The Steroid Era


sports scandals abound
funnelling fees to attorneys
squalid headlines
and tarnished reputations
we can turn this situation
about-face by a sanction of
the steroid era
make enhancement drugs
available to athletes
with million dollar contracts
they can afford to enrich
pharmaceutical companies
advertiser revenue
would increase
more long-standing records
would fall
players would perform
heroic feats
fans would enjoy
more high-flying games
ticket sales would escalate
drugs of lessor potency
could be offered to
bush and little leagues
players would not have to
resort to subterfuge and denial
let's draw an imaginary line
through the void like B.C. & A.D.
start the steroid era
and everybody wins

~ Joe Speer, Las Cruces, N.M.

sonny waited

for mikey

to get

all the

way out

of the

car before

hitting

him in

the face

w/the

tire iron

the lenses

of mikey's

glasses

flew in

opposite

directions

& when he

fell side

ways his

red eye

brow was

blinking

~ Todd Moore

REVIEW: THE WINTER DIARY by t. kilgore splake

ISBN 978-1-60743-432-0

"The Winter Diary" is the autobiography of t. kilgore splake, perhaps Michigan's most celebrated poet/ photographer/ filmmaker, who's been carving out a significant reputation for himself in the small press, as well as a voice that could belong to no one else poetically, for twenty years or more--ever since, as this book reveals, he put down the .357 Magnum he was planning to use to blow his own brains out after a long and unsatisfying academic career teaching at American colleges, took early retirement and disappeared "up country" (as the song says) to find his true self and fulfil his dreams.

"Diary" tells you how he got to the momento de verdad with the Magnum--that teaching career chasing "the bitch goddess of success", a string of relationships that ended in disappointment, pain, craziness--in a series of flashbacks provoked by present day associations as splake pursues his well-documented days in Calumet drinking coffee at various cafes, flirting with the waitresses, hiking up his beloved cliffs; it delves far back into his childhood and early years to relate how the character was formed which made the grievous errors, but also gave him the vision and the courage to put it all down and reinvent himself as a poet. So it's a picture of the nation too across much of the last century, given that he also supposes about the lives of his parents; but its real value is just as a fabulous story told by a man rich in experience and made wise by love and by too many close encounters with grief and death. splake has always seemed to be running as fast as he can from what he himself has labelled "rat bastard time", but it's his knowledge of time's ravages which gives him his incredible drive and commitment to his poetical vision. "That which does not kill us will make us stronger," as someone else said. If we all knew how soon Death comes we'd fucking hurry up.

At the end of the book splake documents some of the discussions he had with other writers and poets about the form the book should take, whether his customary lower case would be appropriate, whether a formal structure (as opposed to the near stream of consciousness style he adopted--reading it reminded me of talks you might hear on the radio) would have made it more atttractive to a conventional publisher, whether the descriptions of other people lacked depth of characterisation. To me, none of those things really matters. splake is splake. His subject is himself, which it actually is for most poets; it's just that t. is more honest about it. And conventionally structured and edited autobiographies are dull as dishwater anyway. If you have to compromise your vision to be a success in the literary world you might as well be back teaching political science, or striding about a supermarket in a security guard's uniform, or working in a bank. splake is a long-time correspondent of mine so perhaps I'm biased--and BEATNIK doesn't review stuff I don't like anyway--but for all its eccentricities, in fact partly because of its eccentricities, THE WINTER DIARY is a fine work.

People will be assessing and reassessing and arguing about splake's writings long after the rest of us have been forgotten.

MADREA MARIE

Q-TIPS

A necessity
A 5-exclamation point
emergency
"We're out of Q-Tips!!!!!"
I hate the wet feeling
of water drying in my ears


walking zombie

did i get any sleep?
or was it just a dream
lost in between
the hours of the night
awake

these poems first appeared in "GESTALT & PEPPER".

REVIEW: Gestalt & Pepper

GESTALT & PEPPER issue 1 (there may or may not be any more) is a zine produced by Madrea Marie in Old Town Florida. Madrea's the daughter of Wild Bill Blackolive, America's most celebrated underground writer, and a substantial part of the zine features correspondence between Bill, herself, her husband Eli and various friends. Maybe you'd have to be a fan of Bill or Madrea as writers to find that interesting; I'm a fan of both, so I couldn't tell you how much that influences my judgement. But I found the letters, which cover topics as diverse as 9/11, jail and the problems of getting good, radical work published anywhere, really entertaining. There are also poems and some very fine ink drawings (or designs maybe), by Madrea. She says she's considering doing a comic strip for a local paper, but I think she should be designing cd covers (if such a thing will exist in a few months) and t-shirts for bands. Ok (as so many people seem to sign off nowadays).
You can get a copy of GESTALT & PEPPER by writing to Madrea direct at 6NE 558th Street, Old Town, Florida 32680, USA. There's no specific cover charge, but be a pal, support the good work she's doing by sending a little cash, or stamps. Community spirit and co-operation are the only way these things function, and we need them just as much as we need another poetry magazine.

REVIEW: "Bird Effort"

BIRD EFFORT
by Ronald Baatz

Kamini Press Ringvagen 8 4th floor SE-117 26, Stockholm, Sweden

This is another of those gorgeous little editions Henry Denander, who's a poet of considerable talents himself, is producing on his Kamini Press, and number 4 in the series is another selection of poems by Ronald Baatz. 46 (I make it!) American tanka, one might as well call them, and two haiku about nature, animals and ageing--which may not sound promising to anyone who prefers urban poetry or who isn't versed in the traditional forms Ronald adapts so marvellously to the modern idiom. But trust me if you can! The poetry is melancholy, funny, lyrical and even the simplest observation echoes in the mind with revealed truths for a long time afterwards.You'll read it, then you'll step outside and notice something you've never seen before. He's the successor to Kerouac as a poet in adapted Chinese and Japanese verse forms, to my mind, is Ronald, and very few people could have taken Jack's mantle off his shoulders.

t. kilgore splake

cojones time



“sun light here i am”



charles bukowski





muse long gone

no blank page contests

past distant memories

destiny in hand

hot chivas rush

bardic blood boiling

brain skull cavity

distant gray fog

dull hum hum humming

.357 ticket to ride

spared nursing home

score tied

overtime eternity









compulsive voyeur





talking only to talk

never understanding

emptiness of spoken word

drying alone on hospital gurney

helpless afraid

his song unwritten









winter diary





too late

to tell my story

artistic essence fading

shadow dancing

across new borders

something more intense

darker











sweet dreams





only white guy

ghetto hoops team

big city metro

jukes and dekes

pulling up

skyin’ high

top of the key

soft fade away j

rippling chain net

street cred









waking from darkness





tortured eternity

writer’s black brain death

skull cavity empty

first dawn

streaking far horizon

steady light snow

turning paris white

rue montparnasse

lover’s footsteps

vanishing in

early morning light









tru gen





fancy workout threads

logging exercise miles

video with jake

air conditioned

knotty pine

bulls in hot pursuit

wanabe lady brett

cohn flynn

on pamplona holiday

bloody shit stink

wine soaked sweat

wild ass frenzy

racing toward

sun’s

black side









time to go home





midnight quiet

streetlight blinking below

seventh story window

hospital cardiac unit

saline iv solution

staccato rippling echo

distant owl calling

winter coming









mad poet passing





waking from blackout

night light shadows

scattered jelly glasses

empty thunderbird deliriums

gone gone gone

“last train to clarksville”

racing through the station

chest throbbing

jackhammer heart pains

stomach acid boiling

oxygen tank hissss

needing new diaper

distant graying poet

nurse stealing meds

no longer feeling welcome

“shit and git”

vanished youthful memories

boy doing things

missing sweet wet kisses

no more nights together

black magnum solution

hole behind his ear

left this morning

never coming home









last clarksville train





washing down aspirins

warm blue ribbon suds

damp gray first dawn

jerry lee’s cassettes silent

black terminal loneliness

yesterday wife saying

“things got to change”

squeeze the trigger

gain methodist salvation

promised better life