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week of May 24 - 30, 2004



Scott Malby and Melanie Goldstein




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Death of a Mauve Bat! | Sinzibuckwud! | We Put Things In Our Mouths | A Man With No Teeth Serves Us Breakfast
I'd Like to Bake Your Good | Stolen Mummies| Brendan Constantine is My Kind of Town | Up Liberty's Skirt | Feeding Holy Cats | Mowing Fargo
I'm a Jew, Are You
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| I Am My Own Orange County | Paris: It's The Cheese | Poetry Super Highway
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Scott Malby
beowolf2@harborside.com

Bio (auto)

From Coos Bay, Oregon, whenever I'm asked for a brief bio I wonder about the tales my briefs could tell. It scares me. Fortunately, I'm afraid mine are nondescript. I try to write every day. I'm one of the three pigs rather then the big bad wolf. I wash my clothes regularly and am under no illusion regarding the importance of my work. Sometimes, it too goes through the laundry. I write one good piece for every three bad ones. I hope I'm getting better at my craft. I'm the judge of that. I don't listen to anyone else. They're all crazy.

The following work is Copyright © 2004, and owned by Scott Malby and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Howdy, a sermon to my soul

"Then answered all the people, and said His blood
be on us and our children."
Matthew, 27:25

a.
High on the weed of my folly, in may of my life, speaking in tongues,
crucified on the altar of the trailer trash blues,
what questions I have of you tonight, Allen Ginsberg.
I'm late. Can't sleep. It's been days. I missed my high.
Noth'n to do but slit my wrists and climb inside
my mind fermenting on the juice of psilocybin whispers.
I look in the direction from which they come
picking me up and planting me down thousands of thoughts
from where I began, stranded in this all night porno store
we call the world filled with velvet hallucinations. Here, I contemplate excitedly
my pending orgasmicly induced spiritual awakening, wondering if it will ever come,
perusing the half price racks, wanting to believe
in something but my minds rear ended, overwhelmed by it all,
looking for symbols that will last. Hey, I'm open, honest, I love to laugh.
I have fun wherever I go. I have nothing to hide,
the spiritual world's got nothing on me, despite how innocent I seem,
I'm very, very naughty, a unique lover too.
O Spiritual Awakening, don't leave me on the outside looking in,
take me in hand, strike me with lightning. It was then I thought of you
Allen Ginsberg and Walt Whitman. Like Chaucer's pilgrims
filling the breeze with verbal ribaldry, peeking at the adds for penis
enlargements, looking to meet new friends, and I wanted to walk up
and smile and shake your hands and wrestle you both to the ground
and say: Ginsberg, you did all right for a whacko, skinny kid
from Paterson, New Jersey. Had you loved women more and angels less,
I might have been your spiritual son, wrapped in a baby blanket
of sun flower mantras, having grass blown up my nose. You've taught me real poets
celebrate and when it comes to relevance the tradition is clear:
going from Emerson through Whitman to Ginsberg. Imagine my surprise
to learn my poetic pilgrimage turns out to be not to Canterbury
but to a mental ward or freak fest in Vegas. Whitman, I said,
tell me your secret, share that bag of windy tricks out foxing imperfection
becoming Whitmanesque. He pulled at his beard in a polite, petit bourgeoisie way
saying the problem is everyone believes they're what they create. Be simple and clear.
Be specific and transcendental. Exorcise from the plague of your pages their influences.
Suspend disbelief. Believe what you're doing. Resist identities.
Paradox is essence. Out of your own contradictions comes poetry.
See into things. Keep moving that life can't get a good aim
or you'll be overtaken by the pathologies of history. I wish I could say he laughed but he didn't.

b.
I'm inky eyed and hopeful. My heart on fire with unclean sores
blossoming into multi-colored Buddha babies of pain.
I'm a leper from society and damn proud of it weaving reality
into taffy I pull with my teeth where all my dreams
turn into bitchy grand daughters of a charming, mysterious thief
knocking me through crazy hoops of fate,
down visionary god chasms and up against the limp wristed
tendrils of time. My poems are plastic gardenias sprouting
inside my head where I rake through hell the coupling
vowels that war with me. My poems are pimply bums
pulling their trousers down inside my mind, seducing
me into the metaphysical of their space. I spit in the eye
of their tease knowing that confidence is ignorance
refusing to learn from itself, how in creating my own myth
I distort it. I see these words for what they are, full of promises
that never pan out, blind in their revolution of non revolt.
Studied animals of the underground. A parting between thighs,
methane experts of hot gas. But to be in harmony with yourself
is to breathe no more and I refuse to be interred early simply
to avoid disappointment or having my name mispronounced
by literary guides with a lisp. To all the old poems I once lived in,
the states of mind I traveled through, the relics of jailed time
sentenced into the oblivion of my past, my unmelodious yelps
of icy protestations, images, aphorisms, raps reperplexing
infinitude, I give thanks knowing I will always be a poet without
portfolio, homeless, picking through my own alphabet soup,
a miser without sense who turns on a vowel to pick up a consonant,
a literary vandal ransacking the beatitudes of history.
Dude, I have big hairy ideas. I might be an ass but in my defense,
isn't taste an expert without eyes complementing itself on how far
it has come?


Melanie Goldstein
melanie_goldstein@yahoo.com

Bio

Melanie goldstein lives in Los Angeles, CA. She is an aspiring television editor, an unpublished poet and an accomplished procrastinator.

The following work is Copyright © 2004, and owned by Melanie Goldstein and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Cracked

she said "this girl is like your egg"
before the tears slid down and stained
the paper napkin,
billowing around her index finger.


Analysis

eat the meat.
i'll sit here,
exposed
to air and spoiled
while you ruminate.


The Coworker

please just try to hold within
your awe, your open reverence,
your lilt, your gait, your tender
worship's made us simply sick.

those eyes, that smirk, a jerked up
grin of solid satiety,
that sucking up and pulling
of your air has left rooms stale.

so careful not to scratch too
rough the gloss - it smears, it slips,
it swims in shallow circles, full
and taught by your intentions.

Death of a Mauve Bat! | Sinzibuckwud! | We Put Things In Our Mouths | A Man With No Teeth Serves Us Breakfast
I'd Like to Bake Your Good | Stolen Mummies| Brendan Constantine is My Kind of Town | Up Liberty's Skirt | Feeding Holy Cats | Mowing Fargo
I'm a Jew, Are You
| Lizard King of the Laundromat
| I Am My Own Orange County | Paris: It's The Cheese | Poetry Super Highway
Rick's Bookmarks |
Cobalt Poets | E-mail Rick | Upcoming Readings | Who The Hell Is Rick