Pedro Angel Garcia: "CANTABRICA and other poems".
Matt Hune: selected poems
E.G.Gray: Odes
Chris Joslin: selected plays
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Elayni Garcia: Lions in a House of Memories
NO SELECTIONS AVAILABLE
What is this thing II Who went to bed and dreamed of going to bed, -Pedro Angel Garcia -Pedro Angel Garcia
called life,
and by what right
is there contemplation of its being,
this grand sight,
all this which seems so decieving,
the mad night,
illusion is what we're seeing,
Dear friend, crazy friend
I know you;re my friend
for, you will leave me
out in the cold,
and that's what friends are
for, we're friends, we're friends
beyond refrigerator
doors, we're friends past
the last call for for
more, we're friends
beyond the latch on closed
doors, we're friends
as we pass the closing
stores, we're firends
you, sold my soul deep sown to the
core, you, we're friends,
yes, and,
We'll still be friends
inside the cold and darken ice box
though you'll send me no numbers
for the cold and and harden life locks,
yes, and
We'll still be friends
though you'll send no ships
to my lost long dry docks,
though we'll be two sad clowns
in a worm circus with happy people
yes, and
From the crazy part of town, where I live
by choice, Village like, police sirens and noise,
free, hairy creatures poise,
I speak to you of never ending
rivers, the ones taht crawl
through New York lost and
only found on the heaviest nights,
when a frosty sun labors dawn,
off the FDR heading for paradise,
Cuban sandwishes on a-'undred-
sixty-second-n-broad-
way, and
What is this that I have before me,
writers of the past speak to me,
through their madness,
and glee of knowing madness,
utter ectasy in the cold nights of despair,
how do they dare,
or is it that they care
of broken hearts and sad parts
of broken faces, falling jaws,
and crawling eyes with limping
toungues speak, and know no laws,
say, and
What is this,
that I am to become
a stove among others,
to burn my bread, gas on,
and sticking in my head,
ice box cold, until I'm dead,
What is the metal fabrication
of the bridges that inter-connect
the vast frozen continents
of the universe, after my death,
Why are the stones living and
love and labor thoigh the night
until sunrise, the sudden end,
Yes, I am
To illuminate you to the stars
of heavenly boxcar bums that dream,br>which is life, lived in cars
Yes, I am
To take you home to Papa, and show
you his children living in the wall,
your brothers and sisters, lay low
under the sink, beyond any
call you might think,
yes. I am
To folow the path of all those who
lead, into the sweet wine of endless
voyage, extreme and clairvoyant,
soft bed,
Is there no name I can use,
no girl I can abuse,
any cheap wine I can booze,
is the no unwon battle
I can lose,
but mines,
Yes, and
it occurs to me,
I will.
with no bed to sleep in, just a chair, instead,
woke up to find it was all a dream, even
the part about going to bed and dreaming,
Who woke up in jail,
finding a key under the matress,
only to find that,
the bars had no lock to undress
Who, everynight, was a prostitute with no orgasm,
then passed the blls to a pimp,
with no penius,
to hold a mask over a mask over a mask,
with no face,br>
Who wrote his biography,
with an end for a beginning ,
and no end for an end,
then dies before finishing it,
For a man to board a train,
that won't pull into any station,
and a woman to be forever waiting
in a staion for a trian to pull in
and both having paid the full fare,
got tired of waiting, and in despair,
jumped off the train, and in front of it,
dying,
Who quit the conductors job out of guilt,
and went home to find,
that his wife left hm on the early morning train,
For the world to commit, mass suicide ,
and leave the earth to the animals,
that found one forgotten baby boy,
who grew up beliveing he was God, and didn't mind so much,
when he was cruxified,
To be born and die, only to be
concieved again, to die,
and again, and again without much
further pain, and with no real life,
Who read in the papers that there were no jobs,
and went out looking for one,
thinking it was a lie,
then came home tired,
knowing it was true,
only to find that his wife had found one,
that made him, her boss,
and wept upon his newspaper,
To be a slave,
and belive in God,
For a country without clothes to have,
laundrymats on every corner, selling
shampoo to the masses,
who walked publicaly naked in the
streets, with dandruff got arrested,
for indecent exposure, but got life
from a judge with lice,
on another court,
Who sat naked infront of the typewriter
and tried to write a decent poem.
Night Train to Algers
Who could know of such a train
ride west,
staying on with no choice
to Algers,
It was late, The station,
People gatheres along its bare rail,
chanting with their eyes, they call
upon the train, tell of such a tale,
HOw with weary head we wanted
the slow progress to nowhere in the morn,
and with heavy bags they wonted
to the slow wait, costly fare they scorn,
For seven hours became seven years,
then came the train,
and sad good-byes fell among many tears,
emothions distain,
and just one surpasses all,
obstinately sharp hysteria,
they rush, anyone mnay fall,
they do,they crawl,
Body upon body they slept,
I was only but one more
entangles along the floor,
with no space to get to the door
of the toilet, there too they slept,
they slept, they slept
upon the baggage racks in the isles,
and on the floor in piles,
Thinned, they slept upon the seats,
where there were three, six
had filled them nice and neat
in the seating compartments where
the old sweat and musty air,
doors, as they opened, came
the vapid odor, thick and lameover me, such I could not bare,
but to them , they slept,
it was all the same,
Oh desperate train
slipping through the night
upon its westward flight,
ignoring swollen angry crowds
at the lost staions near Setif,
for there, hours became years,
became eternal, became tears
dripping on the windows,
It was the cold morning dew,
not yet day, sudden clucks,
they threw rocks at our windows
as we left them all astray
then, on much later
along with the dawn of day,
we opened the doors to let the wind flow,
and saw the heros of the lost stations,
grinning proudly,
for their victory was won with patience,
Dread the night, praise the sun,
such a long flight was then almost won,
for the train became lighter
as passengers' travels were done,
fewer boarded as the morning had only begun,
and some dear fellow
left a baggage rack for me to sleep on,
with one big thrust
I was upon my back with one eye open,
for ther was no one I dared trust,
It was later near noon
that I was able to fill a seat
below me, knowing that soon
The city of Algers, I would then meet
And so it was that night became day<
as the clock slowly ticked away,
and the hours that became years,
Became eternal in the eyes of us here,
who could know of such a train
ride west,
staying with no choice
to Algers.
Matt Hune
Right there
like a cherry on a tree,
like money in front of me.
These [--] morals
Supress what I need,
or what I want.
It would be so easy to take.
-Matt Hune
Fire dragon in my lip.
Its the end and I naked
one sitting on the pavement
-Matt Hune
I've got two hours to kill.
I should really stop sitting down- it's making [me] go flat.
I should imagine I look strange. Peering through the bars looking at someone's girl
but thinking of mine.
I wonder if I'm best in my girl's eyes?---Oh Man- I better be!
But what if I'm not?
I should really stop thinking about this- it makes me nervous.
Time to smoke.
I should really stop smoking- it gives me the shakes, besides, I'm too young.
I should be writing an essay right now explaining an event that changed my life the most, but
I hate writing about [the] meaningless.
Time to piss.
Pissing is such a hassle. I wish I never had to ever use the bathroom. Or take showers.
I wonder how much time I would save.
--------An hour and half more to go.
I should really move- the sun is shining directly in my eyes.
I wonder what would happen if I threw this chair I'm sitting in over the railing.
---The owner would probably kick me out aand have me pay for the damage. If the chair hit ---someone I'd get sued.
The sun's going down.
I wish I had long sleeves on.
-Matt Hune
Think about tube
About it's all we do
Think about sleep
-how it comes too soon.
About boredom
About funnier jokes (in you mind)
My thoughts
of your thoughts
Not pure but
OUR pure.
ring ring and
tick tock
and
dum.dum.dum.du duu duuuhooohhhhhhh [crap].
[--] me.
Rides home- the change of-well the ritual of throwing up.
lonely barfing.
I never have anyone hold my hand because I'm
the smallest.
Loves making- ha!
Ducks.
Ugly ducks.
Fantasy.
I'm not there
I wish I was
Even if you think I am- I'm not
I could never be a six shooter.
Tiffs.
Sorry.
Up.
-Matt Hune
E.G.Gray
Ode to Hemingway
Like boats lead in the stream
Bottoms snagged by currants and fishes teeth
A massive warfare on the steady hull.
A hold captain on the bow- we all fail
To listen to the orders we have made for
Ourselves and cry when they are not kept.
- E.G.Gray
Ode to Bronte
The face
Upturned
Into a Faustian smile
Always
Sad: head cocked to one side
Rules tyrannically over
My modal emotions.
-E.G.Gray
An Ode to Florentine Smarandache 11, November 2003
Inspired by the review and it�s reviewer, VICTOR VOINICESCU SOTSKI.
A voluminous registered letter
Addressed to me
The name of the sender told me
Nothing. Florentine Smarandache � the sender
To the Bessarabian poet and actor Victor Voinicescu Sotski
That�s all
I looked through endless C.V.
The researching works.
The poetry works with the words.
The theatre works with the eyes.
He has his journalistically savage activity,
His international seminars and conferences but no
Expositions.
Who is Florentine Smarandache?
IS he a paradoxical literary movement?
Three plays in an unreal theatre.
Three imaginable moments grounded up in living slop.
Wild and unlimited.
A menace and a member of the Academy of Rebellion.
This is the paradoxical activity of
Florentine Smarandache.
I wondered about the reality and a the
Dream, a morbid insight and a compelling stupidity,
Unrestrained, everything founded on a paradox, on a
Allegory and writing in the grotesque language.
Is it an appeal for a personal and social freedom? Capitalism?