Goddamn, it was a fun ride.......

Due to internal disagreements between the editor of this blog (Pat King) and the leaders of the Underground Literary Alliance, this blog will be closing. The editor cannot continue to support the ULA. As you can see, the name of the organization is in the blog url. For readers who wish to continue reading an assortment of great underground writing in a blog style similar to this one, the editor recommends Bruce Hodder's The Beatnik@ www.whollycommunion.blogspot.com. It's been fun.

Poetry By Frank Walsh

THE GAS MAN

I’m the gas man
when the poor catch
me in the hood midst
winter dial at full
force and the baby
food gone cold in
it’s baby bowl they
have a cow
or else they forget
about the security fence
come to their senses
and kiss my ass.

I’m the gas man I
control the vertical, I
control the horizontal
there’s nothing wrong
with this picture
if you foot the bill
do not adjust
the noose around
your neck or even
think about the leg
irons you’re fine by
my book, it’s every
body else who’s fucked.

Nothing to do with you
I know after all
I am the gasman
there are no leaks
in my house and I keep
the home fires burning
a nice steady blue flame
balloons for the souls
of the poor in myname
if there were a god
the goose bumped crows
of the fumes and all that jazz

you might have some
say there would
be some other way
but I’m the gas man
at the bottom of
the stairs a mask
on my face to keep
my identity hid
and the hidden costs
coughing up cold cash
and stink of the first
sign of trouble
pushed off on you
by order of the gas

works, the board
on the golf course
in Barbados or Cancun
shake from stem to stern
with a laughter
that doesn’t last unless
at somebody else’s expense
it’s the house that’s rent
in halves and halve not
and red valves under
the floor parquet
slap on a sticker
The water’s either hot
or worked over the choice is all
yours or yours alone
take off your clothes, disrobe
under eye lashes of the meter
and the gag order of the needles
we’re not gonna give
you a bath
no body gets off the hook
that easy, there’s a red line,
red lined rag tag gas giant
in the cards and your it, buddy.
Why don’t you have

a nice shower
in our
company sponsored
double chin and get
more chillin’ to pray
down the line for
a better, a balmy day.

AT THE UNDERGROUND, Philadelphia, PA 40TH AND SPRUCE (BENEATH COPABANANA RESTAURANT) SUNDAY,FEBRUARY25, 3PM.

the world’s most controversial writers group

THE UNDERGROUND LITERARY ALLIANCE (WWW.LITERARYREVOLUTION.COM)

MC: King Wenclas

MAIN EVENT: a 3- round poetry read off between ULA’s

Frank Walsh and “the Super Poet” (alleged creation of a local university genetic engineering lab)

SPECIAL GUEST:CLEVELEAND NOVELIST, RED FRIGHT

READING “THE PORNOGRAPHIC FLABERGASTED EMU”

AND

CARNEVOLUTION’S “PROF. MALERKUS”, ERIC BROOMFIELD

PLUS

FEATURED POETS AND WRITERS FROM ACROSS THE COUNTRY

-TOUSSANT ST. NEGRITUDE, CALIFORNIA!

-JESSICA DISOBEDIENCE, CHICAGO!

-THE IDIOM POETS, NORTH CENTRAL NEW JERSEY!

- YARROW REGAN, QUEENS, NY !

-PAT KING, BALTIMORE (will be in the house!)

Just Added: Mark Sonnenfeld, experimental poet from New Jersey!

!!!!!FREE & OPEN TO THE PUBLIC!!!!!

BE THERE OR BE SQUARE

Poetry by

Doug Draime

Mausoleum Dream

I watched through the mausoleum

window, as a long table

was placed in the middle of the tomb

by 5 well-known poets.

They took stacks of chapbooks from boxes

and stacked them up on it The tomb was strewn

with whiskey bottles and beer cans.

The death chamber was filthy. Something

nasty and sticky stuck to

the concrete floor, with hundreds of small press

magazines messed-up in the goo.

On each cover was a picture of their

idol guzzling a can of beer.

They huddled over the reading matter

on the table like whooping cranes, their necks

nearly parallel with the table.

I heard the name of their idol several times,

as a box of chapbooks was picked-up,

then tossed out on one of the stacks like

fish in a fish market. A lot of angry mumbling,

debating. One of the 5 would pickup a chapbook

and mention the poet’s name who wrote it. The first one

held up and discussed was a 30 year woman

from England, who wrote only graphic poetry

about her sex life and drinking and drug habits.

Someone said that if there was a crown

passed down by their idol, she should be the one it was

passed on to. A Royal Poet! The second poet held up for debate

was a Montana man, who’d moved to L.A.

to walk the streets his idol had walked. And he

started drinking heavily and dating a East Hollywood

whore and druggie named Sugar Pie. Then he had pictures of himself

embracing and humping his idol’s gravestone at Forrest Lawn

and proudly posted them over the internet.

They began chanting the nick name of their idol, “Spanky,

Spanky, Spanky”. Black hoods and candles were being lit,

and fresh cans of beer for the poet/judges. And all their

faces started to take on a zombie stare, spittle dripping from their mouths.

One held up the chapbook of a poet, who had just recently

stuck a 45 in his mouth and canceled

his own ticket, because of his drinking and

miserable life. Did it in his mother’s house with her gun

The chanting grew intense and 2 of the zombie-poets acted out a

fight-in-the-alley-outside-a-bar scene,

from one of their idol’s stories.

Another one of them, watching the fight spotted me at the window and

they all turned to give me the zombie stare, long fangs appearing.

I turned and run into the midnight gloom of

the graveyard, the zombie-poets chasing me still chanting his name,

“Spanky, Spanky, Spanky.” The dream ended, me running

out of there, looking over my shoulder

into their zombie stares. After I woke up this morning,

i checked the internet and at the public library

for any information on the meaning of mausoleum dreams

and found nothing. I’ll go back and look under zombie-poets ... with long fangs.

Suicide Of An Ambitious Poet

When name dropping

didn’t work,

he tried

ass kissing,

but as skilled

as he was.

at that one,

it too, didn’t bring

him the fame

he sought,

the praise and

worship

he craved

So, he took

that old

Mark Twain quote

to heart.

When the newspapers

had

mistakenly

reported

Twain’s demise,

Twain quipped,

“The reports of my death have been

greatly exaggerated.”

That gave the poet the idea.

He, together with

his wife and

a couple

drinking buddies,

sent out e-mails

that he had

shot himself dead

in the head

and was

being buried

in Mexico.

But still

unfortunately,

nothing changed:

trite and mediocre

he

remains,. as

inconsequential

as Twain’s

cigar

ashes.

Entertainment

( 1920 to present )

The guy who sat

2 seats

behind you

in the 10th

grade

who

could

fart louder

than anyone

in school,

the same guy who

came up

to you at

a high school

dance

and

brushed

his

fingers under

your nose

and

said:

“smell”

after

being

in the back

seat

with your ex-

girl friend.

This

guy

has

become

a

STAR:

writing

his

autobiography,

which is

being made

into a

movie

with him

starring.

He’s

giving

interviews

about the

profundity

of his

popularity,

and

on

a special

tv show

he came

flying

down from

the ceiling

on pulleys

and when

he landed

he farted

and huge

puffs

of smoke

and flames

shot

all

over

the stage.

There was

a French

guy

who

toured

all the

finest

theaters of

Europe

in the

1920’s,

who

could

blow out

candles

and

make

his

ass

talk

and sing

Parisian

lullabies

and

I bet

he

got

rich

and

got

a lot

of

pussy

too.

Keeping Up With The Lifshins

I have to make haste to

Keep up with the Lifshins

This poem is my humble

Attempt in that regard

I’m in kind of a rush

Lifshins are so many places at once

There must be

Thousands

How do they do it

What is the secret of their

Amazing quantities

I know you don’t

Know

That was, uh, a rhetorical

Question

Sorry I gotta go

Get this to Post Office

Before it closes

Fuck! all the Lifshins probably have

That new

Post Office software in their computers!

So, shit, just forget you

Read this poem

Doug Draime's latest book is "Spiders And Madmen" (Scintillating Publications, 2006). He began
publishing in the 'underground' and small press in the late 1960's, while living in Los Angeles, becoming
part of the notorious L.A. poetry scene of the latter 20th Century. His work (poetry, short stories and plays)
continues to appear in magazines, newspapers, and online journals worldwide. Currently living in the
southern foothills of the Siskiyou mountain range in Oregon.

Poetry by
Misti Rainwater-Lites


A Cherry Tart & His Tongue in My Mouth

in the waking world i do not
know or desire him
but in the dream
i was giddy with possibilities

i told him i slept better
in his house
surrounded not by angels exactly
but a really good energy
i told him i could not sleep
in my house
because of all the ghosts
he laughed and said i had no reason to fear
spiritual wafers

i took a cherry tart from the fridge
and put it in my mouth
it was vivid red and it crumbled
on my tongue

then he pulled me into his arms
told me he had loved and wanted me
for so long
i quoted ginsberg
he said he loved ginsberg
grabbed my hair
and tasted the tart
i was still eating


smaller than the stones they cast

west memphis, arkansas is like any other small town
in small mind america
dreams aren’t worth much
what did poe know about making
a blue collar dollar
paying a mortgage
driving a truck
coaching a team
keeping the wife and kids in wal-mart clothing
keeping up appearances at church
on sundays and wednesdays
poe didn’t know shit
poe don’t hold water
in black and white
jesus vs. satan
deer hunting happy
havens of the illiterate and mediocre

west memphis, arkansas
is southern and proud
work hard
make babies
drink beer
fry fish
praise jesus
hate faggots
hate witches
hate outcasts
who don’t even try
to conform

believe or burn
our way or the highway
you can take your weird ass to new york or california

west memphis is all about the casting of stones
and the disposing of puzzles pieces that just
don’t fit
human lives ain’t worth much in west memphis, arkansas
three little boys buried in cheap graves
three big boys locked behind bars
until the day two of ‘em die of natural causes
and one of ‘em is killed with taxpayers’ dollars
ain’t nothin’ to worry about none too much
god is in control




When God is Gone

God and the little girl who created him
from unrequited Daddy love
are dead and buried beneath
Capezio tap shoes
poems that rhyme
shredded report cards
and plastic jewelry

goddamn they would both
come in handy tonight

my face burning from zit cream
my heart breaking again again
like the cheap shit you find
in dollar stores

today at the library my husband
checked out a book on pregnancy
after the age of 35
i am almost 34
and not pregnant
tonight the blood is a pale pink taunt

my brother is miles away in texas
i cannot hug him
or buy him a burrito
i cannot tell him
that he has schizophrenia
and i am interested
in his survival

i am a hunk of cowardly meat
shaking with sobs
raising my stupid fist
turning it into an open palm

please. whatever gods are willing
to receive prayers from a woman
who is not willing to make any
sacrifices or promises.
whatever gods that don’t have a problem
with not being believed in.
a reprieve. a reprieve.
some measure of peace.
enough ground to stand on
before the waters
swirl.




I NEED A NEW RUG!!!

I need a new rug. One that won't make me nervous about muddy boot tracks. One that won't make me wish it could fly me away to Nepal. One that won't make me feel like a cockroach masquerading as a human being. Can you tell me where to find such a rug? Can you sell it to me for a dirt cheap price?

I clink the ice in my glass and toast Henry Chinaski. I burp as I watch the skinny girls with big smiles dance their asses off in hopes of becoming Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders. I watch rich siblings working out their dysfunction in style. Their complexions are no better than mine.

My Little Pony gallops to the Land of Ice Cream where everything melts but there is nothing sad about it unless you're diabetic. I'm not.




Gluttonous Billy Goat of Life

This little gluttonous billy goat of mine
this rapacious fucker of life
this ravenous male herbivore
does not eat tin cans as rumored
but he will eat my manuscripts

Come on, Mister Thoroughchew
eat mommy's useless verbiage
eat mommy's Dangerous Hair
eat mommy's Arsenal of Spitwads
eat mommy's eBuLLieNT voMiT
eat mommy's Nova's Gone Potty
eat mommy's Thick Lazy Tongue
eat mommy's Mordiscado
eat mommy's Monkey Bite
eat mommy's rejected poems & journal fragments
then you will be the smartest & most useless
little fucker on the chopping block


Please take a little time and read Misti's blog. It's here. She's coming out with a poetry anthology and needs submissions, like, now.

CAPTAIN JACK SHOT JED THROUGH BOTH BUTTOCKS
By "Wild" Bill Blackolive

---

Captain Jack and Molly Bell had their ten year anniversary this past July of 1980. A hundred hungry souls waited on the beach, with expensive gifts, wearing their Thailand gold necklaces. In the pilot house of one of the moored cruisers, tinkering with the engine, his round ex-power lifter body wet through his shorts and T-shirt, on coke, Jack Daniels, Thai sticks, Captain Jack ignored them. Yay: went his jovial answer to most questions or compliments. He has original personality, copied by the others, his own version of Texas wise man, godfather. His clan await his word, favors, next move, for they are broke now, in debt, fat and soft and hating to ever go back to work, the IRS after them. They have waited a couple of years, squandering their wealth, since a fuck up. One of them had done a foolish coke deal on the side, brought heat upon the small Texas coast town, and gone to prison. Captain Jack, owning millions, tried keeping him out of prison, but had to give up, said the boy is probably the one who took a suitcase of his full of money anyway. The suitcase had been at Captain Jack's coastal ranch, the brush searched for two days, everybody made to take lie detector tests. The heat stays on, the rest of the town being jealous. Captain Jack would be driving his Wennebago about town, jewelry on his fingers, pistol on his hip, sneer on his lips, but now he is not home. He takes airplane trips, mainly the Americas, thinks to live in Panama or maybe Switzerland. Captain Jack has retired. Captain Jack and Molly Bell are from lower middle background. Molly Bell is humb1e, sweet, straight traditional, had never even wanted her husband to sell lids. But now they are rich the American way. A few years ago Captain Jack got set up by a busted dealer, and he had to do six months. They had wanted him bad back then, they had told him. But he had enough money and got out, on probation, in order he support his needy family as a shrimper. He had firmed up, power lifting. Captain Jack has been a tough, proud, dominating man always. Now he stands the heat. People would leave the beach to try a visit with the Captain, their necklaces clanking. Lesser men have small Thai gold necklaces, more important figures big clanking ones. The Captain gives the wives, most whom he gets to pinch on the butt, certain type Thai gold necklaces, the unmarried women and whores smaller type Thai gold necklaces. Molly Bell did not make her anniversary til around midnight, decked out in her latest Cadillac, the wasted hungry crowd parting, cheering their lady, who parked at the dock. Now they could eat. After barbecue, redneck Texas freaks, middle aged lawyers a few yankee hippie vegetarians, Captain Jack would take on a cruise, them what was able. Yaw.

Earthboy is the name Captain Jack has given his servant, a yankee hippy vegetarian. Not much over twenty, some fifteen years younger than the Captain, tall and thin and long haired, Earthboy does odd shit work, lawns to be mowed, boats to be scraped. Captain Jack has boats built to be sold or rented to survey crew. Captain Jack gets richer even not coming out of retirement. Before the retirement, there was dealing with yankee Weathermen - who are alive and well making plenty money if not revolution - and there are various yankees who mysteriously hang about or keep in touch with the Captain, who comments on the Weathermen- Hell, Jughead don't care about no Weathermen, Skipper don't care about no Weathermen - and vegetarianism - Let's eat, let's have some meat, good bloody meat! I wanta drink some blood with it! Blood, flesh, I'm hungry enough toto kill the first critter I see! The Captain works it that people are uninformed of one another or action of which they do not directly partake, and nobody local knows what Earthboy is waiting for. Earthboy has better knowledge on Captain Jack's retirement than they do. Earthboy unmoored the boat, helped two or three incapacitated aboard, ran up to the pilot house for a snort at Captain Jack's command, scampered back out onto deck, scampered back into pilot house, and so on, staying in ear shot of Captain Jack. Earthboy! Anybody O.D. out there yet? I'm bout ready for more meat! Yaw haw! The cruiser, named Starwars by the Captain smashed and slapped through a choppy gulf. Earthboy! Where are you Earthboy! Captain Jack puts on a frantic shrill. We got any niggers in the freezer? I'm hungry enough to eat anything! What, nothing to eat, Earthboy, you better fix me more this coke, I'm bout to get skinny as you, soon as I shit out some of this barbecue, yaw haw: Captain Jack was in one of his moods of antics. It would soon peak, but would leave him enough wake for following behavior. His racism is one tactic, all taking it more seriously than he does. They say gravely, Captain Jack hates niggers because or the time he did. Meanwhile, in the business, he can jive and be down home with anybody he has to. The Captain snorted and held the wheel a couple of hours, let Earthboy take over and went to the head to move bowels, came out onto deck with a cigar box full of Thai stick reefer, handed one to probably everybody but Molly Bell, who seldom smokes. Excluding Molly Bell, there were fifty-three stoned drunks on board at that time. The next large antic Captain Jack performed was empty his forty-five automatic into the air when for some reason Earthboy drove past a party boat within firing distance carrying early sports fishermen. The automatic ripped the night air along with a demoniac roar of crowd and engine and Captain Jack: Kill, kill, yaw haw, yaaiiee, kill! Earthboy gunned them past these likely peaceful men. Molly Bell seems able to endure much. Most mature man on board, another individual who seldom smokes or snorts but takes Valium like Molly Bell, and had not wanted to come, was a lawyer in his fifties. I'm not young enough for all this, he said. He bent over the side and barfed, said, I've had too much to smoke. Captain Jack molested some of the women and became cornier in his jokes and handed anyone dexidrene, a sudden hour or so later a helicopter was seen on the radar. Captain Jack takes pride in having the latest in technology, better than the Coast Guard's, due to their red tape handicap. Lights and motor were turned out. They drifted and a couple of the couples went to the bunks to screw or rest, people quieted and dozed, till the Captain startled all by lighting a cherry bomb in the cabin. Break of dawn he was carrying on with his camera, took some decent photos of a tattoo on a girl's ass, Earthboy heading them back in. The Captain fired his forty-five at seagulls, blew one into parts, lent his pistol to others for the sport, several rounds were spent, he drew conclusion it was bad ecology and called it off. Besides, we have to get cool now, he said.

The Captain can have fits of paranoia. He may wonder it a merest individual is an agent. There was a person he did not know too well, whom he had sold a boat called "Wife of Frankenstein." The man had not fully paid for the boat, was stalling, yet said he also wanted to buy another of the boats, "Popeye." Popeye was a particularly large and secretly equipped boat. Captain Jack said he must be paid all the cash immediately or he would call it off. The business man agreed, said come over to his trailer, that he had the cash there, that he and the Captain could agree on the price. He would have a friend there, and Captain Jack could bring a friend or two.

After his anniversary cruise Captain Jack had slept a few hours, that night he arrived at the man's trailer out in the country flanked by two aids. One of the aids, a big fat young one named Jed, was to be heavy. Jed liked being heavy, and was stoned in different ways by time they got there. They had palm sized, small caliber pistols in their Levi pockets, only to be used in self defense, quick and get out of there, no stake in any fight. The business man owned a tommy gun from World War II, so he had bragged over whisky a few days earlier. Big Jed scowled and glowered and dug in his nose the first thing, and everyone but he took a seat. Next he drank the business man's wine faster than negotiations could be carried. The business man's aid. said, Say, man, me and you oughta go out and get some wine. We ain't here to buy wine, Jed said. Sit down, Jed, said Captain Jack. Hey, man, said the aid before Jed got seated. Take it easy, there ain't no problem nowhere. This man - he and his boss were both yankees - been around Texans before and believed he knew how to deal with them. Well, man, spoke Jed. I never hunt for no trouble, it just comes to me. There's always been someone trying to give me shit. Yeah, we all have that problem, the business man's aid said. Easy man, easy. Just shut your fucking mouth, Jed, said Captain Jack's other aid. Well, what I want to just get clear, said Jed revving up from his seat, but Jack bellowed: Shut up! Look, Captain Jack, you brung me here for a reason and the way I used to be taught, Jed began as Captain Jack exploded, snatching the other fat man and hauled him a foot. Jed came near falling, steadied himself and said he was sorry. You sonofabitch, Captain Jack said. For emphasis Captain Jack brought forth his new Barretta and fired downward. Arrgh, I'm hit, said Jed, and crashed to the floor. Get up, you sonofabitch, said Captain Jack, and booted him a few times. You're not hit! Next Captain Jack got his boot bloody. They said, He's hit! Goddamn, let's get 'im outta here, said Captain Jack. The two yankees were dazed. Captain Jack and his aid hoisted the groaning wounded man by his belt and limbs and hauled him away, blood all over and into the Mercedes. Where you hit, Jed? Aargh! Oh, Lord. Maybe Molly Bell can patch 'im. Fuck no, I'm taking 'im to Emergency. The incident occurred about three miles from the local hospital. Lucky it was late, they ran two red lights and dumped Jed out onto the hospital's sidewalk. Remember, Jed, keep cool, goddammit. I'm sorry! Arrgh! In emergency, Jed said, Shot myself. He was not questioned further. When he learned he was shot through both buttocks he offered the information: Yeah, goddammit, my uncle gave me this .25 Beretta and I left the damn thing on the bed and got drunk and sat on it! He figured this would leave them with no doubt. He was cleaned and bandaged and put to bed. He was hitting a good doze some hours later when the ranch had been cleaned and Molly Bell's house in town cleaned and Captain Jack and half a dozen of the boys entered his room. Heard you got shot, Jed! Just no shit blew my fucking ass off! I sat down on that damn gun, like I been telling them in Emergency, and I don't know if it ricocheted but it sure blew my damn ass off! Everything Jed's mind and body had been through this night had him higher than ever. He said, This has been some day and I don't know if I've peaked yet! Shut up, Jed, they whispered, We're getting you outta here! Huh, well, goddamnit, easy! They got him out of there, on to the house in town. There the party went on, the kids were getting up anyway. In a short while Molly Bell fretted that Jed was tracking blood. She went out back and got a blanket from the pit bulldogs, had Jed to lie on the blanket on her couch and stay put. Captain Jack was passed out.

Kittendrowner

Kittendrowner

By Dr. WReD FrIgHT, PHD

Allen Ginsberg told us
Everything is holy
Even the asshole
He was right
Where would we be without our assholes?
That’s right
Full of shit
Thank your asshole
Hardworking asshole
Why is it an insult to call someone an “asshole” then?
We need some new swear words
Some new insults
What’s wrong with “fucking”?
Except for test-tube babies
It’s how we all got here
In fact, it’s hard to think of a bad word
“Shit” grows flowers
“Dicks” and “pussies” are like “assholes”
We need them
Unuseful old phrases
I hate sayings which don’t hold up conceptually
Like “You can’t dismantle the master’s house with his own tools/”
If the master has a sledgehammer, then sure you can!
We either need new taboos or new language
Maybe not
How about . . .
“Kittendrowner!”
There can’t be anything good about that
What kind of person drowns kittens?
A kittendrowner
“Puppykicker”
Why that’s almost as bad
That’s up there with “Animaleater”
Oh, I guess that last one won’t catch on
But hell, if you’re going to eat a chicken sandwich
You might as well kick puppies and drown kittens
What? Accuse me of a logical fallacy!
What’s the difference?
There ain’t no such thing as a humane death
I eat meat once in a while
I can look a cow in the eye
I only keep my hand in
The meateating business though
So that when civilization collapses
I can stay alive
By eating you if I have to
I can look you in the eye too
You’d go good with Sriracha sauce I bet
Cannibal, eh?
Well, only if there’s no spinach around.
Now, where was I?
Oh, yes.
It’s hard to think of a good insult.
Just like it’s hard to imagine what humans might not do.

Wred Fright's Website

alt + F4 = motherfucker

By Chad Hubbard

i am a little more drunk than expected tonight
dance!
dance!
left, right
left, right
kick'em in the cunt
kick'em in the cunt
i like cheetos...

anyway?
jason molina hits it
he hits it hard
i have not listened to this cd in a few months
and sweet jesus have i missed it

HEAVEN NEEDED SOME PLACE TO THROW ALL THE SHIT

gabriel blew his trumpet
and i reached for the snooze button
i awoke 46 minutes later
late for work and dreading life
i thought about reaching for the high speed drill
statigically placed under my pillow
and drilling for the cerebellum
but i decided to take a shower

Chad Hubbard lives in Birmingham, Alabama. He doesn't seem to think he's a writer. The editor of this blog disagrees. Visit his Myspace Page sometime

A Clock

by Pat King

A person who exists in two
Times at once
A person two times once
A sonic regulation
A person who becomes a man of his
Own time becomes a clock becomes
A regulatory commission
A person’s regulatory commission who turns
His back on his personal time becomes free
To pursue time on his terms (a beach house)
A person of sonic regulation whose memory reminds him
Of something beyond that which was once the regulatory body
Legislating time reminds a sonic pastor of his own time becomes a
Cook as time becomes time becomes a man
Who exists in two times at any time considers the mode of time the greedy trick of time and time again I remind you need I remind you of time?

Girls and Food

We didn't have free love, that is to say the best looking girls still

wanted to get married. We did have dirty whores, and that suited me

fine. It was a whole different aesthetic with the whores, as it was

for the girls choosing between rat-bastards and squares, between

druggie management majors and yippie guitarists. The best looking

whore in the world would be disgusting if she didn't fuck everything

with three legs. As a whore though, she was beautiful. The ugliest

girl looking to get married probably couldn't pull enough dick to be a

whore if she tried. That is unless she actually, truly whored herself

out. For cash. She probably wouldn't pull too much of that either.

Bob's party had a dance floor. It was the dining room because that's

where they put the stereo, the table in the kitchen with the booze,

the pretty girls sitting around in the living room with the yippies

and the management majors. The whores were on the dance floor. I was

dancing. We were dancing, stopping to drink or run outside for a

cigarette, then dancing again, fast, to Planet Patrol or Michael

Jackson.

Some chick was out there with a bottle of Kharkov vodka, taking a

drink straight and putting the bottle to my lips, pouring it down my

throat. She was a big, fat whore. I was in love.

Her hair was greased up and dried hard as a rock, folded and pilled

up high, poking all over in the back, and every time I tried to touch

it she'd slap my hand away and put the bottle in my mouth. All I

wanted to do was see if I could break off on of those spikes in the

back. I put both hands on her big, fat ass instead.

She had a tattoo across her chest, and it showed above the low

neckline of her shirt and stretched every time her big, bouncing tits

went down. I had no idea what it was, but it was colorful and she let

me touch it, putting the bottle in my mouth every time I did.

"Mule," someone said behind me and grabbed my arm.

"Fuck off."

"Mule, we gotta dip."

It was Phil. Hester was behind him looking through the living room

and out the open front door.

"It's cops, Mule."

"Bull shit. Bob just wants everyone to leave so he can go to sleep.

"No really, look."

I looked and saw the silent cherries outside in the street. Closer,

in the living room, the pretty girls had each picked out a management

major to kick their ass later in the night. The yippies were sitting

in a circle, smoking.

"Well shit, I can be in here drinking. That's legal. Bob might get

fucked but I don't care."

"Hester's got that bud."

Hester was still looking outside.

"Fine, go."

"Drink," the whore said and tried to get the bottle into Phil's

mouth. He smacked it away and pulled me out of the room.

"What the hell! I could have fucked her," I said outside.

"I bet you would have. That's why I got you out of there," he told

me. "Look." Behind us, some cops were climbing the steps up from the

street and slipping on the packed down snow. "Let's get some food."

We got away from the houses; dark ones where old people were sleeping

and other ones lit up and packed with good girls and whores. We

passed some brick apartments and the street grew wider as we cut

through an alley, downhill, towards Hennipen and the Uptown Diner.

There were some guys down there, but I didn't notice at first because

I was thinking about Kharkov and my fat whore's tattoo, stretching as

she pounded away on some other guy, her tits bouncing in his face.

Hester was shouting at the guys, I don't know what, but it pissed them

off enough that they started kicking our asses right there in the

street outside the Uptown Diner. They didn't get us as bad as some

people would have, but they did enough that we were all shouting

"Fuck, man. Shit! I didn't do anything." This made them laugh and

walk away, so we went inside to eat.

There were some guys that had seen the whole fight from a booth by

the windows. They were laughing, calling us pussies. Hester went

over there and broke a plate on one of their forearms, swung it twice

before it broke on the kids arms as he held them up to protect his

face. The thick porcelain chucks fell in his lap and the fries went

down his shirt and into his jacket. The other guys were quiet and the

kid was yelling "fuck, man. Shit! I didn't say anything."

We got kicked out and the only place left open was White Castle. No

one in there looked at anyone else or said anything, so we just sat

there and ate out grease. A few blocks down the street we puked it

all back up on the sidewalk.

"It was cheap," I said. It felt a little better.

"I'm out," Phil told us. We were outside his apartment.

"I'm going to Laura's," Hester said, his phone in one hand, the other

hand pointing at a lit window in the building across the street. "See

you Mule."

I needed something to do so I made a snowball, waited for a cop car,

hit it and tried to run. I slipped on some packed-down snow and they

picked me and put me in the back seat.

"Drunk ass-hole," one of them said.

They put me in the drunk tank where everyone else was sleeping, so I

found a dry spot on a bench and passed out, dreaming of all the pretty

girls I'd ever known saying "fuck? I didn't do anything."

Drew Mueller is freezing his ass off in Minneapolis. At times, he posts shit at Mule Z (mulez.blogspot.com

33rd

By

Toussaint St. Negritude

Trane chasing impressions

of giant stepping blues

may not be

what Franklin heard

but all roads do lead

to 1511 N. 33rd.

West of Broad

and but a few shades off

Central Park West

facing the expressed expansion

of Fairmount Park

landing three flights up

from his Carolina heart

here way north of Vine

up these fine avenues

of black folks keeping black folks on time

the mission

is to reach the divine.

Cause just like what

Odean heard what Archie heard what

Lee Morgan heard

and you know what McCoy heard

all roads do lead

to 1511 N. 33rd.

Can I hear

some Jimmy Garrison on that?

Trane chasing impressions

of giant stepping blues

Trane chasing impressions

of giant stepping blues

Trane chasing impressions

of giant stepping blues

may not be

what Franklin heard

But all roads do lead

to 1511 N. 33rd.

Born in 1959, poet, composer, bass clarinetist,

Toussaint St. Negritude Orson Gregory Titus,

the grandson of early Ellingtonian, pianist, composer

James B. Titus, has accordingly long espoused the

jazz inspirations of his own creative development.

Growing up in San Francisco, Toussaint St. Negritude

attended Grambling State University, and in 1979,

left college to pursue a 3 year exploration of the

Negritude Movement, in the Republic of Haiti. This

voudouesque encounter with the convergence of art

and spirit has fervently become the template for all

of his work, including his name. It is precisely this

esprit de vivre heard in the works of Langston Hughes,

James Baldwin, Zora Neale Hurston, and those of

Duke Ellington through Eric Dolphy that has led this

poet-turned-musician to freely blow his grand

design of the cosmos-in-b-flat.

Since Port-au-Prince, Toussaint St. Negritude has

published and recorded broadly and has duly climbed

a continuous path towards his muse, conjuring stays

in the arts communities of Houston, Paris, Savannah,

Eureka, and now in the the historic Coltrane District

of Philadelphia.

Keeping his bags on the globe, Mr. St. Negritude is

currently compiling notes for further publications and

performances and is soon to be blowing a poem towards

your town.

For bookings and more information, you may reach

Toussaint St. Negritude at stnegritude@hotmail.com.