Sunday, November 25, 2007


A fine collection of poets reading and what have you in California early December. Steve Dalachinsky! Gerald Nicosia! Ron Whitehead! Robert Zoschke! How can you refuse?
Imagine being in my shoes. I live thousands of miles away and I have no money and no passport.

December 6th-- 630 pm - Bird and Beckett Bookstore, San Francisco
December 7th- 7- 9 pm Mill Valley Book Depot, Mill Valley
December 8th-- 2 pm - 5 pm PEN Awards Banquet, Oakland (Steve Dalachinsky, Will Alexander and others being honored)
December 10th--North Beach Poetry-and-Music Series, Live Worms Gallery,San Francisco

Tuesday, November 20, 2007



There is an absence
of hope in her gaze,
an apathy of years
multiplied by grief.
Her words like shards of
glass sputter out. In
an old picture
on her dresser light
beams from her smile. Joy
fills the picture frame. What
happened to that face?
What madness extracted
that smile, that light? What
pill or shot could bring
back the hope absent
in her dark, brown eyes?

Saturday, November 17, 2007


Vanessa Kittle (Shushan) is 35. She lives out on Long Island with her evil kitten, Sombrero. A former chef and lawyer, Vanessa is now an English composition professor. She published 2 collections of poetry in 2006: a chapbook called Apart, and a full-length book called Surviving the Days of the Empire, both with The March Street Press. Her work has recently been in The New Renaissance, Nerve Cowboy, Limestone, Ibbetson Street, and A Generation Defining Itself anthology. Vanessa edits Abramelin, the Journal of Poetry and Magick.

she lives in winter with white sheets

surrounded by snow

cheeks blushing with the frost

they are cherry blossoms

and a scrape of dirt where berries can live and grow

i'll be winter so i can hold you holding onto leaves

and ill be snow that i may melt on your tongue

and with your breath

then you may drink me like pure glacial water

to keep you refreshed and moving through the night

come show me what the inside of your kisses look like

we were peering into mouths

touching lips with fingers

to see where kisses come from

to see why

and what the inside of a kiss is

we’ll get to the bottom of this!

we say as lovers of science

or we’ll die trying

our lips will be astronauts

on a voyage of discovery

we were pressing hands

to rib cages

to keep hearts from exploding out

we were screaming into mouths

listening for moonlight

our pieces were falling off

our bodies moving touching

coming towards

coming together

we didn’t have time

to collect them all

they became mixed up

with each other on the floor

we were rescue breathing

into each others mouth

we were collecting each other’s

pieces in armfuls

weaving them into a nest

australia will always be there

in places that go everywhere with you like a hat

a secret whispered into your mouth

i want to whisper others

one fire thing breathing air into another

danger playing with danger

fire joining fire

to make a larger blaze

and your voice whispers back

it holds the energy of a neutron star

a winter leaf

still on the tree


for the inevitable truth


the inevitable truth

you being

the only truth

as far as my eyes can see

and they see a lot

horizons far

in orbit

like two leaves falling and dancing

swirling in the wind

Sunday, November 11, 2007


if yre an advertiser, kill yrself - no really - bill hicks‏

"ginzy was such a glory hound - pay attention to me - seems his people on myspace have the same media gush syndrome - ridiculous really - his need to advertise, create a mythos, etc puts me off him - think if hed poured those energies into his work - hard to imagine horace after gushy praise... and then i intone the plutonian ode - and wish hed seen what i can hear - the self pimping was not necessary - if only hed believed in the ITE go little book - took care of catullus these millenia"

(From an email, reproduced with kind permish. I was telling Mark how, coincidentally or no, the folks who run the Allen Ginsberg site on MySpace deleted me from their friends list when I started publishing stuff about him on this site that seemed--on a superficial reading--to be unflattering to him. Nice to see someone out there agrees with me ~ Beatnik.)


Killing me.

I sat in the waiting room
looking down at my hands.
Hands are a funny thing you know.
No matter how hard you try
to stay youthful. Take care of
your body and face.
Somehow your hands always
reveal the truth.
Like your age.
And things you have done with them.
I looked down and I cried.
All these things I can do with my hands
all these things I know.
If your heart were to stop
I could help you.
But I can't save you
from your own mind.
All I can do is hold you.
And it's killing me,
that right now,
I can do no more.

Saturday, November 10, 2007

Ace Freemok

The Wisdom Of The Fifth Immortals

So what is the purpose?
The ultimate goal?
To strive forward.
To induce you own consciousness to evolve.
What could be more desirable?
Than to be born anew from chaos.
Sweet, sweet chaos.


Maybe Saturday

I've a John Cash haircut
I've a pouch full of grain

I'm an ocelot in the workplace
I'm an herbed duke

Where's my PIN, WaMu?
Where's my jar of ache with vapors?

None Better Breakfast

Squirrel brains & scrambled eggs?
Pork brains canned in milk gravy?
Brain tacos?

Iguana tacos?

Raw hamburger dipped in mayonnaise?
Raw chicken giblets?
Raw liver of ray?

Deep-fried cod tongues?
Deep-fried spiders?
Deep-fried Mars bars?
Deep-fried cat food?

Grilled salamanders?
Fleshy bits of a calf's head?
Banana worm bread?

Dry toast, coffee.

Out Back Burning Newspapers

Up, yush, it did,
up & yup,
it upped.

I slammed into
the side of the bldg
again & again
until my body
was bruised
& broken
& I was bleeding
from hair to heel.

I yupped up
& slammed some more,
examining myself
for the little hurts.

Bring me the new TV Guide
so I can up, up, yup --

someone run & tell
those people upstairs --

up - up - up!

far eye

diamonds, rubies,
emeralds, pearls --
oyster shells,
karate girls.



Friday, November 09, 2007


lake city 2005 ~ robbo took me in after my girlfriend threw me out the front door one whiskey soaked night ~ my royal typewriter a professional buffalo of a machine followed through the attic window into the front yard ~ along with my library ~ there it sat for months like a crushed iron flower collecting rust --><-- robbo and i settled into a routine ~ hed return from work ~ wed set in on our poems ~ hed type ~ bob back and forth ~ grunting ~ drain cheap beer ~ eventually smash out a poem ~ i set up his skywriter ~ sometimes wed play music ~ sometimes the only sounds were the chatter of typewriters and his guttural litany as we worked back to back in the smoky room --><-- robbo owned a cat ~ i did not like it ~ it would shit on his chair and piss around the house ~ it did not like me either ~ it felt neglected and would leave turds in our path ~ as if to trip us ~ one day i returned to the desk with the beautiful skywriter ~ a yellow puddle on my manuscripts ~ the fucking cat had pissedall over my poetry --><-- its amazing that neither of us ever booted that bastard off the balcony ~ goes to show how love is blind until it snaps and that a man can get attached to a creature even when it shits all over him


Here Lies Confusion

Here lies confusion,
Confusion corner
Big roundabout
One of the biggest landmarks
In this lazy southern town.
One of the only places
You can taste chaos around here.
Bells ring,
Red lights flash,
Train horn blows
Cars stack up
Around the curb.
Train lumbers on slow.
There are some days I say
This small town livin' is saving me.
But who wants to be saved?
Most days it drives me crazy.
Leaves me jonesing for the energy
Of any big city.
Anywhere but here.
Sitting on confusion corner
Watching the cars go through.


The Pursuit Of Beauty

I looked for beauty everywhere.
The news reports that she was gone.
Or they are just ignoring her.
I began to catch glimpses of her
In my friends Poems.
Brilliance so bright
That it was blinding.
I walked outside.
Saw her in the less than plastic faces.
Yes, beauty is a woman.
Yes, there is still hope.
Then I went deep in the woods.
Virgin land untouched by the sprawl of man.
I saw beauty in the butterflies, dragon flies fluttering.
I saw beauty in the trees.
I was overwhelmed
By the beauty all around me.
We as man,
We tear her down.
In the name of progress.
Violate all that is sacred.
But I know where to find her.
I must preserve her.
Beauty must be preserved.
Artists must preserve beauty.

Sunday, November 04, 2007


down the street, around the corner, on my walk

not. if youve ever
been attacked. before
no sir i dont trust.
dogs. barely
trust humans. cats
are indifferent
long as. you feed them
nabor there keeps a pig
she. long out-lived
her husband. never
took another that. pig
squeals & grunts at.
the gate not. sure
theyve taken her keys
away yet the. old
family stationwagon
still in. the driveway
the kids
amounted to much scat-
tered to the four

--mark weber



Rain and wind mix.
Grass on beach bending.
Normally blue ocean water
Becomes pale green.
Ocean rising,
Sandpipers run.
Foam from waves
Reach across the shore.

Sound of ocean pounding shore.
Sound of wind whistling in my ears.

I am calm in the turbulence.
Far off storms
Effecting the coast.
That runt of a kid
Not buried that far.
Native floridian,
Sitting on the Boynton Inlet
Watching the storms come in.
Calm in the turbulence
Watching the chaotic ocean.
That runt now coming
To the surface.
Sitting on the shore
Calm in the turbulence.

Thursday, November 01, 2007



for dinner some soup from
the deli and a loaf of french
bread. i sit at the table where
the typewriter is, and with the
voice off on the television i read
the newspaper while i eat.
for two days now i've been
feeling ill, not able to type much
or even cook for myself.
it's even a chore just to page
through the paper looking for
something worth reading.
god, i'm so sick and tired of
living alone. to be sick
and to have no one to care
for you is a sad situation to
come to. this soup is good
though. the deli it comes from
is run by an old italian woman
and she really knows what she's
doing. and she gives you
so much that i'll have enough
for tomorrow night's dinner too.
i just hope the loaf of bread
stays fresh until then.
moving my spoon slowly
i daydream about living with
a woman who also is a good
cook. it's a comforting daydream.
i see the soup being brought to me
as i sit up in bed, and she even
tucks a napkin under my chin.
is this too much to ask for in life?
i don't think so. after i'm finished
with the soup she dabs my lips
with the napkin and asks me if
i'd care for anything else and
whether i'm comfortable or not.
as i look up from my sick bed
i see the face of an angel. yes,
an italian angel who makes
the best minestrone with
white beans and sausage soup
ever. i can actually smell
fennel on her fingers.
before leaving the room she
tells me that in order not to
disturb me she's going to sleep
on the couch. and with
these words i begin to
immediately get better.
that I end up sleeping
on the couch also is no
big surprise.

Ronald Baatz
Mt tremper/01