Monday, October 12, 2015

3 poems by 3 poets

illustrations by palomine studios

the dream

by wiggly jones, "the little hippie boy"

stalin never wore a suit and tie
because he was just a regular guy
and neither did mao ze dong
because he truly loved the people all day long

the human race was willing and eager
to be saved by woody guthrie and pete seeger
but j edgar hoover and richard nixon
betrayed their dreams by putting the fix in

if lorca and gary cooper had defeated franco
and john garfield and henry fonda robbed every bank, oh
there might still be time to save the earth
from the koch brothers’ stalactitic mirth

as the earth fries like a slice of spam
who will denounce the oligarch’s evil sham
where’s emma goldman? rosa luxembourg? mike gold?
down moloch’s hill the world’s already rolled

soupy fedora

by chuck leary

he wore a soupy fedora
in the streets of gomorrah
and waited patiently for autumn
in the alleys of sodom

as the train pulls out
the flower girls shout
and the newsboys cry
for a slice of cherry pie

the rain pours down
on the fedora’s battered crown
and the downturned brim
hides the infinite sadness of slim

chance flashed him a card
and he tried very hard
to remember its contours
and down the rain still pours

fair ladies

by corinne delmonico

all women can not be the same
they must play the beauty game
someone must be placed above
all others in desire and love

billions of ladies crowd the scene
but one must be crowned queen
for to see them all the human brain
would collapse under the strain

paris hilton had her day in the sun
we hope she had some fun
then it was kim kardashian’s turn
she still has fame to burn

now fate has given the world a gift
taylor swift
no need to cry and cuss
when you also have miley cyrus

Monday, September 21, 2015

3 poems

by horace p sternwall

illustrations by roy dismas

the twilight of twilight

in a long forgotten age
poets maudits were all the rage
drunk, unshaven, and ill dressed
the bourgeoisie they quite impressed
with words grandiloquent and sage

every mountebank and magus
made a claim yet more outrageous
in their desperate ascension
to the summits of pretension
with every street corner their stages

they measured out their days
in bistros and cafes
watching honest citizens pass
they trembling raised a glass
as they composed their unmemorable lays

one no longer hears or sees
much about poets maudits
their absinthe-stained cravats
and battered wide-brimmed hats
have vanished in a green reverie


bohemian nights

a slubberdegullion named suzy
drifted through the days blue and boozy
she followed the pattern
of an unregenerate slattern
and could not often choose to be choosy

she had no reserves of gold bullion
when she dined it was often on slumgullion
when her partners in crime
threw her a lousy dime
she said, hey pal, thanks a mullion

no one was up to the task
of ever caring to ask
if suzy had any dreams
or just floated down life’s stream
holding tight to an empty flask

one night she was just gone
but no one commented on
that most unremarkable fact
whether from indifference or tact
and they kept on drinking until dawn



ezra wrote some poems
they didn’t take up much space
he had a twinkle in his eye
and a smile upon his face

ezra wrote some poems
they didn’t take up much space
he had made his contribution
to the culture of the human race

the years stretched out before him
repetitious, bleak, and long
he had some thoughts on the history of civilization
that his fellow humans found quite wrong

ezra wrote some poems
they didn’t take up much space
they will be preserved forever
in a silent purple place


Sunday, September 20, 2015

fighting words

by jack dale coody

the road may be long and lonely
the way may be dark and bleak
demons may hound and surround me
but i lift up my voice to speak

kings may laugh on their golden thrones
and darkness cover the earth
they can banish me from the city
but i know what my words are worth

o lackeys off the powerful
and priests of jealous gods
i will never cease in my quest for truth
no matter what the odds

you can call me a bum and madman
a parasite and a freak
you can build a thousand walls to contain me
i will lift up my voice to speak

masters of the universe
in your towers built with lies
i will lift up my voice forever
without subterfuge or disguise

the highway is crowded with howling dogs
the woods with ravenous beasts
serpents may drag me to the pit of hell
i will lift up my voice to speak

Monday, August 31, 2015


by roger "pegleg" wilson

illustrations by konrad kraus and danny delacroix

i decided to hitchhike to fresno california to buy a banana.

i got a ride outside barrington vermont from a guy in a 1963 oldsmobile.

he said his name was john. i believed him.

i told him my name was ted.

after that we didn’t talk much.

the car rocked from side to side on the highway like a boat on a stormy sea.

night fell.

we were halfway between pittsburgh and louisville kentucky when the car turned into two cars.

the one with john at the wheel speeded up and disappeared from sight.

the other one with me in the passenger seat kept on.

there was no steering wheel.

i could drive it with my mind but i couldn’t slow it down.

and i couldn’t stop it because it had no brakes.

traffic increased when i got almost to columbus ohio.

it became harder and harder to keep in my lane.

big semis and buses began crowding and passing me.

but i couldn’t slow down.

then i heard a siren. the highway patrol!

i wanted them to catch me but i couldn’t slow down.

then i saw a dirt road off to the side.

somehow i got the car on to it!

the car bounced and bumped along between the trees and over the rocks but at least it started to slow down.

finally it stopped!

i breathed a sigh a relief. i was still alive.

i got out of the car fast before it could start up again!

me and the car were in a clearing. naturally there was a cabin in the clearing.

there were no lights on in the cabin.

it started to rain.

then i heard the sirens again.

the highway patrol had discovered where i went and was following me!

would they believe my story about not being able to stop the car?

about driving it with only my mind?

the rain started to come down hard. that decided me.

i made a dash for the cabin.

even though somehow i felt positive there was nobody inside i started pounding on the door.

the siren stopped but i could hear the patrol car coming down the road.

i pushed at the door. it opened.

“anybody home?” i called.

even though i knew there wasn’t.

i bumped into a table.

there was a dark shape in the corner - an old-fashioned icebox.

i opened it.

there was a bottle of coca-cola inside - it looked nice and cold.

and a banana.

a bright yellow banana.

i didn’t have to go all the way to fresno california for a banana after all.


Wednesday, July 29, 2015


by horace p sternwall

illustrations by konrad kraus and roy dismas

it was all over.

the jig was up. there was no tomorrow.

he was up the creek without a paddle, and there was no rest for the weary.

he was caught like a deer in the headlights, between the devil and the deep blue sea.

soon it would be morning. dawn would break over the city like the sneering smile of a railroad boss, ready to crack the whip over the millions of chumps and losers and punks and hacks who sweated and strained to keep the machine of so-called civilization running.

running and running and running until it wore them all down and threw them away like pairs of old shoes. like yesterday's papers.


he would have to man up, get his act together, and do what had to be done.

he lit his last cigarette with his last match.

the bottle of cheap whiskey - the devil's brew, which had undone many a good man and true - was empty, drained to the last drop.

all his so-called friends had deserted him, like rats leaving a sinking ship.

only trixie was left, passed out on the couch. she was a cheap floozie with a heart that had tuned from purest gold to deadest lead a thousand dimes a dance ago, across a thousand red dawns coming up over a thousand cheap rooming houses, and a thousand torn up love letters blowing down the boardwalk into the sand.

she'd stick around as long as there was a nickel or a smoke to bum or a drop of booze to mooch.

then she'd be gone like a cool breeze.

suddenly there was a knock on the door, breaking the silence with a noise like a machine gun.

before he could make a move the door opened.

there was maxie, the big guy's most trusted gorilla, with a cheap stogie pasted in his ugly mug. and a roscoe in his right hand.

and right behind him his sidekick phil - phil the parrot, with his permanent giggly sneer, the slimiest rat that ever crawled out of the lowest sewer.

phil had both hands in his pockets, but you could bet dollars to doughnuts he had a .22 in one and a shiv in the other.

"hello, johnny," maxie drawled.

"hello, maxie. i wish i could say it was a pleasure."

"then the pleasure will have to be all mine, johnny. no problem."

"come on, maxie, let's get it over with."

maxie raised his bushy eyebrows. they looked like two evil gray caterpillars getting ready to fight.

"get what over with, kid? we just came to have a friendly little chat."

behind him phil giggled like a hyena.

"don't try to play me for a sucker, maxie. i know the score. i know the big guy don't forgive and forget. and he's got a memory like an elephant. it's over. it's the bottom of the ninth, and i got two strikes on me with nobody on base. there's no more light in the tunnel. there's no more water left in the well."

maxie laughed. "don't be so dramatic, kid. you sound like sarah bernhardt playing hamlet at the white house. there's no need to be nervous. we're all friends here."

phil giggled again.

johnny nodded. "yeah. when i had money i had lots of friends. but now nobody knows me when i'm down and out."

maxie looked around the flea-bitten room, noticed trixie on the couch.

"who's she?"

"just a dame."

"yeah, i kind of figured that." maxie stared at trixie for a few seconds and then looked at johnny . "well, back to serious business. it seems the big guy, in his inscrutable way, and for reasons known only to himself, has decided to give you one last chance."

"one last chance," johnny repeated.

behind maxie, phil giggled again. he sounded like a broken record.

"he has a job for you. just one. it's easy."

"he wants me to kill somebody."

"no, he wants you to go out to his farm on long island and milk a goat. what do you think he wants?" maxie turned and nodded to phil.

phil took his left hand out of his pocket and tossed something to johnny.

johnny grabbed it. it was a zip gun. it looked it was held together with chewing gum.

"you like it?" phil tittered. "i made it myself. i'm real proud of it. like an old mama lion watching her boy go off to war."

johnny turned it over gingerly in his hand. "it doesn't look like --. " he didn't know what to say.

"no," maxie finished for him. "it doesn't look like something remington hand crafted for j p morgan or the prince of wales. but it will work like a charm if you walk right up to somebody and stick it in their guts."

"it's got one shot in it," phil added. "one. so don't be getting any ideas, punk."

"phil's right," said maxie. "it's got just one bullet in it. so make sure you aim straight and true."

johnny shrugged. he put the zip gun on the table beside the empty whiskey bottle.

"all right. who's the one lucky customer?"

"a guy named skorzys, he has a little tailor shop over on 21st street."

"what kind of name is that?"

"foreign. he's a foreigner. he just fell off a slow banana boat from china."

"let me guess. he doesn't speak the language?"

"no," said maxie. "he don't speak the simplest language of all - the language of knowing who his friends are."

"or knowing how to play ball," added phil.

"you don't want me to try to talk to him?" johnny asked.

"he's already been talked to," said maxie. "the time for talk has passed. we just want you to write the book on him."

"the final chapter," added phil.

"it's your party," johnny agreed. he got his coat and hat. he didn't want to stick the zip gun in his belt or his pocket so he wrapped it in his coat and put the coat under his arm.

johnny put his hat on and followed maxie and phil out the door.

trixie was still asleep on the couch.

johnny didn't lock the door behind him. he had lost the key.


skorzys the tailor was small and bald. his mustache looked thick enough to sweep grand central station with.

he stood behind a counter and didn't say anything to johnny when he entered, just watched as johnny put the rolled up coat on the counter.

"what i do for you?" he asked as johnny unrolled the coat.

johnny showed him the zip gun. "you can do something for yourself, pal. say a prayer. prepare to meet your maker. "

the little man's eyes blazed. "ah... you come for me, eh? just like the old country!"

"the countries are all the same, pal. you got to pay the price. no tickee, no shirtee."

"i thought this country different. i work hard, i save my money to come here, to the new world where a man can be free..."

suddenly a door behind the counter opened. someone started to come through, with something in their hand...

johnny fired the one shot. it sailed above the open door and into the ceiling.

a girl stood in front of him, with a coat on a hanger. she was about seventeen years old. she was the most beautiful girl johnny had ever seen, with long black hair, dark eyes and rosy cheeks. i could marry a girl like this, thought johnny, go away and live on an island with her forever, have nine or ten kids...

"you punk!" she screamed at him. "go ahead and kill us! burn in hell, you no good cowardly punk!"

johnny dropped the empty zip gun and turned and ran out the door.

the sun was coming up over broadway.

phil was waiting for him. he had a gun in his hand, not a .22 but a .45.

"you had one chance, punk," he told johnny. "you blew it."

he put two slugs into johnny's guts, slugs that would have stopped a charging rhino.

"yeah," said johnny, "i had one life. and i blew that."


"recognize him?" officer o'malley asked father joe.

"i sure do," father joe answered. " johnny 'the blade' o'flaherty. a real tough guy."

officer o'malley stuck his boot under johnny's body and flipped it over on its back. "he was a tough guy, all right. a real tough guy."

johnny's hat rolled away and the wind picked it up and blew it down 21st street.