cold night air
as it tries to stop you

breathe




Visits to the Chapel of Rest

Tasty tapestry of toasted cheese
red tomato juice remains on my chin.
Please lick it away
kiss me on the lips.

Ill at ease with how you stand
you wander the streets whilst staring at the ground
avoiding the second hand gum,
sidestepping the shit
and used condoms dripping cum

These old well walked roads are beginning to decay
its not your problem
as no matter what you will stay.
The path you walk will still remain the same
as you stand above the clones looking down
on the city from Gas HIll.
You spit on the floor
making your contribution




Miu

Upside down you hang by your ankles
admiring the tilting sky.
Surprised when you realize there is no such thing
as an innocent life
for to be brave
you must see the world upside down
as the viola takes you on a trip to Fernhill
amongst the intimate Winelight sparkle of
frozen soundscapes.
Upside down the layers melt away
the air is glorious and warm.
The wind blows gently
as the old trees no longer fall.
Instead our eyes are stroked
absorbing our thoughts
allowing us to stagnate
as all we know
finally disintegrates



Sumire

I sip cider in a dimly lit bar
blue flashing lights flicker through the blinds
sirens scream outside on Dereham Road
temporarily disturbing the ambience

I look at the women who walk past
they always seem to know who they are
and where they are going.
Everyone around me seems to have someone to
talk to.
Even the strangers

To avoid being accused of staring
I look away
never making eye contact
playing with a damp beer mat
I sit for hours
thinking to myself that I am one
level above being a recluse

April-May March describes herself as "a Factory Girl from Norwich, England."

COMPLEX CRIME'S HOLLYWOOD CONNECTION

by David S. Pointer

When your child
is abducted the
world seems to
be serving you
a baby squid in
the black ink
sauce of insanity,
and only some
other parent's
brown eyed
Spring breeze, or
a girl with the milk
glass blue eyes of
a grandmother's
Gone with the Wind
wedding lamp could
end up as The Drive-By
Truckers latest lyrical
track, or in a landfill,
and only that family
will cry when the cops
come around more than
a Meals On Wheels van
for a while as John Walsh
on America's Most Wanted
is weary from way too
much of the wrong kind
of overtime, and each TV
episode doesn't seem
entertainment or as
propaganda's time tested
tranquilizer darts taking
a turn at taking time
away from corrupt
economics, and nobody
in charge would ever
assign an interrogating
lead detective that is a
propane torch of tenacity,
but can be fooled by some
miscreant's complex criminal
mind, yet still manages to
get full false confessions
from the city's innocent
folks before writing a
bestseller about never
finding your child.

Ether/ Orb

by J.D.Nelson

By the time the sauce arrived, I had already finished my meal. Joe wiped his dirty hands on his cowboy jeans / testing : ether/orb / under the porch with a mason jar full of sheeps' eyes -- I looked inside the small tin box. There must have been 1000 dollars in Black Jack crystals. (huff!) -- we talked about using a laser / my horses are always in "season" -- just ask the A*X*I*S agent. He'll be right back with the reason we need. I quote: some agents like taking the extra time to stew the winter root vegetables -- carefully -- as if I were a typewriter all over again.

I thought the warning was a joke -- you want some money for those turnips? Duh! No one's "keeping it wild" around here -- we're sitting through the other parts -- but it's all RIGHT NOW! Everyone hits the "cellar" on Friday Nights -- how about some of that bloody beet juice? Potato power? That's about all my twin-stomachs can handle -- just ask the small bird in a cage in the corner -- where am I going to uncork my new courage? Do I frighten you? What's Xmas w/o those dang old vices -- hard liquor and cigarettes? [wolf:teeth] and we're back with the axis -- polar caps on, people! Never found power/citizens of earth hurt [burnt water] worlds upon worlds upon worlds -- what warning? Joe wiped his dirty hands on his cowboy jeans.

What about the old 'axis anthem'? AND WHY NOT? Now, about those winter vegetables -- how about some "squawrsh," ma'am? Never wash your liver with vodka -- trust me. [egg salad] testing : ether/orb / movin' on in, right on time: the people are frozen in cubes [chicken:teeth] [paper claw] [con carne] Kandi's coming up from Tiny Town [nervous smile] tomorrow. "The [motor oil] treats are on me," he said. Easy [soiled] prey! Why can't some cute blonde girl pick me up on the side of the road, Beth? We never go out and get into trouble anymore -- I could only agree with her and the rest of the night was shot, as far as I was concerned. (inflate raft 2) She made absolutely no sense / and when the sun comes up we'll be in New Mexico. Nothing at all, Beth -- Joe's running from nothing. (nothing more frightening than an empty bag or me on the couch with an empty bottle on the coffee table -- and no coaster!) as if I were a typewriter all over again / the party was terrible!

Jump across the circuitry, please / I know! We'll all eat those little sandwiches, smoked, pepper'd turkey and mild white cheese or watercress -- what happened to those bottles of vodka? [crow:teeth] reel three nine three: Joe sat in zazen. What's taking them so long? Peel back another [hot chocolate] layer -- onion skin and the [milky eyed] tangerine man -- the Cactus King of Cooley County is ringing your [crow's at the door] buzzbell. Hard to take the case -- Joe's running from nothing. [Christmas teeth] pray for ease and peel back another layer: Even and even, together [bean curd] for the hoping. Testing : ether/orb [moon bat] token, over -- basic camp / Joe the Werewolf in the Bank at three-thirty PM, shoulda known that dumb M.F. ain't got no wallet. What warning?

Joe wiped his dirty hands on his cowboy jeans / slowly coasting, using no fuel and the radio ain't working anyway -- Keep M.F. Wild! Red, black or blue, I'm sure I'll find cookies! Let's look into those sheeps' eyes and dream of a greener pasture somewhere with no job to go to -- where's Joe gonna get all the ingredients for those peanut butterscotch cookies? Even that ol' groaner has feelings -- a crusty old scab like you should be able to appreciate that, Joe. It's not like there's a grocery store ten minutes from here -- here's the secret breeze: precise interlocking, machine seams in absolute cyber-darkness -- don't tempt me, robot! I drank both bottles all by myself, in less than ten hours -- testing : ether/orb, but not both. This test: one, two, 3 -- this one is (open:wired)

This 1 = enough of my birthday money, old broken coins in my red spider night in the desert canyon -- night:test(one) -- the ingredients list is corrupted -- do not trust this data -- this is something from the tomb of ancient scrolls -- deadly knowledge -- a simple equation and then silence -- no one could say anything, not this time -- meat on a sterling silver hook -- dead right wrong dead to the world of worlds -- as if I were a type-writer all over again / this button will activate the system in the event of a hilarious moment / pants down around my ankles, fifty pages / I like puns myself, dry stuff, Bob Newhart / five bucks for an Xmas crab cake from Maryland? The next time you hear these words, remember not to turn around to see the person who'd just as soon rip your face right off of your papier-mâché head -- what ever happened to Curly?

That clown used to make the best vegetable soup -- we'd have that and tater tots for lunch whenever it was Curly's turn to cook at the firehouse. All right, men -- we're back from the ancient Egyptian bread bakery -- sorry to have taken so long -- you don't even notice the seam! Tank of my money fish if the brakes have been snipped off /// hear the x-tra green money machine: $ / were you being nice and patient? Another 'Doctor Strange' occult rip-off -- I brought all of this on myself. My tank's stopped moving / kill the urge to smoke -- paper notes, crumpled thought wads -- think of my monkey flash whenever you're homesick -- remember those afternoons down at the deli? The monkey would make the best vegetable soup and tater tots -- remember those, smothered in homemade ketchup? He used to be the cook at a firehouse in Boston. Joe wiped his dirty hands on his cowboy jeans.

you can find out more about J.D. Nelson at www.MadVerse.com

Who's Reading The Beatnik?

Really. I'm intrigued. Is anyone reading it? Or is it only the poets/ writers featured on the page? Because we all know how that works. You hear one of yours is in, you go to check it out, read it closely for typos that you can whinge and feel aggrieved about, and maybe you'll look at one or two other writers featured, usually only if you recognise the name. It's a narcissistic game, and I know that because I'm the worst narcissist of them all.

Why am I interested in the readership? I did say, somewhere, that I was in it for the craft; that my models were Coltrane and Dylan, two of the most solipsistic artists ever known. If we're doing something important here, something that's not just blocking up the doorway, isn't it worth doing even if nobody gives a shit?

Yes, probably. I just want to know. So if you do read the Beatnik, why don't you drop me a line? or better, leave a comment at the site. Even if you think something I've posted is the worst piece of crap you've ever read. The page'll be that much more alive for your participation.

THE BIXBY CANYON MEDITATIONS (1-3)

by Neeli Cherkovski

One:
Jack Kerouac stayed in the old cabin
further down the path, fleeing booze and fame,
he wrote BIG SUR, a chorus in shadow. . .

now I burrow here in a sleeping bag
thinking of the early shade that covers
the Bixby world, it is a splendor
to gather wood, to make a fire, sit
before crackling flames, meditating long
hours, boiling hot water, pouring in
ground coffee, drinking slowly, rich scalding
brew, so like nobody, so intertwined
with the woods, so lofty, woodsman now

later, alone in the Buddhist cabin
at Bixby Creek, quietly attuned to
a hummingbird and big coastal spirit,
mind abloom, reading Rilke’s aging song,
relieved to find a European poet
for my coastal California reading. . .
thoughts of angels above my mind, blazing,
beautiful leopards leaping, lean, angel
birds trilling, Ferlinghetti’s lamp ablaze,
his cabin filled with shadows. I am sad
for my happiness, Rilke’s elegies
are grass-blown, wind carved, funny, somberly
set for the visionary night soon to come
crashing on my eyes, what terrible truths come
around the shoulder-hill to heart strewn hillside,
oh Rainer Maria Rilke, your name
spills off my brain, I watch your poem dance
from the German to the English, I wish
your words were nailed to my spirit, so torn
am I in this California fog, so borne
by nearby waves, so good in fallen sun,
end the poem, call the birds, bring leopards,
listen to the redwood, hear the oak, bring
the elder, say the unspoken name, go
dive in the sky, fight no ocean mind, sit
facing the double door, this is your time,
you sit here in meditation, but where
is the telephone? call your German friend
by his true name, give him a redwood name,
break down the door, slam the window shut, laugh,
run to the end of the elegy, so lean
are these words, so unmistakable
the calling, yearning, desire, o love
you are so me, so me hopeless, you talk
only of yourself, you see only your eyes
in the mirror of the stream, o dreamer, dream
Rilke advised, you must change your life, what?
so easy to say, so difficult, yet
a fine thought to throw onto the ocean

Two:
down at the beach, real
waves, a door in one of them,
two clouds on the air

back up the canyon
a woman clips the underbrush,
wise, wily, alone

in her mind the trees
are sensate, in real life, too,
twin birds fleeing night

far back, up a road
old man silence screams a song,
so long roadrunner

woodpecker, sparrow,
finch, chipmunk, who ever knows?
Buddha in beach clothes

goodnight, she says, we pass,
the cabin has no key, so?
rat dances in the woods

morning light bounces
off the cabin’s simple walls,
hummingbird, stand still

a morning fire
makes our coffee doubly sweet.
hot coals, words and names

Leaves of Grass sitting
with the morning biscuits, wows!
imagine the sun

Three:
before the sun goes down I walk to see
how the surf is doing, worried,
wondering what words to jot quickly
as a potion, how to measure fear
of failure, fear of saying
too much or not enough, why
bother thinking one way or another?
the sea will speak, waves
will desire an eternal return
until they desire
no more

walking to the beach
across thee creek back over it,
across again, down
into the muck and mud, bushes brush
my skin, trees lumber
overhead, the earth turns and twists,
shades are grey and ochre, umber and
burnt green, then
the great Bixby bridge looms, its physical
self
a concrete and steel
contraption, marvelous
engineering to fit
the coast so highway one
proceeds north or south, remains
in place, a ribbon of dharma

the beach reaches my nose
before it enters the eyes, I smell the
rich antiquity, noises from the water
follow, loud crush and crash, easy breeze
voices, a cawing
gull, someone up above yelling out
good morning, the bric
and brac of land and man

the tidal pond has been
redesigned by the seven seas, it has
a small canal leading
to the open sea, my face is
a ripple in the murk, a few sand grasses
cling to the side of the
still water, easy to sense
a nighttime storm, pick up
a branch and make a happy face
before throwing’
the branch in the pond so it might float
to the other side

sea roar,
hello?
the clouds are whispering
for rain, I linger
an hour or more, Rilke waits
back at the cabin, I’ll make
tuna sandwich for lunch and
hot chocolate, maybe hike up the road
tot he tall redwoods and circle round
the next canyon over
even if it rains

or simply breath
indoors, go into the Buddha hut
once more with its
floor mat, sit like a
real practitioner, or
lie there reciting from
Ferl’s copy of Leaves,
"A child asked, What is
the grass?" and I am asking
who is out there
in the wild
emptiness
alive and
sublimely
alone?

Neeli Cherkovski
Nov. 29, 2006