Bards bide their time in bundles of intense rhythm and woe. Trials and tribulations of the common troubadour.
I'd like to introduce you to a few local poets via their poetry.
Copyright © 2008 J.A. All rights Reserved.
from "The Devil Won't Let me In", manic d press Alice is a dear friend and resides in Portland, OR. She is from Chicago, IL and has led a very interesting life con mucho gusto. Her performances are out of this world shocking with a vaudeville feel. She's on the lower right hand side of the photo. She has several books published and often sells and buys copies back from Powell's book store since there are so few copies left. Infatuation vs. Entropy by Starlite Motel You watch as my will disintegrate as fast as public lives of tabloid stars that sniff up hasty coke along the road to rehabs more fabulous than the house that I sweat rent for, and I let you smash the smoking cigarette of your whole self into the crowded ashtray of my sentiment because why not, why not when I paint myself with lipstick trickery into a total whore for love that's still not smart enough to turn down IOU's. I am still high booted on the corner that connects the shin bone to something else, and the wet spot of the heart to the intersecting pipe of gutter as you tug, unraveling my sleeves of glitzy dresses that seemed, like other bad ideas, so glamorous, and just so briefly lit with sparkles I'd once thought would not rub off this easy. -Starlite Motel is a performance poet as well with her own sultry sass style. She also has a book called Neon Signs of America. She recently tied the knot in Vegas with Elvis at the altar. Tommy Gaffney, I Hope (Three Beers From Oblivion) Earwater Press I hope to see a reflection not whitewashed in angst, I hope to live just one moment free of self-destruction, I hope to overthrow the terror that has siezed my existence, I hope to be more than just a breeze, I hope to quench my insatiable hunger to belong, I hope to find a friendship that doesn't wither, I hope to kiss lips eager to kiss mine, I hope to devour a passion that doesn't blister, I hope to open my overcoat and expose my desires, I hope to peel away from the shadows, I hope to confront a world that has long ignored me, I hope to find a conviction strong enough to blaze my own trail, I hope to have a notion others believe in, I hope to be gazed upon with envious eyes, I hope to live a life not easily forgotten, Tommy is not living a life easily forgotten, he's an inspiration to us all. I am the demon inhabiting George W. Bushe's head split open like a satanic Athena sprung from Zeus the president's a portal teleporting archetypes into the whitehouse former sinner, now saved open his heart attack surgery Socrates screaming from his cave. Plato's ventriloquists chopping heads and eating hearts this road to hell so well paved this cowboy warrior must burn sagebrush in a Texas desert burn down Basra Behind this archetype lurks another, watch me spin Social Security like a gyroscopic neck, spider walk this economy into Argentina's toilet, puke up Mapplethorpe Abu Ghraib photos and shove a unilateral crucifix up the U.N.'s cunt. the electorate chants, "we're going to let Bush fuck you, fuck you , fuck you:" Just don't blame him for all the evils done by all you in my possessions. Patrick Bocarde is Portland's "monster poet" although this isn't one of his monster themed poems, or is it? Ver Olas from sweet victrolas, comes the singing soma in goatee and bolo performing a garden suit solo troubling its fellow for a pinch of the dusty dreary (I regret to this day reading that poem in a job interview)
in a velvet smoking cloak, sways across the moat time and time again
wiping weary from its clouded windshield
ver olas ver olas ver olas ver olas
feel spooky feels sane to stand upright in the wave
Here is a poem by James Victor Yeary a.k.a. Jimmy Victory
Pan
He was born to make porn with lilt as red leaves yellow, brown+drown in their seasonal promise. you ask for a slave, veal and a laser pointer.
I hurriedly order the next drink.
can i photograph you with my golden camera Obscura, next to your sister, September?
can I buy you, with gold,
perennial pastures and azure land?
light shoots from your lenses to mine, blinding me. I machine out a dollar, masked as the inventor of comedy. was Persephone's mom I really wanted
only for the letters she sent with each new mood of hers. a read leaf's letter, Brownian nail of her intangible finger. as i lord over hell makin' babies, sayin' "Goliath was my friend"
when things fail or fall off call it a harvest,
For as I am King of Hades:
When hell freezes over I'll bring her.
seven sisters softly sing
Six kings dream
Ring round a dead girl's finger
Jimmy Victory is victor in his yeary dear in the dare-y aire a swell kid swimming.
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