Cleaners of the World
Magpies and crows
and vultures,
eaters of the dead,
cleaners of the world,
take us across the river;
takes us out of darkness
into the sudden light,
you hope-birds, you flyers,
you sanctifiers.
Read more "POETRY: TOM MONTAG – CLEANERS OF THE WORLD"
Sedona Chapel
The beautiful church is perched high atop a red rock cliff
gazing across an open valley
so that people in prayer
can gaze upon nature and reflect.
Of course, it was designed long before
subdivisions and miniature Mcmansions
filled the valley floor below.
I kneel in the chapel pews
while the people come and go
some of them speaking of Michealangelo
but most mentioning their favorite television shows.
I find it hard to pray
or deeply contemplate
as another tour bus unloads
and the tiny private chapel
becomes packed.
So I rise and go to the gift shop
which is unbelievably crowded
as if this center of commerce
is where the real worship takes place.
On a spinning metal rack
little action figures of the saints
are for sale.
There is St. George battling dragons,
St. Francis speaking to the birds,
and St. Patrick all dressed in green
like a comic book super hero.
There are lots of action figures of all the saints
except for Saint Peregrine,
whom I have never heard of before
but his shelf is all empty
except for one tiny, lonely doll
and as I examine it,
the description says,
“Patron saint of cancer patients.”
I stare at the empty shelf,
go back upstairs to the chapel and pray.
Stopover in Jasper
During the bus trip, we sit next to each other,
growing further apart with each mile.
At the stopover in Jasper, we order food,
hoping it will bring more than an easement of hunger.
I consider the reanimation of once-living dust,
wondering if thoughts can be annulled.
Like worn ridges on a tire, we’re left with separate lives
and a nakedness that defines gender.
Driving past wind-forged cliffs at the speed of god,
we resist the folding of souls
and a quietness in which nothing is learned—
though both of us are listening; trying so desperately to hear.
Hollywood Men
On the balustrade of Sunset here we come,
the morning hours,
flush with piety and pity,
Hollywood men.
Born somewhere else
and born here again,
Hollywood men.
Light cuts our skulls open for surgery,
with heavy anesthetic,
in the doorways of WGA,
kissing our lips with a cool whore’s regard,
ushering us into our seats for the movie.
The director argues with the other director
and the woman holds the boom like Achilles his spear,
waiting for the painter to make his sketch.
Hollywood men,
we’re Holywood men,
cut from ash,
made new,
born bolder,
hotter,
naked,
soldiers in a war we can never understand.
We’re hollywood men.
I made the world collapse over a woman’s face,
and then she cursed me with France,
all before the cops showed up,
And I ratted out the second producer,
And the peasants revolted.
I fed them water.
Knelt at graves on the studio lot,
which was only an old nuthouse,
collapsing into ghosts and dust.
We’re Hollywood men.
Shamans.
Showmen.
Hollywood men.
holly, burn my cheek with the scar of these months,
I’ve killed all your gods but you won’t kill me,
you made me a god,
like Pan his boy,
and I dance for you still,
my voice stretched over the sky in concertina wire,
screaming with joy, and announcing the kings.
We shall not see them.
They are kept away.
I have a picture of one of them but it would burn out your eyes.
We keep their names inside our air conditioned brains,
under our silver reflective eyes,
naming. We’re naming.
or some of us are,
Jews with names,
ushering in the world.
We’re Hollywood men. Got new names and new faces.
I grew a beard.
My grandfather shaved his.
Cut from glass to catch the light.
We’re Hollywood men.
Waiting in line.
Watching the faces.
Listening.
Eavesdropping.
Ordering whiskey with a glamorous flourish,
and a look over the shoulder,
asking for the cigarette tray,
in David Lynch’s seat,
under the tree,
watching the tables,
plotting revenge.
We’re Hollywood men.
We still see the old gods.
They know us too.
Marching at parade.
with our armory.
Decamp for a week,
Learn the new names,
Negotiate. Like a leper for bread.
How much bread for this divorce?
Your name, your sweater, can I get it in red?
What are you reading?
Have you seen the sky? So dark, over my face,
I think I might be in love.
Be careful, that’s dangerous,
We know who’s in love with Hollywood men.
It’s grounds for divorce.
Bullets and fists.
The rook sleeping under the asphalted king
growing a tree for the bum to sleep on.
Who’s in love with a Hollywood man?
Fighting fierce, shaved down to a husk,
Shoulders and baritone musk and the roach clipped to his ear,
listening for voices that are not there,
pigeons flying around his face,
Underneath the shadow of Larry Flynt,
and the lawyers.
Who’s in love with a Hollywood man?
is it you?
Tucked far away over the U-store-it Tower?
We’re Hollywood men.
Murdering innocence, which is only to say,
making you less harmless.
with our pharmakon show,
of snakes and planes,
bad motherfuckers and whorish wives,
the aspirants,
like doves, around the hierophant’s altar, dipping in a ladle for the
blood . . .
We’re Holywood men.
No god can scare me.
for I am one.
Powerless, unafraid, without a name or a face.
Sergeant. Mexican. Stern and stalwart.
Hunted and alone,
catcalled,
Wretched,
Reader of books in the most beautiful alleys you have ever seen.
Who’s in love with a Hollywood man?
It’s grounds for divorce.
A suspended sentence!
A long night.
By the freeway.
But Hollywood, that’s something else.
Hollywood men keep out of Hollywood,
as knights from their princesses.
Four hundred meters from kerchief to lips
polishing our smart phones with the cusp of our sleeves.
Announcing the regulars.
Tall, shadowed, and still with some humor.
Violent and relaxed,
our car a musical device, with only one chord,
like a koan,
samsara-ing into the night,
with our swords.
Cutting through shelters singing ringtones,
clouding the subways with pot, jersualems without number,
we can duplicate them,
we can replicate them,
in cgi,
and in the poem of blind mexican nursemaids,
oublietta milkshades,
we bring the holy city with us,
the tabernacle is contractually obligated
for a period of five years
to lay down his name for the boundary line
lay down your life for the boundary line,
where names meet faces,
and old jews become young river gods,
and harem girls sing pop music,
through ice cream colored t shirts,
outside the one bookstore still remaining.
Who’s in love with a hollywood man
with his ancient face
and his fading memory
with his hands
without garments
without traces
heroic
and nameless
and unafraid
with no plans
no family
no eyes.
rock and roll sunsets on arrakis,
or is it venice,
with some saxophone,
and heroin,
or maybe just frisbee and weed,
who’s in love with him?
waiting for the volleyball to come back
waiting for the right decade to arrive
waiting for the right language to express the feeling
born on the asphalt
next to the freeway
standing under the 7-11
with one cup of bad coffee
and the sunscreen explodes in your hand,
from the pressure of the city,
making a noise like a girl sobbing,
from her audition,
wearing her witch’s hat.
we’re hollywood men,
deadly perfect.
unknowable.
delirious.
solemn.
righteous.
musical.
Mandated to serve
the king and his country
for eternity
one billion years.
one trillion years.
Okay, half a trillion years.
with a side of yams
and meringue.
Lopsided.
and rambunctious.
Heroic.
These heroes,
shadowed from sand,
are dead,
we’re dead men.
We’re dead men.
we come here to die.
This beautiful graveyard.
has anyone ever seen a more beautiful graveyard?
–
This poem was first performed at Roar Shack in Los Angeles, May 15 2016.
–
Read more "POETRY: HOLLYWOOD MEN – ROBIN WYATT DUNN"Seeking L.A.
I’m looking for what they
are looking for—
walk under the freeway
that runs next to the arena,
convention center, skyscrapers,
instantly the landscape changes:
a tent occupies a corner, older
houses with littered yards, run-
down cars, tiny Mexican mercados
sell soda, chips, beer, not one
piece of fruit
sidewalks broken, rubbish fills
every corner, empty storefronts
line one block, weary mothers
walk their scrubbed children
to school before going to the other
side to cook, clean, serve
walk further into Koreatown
equally battered, only the signs
change on more small shops
crowded with cheap goods,
two restaurants per block
men crouch smoking hard,
nail salon, plastic surgeon—
what are they looking for?
Tall old palms line quiet
residential streets, traffic
is frenzied, distant mountains
barely glimpsed amongst the clutter,
the sky blue for once, beaches
beyond reach, the desert lurks
behind the last range
homeless, poor, working class
harried, packed together
in this endless city spilling
out to hold dreamers, seekers,
the lost and found, hopeful of
something in the dry sun
staring at thin palms, waiting
for luck to shower on their raised
faces as the skyscrapers glow
in the distant haze.
Concert Light
Someone once read my palm and said-
Beware of water.
Since then I have noticed
if the rain drops gather on my forehead
a discomfort keeps growing.
Trying to keep my head away from the rain drops
I was real close almost intimate with the cold air
when I saw the clouds of the north side
turning to yellow phosphorus.
How can the morning start again at 9 at night?
What the hell is this? I thought and ran to the roof top
to check out on this divine light source.
Soon I realized that this light is just from a concert somewhere
which lit the sky and the air.
The way the incessant rain posed on the TV yesterday
and never bothered for my balcony
while I was running in and out in search
for those never-ending drops.
–
Subhankar’s poetry chapbook is available from Grandma Moses Press.
Read more "POETRY: CONCERT LIGHT – SUBHANKAR DAS"
Two Guys, Two Gallons of Yuengling, Two Plastic Jugs
Tongues composed of lager and slathered words drip
turbulence from the roadmaps of mouths, the ocean’s
rock and regurgitation. We meandered along brick-paved
roads with half-amber jugs in our hands, how quickly
we drown but how slowly we swayed on swings
in the frigid, desolate playground at night by the highway,
eyes entranced by the spotlight from the city’s hidden heart
we desire but never find but in the beer’s flat hops like a pair
of clumsy trombonists, asynchronous staccatos and B-flat
scales bottling air from silver mouthpiece to S.O.S–
Read more "POETRY: James Croal Jackson – TWO GUYS, TWO GALLONS OF YUENGLING, TWO PLASTIC JUGS"The Interview That Didn’t Happen
The poet had been
on the small press
scene for ages
I never really got
into his words, they
seemed to lack guts
He wrote back from
San Francisco, “I’m
ready to be interviewed”
“I really only have
one question, how
did it feel to have
Bukowski’s dick up
your ass?”
–
Get Catfish’s book of new and collected work.
Read more "POETRY:Catfish McDaris – The Interview That Didn’t Happen"Dangerous
I keep a weasel for a pet
I feed him frogs and birds
He kills them even if he’s not hungry
Then kills them over and over—
Tearing them apart and shaking the pieces
With a rage that never, ever relents.
I feel just the same.
Sometimes he bites and bites
At the wire mesh of his cage
Until his mouth bleeds.
I know that feeling too.
We stare at each other
For an hour at a time
And I know his single thought:
He wants to kill me.
Sometimes I do too.
I don’t mind his death wish on me
I’m used to strangers wanting me dead
It just goes with the territory—
I was trained to kill
Trained to want to kill
Trained well and surely.
Now they’ve flipped the switch:
No more killing.
I’m latent energy
Like an unfired bullet.
They give me pills, counseling.
I don’t listen.
I don’t take the pills.
What would I be without my fury?
Read more "POETRY: ANDREW HUBBARD – DANGEROUS"Summer
The sun, in its descent, turned green leaves a bright gold. Small flecks of dust in the air reflected that same light, falling onto the houseplants and the hardwood floor. The air was hot and still. The fan, broken, sat guilty in the corner of the room. Cicadas screamed from every tree in the mountain behind the house.
Sam twisted in her chair, popping her back. When the sun goes down, I’ll run, she thought to herself. She looked out at the hazy peninsula that she called home. She did not want to run.
Children screamed and laughed outside. Yet inside the apartment, there was a quiet tranquility accompanied with piano songs in minor. Sam sat in her faded chair, thinking about how her mood seemed to reflect her life: solitary and quiet, a bit detached.
She thought about home. How the peninsula haze carried with it the smell of home: a landlocked, flat nowhere. She remembered her childhood, also solitary, quiet, and detached. Birds in the distance cried out.
How time flies! It had been twelve years since she first experienced this smell. The distant memories of her childhood seemed closer here than anywhere else, even though she had never lived here as a child.
In one year, Sam would have to return home. Why, she did not know. All she knew was that she couldn’t be on this peninsula for more than one more year. So she had set the date that her work contract would end and spent her free time at home, sitting in her faded chair, reflecting on her past and thinking about her future.
She wished she could stop time. This was why she ran so much. Even when cars drove by, the sun sets, and house lights flicker on and off, time never seemed to pass as long as her feet kept hitting the pavement in rhythmic motion. Action cut through a frozen time before it resumed again.
The sun would not set for another hour and a half, but running would be tolerable in less than an hour. Sam shifted in her chair, bits of lint sticking to the backs of her thighs. She thought about Ella, the girl she fell in love with the moment she laid eyes on her in a college drawing class. She had a few interactions with her, but mostly, she only saw her walking around campus.
The night before, while scrolling through her social media feed, Sam saw that Ella was in a relationship with another woman, a surprise to her! She had spent all four years of college lusting after a straight woman only to find out that had she been brave enough, she could have had a chance with her. How sad, Sam thought. She would probably never see Ella again except on her social media “Friends” list.
The sun tucked itself behind the high mountains, though still some ways above the horizon set by the ocean. Sam stood. It was time to stretch.
Sam collapsed on the floor in a heap next to her bed. The run had been nothing special, but she felt exhausted. She stared at the space under her bed and watched as a spider crawled aimlessly. The sun had dipped below the horizon a while ago but still illuminated the sky a deep, but bright blue. The families in the houses close to Sam had already begun preparing for their evening meals.
The smell of fried chicken, teriyaki sauce, and freshly cooked rice wafted through the screen doors. Sam lay on her back with her head towards the screen door, staring at the remnants of light left in the sky, breathing in a mix of her incense and the smell other people’s dinners.
Hungry as she was, the only food she had in her house for the next week was rice and eggs. She thought about Ella again and let her heart flutter at her memories of her freckles, eyes, and lips.
Ella was a mystery of beauty. She had shoulder-length, dark chestnut-colored hair that stayed shiny all year round. Her eyebrows were rather standard, but provided a good frame for her pale blue-green eyes. Her lips were always a darker red, as though she had been chewing on them. Even when she smiled, her eyes cast a shadow of faint and constant anger over her face. She was of average height, but her body gave the impression of being long and lean. Her style was always effortlessly and unexpectedly cool.
Sam sighed. Her chances of attracting someone like that wouldn’t change based on their sexual orientation. It would always be zero. She thought about herself, slightly shorter than the average woman, not curvy, and not thin: just kind of a blob somewhere in between. Her hairs was dark and frizzed most of the time, unable to decide unanimously if they wanted to be curly or straight, regardless of the humidity. Her skin was too tanned and her style never seemed to suit her body type. In her own mind, she was quite brutish and lacked grace. Even when running, the single thing she felt good at, her own feet kicked her legs.
Morning came and the birds outside screamed tirelessly as if competing with the cicadas. The sun had risen, but it was not six o’clock yet. Sam’s eyelids drifted open. She sighed. Another day, just like the rest. The only special thing was that it was one day closer to her last day on this island.
Two hours later, Sam was at work, sitting at her desk. The windows were open, and the air conditioner was off. The heavy heat gripped her neck and made her clothes feel like they were made of fleece. She thought about the invisibility that she felt constantly enshrouded in, even at work. She listened to her coworkers speak to each other, sometimes laughing, but often left at the end of the day not having spoken a word.
Once finally home, Sam stripped to her undershirt and thin shorts and settled herself once again in her chair, like she has done for the past three months. Like she will do for the next eleven and three weeks. She thought about Ella again, a topic of the past. She “Liked” the picture of Ella and her new girlfriend, though it felt insincere. She imagined herself putting Ella in a box, closing it, and pushing it into a dark corner, where she kept other memories and thoughts that she dwelled on occasionally.
She sat in the chair, watching the dust fall and the sun change its position, thinking about some obscure thing of the past or fantasy of the future until it was time to drag herself out for a run again.
So it went for the next eleven months and three weeks.
Read more "FICTION: SUMMER – Jennifer Cerna"
Cacti Fur 