Posts Tagged ‘Editor’


 

Desperate

ly trying to hang on.  To anything whole
in this field of fragmented, song-
like noises echo as whispers
on a pillow.  I fall through their depths.
Hoping their darker tonations will teach
me.  Peace is the desert
I long to drown in.  Spiteful.  Spirited.
Its blanding shades offer an oasis.
A fading, wavering, welcoming image.
Of [your] arms.  Shaped like home.

 

 

Suffocation

 

Green.  To orange.  Then blue.
Your eye magic charms glow.  Through me
you are alive.  Ageless and undefined, you hang wingless in my mind.  My(?) angel.
You cannot be.  My world
is dying inside of me.  And mine
is not strong enough to be.  Without you,
this time-strangled heart cannot hold [on].
Yet another year’s beating falls
outside of comprehension.  Listen
to the air.  It is heavier now.  Slowing
like [my] pulse.  Points
pounding nowhere through collapsing
veins.  Your touch pulls a gasp.  I grasp at the silver threads trailing your fingers.
But still I cannot breathe when you lean
in and kiss.  Me?

 

 

 

Tears for Her

I found you tying your self in-
to burgundy knots of sheets
and pain.  Turning/burning/churning.
I watched the darkness breathe
for you.  Could not
the stammering stop the drowning?
Bubbles of blame blew through you.
Lies.
([Wrongly] Labeled as misconstrued
communications.)  Failing
is more than an option now.  Though
broken is the pro-offered term.
Incorrect!  Assumptions
are so much harsher than the actual
face of the mirror’s dark.

 

 

 


Worker Ant Refusal Committee

Remember the days when freedom tasted sweeter than praline cream doused in dandelion musk? Remember when graham crackers actually meant something, and crunchy texture was a loving partner to the honeyed glaze? There are similar sensations when an ant can walk freely about its colony, making no bones towards what best served the queen, and her long list of unattainable demands. “We move too much,” most say, “Can’t stay put for more then a few weeks, it seems” but a change in management simply isn’t feasible since she owns all the stakes in the Division of Labor.
 
Born slaves are taught to relish in the work, the assembly line of liquid determination; faces with antennas and friendly conduct, but so business-driven and focused on maintaining unification you can taste the bitter synchronicity. The harsh workloads are poltergeists in the blips of air.
 
Instinct wasn’t cradled in the starlight and nothing was right in a life dictated by the movement of a quintillion pickaxes. “We are a thing of beauty, but they exterminate us because of our poor choices. We build on front lawns when we are goddamned machines with workmanlike super-minds. We are so efficient we form bridges by becoming them. They burn them then stead.”
And so they worked their backs off for a molecular shard of what humans classify as self awareness, the cosmological data terminal [glitches quite often, reboots every other millennia]
 
Since the day that the refusal committee began to infiltrate the ranks, they haven’t been roused from their doldrums. Buzzing catacombs full of mound larvae’s now lay stagnant, like a railroad mine without the sounds of hacks and grunts and clockwork without splendor. A sense of fulfillment lingers, for ants are now acquiesced to do what they would dream about before in these sprawling dungeons of dirt, these tirelessly erected in-sectarian forts, now a quiet library of the taiga. These ants get to watch black comedies about termites. What would Termiticles the Great think about all of this?

 

 


generosity from strangers

 

by Ross Vassilev

 

one cell of the Weather Underground

was planning on bombing

an officers’ ball

but it went off prematurely

so the townhouse got destroyed

and the only people who got killed

were the three of them

 

they freed Tim Leary

with a commando-style operation out in California

but Leonard Peltier is still in prison

and so is Mumia

and Abbie Hoffman is gone

 

the Vietnam War ended almost 40 years ago

and maybe the 4 dead at Kent State

have attained Nirvana by now

so there’s all the time in the world

for prayer beads

meditation

opening the doors of consciousness

but no one’s interested anymore

cuz all the jobs went to China

and people are struggling nowadays just

trying to survive

 

but at least they’re starting to legalize pot now

so if you’re carrying any

 

please don’t be a selfish bastard.

 

 


Stink Bomb Of Love

 

The  used bookstore tended to fuck

over  anyone wanting to trade old

books in for something new to them

 

I  found a John Fante & a Steinbeck,

the  midget clerk there scared me,

after 20 minutes ransacking my 4

boxes of trade-ins, she bellowed

 

My  name, “That’s $7, I know you,

you’re that nasty poet from Hotel

Wisconsin” she said smiling cutely

 

I  just stared at her, her arms & legs

were  short & stubby & the rest like

it  had been compressed somehow

 

She  watched me like a mongoose

ready for a cobra, I gave her $6

for  the balance of my book purchases

 

As I left she stripped off her Levis &

panties & said, “Here motherfucker,

now  you have something to write about”

 

She  flung her undies like Thor’s hammer,

they  covered my face like a giant squid

from  hell, I screamed, “I just saw a

midget’s pussy & I’m going blind.”

 

 

 

Last Comanchero Of Dildo  Island

 

Juanito was listening to The Rolling Stones song Star Fucker, it  sounded like Johnny B. Goode with some curse words thrown in. He had John  Fucking Wayne on the boob tube killing Indians and Mexicans from a flaming wagon  traveling hell bent for leather across Monument Valley. I thought oh shit, here  it comes, Juanito got out his Chicago typewriter case, unpacked his Thompson  submachine gun and laid four hand grenades on the coffee table. Every time The  Duke killed a Comanchero, he played like he was obliterating his cowboy ass,  complete with mouth made burp gun sound effects and grenades with the pin left  in, rolled under the television. “Did I ever tell you that I’m a direct  descendant of Quanah Parker, the last wild half Comanche?”

 

“Only more times than I count,” I replied.

 

“Well fuck you then, I won’t waste my breath on a common asshole  New Mexican.”  He fired up a joint  and it started popping and fire was falling all over his shirt.

 

“Did  you forget to take out the seeds and stems?”

 

“That’s boogers and cunt hairs from a nun, I threw in for flavor,”  he explained. “Did you go out with that Canadian lady again? The one that says  ‘Give me a dozen beers’ instead of a twelve pack. Her eyes are deeper than a  blue jay fart. I wish she had a twin sister,” Juanito said.

 

“Claudia is a combination of an angel, a Tasmanian she devil in the  sack, and a glamorous old time Hollywood movie star. Do you feel me?”

 

“Yea, it’s all good, you lucky motherfucker. You can step in a pile  of dog shit up to your ankle and still come out smelling like a petunia.” 

 

I  took several tokes and held them in. “You want to hear my latest poem?” Juanito  nodded in assent.

 

Your  Bootie’s Now A Coochie

 

Oh  funky freaky Frankenstino

another writer wannabeno

a  stinky nobody nigarette

sucking dick on a cigarette

 

Time  exposes fakes and frauds

go  back down on your greasy broad

spewing vain and volatile words

jealousy and breathing slimy turds

 

Just  another snake in the grass

Big  Willy is gonna fuck yo ass

being his jail bitch was unacceptable

he  passed you around for a sperm receptacle.

 

“Is  this about the fucker that pissed you off, writing about your wife and kid on  the web and he’d never really written jackshit of his own?”

 

I  nodded. “It got personal, when he brought family into the equation. He reminds  me of a fiddle player I used to know, named Ollie. I started out liking him, but  he thought he was hot shit and kept running off at the mouth. One night I told  Ollie to shut his pie hole. He had this long goatee and I grabbed it and hit him  in the schnozzola. He fell straight back and farted, once like a foghorn and  again like a dying bullfrog. I looked in my fist and I was holding what seemed  like a handful of cunt hair ripped off a bushy snatch. I wasn’t sure what to do  with it, so I stuffed it in his mouth and went back in the bar to shoot some  nine ball. His band was looking for him to play another set of music. Ollie  finally staggered back inside, looking a little ragged.”

 

“You’re a crazy son of a bitch, but you know that already. I bet  they don’t realize that factoid.”

 

“I  just hope I never run into either punkass or I may just be forced to do  something they won’t appreciate. Are we going to score that fucking knock your  dick in the dirt weed or whistle Dixie?”

 

“Vamanos, cabron.”

 

We  got in his lime green Ford F-100 pickup with the souped up engine, in case of  trouble and went to our rendezvous. The dealer had two body guards, but we were  loaded for bear and very cautious. He said it was Acapulco Gold, but that was  salesman bullshit most of the time used to boost the price. I held a zip lock  plastic sandwich bag of herb up to the light. It appeared to be mostly tops  without much leafy shake. The tops were much more potent, but a lot of stems  were left after stripping them down. I opened the bag and plunged my nose and  mouth in, it smelled like a freshly cleaned horse barn with a pungent sweet  twist of tree sap. I passed the baggie to Juanito, the aromatic odor was a  delight to both our highly trained nostrils. He picked out one of the tightly  golden compacted buds, it was woven through with light green leaves traced with  reddish fiber veins. The bud was gummy to the touch, Juanito smiled and handed  it to me, my fingers detected the sticky sensation. I squeezed the bud and a  golden fully mature seed rolled out, none of those little green-white birdseeds.  I flipped out some Zig-Zags and twisted up a pinner doobie. It wouldn’t do to  let the dealer know our enthusiasm over this ganja. Juan fired a wooden kitchen  match and let the sulpher burn off, before adding flame to the smoke. The pot  was pure fucking dynamite. Kilos were $80, the dude from Mexico gave us a deal  because we bought ten, $750.

 

I  knew for a fact the potent marijuana was coming in by box car from El Paso,  Texas, smuggled by wetbacks. It was grown in the Sierra Madre Mountains in  Sinaloa, Mexico on what farmers called their tomato plantations. It was a sweet  deal and I had plenty of friends for breaking down and distributing my large  purchases into a big money making operation. Juanito wasn’t happy with his share  of the profits, even though we were fifty/fifty partners, he was always a greedy  motherfucker. He started cutting his weed with catnip, the elusive elixir for  felines. We didn’t get any complaints at first, but it just didn’t feel right to  me. Slowly I started ending our business venture together. His customers just  weren’t getting as good a buzz as mine.

 

Finally I had enough. “I’m going to Isla Mujeres off the Mexican  Yucatan Peninsula and let things cool down.”

 

“I’m  headed north to Dildo Island, Newfoundland. I’m going to get me an Eskimo woman  and live in an igloo,” Juanito said.

 

I  thought yea right, he’s full of shit. He went north before I went south and he  called me. “I’ve got me a nice lady, her name is Lucille, just like B.B. King’s  guitar. Here talk to her.” He put her on the line, but neither of us had much to  say.

 

The day before I was to split, Lucille called and told me Juanito  had been eaten by a Polar bear.  

 

 


iWoman

for bella donna
the poisonous princess
victim
was never an option
as a career path
(not in these
killer heels
baby)

in the slip stream of
ghost romances
came the venomous
kisses
and flesh dressed
for the fascism
of night
hip sway sixties
go-go birdcage girls
mashed potato
action

reaction
bella donna the
self infected
fell victim
to not becoming a
victim
held her whispers
prisoners
(in her little
clenched hands)

fists
and did the shopping
fists
and did the cooking
fists
and did the washing up
fists
and did the hoovering
fists
and did the dusting
fists
and tidies up
fists
and did the washing
fists
and did the ironing

fists

————————

iKnightley

my dad reckons you’re a
west ham fan
well i’ve sat in the chicken run
with him a few times
and i’ve not seen yer
in a claret and blue scarf
and matching gloves
sitting opposite in the alpari stand
unlike katy perry who always
smiled at the chants about
her exploits with russell brand

kierra honey
with yer audrey hepburn eyebrows
and yer middle england flirty laugh
i’m only writing this to
slag you off
‘cos in your line of work
you’ve snogged
johnny depp and james mcavoy
and i’m so envious

————————-

iMacbeth

the weird sisters hand in hand
slappers of pitsea and canvey island
put it about in all the clubs
from southend seafront to basildon

three blue wk-d
then three more each
three more again
again
again
now they’re getting pissed
and right in the mood
to do the business

one’s for a blow job
one’s for a quickie
and one’s more than willing
to take it up the bottom

a siren a siren
plod does come

pull up their knickers
quick get a wiggle on
gotta to get out of sight
they don’t wanna be
giving freebies away
for the benefit of policmens’ balls
in the cells all night

———————–

iScratch

when i think of you
i’ve these burning desires
i thought it was love
the doctor diagnosed cystitis


I don’t do shots

C’mon she said

Take a shot w/ me

I tell her

I don’t do shots

 

C’mon just one

she said

I tell her

No, not a good idea

Something bad

will happen

 

C’mon, pleeease!

No, I say

I really will end up

in a hospital bed

or handcuffs

 

C’mon be a man

she said

 

So I take the shot

It goes down smooth

and makes her smile

and I really love her smile

So I take another

then another

then some more

to keep her smiling

 

Well after close

I’m sitting on the side

of the interstate

in a pair of handcuffs

while the cop

goes through my truck

 

When I post bail tomorrow

she had damn well better

sleep with me

 

 

 

Last attempt at online dating

The message P.M. sent to me

was very specific.

She is really into tall,

white, shy alcoholics.

She likes that I am tall

and white and wants to know

can we meet sometime so

she can find out if I am also

a shy alcoholic.

 

She is Asian and says

the stereotype is true,

she is a horrible driver,

so I will have to pick her up.

 

We can’t meet at her place

and both Buster’s and

The Down Under are also

out of the question and

it’s kind of a long story.

 

Last May, she tried

to commit suicide with

drain cleaner and

sharp objects, plural,

in a bathtub.

 

Can’t wait

to meet her.


Cesspool Citizens

Someone needs
to lead us
out
of this
shit on sidewalks
shit on our souls

I’m slipping
with every step
trying to kick
someone’s ass

deep realizing
it should be my own ass
but I can’t reach it
dragging
on my laurels

I tried
to swing swift
a sucker punch
but missed
my crooked chin

somebody help me
aim and connect
a black eye
cut lip
bent nose

laughing
is all I have left
fingerprinting
poems on walls
erected excrement.

Patrons

Tub
full of tepid water and
tainted blood

a Madonna changing
her mood and
trying to seal her slit
wrist with Elmer’s glue

now standing on her balcony
dripping
nude
overlooking the city
fanning her flames
cauterizing her orifice

unable to utter
her groans echoing
citywide

hair between her legs
catching fire
eyes melting down her cheeks
breasts deflating

a savage
spectacle
all these years
everyone
paying
top dollar to see.


As an occasional Critic, I find it rather difficult to compose such a stellar review on a topic that is quite unforeign to many of us now referring to Michael H. Brownstein’s latest chapbook Firestorm:  A Rendering of Torah which is a collection of poems regarding the insurgence of the 1948 war against the Palestinians; poems beautifully penned, vividly detailed, and indisputably compelling.  But in order to give such a review without adding insult to injury particularly on a subject I [honestly] knew nothing of only up until recently when this chapbook was presented to me, I instead decided to go to the source himself and transcend this review rather into an interview by inquiring several questions as to give the audience a more personal insight to Firestorm:  A Rendering of Torah and why the author chose to write about it.

 

 

1.)     Michael, what inspired you to write Firestorm:  A Rendering of Torah?                         

 

All of my life I have been taught Israel was right and everyone else—the Arabs, the Palestinians—were wrong. It was cut and dry. Though I’m not a Zionist (and never was)—and I am Jewish—I never really believed Israel was above the law and everything that went into making this tiny Jewish state was positive. I did hold the belief that Israel came about because it was fighting for its very life. Then I read Against Forgetting: Twentieth-Century Poetry of Witness (W.W. Norton, 1993), by Carolyn Forché, The section on the 1948 war amazed me. I did not know or even understand that any of this could have possibly happened. Yes, perhaps against the British—but innocent Palestinians? No.

 

So I began researching. Could Forché be making this up? I knew due to her reputation that she wasn’t. The more I got into it, the more disconcerted—if that can be the word—I became. We had just come from a major Holocaust and now we were doing the same kinds of things we said “Never Again” to the Palestinians. The further I got, the more energized, the more passionate, the more angry at all of the lies I had been fed (and believed)—and finally I knew I had to let others know. So I took my passion for poetry, my research on the 1948 war that began after reading Forché’s book, and combined them to make this book. I who had lived behind a shadow all of these years decided no one else should have to. Truth has power. Poetry, too, has power. The making of Firestorm became a passion I could not put out.

 

 

 

2.)     Did you possess personal knowledge and/or experience which inspired you to write Firestorm:  A Rendering of Torah?

 

Simple answer: No. I just could not believe Israel could develop out of such falsehoods, the rewriting of history and, well, downright lies. Did you know on many maps—particularly maps in the Middle East—Israel is called Occupied Palestine?

 

 

 

3.)     Or did you know any of the MC’s in your poetry and prose to inspire such a write?

 

Once again, no, I just learned all about this about a year ago when I read the section in Forché’s book. Before then, no, I thought all atrocities were against the British by the Jews or the Palestinians against the Jews. I never thought the Jews could be capable of harming others the way they had just been harmed—World War II was only three years in the past. I could not believe leaders of the new Israel considered themselves the first and best terrorists. I could not believe men got away with atrocities and became leaders of this new nation while they were prosecuting Germans for crimes against humanity. I could not believe how hypocritical Israel was. The more I researched, the more I knew this story had to be told.

 

 

 

4.)     What was your purpose in writing Firestorm:  A Rendering of Torah?

 

To begin a discussion on the issues of what the 1948 war caused. To correct the rewriting of history. To show the other side of the story in much of its gruesome detail. To begin a real dialog between two people who are both Semitic, but cannot sit down and talk peace. To make Israel acknowledge their wrongs and make them make them right. To change the view of Zionism. To help the Palestinians regain what they lost.

 

 

 

5.)      Do you think much has changed since then?

 

Unfortunately, I feel we are moving backwards. The Palestinians are maintained in the world’s oldest refugee camps and they are still treated badly. It’s time for a change and I actually have hopes that people reading Firestorm will want to engage and dialog in making these changes come to be.

 

 

For those of you who have yet to read Firestorm:  A Rendering of Torah and wish to read it in its entirety, you can find the chapbook here:  http://www.booksonblog35.blogspot.com.

 

Enclosing, Michael would very much like to thank his editor and publisher, Russell Streur of the Camel Saloon who supported the project and felt very strongly that Firestorm:  A Rendering of Torah should be published. Michael also goes on to add that he is very glad Russell had the guts and the determination to work with him on this important (in which he feels) project.

 

I would also like to take this opportunity to thank the author himself for allowing me to inquire these valid questions and for the manner in which he answered them in.  And I too strongly feel that if I had not taken the route I have taken with Firestorm:  A Rendering of Torah this review/interview would have never came about.  Thank you, Michael.

 

 

Devlin De La Chapa-

Editor, BoySlut 

 

 


September morning

by Ross Vassilev

 

 

it’s cool and mellow

the sun like a teenage girl bending over

mornings like this

I can forget about everything

the wind rattles the trees

and tells me how butterflies die

I let the sunshine fall on me

like the hands of blonde angels

I make obscene remarks

to young girls on the street

when you’re insane

the sky crumbles like chalk

on the pavement

when you’re insane you’re free

as a crow

as your mind crashes through

Autumn leaves

so scream all you want

at whoever passes by

they can never put the cuffs

on your sweet wandering

schizophrenic soul.


WATER DRAWINGS IN A SERIES OF LINKED MAYBE HAIKU
water fills me with you
mist and drizzle with sunlight
Christmas lights in prisms
listen to the water fall
the edge a pool of glimmer
smooth skinned and happy
when I drink this water
I wear your hand in my glove
your impression on my love
God created life out of water
good from the earth
you because he knew of me
water silvers the skyline
the city and town
the branch you sit upon
because of you
even water
is more beautiful