Wild Poets - Home

This is a place to let your creativity blossom. We are a community of poets, writers, artists, musicians, thinkers, and dreamers. We do not limit ourselves to a single media, dogma, ideology, or style - our only credo is to CREATE.

If you're interested in contributing your work, please feel free to take a look at our
Posting and Submission Guidelines

New Creations:

beneath

by M.C. Bertram

frost breathing through rimy sedge nothing stirs creeks almost frozen crackling ice-sheets smoothly close in small fish beneath but dreams in sleep or suffocation stay vivid

9

by Alael Rose

You're a bruise.
A dendrite flush before anuerysmal petal.
I don't want to see you, pained baby faces.
Leave me to the sky, with roots.

Slow Bones

by Caribou Slim

An experiment with trombones & clarinets... click into the article to listen...

Troubadors

by Peter Le Baige

troubadors
- to John Lennon, Bob Dylan & Leonard Cohen

when John was
shot down
by a fool
in New York
i knew
this world
makes no sense
the pain of love
the pain of pain
in his voice
love won
only a
cold point
through the
back

when the universe
takes Bob back
his voice
from the bottom
of mankind
coming up
through
his voice now
as old as
he strove to
sound young
those words
in that voice
the earth will
for me
but an instant
lean into
shadow.

sweet Leonard,
when your time
has come
the fullness of
a struck bell
i'll take your
voice down from
the upper shelf
like an old
whiskey wrapped
in a dapper
song of yours
and drink it on
till closing
time.

...

Te Werahi Beach and the promised land

by Peter Le Baige

Te Werahi Beach & the promised land*
* see commentary further below

from the drenched shadow of the morning cliff
looking west it lay out on the running ocean
Cape Maria van Diemen,
a name scratched down once of a time
by restless europeans on parchment,
a promised land of the dawn
mapped in early gold
sand hills forged as
simple as cloud along
the still pink rim of sky west
or a rock on the inward rush
of a wave the beach wide
hid a city on the other side
of old things,
missing friends, lost stories, altars
laden with fruits and burning meats,
old sailors of the pacific
and further seas in the tavern
dead drunk in their mermaids’ clasp.
streets that drop away like winds
in the folds of a mainsail
a city that cannot last the sun falling
from higher than the tip
of the ridge, a whole city
gone like dew in the curl of the
marram grass whipped back
and forth...

blues fading

by M.C. Bertram

red hues turn into shadow
behind crumbling fronts
signs no longer mean what they stand for
windows close
all calls subdued by their echoes
you shut up
last reflections thrown back from your indigo glass eyes shiny surface

cross of wood

by M.C. Bertram

Karma: 6 dead rosewood cut - into fingers, bled – smoothed, waxed and polishedpierced with red-hot needle the end of the shorter arm of the longer stickto pull through threads of silk from disturbed butterflies - spend my fare, got blisters on the waymodest gift among all this flitteryou smile,the shining string around your neck sinks low where the work done by my hands takes in warmth

Text Worlds

by David Wright

hola todos,
aqui: http://www.yourworldoftext.com/opened
the latest opened grid. stop by and destroy my purpled works...

Love to all, photos and updates to ensue with tech upgrade this summer. I hope all are safe and working...

David Lee

Lost

by Wrulf Gunkl-VonGlashaus

It was the glorious terror of an instant whenthe sun was lost in the moon - and the explosion shook the hair out ofthe world into the abyss of our joined womb nourished by the blinding light, … enraptured and captive, we ran and hidthen dared to play, first, you were the sun and I was the moon, nextI was the sun, you, the gem haunting the silken web of night... … and the explosion stillshakes our abyssnourished by our enraptured eyes filledwith the terrifying glory - of a joined moon and sun...

flintstone

by M.C. Bertram

things would last in the stone age and take their timecaves and cairns carefully buildt withstood the yearsdeeds and words left impressions on skin and soulhave this flintstone.....................all logs now piled up to the last one

Smogbotten ~ 8

by Caribou Slim

Chasing the bumblebee
I found Aphrodite trampled and set her alight
She sent me tumbling through the clouds
Desperation dancing through the fear of years to come
Tangled in a maze of twisted promises
Hearts lost in the swirling storm
Autumn winds whitling brittle love into snowflakes
Singing split infinity

untitled

by M.C. Bertram

Years ago I watched a documentation on TV, showing places and buildings of southern India, many of them in variing stages of dilapidation. The following interview with the eighteen year old mahant of a hinduistic monastery I memorize. When mockingly asked his feelings about the obvious decline everywhere, he smiled, patiently waited to catch the reporter`s eyes, then answered: "You travelled far and know much about our culture. The veils of Maya have many colours.“

remaining grins

by M.C. Bertram

grins remain where all faces gone grinding bone dust between their teeth that drips off fills the hour glass and keeps running down... . with much left to fall in a cheshire point of view while you walk in and out becoming my face of time

scouring water

by M.C. Bertram

Before you took off you left something behind: a dot on the floor is a sore to my mind. I bought special treatments applied all in vain; whatever you do marks like this will remain. So scrubbing the blur with a soap stone all day, it started to slur but refused to give way. I screamed at the speck to piss off full of rage; now don’t you imagine this spot left the stage. I hold you in scorn for all times so I swear, and use clear cold water to drown my worst fear...

In a Haze

by M.C. Bertram

I felt white horses passing by, the strand was wide and full of mist, a sea gull gave another cry, the sky was clouded, when we kissed. These youthful days now long ago, we drive along, turn off the gas, sometimes just pacing to and fro, lost outlooks in the rearview glass. Right on the make you take me down, life puts a burden in our bags, and dressing up to go to town, will most of us return in rags. Long hours plodding in a haze, subjected to your gracious smile entangled in this narrow maze, will I hang on here for a while.

rain

by M.C. Bertram

rain found its way inside my brain filling cells and bloating thoughts . you hung up some pieces on the clothes-line eager to make ends meet.... but again you`ve forgotten the spring clips

Snow Globe reflections

by Scarlet Raven

Glassy-eyed imploding miasma Ambered scents Visions, glistening globule hell Concealed, flake upon flake arbitrary fallasy Pure concision derision Lustrous white lie

Fangs Of Love

by Wrulf Gunkl-VonGlashaus

in memory of Todd Moore (*) Financially, Peter (Pyotr) Tchaikovsky, the famous Russian composer, was supported by Nadezhda von Meck, a wealthy widow, for thirteen years. Without a romantic attachment involved, they exchanged a torrid correspondence throughout that period, and Tchaikovsky was deeply wounded when Madame von Meck withdrew her sustenance, possibly due to financial set-backs, perhaps because she found out about his homosexuality. Despite her reasons, one version of the story about Tchaikovsky’s death says that he repeatedly spoke her name while in a delirium during his final illness. - Prince Kiyama boiling up stirring the featherless soup, liquid brimstone black cat-bone stew seething omens of steam acrid Big Easy incense dervishing above the bayous, fangs of the city time blue inoculation of sorrow clinging to the street car of Desire racing to the Cemetery and churches beyond with windows of dripping crystal, altars of Russian-consecrated delirium and sweet...

The Neo-Nasriddin Tales

by Wrulf Gunkl-VonGlashaus

Introduction Wrulf VonGlashaus was born in St. Maries, Idaho. He lived in Pueblo, Colorado, for 22 years before taking up residence in Ankara, Turkey, in 2004. He is a composer, as well as a published poet and short fiction writer. He first learned about Nasriddin Hoja through friends among the Turkish community in Pueblo during the 80’s, when he began creating Nasriddin Hoja stories of his own. He has expanded the compilation to the works contained in this collection. For those unfamiliar with the canon of stories about him, Nariddin Hoja was an enormously famous wise man/fool and all-around funny man, born in Akshehir, Turkey, around the turn of the 13th.-14th. centuries A. D., and who is always shown riding his donkey backwards in pictures of him. Often, the Hoja (“the Teacher”) is the “butt” of stories portraying him as helping solve other peoples’ problems when he doesn’t know what he is doing. No matter: Nasriddin always has something quick, often...

I had a planning sheet to wear

by David Wright

It’s not on. It’s appeal to finer senses of time, money,substances we all share for free. The core of yourself free to explore home.

I am not afraid of myself, it’s a change that details flecksof ashen color into rainbows of beauty “is” poems e.g. beauty “is” not knowingany thing.

It’s being, then there : : afraid and pealing : : dividedcrises across the soil, the big, sweaty pool of lies.

I can wink. I can dive. I can see how hell we are homeagain, free-turn chained to the temperance ghosts of corn, the beauty is poemsfor all the editors in the world, especially the copy editors ‒ dash.

What does itmatter if the breakers were always a fake? A grey gangrene nose will solveanyone’s fascination with a mirror.

‘cause theysay, or they certainly had, it’s time for work, a toil that follows us home topay visit with the breath. Our little students renting furniture from themachine.

A...

Magnolia Song

by Wrulf Gunkl-VonGlashaus

Magnolia Song (for The Beloved and in honor of Arthur Rimbaud) … the magnolias are far away – still, I sing, begging them for bridges to brood with stanzas of butterflies in the suffocation around and heat mocking the sea where once we walked the shore beneath the cruel commas of hawks showering seraphimic curses, pink roses upon storms flung upward from spotted, inverted baskets, northern Iranian mountains aching praying wandering the cavern between the olive-minuet of your eyes and mine absconding their color from above and knitted by anguished waves stumbling, floundering into lunar mercury, the slant of scouring rain throwing blue into our faces in cadences dribbling from lemons and leaves of tea, strong with riots of black peppers hurting our tongues along the central street of our knowing, speaking silence without riddles yet wrapped about our shoulders with brazen mysteries hovering above the staring magnolias which now have crowded in... … though I still sing and...

Grief

by Bhuwan Thapaliya

Clouds of choking dustswirl through Haiti, bodies lie splayedin a pile: an expandingmatrix of bereavement. A man holdsa half peeled orange, a mother liesnear her daughter, face dismantled ruthlesslyby the trembling beast. A young boywith outstretched arms seemscrucified. Who willcover them with Earth? Who will pluck some flowersand place them upon their grave? All alone, a wounded survivorstands apart, gazing in disbeliefat the sky frozen by horrorand lost in a Ginsberg daze, he feelsthe world crumbling in his mouth, flimsy and frail. Copyright 2010 Bhuwan Thapaliya

Birdie

by Wrulf Gunkl-VonGlashaus

(an undeveloped 49-cent mini-micro-novelette for the *modern American mind)Recently, the navigational device - ostensibly set for home - went onthe blink on my homing pigeon. I call him Brandon, a sleekly blandand unchallenging name for the twenty-first century. And Brandon's ahoming, not 'my homy pigeon, homy bird' or 'bundle of homy feathers'or I might've simply called him 'yo, wahz up, dude.' But then, he'syoung and never much home, in the first place.Still, just awhile ago I needed to send a message - an old-fashionedmessage. I stepped outside, Brandon in hand, aimed toward where themessage needed going, made sure the path was clear of harm - likemanslaughter of two or more stones with one bird - and cocked my arm,throwing as hard and far as I could.Maybe shouldna throwed so hard, at least that hard - or maybe Brandonstopped off for an avian merger somewhere along the way, if he's nottoo far left-winged for monopolies or too right-winged for love, thatis. Either way, I don't think...

Max Buys A Pair Of Glasses

by Wrulf Gunkl-VonGlashaus

Max had a good life: a lovely wife, Claudine, a large collection ofexotic butterflies, two daughters, Maxine and Tulipitha, and a son,Girard. Included were a good job as a computer consultant, a nicehouse in the suburbs, two cars, a sailboat, an almost brand-newriding lawnmower, Churchill, the family's shaggy sheepdog, and aworld-class purrer of a cat named Adolf because dark, strangemustache-like markings under it's nose reminded everyone of Hitler.Max and Claudine were in only their late thirties, and they, the petsand the kids were in excellent health. The house's suburban plumbingwas discreetly functional; both cars and the lawnmower started withthe first twist of keys in the ignition and the sailboat sailedbeautifully when the wind blew. Max certainly had more than enoughbutter to slap on the right side of his bread.Yet, there came a time when Max became deeply restless because thetruth of life's luster and beauty had vanished for him. He had noidea why or what to do. But at the...

The Black Dahlia Madonna Of New Orleans

by Wrulf Gunkl-VonGlashaus

(based on an event that occurred along Interstate 25 just north of Pueblo, Co., in the mid-90's) They said she was from New Orleans,the police,found her driver's license and even a credit card or two - thenervousyoung sheriff's deputy forgot to record how many,but he'd just been hired days earlier,still raw to the reality of violent death,had a fresh young wife and a new-born kid at homeand he'd been too overwhelmed for anythingbut to leave a hint she'd belonged to a class of thoseable to buy an occasional trinket, order pizza over the phonewith a long number on plastic not announcing her profession tovoices on the other end,a row of digits not revealing what she didfrom around eleven one morning until three or four the nextfor as long as she had a chance to survive duressand have a decent amount left over,Times were rough,nobody cared that she didn't belong to a class of thoseable to inch upward and stake out territory in the Quarter,forcing her to work other areascloser to the cliff...

Shaman Untitled

by Wrulf Gunkl-VonGlashaus

Shaman Untitled … long agoin the timeless now,we traveled, whencame a shamangiggling in the glee of bringing us chest-to-chest,his eyes mirroring ourlustful wonder of nipple-kissesin burnished darkness, a dawnflooding our mouths in feverish melding, andthe wind opening, ravishing us tofind our roots in olive groves between the pillars of our thighs,temple incense, earthy aroma and soil-poresbirthing obelisks taut and sweetly anguished forthe suckling moon-circle of our lips,and the shaman sighing in sanctifying the curveof my nether realm asyour mount of worship fedon your furrowing seed, sungby hissing, the sacred pleasure oftoes curled likeyour hair washing the valley of my neck,your fingers against mine counting, then crushingthe blasphemy of time spiraling giddilyinto the flirtation of your eyeschallenging the irises in mine, asking,begging for us to meet again and againuntil the sun is finally watching,beggingfor a temple of its ownand us inseparableby even the sword of its...

Song Of The Unborn Child

by Wrulf Gunkl-VonGlashaus

(The following doesn't promote anti-abortion sentiments but protests orthodox Christianity's 'abortion' of a legend about Yeshua's marriage to / childby Mary Magdalene while commemorating statues of The Black Madonna) I had an affair with the Virgin Maryand left her that way,legs crossed - emblematic of a killing...

Poem Of A City (Pueblo, Colorado)

by Wrulf Gunkl-VonGlashaus

I am a city, a town,I am a city of poetry,I am Pueblo,the people of the city gave me that name,Feel my poetryin the rippling muscles that built me,Poetry is in my bridges, streets and houses,honky-tonk piano memories of whorehouses once along Union Avenue,Walk my trails and hip-hop to the jangle of tag-jazzin my picture on the levee along my river,Lift your face toward the moon above me and howl the Arkansas Riverbluesthat run soft and undulating in my ribbon of liquid verse,Dogs yip and yowl my blues in Eastside yards,in alleys and along the South Block twists and turns,And once upon a time of molten steelthe fire-breathing smoke-trumpets and buglesof Bessemer smudged my bluesa shade of gray in sky-notes of sweat and toilbefore my workers poured forthto talk my rhythms in tired undertonesover bottles and mugs of beer in the Evans and Elm Street nightuntil losing themselves in my dreams,Leaves gossip with my fall-time verse in whispering zig-zagsgroundwardin Mineral Palace Parkwhere...

Song Of Blasphemy

by Wrulf Gunkl-VonGlashaus

Jeezus – hallelujah! - Jeezus belongs to the friggin' bomb squad, oh, no, he IS the bomb that'll shred you with the shrapnel of judgment after he tries doing you up the butt, saw him in New Yarwk City the other day in Gitmo Times Square not parking his ever-voyeur soul in a Jap-like buggy but hugging the seat of a white trash limo with his righteous ass, not wearing a turban, but a Star of David around his scrawny neck with a crown of thorns sittin' on his skull, jes' waitin' to blow that mutha' up Pretty soon a cute, sweet, little poodle trotted up and said, 'If you're going to detonate, please do it in that manhole over there, gentile puppies don't deserve crucifixion,' 'Fuck you!' Jeezus muttered, 'What? – me?' the doggie yapped, 'Hell, I was talkin' to the lowlife Antichrist, he loves me way too much,' 'How about you?' the poodle asked, 'I neither love nor hate him, jes' wanna' turn him over to the Taliban so he can lick sugar off their toes, but not the 'hoes,...

every child's gut

by David Wright

the satellite spokeinto fields of corn:watch for debris -clearance on string. a farm of telephone polesincarcerates the masterorganism of skin trade,a weakling dies unknown listening from under dirt,the ant lion is fouled andunearthed by the craftof the robin's eye.

titled misprint data focus wide angel

by David Wright

today I wanted you so bad.
you were a
whatchewcallit:
dream/ghost/macrame
garment washed out by
hairdye, pined apples, and sugar.

Rue here. Rue there. Rue big fat excuse machine
paved by bricks and sticks and hicks in servitude.

Language process for me, you too : :
all the roulet plinkos this town calls home, and
really, I wanted you so bad to motif my password : :

action verbs stood tall onto the next new system,
the last version sold and resold unto : :

parts per squared million.

jumped here : :

awash: a double used sword to emphasize the type,
there is no certain action to know how to speak alien.

you could try to be yourself, a service to autonmy,
but then there'd be questions as to your validity

falling into the lake,
every lash a new creation.

today I bought the last of the city's mold empire.
I traded stacks of paperless databytes...

Trapeze

by Caribou Slim

In the blindness of collapse, scraps of artifacts are all we have to remind us of what we were. Thanks to Arminus for saving this one...

the halfway home

by Arminius Von

is head on pillow

Unclothed

by Wrulf Gunkl-VonGlashaus

... it's much easierto spin the prayer-wheel of naked soul, virtueis difficultunless you undressto lie fully with the sacred harlot of wisdom, and it's hard to untie shoes for the bedtime of visionin the closet of dogma unlit by love... * * * ... neither dogma nor creed, butlife, itself, my scripture...

Neurosis And Resolution

by Wrulf Gunkl-VonGlashaus

(for Tony Moffeit)It was well past dusk when the elderly woman boarded the bus. Shetook the seat directly behind and across the aisle from the driver.Her appearance was a great deal similar to hundreds of other elderlyladies who patronize cross-country buses every day. Quite likely thecasual observer wouldn't have guessed that she was any more neuroticthan other persons of the same sex, social standing, education,intelligence and age. However, this was not the case. Scarcely wasthe trip five minutes old when she leaned forward andwarbled, "Driver, are you awake?""Yes, I'm fine, wide awake," he replied.he sighed and sank back into her seat. But in a few minutes she againventured, "Driver, are you awake?"Yeah, I'm awake."But a bee in one's bonnet is a bee in one's bonnet. Thus, everylittle bit for the next half hour, the elderly woman launched thesame piercing query.At last the bus's helmsman testily suggested, "Lady, leave thedriving to me! Why don't you just sit back, relax and get...

I Had A Life

by Wrulf Gunkl-VonGlashaus

I thought you might like to hear about my life. I had one. I thinkthat everyone should hear about other peoples' lives. And usually,people are eager to exchange life-stories like collectors at a swapmeet. That's because everyone has a life. Lives are as common asflies, though human lives usually are a bit more durable. A friend ofmine - an epistemologist, I think - told me that one human day is equalto thirty-point-six and a half fly years. I said it sounded likeflies sure live fast. The epistemologist said he didn't know. I don'treally know either. And that was a long time ago.But yes, lives are common, lives are interesting. I had one.Consequently, I thought you might like to hear about mine. Pleasefeel free to break down and protest if you feel yourself becomingoverwhelmed with excitement - about anything, anything at all. First,I had a mother. She had me. I was born. The first time I rememberanything, my mother was waving a hairless rabbit's foot over my head.I immediately began...

Legend Of *Lady Jo

by Wrulf Gunkl-VonGlashaus

She hardly made it up to my shoulder. In fact, her hair - nearly white - almost seemed longer than she was tall. Her eyes burned black with a depth of lustrous fire. Her arched nose had an imperious length, and looking back I suspect that her face only appeared longer than it was. In profile, she reminded me of a miniature female Franz Liszt.They called her Lady Jo.And it fared only as a romance of spirit, with our juncture occurring at her age of 70 when I was a great deal younger and a student volunteering free time to help manage the recital hall in college.Those I hold as halcyon days, forged by moments such as in the musicdepartment hallway one early afternoon, when Mr. C. was a-gust with abustle through the door of his office, or at least his head was: "There you are. Did you know that Johana Harris-Heggie is going to be one of the judges for next week's piano competition? '"Who's Johana Harris-Heggie? ""Guess you've never heard of her?""Can't say I have.""You know who Roy...

The Preacher And Jug-O’Rum-Jim-Jam

by Wrulf Gunkl-VonGlashaus

The itinerate preacher felt excited to pick up the hitchhiking youth,who stood along the highway with a thumb stuck outward andheavenward . “Where ya’ headed, joe?” the bean-poley, lanky-nosed, plaidly-threaded man O’god inquired, as he jerked his pea-green Cadillac backonto the road, (he always called strange youths “joe”). “It’s Jug-O’rum-Jim-Jam – mostly they call me Jim-Jam. But man, I’mseeing yellow and my head aches! Otherwise, I’m headed round andround, round and round,” the sapling of a pilgrim replied, rollinghis eyes upward and circling with both hands in the air over hishead. Otherwise he lounged in his seat, wearing tattered jeans and afluorescent pink t-shirt beneath a zigzag of straw-colored hair . “Uh-hum, yes, I see, ” replied the charioteer of pea-greenness,casting a look of religious lust upon his passenger. “Uh-hum, yes,yes.” He smoothed back his hair. He scratched an ear and hitched uphis non-form-hugging britches before piously...

'Gutter' and 'Galaxy'

by Wrulf Gunkl-VonGlashaus

Gutter … scattered jazz,haunted gnarls ofoctupi-night staggeringbetween semen-splinters of starspain-fornicating inmy collective gutter, my disheveledcells oozing yourblack andsofter goldburning silencein a heathen writhe between my earsdancing on the cusp: my dead-zone ecstasydefilingcorrupting andseduction-raping theindustry of numbness,toilet-scream frombetween legs: slave of avoidancewhore of denialdeath in a vacuumnaught ever happeninguntil it’s time to drainblood from the radiatorin the cross-hairs of crucifiction,copulation of seven-inched nailsclick of steel, snap of heels,tails,tongues flickering to embracethe gutters of my cellsreaching for unopened chaptersstrewn through sanctified pain,and I waitingfor your drive throughthe brothel of my mind,forsakenlashed to the altar,my anguish screechingour prayers,your black, softergold annihilated to smokeravishing the reek spiraling upfrom my nostrils,your unspeakingcrawl through catacombswhispering mouldering truthsunder my...

The Intangible

by Rebecca Thurber

Better than the blue of distance
indistinct, smudged paint, opaque
old-world art technique:
the atmosphere of longing—
Find me in the haze;
perspective is disorienting.

Your mind is a crazed place,
I've never seen the same thing twice.
Everything is coded connotation,
decoded subliminal understanding—
I can't put words to it, or I am imprecise, but
Precision is a shaky line that you can cross
where everything is attainable, unattainable and lost.

What more could you want when everything and nothing is in the palm of your hand
all at once— where
you made a figure of yourself out of mud,
and planted a flower there.

Occupying

by Wrulf Gunkl-VonGlashaus

in honor of Anton Chekov … it came with a certainty, it seemed, and that strangest of timesremains indelible in my memory: a half-sunny day duringmolting season when thousands of mother-flies lay their eggs anddie. I sat on the bed, that spring afternoon, when one of them landedin front of me and slid nearly fifteen feet across the hardwood floorof the studio apartment. It flipped on its back, and buzzing, spunaround for several seconds and died. Just like that, as they alldid. Across from me on the other side of its inert form, an opensuitcase lay on the plaid-covered couch. An auburn-haired girl satbeside the suitcase, watching me with eyes asking the questions inher pained voice. "Shall I leave, is that what you want?" – she, Connie, was mygirl, or least she had been for the last five months. "No," I said. "Shall I stay?" "I don't know." "You don't know? "No," – our relationship had become assumption by now, and oddly,this only our sixth real falling-out in five months,...

The Breathing-Point In Outrage

by Rebecca Thurber

I am flat-iron heavy with lofty abstractions,
And ship sinking downwards drowning—
full of weightless convictions,
craving justifications, demanding more weight;
wading through the quicksands of grand statements:
baseless theories to distract from other, more tragic, theories.
I am climbing the societal trees of convention in idealistic school-girl shoes—
climbing to the top to spitefully fall;
transformed into a pulp of self-destructive bruises—
into an old woman off her rocker,
producing a dead thud against the pavement once her heart collapses.
Beneath the bedrock foundation
I can hear one hundred tones of laughter— urging me,
creating as many reasons to bend my voice into a similar cadence—
laugh so heavily the honest tears come.
I could break my own heart to feel the intensity of mind-function bullshit emotion;
mend myself for the sadistic satisfaction of relapse,
mend myself to feel the involuntary convulsions...

Smart-Alecky Parable Of Jackio And Jill

by Wrulf Gunkl-VonGlashaus

1. Jackio and Jill scrambled up the nil without an altitude, its inclination, to the nth. degree, calculating itself as jilted, tallied as void and abacussing the twosome with, "Why do you always ignore me?" 2. Jill and Jackio couldn't say why. They were tongue-tied, perhaps together - no one knew. Embracing their chests with their chins, they bored the dirt with their tacit alpha waves. Roaring, the dirt backslid into its chasm, unraveling their laces and leaving Jill and Jackio soleless at their own social, their own picnic. 3. Still, oh, still, their files and portfolios were full; they fed themselves what they could. 4. Jackio licked his digits, Jill smacked her folders. 5. Next, he eyeballed her ruby orals and orated, "Why're you always doing this to me? Can't you relate to my text without a virus?' 6. Jill wrinkled up her nose at his bare feet and whiffed, "Jeez! Why don't you make like the rainbow and get over it, already? By the way, how many flavors of toe-jam do you...

The Apple

by Wrulf Gunkl-VonGlashaus

I was a child then… by the wintery light of that afternoon, I saw a baby boy placed on a table top by his mother. She then left him to perpetrate dutifulness about the house. There also was an apple on the table. In a few minutes, the infant reached for the apple but it was beyond his grasp. Physically, he had not matured enough to roll on his stomach and crawl. Consequently, the baby began crying because he could not have the fruit. Soon, a man approached the table. He picked up the apple, held it out toward the boy and pulled it away when the child reached for it. He laughed when the infant began crying even more. Again the man did the same thing, and mocked the same results. I watched in cowed anguish until I could no longer restrain myself. “Why are you doing that?” I cried out. “Oh, it’s good for him!” the man laughed, as he offered and denied the apple to the infant. Once more the child’s crying arose. Over and over the strange game was played. Only when the man...

The Doctor And The Fly (and more)

by Wrulf Gunkl-VonGlashaus

The rotund, briefly-statured doctor struck a match to illuminate his patient’s x-rays. Having perused them and astutely penetrated their essence, he turned to his patient while flicking a fly from atop his beaming baldness. “You’re gonna die, hee-hee!” he giggled, wallowing in the ticklish joy of drilling his nose with the eraser end of his pencil. “Yesirree, gonna die and the coroner’s report will say that the cause of death was death, ho-ho!” – and he giggled again. Meanwhile, he shot a rubberband at the same fly now swinging from the chandelier overhead. ”Hum-mh, die,” mused the patient, a tall, grayly vaporous wisp of a man. He straightened a hair. He flicked lint from a trouser leg. He longingly tickled himself in the ribs looking for the humor traumatizing his physician. He found it. His ribs tickled – “Ho-ho, die, gonna die, hee-hee!” “Yes, indeed, isn’t that a hoot?” – the doctor waved goodbye to the insect who was winging departure into...

Avatars

by David Wright

Spanish olives rolling down the watered hall, youth like sonic ha ha's curling around the catsup bowl, in for another ride; whack, stone cold kitchen kissing scene rolled up, bottled and tossed out to the middle of now here, floating long rides on aquatic, subterranean roller coasters, all done up in the most time, penny for her mind bribes, scaly carnie folk, buttered up and exposed from under the frock, the wet sock, the bearded clam, country swamp bumpkin handkerchiefs tied to the waist of a skeleton women, tethered to her five children; some bodies just have to eat- on the road, over that witches rainbow, on the train, burning Zeppelins serving ice cold swastika aperitifs, a holocaust at home.

That's when the yokels yell 'yum a yum' and when the learned parcel a package to the nearest pay a poet fund: checks payable on down the line... My veins are turning tattoo by ghost atavistic uncles forming my family crest and honor insignia across my right, fat...

The Reciprocal Nature of Just Ones

by David Wright

had to stop at door number ten,
it had told me not to go,
eleven had said to wait.

a tall, dark and handsome man
shut in the door numbered eleven.

his trench coat deep and rust brown,
a draped wet scarf from his wife and
dark pants sloshing over wing tipped shoes.

he had went in there planning on coming out.
stayed in there, g’ laid in there, played rubber ducky,

his ominous hitch: alarm clock, on the hour, precision.

with Timothy Weldon we’re lost on the beat.
with Charlie Brown we’re happier reading funnies.

a red skin enemy horse after you’ve turned crazy

and the snake finds the duck; it’s miraculous to see,
he’s gone in there to feed the sin back to the bird.

Jet Noise

by David Wright

Nothing came home, bare kneed and pious,
Under the straw woven mat her jealous locked door of
Naked wood, rings of space, grains between ion mist.

Colonized Americans can dial button prompt hierarchy,
Allied & tapped, digitized and marked: Payday to God.
Never so broke, Ativan rides in, Terror is still and misspelled.

Crow Chief

by David Wright

Childlit
E      Goble, Paul.
99        Crow Chief: a Plains Indian story /
D1G6      told and illustrated by Paul Goble. "“
1992      New York : Orchard Books, 1992.
        1 v. (unpaged) : col. ill. ; 28 cm.
        Summary: Crow Chief always warns the
      buffalo that hunters are coming, until
      Falling Star, a savior, comes to camp,
      tricks Crow Chief, and teaches him that
      all must share and live like relatives
      together.

...

House Of The Rose, a novel - Part 2

by Wrulf Gunkl-VonGlashaus

VII (Near Falls City, same night) The sun had long surrendered to obscurity beyond the western rim… in its absence, the man, of slight build, seemed almostmalnourished – insignificant – especially at that moment of hissolitude. He was in his early to mid-30’s, his hair short, dirty-blond andstill disheveled, though it was too dark to see the pale-green colorof his eyes warily searching his surroundings as he drove off themain road up a dirt track to the crest of a cliff in anuninhabited rural area above the Missouri River. He turned off the headlights and engine, sitting and peering about. It hadn’t rained in three days, though the air was heavy with a cool but not cold, clinging wetness, a swarthy shroud of shadows taunting him with silence, the stars far above feeling like millions ofunwavering eyes undressing his soul. He sat for a few minutes until venturing his door open. Even thatfelt ominous, and he didn’t get out for several more seconds – a furyof...

House Of The Rose, a novel - Part 1

by Wrulf Gunkl-VonGlashaus

House Of The Rose a novel by Wrulf Gunkl VonGlashaus ___***___ “Benim Ruhani Askim” (Turkish for ‘my spiritual lover’) * * * [While this work is entirely fictional and not intended to accurately represent history, people or places, it is humbly offered to the reader with appreciation to Dr. Ozkul Cobanoglu, Chairman, Turkish Folklore Department, Hacettepe University, Ankara, Turkey, Maggie Craddock and the owner of The Daily Grind coffeehouse, Pueblo, Colorado.] for The Beloved “… I fell into the valley of my wound,a gift to me from my belovedand I am swimming in an ocean of its blood,the bitter, salted waters of life…” ___***___ I (Ankara, Turkey) A light breeze teased Tony Barret’s hair in the small cooling of late afternoon, while he felt a bit out of place but stimulated with interest as his dark-brown eyes traveled around the restaurant patio: ‘Just why did you fly me all the way from Los Angeles to Ankara, Henry?’ he asked. He’d been born and raised in...

House for sale

by David Wright

No, really,
He said
I'm so fucking hungry
I could smoke the carpet

Since there's nothing to cut
I'll gnaw what's left to smell
Be it the grease pan or photographs
It's fine, hand the news blotter and O2

Yes, obviously,
She said
You're fucking no idiot
Eat your dream of no war

We'll bring in the band to play
Fresh posies and daisies pristine
All you're asking for you'll invent
For sure, sore thumb, have some more

from the cauldron archives

Jigsaw Puzzle

by Wrulf Gunkl-VonGlashaus

(Manifesto) VIII … stop! - Skid! - Shift knobs, slide gears, vomit numbness, fondle!… the music of guillotines!… VII … unmannered retching! since everything is a percentage of death in motel prayer-nights separated from unholy echoes and junkyard dogs yapping the insanity by disdain mating hysterical drools with refried rectitude, masticating giggling shame: “That dog, there, lifting a leg, there, back-alley sodomy of wetness in air – Hush, mentioned for headstones only” strewn among graveyards, sweet-jeezus jukeboxes purple-trumpeting along the borders of Their juice: “Yes, Holy! Holy! Holy!” screaming down the Holy Ghost and Fire in prayer-gutters backbiting along time of choicely chosen madonnas weeping children dear-jeezus-glittering through open legs into angst, screaming tilted jigsaw puzzle pizza-glitzy jive for crumbling bridges back and forth between us and wrinkles of self-righteously disgusted divinity… VI … bloodcurse-running! V … in dark...

The Cat, The Cross And Open Tomb

by Wrulf Gunkl-VonGlashaus

There’s an obscure legend: that a snow-white cat climbed the cross to gently lick the wounds in Yeshua’s feet and climbing higher, the bruised, bleeding flesh of his left hand, then took up his vigil on Yeshua’s shoulder with his flank facing Yeshua's left cheek, and in his agony, the last thing Yeshua heard was the comforting, purring murmur of his mourner before he yielded up his spirit, surrendering his head to the warm, furry bosom of the greatest kindness he’d ever known.Darkness crossed the land and the cat had disappeared, where, no one knew, though no one noticed him waiting atop the stone before the tomb when Yeshua came forth to greet that morning, and the first living One to touch him wasn’t Doubting Thomas but a purring, pure-white cat rubbing against Yeshua’s leg…… the legend also says that his name was Iannos (John The Beloved). © Copyright 2010 wrulfgunkl

lighter fluid

by David Wright

there's a hole in these holes,
straight-away blues and twenty
ten dimes to feed his dulled thumbs
the quartered urinals of concubinage denial.

he'd painted black eyes under his own,
great bristling teeth over the lips,
an enshrined nose atop his face,
plastic and too large.
he had smoked sherm.
he had even called his sister Janice
to say how much he'd wanted to adore God.

but really he'd lost everything,
everything to idealism and obsession.

The Haiku Corral

by Wrulf Gunkl-VonGlashaus

Haiku Alleyfive and dimejes' lookin' aroun'give me dimegive me fiveand I'll give ya' dime to take yo' timethat's givin' ya' zen in changethere ain't no rhymein the zen of five and dimeand time lives onlyin the jail of yo' darkest dreamsbeyond the dark, beyond the lightlookin' aroun'five and dimegive me five and I'll take yo' timethat's zen in changestick some pins in your voodoo dollhurtin' so goodservin' a sentence of five and dimelost in the bliss of time unknownin darkness between the barsof your liquid voodoo jailbaptism of stinking five and dimepourin' ovah and coolin' the demonsinside your headdime and fivegive me dimeand I'll give you five to take your timethat's voodoo zen in changelookin' aroun'rollin' ovahan' posing deadplayin' live'cause there's everythin'for your virgin hootenanny voodoo doll to feelnot much to seein the haiku alleybehind your jailjes' the parkin' lot of prayerand down on yo' kneesscreamin' for somethin'don't know whatmaybe a piecefrom yo' virgin voodoo...

The Yard Of Childhood Memory

by Wrulf Gunkl-VonGlashaus

Say, man, have you have you ever experienced the scent of catalpathat fills your nostrils and courts your senseslike the Great Sadness serenading you, alone, unlonely,with the brief, late-spring Catalpa Blues,absorbing, while filling you, with that which is too great to holdand deeper than what you can speak?because, you see, man, I'll never forget the catalpa treesgrowing in our yard when I was a child in a small, prairie town,Perhaps their subterranean tendrils drank from it...... five or six miles to the northlay the Arkansas River,the trees were along the south side of the yard,Once each morning and late afternoonmy dog disappeared and returned past the placewhere they stood before they were wrenched from the soilto make way for my father's church,Before that, though, they'd reached toward the sky like giant weedsof pith, sap,branches, giant leaves and strong-smelling beans,candelabras of crazy patch-work wizardry,They weren't entirely an escapebut a place where I haltingly...

Manna Mania Miscellanea

by Wrulf Gunkl-VonGlashaus

... we took each other by storm, andI was blissfully chastened,god was astonishedwhile the wind, a mockingageless echo unwittinglybeckoned us with thundergalloping apace the astonished and chastened night...... in one blind stroke, thelightning joinedus as one...* * *... what distillation is this?its vapors writhing so delicatelyabove the thin-veined glassof this vial trembling with such fragility,is it poison?must I drink it?yes, I must under compulsion ofyour unflinching glance - oh, nowI am dizzy, silly, giddy withonly wanting to tumbleinto your arms,such sweet poison,antidote of a ravishing possessionriding on the gentle storm of our snores,and silly me,though what is that?but your hair tickling my nose...... give me more of that liqueur, andyes, tickle my nose again...* * *... King Arthur had an enchanted sword,do you, will it fell me?come, let's ready ourselvesfor embrace of the duel,the nearest mirror recasts theglittering joy of swords in our eyes...... our eyes are the...

Whiskey Hymn

by Wrulf Gunkl-VonGlashaus

for The Beloved, a night at Nedjima Bar (Ankara, Turkey) … hypnosis shattered by atomic jiggling, salivation of song on your brow,channeled chaos of body, spastic sound, tantrum...

Mavi (Turkish for 'blue')

by Wrulf Gunkl-VonGlashaus

for The Beloved ___ We love dreaming hallucinationsof ivory towers out of fearof tumbling truly asleep into visions ofdoghouses and nightmares ofTinseltown-Princessesfalling in love with the dog in the backyard… * * * Alexander… they called him Great,loved a beautiful soldier and a beautiful horse,kissed oneand the riddle is: Did he kiss both?which one first and with the most ardor?… ___ … pulsing…… our blood thickwith us togetheroceans of each otherin the salted mist,rapt, I hear your thunder and hissam at sea in your siren callbeckoning my shorescleansed of all else…… our anchor rockedin the umbilical rhythmwashing through usceasingly pulsing… * * * … my vision of you blinded mewhen you came to livein the irises of my eyes…… the ultimate,marriage of illumination and lustrous darkness…… perfection of vision – blind, yetstill seeing…irises… * * * … there is a dark realm of everykiss as the kiss of death… * * * … I am dying even while I am...

Vision Of Judas

by Wrulf Gunkl-VonGlashaus

for Meghan... abstraction, revelation: "The waterwill weaken the fabric," she saysof the shirt I soakagainst the sunrays' smoldering wrath,"And you'll unravel,I mean, it'll unravel,the shirt, you know," she pointsat the garment with its brazenness offlower-patterns, their flamingshameless-hussy riotof triumphant color - shirtcolor, flowers I hopeI am vibrant enough to honorwith a revolt against deitiesof craven fear,a stumbling yet head-raised defiance decryingthe crucifixion of "I Am That I Am" - most sacred ofanthems soaring upward frommy resurrection in the rain,the blue,the purple-screaming rain - rain - rain,a searing baptism smothering the ashes ofimposed ruin - for Idare to pay homage to whom wasfashioned in brazen, shameless womb-honeysmudging scriptures of unholy violation, sinceworship isn't disdain but acelebration, though down the ages oftoo much blooddripping from The Face stillwrithing and pleading:"Forgive me, Judas, for I know notwhat I do, offeringa venomous sacrament...

Turquoise Night

by Wrulf Gunkl-VonGlashaus

Leave your bridges, walls and cliffs behind andleap with me into the vernacular music of turquoise night,clutching one another by our trembling hearts,defying the twisted face of oppression in annihilation of free-fall upwardabove mansions of opulent deception, crutches of paralyzing shame,falling upward on the current of our breath as maddeningly veiled, yet naked and as unveiled as the moisture of our lips,the naked trapeze of turquoise night incised by moon-swords,embosoming itself in clouds, curves and rounding of silversoft-burning from the scimitar poised on the bosom of skywe reflect in each others eyes,turquoise night, gem-like, and polished by the wind past us,our heaving breasts scribing our diary, etching in flesh what no longer is secret as we pour into each others void, since from void all things come,to which all shall return on the geodesic curve of our panting loins,and Venus: early evening companion, courtesan of the deep hoursholding androgynous court among astral...

The Twelve Kisses Of *Saturn

by Wrulf Gunkl-VonGlashaus

… it was snow,cold-burning, scorching walls in the caverns of my mindbleaching the bones of my soulcrystal-yearning ofever-burning stagger along the adulterous breeze -on frozen embers… * * * … access the night ofdarkness beyond darknessseducing the light to weave an unseen fabricfeathering against our skin,you, with your head on my chest,soulfulhappypeaceful and light…… never forget to access the night… * * *… I see your face in satin spadesyour heart in clover twinedaround the pennywhistle of my tributes,drums clubbing, whipping the wailingriver into frothy nostalgic nettlesprickling my flesh and shadowswatching your tavern rituals of guzzling my essencebefore you ravished my unraveled ends in nearest parks,and that before your parchment disappeared in white of the moon…… your etchings left behind,nothing erased… * * *… when you are awayand I need you,I look into the depths of the nearest flower,even if it’s a dandelion, thenlie down beside it like a lamb,a...

the river runs north

by David Wright

you sure were a running buffalo woman
when the circle opened the wrong way and
without any wrong is what you taught me.
only the times between lucky to have meals.

hot soup of Fridays, Red River washed away,
Fargo where Leonard was hung by a cell bar.
inconsequential roads on a grid of mustard seed
covered by the red blowing snow of Hudson Bay.

I've seen you now and again,
a happy flesh sister
walking absently without your madness,
content to have given a name to the past.

new beginnings

by nancy leat

I’m better than before

I'm better than before
no longer less
no, so much more
I've grown and I've gained
I've filled my soul from its corecan't be stuck in a rut
with my wings clipped and cut
can't be caged and enraged
cuz I've turned a new page
my wings have re-grown
I'm not tired and torn
weary and wornno...
I am re-born!
I see what's been and is being shown
my wings lifting me up to be flown
across this universe
that can be wicked, cruel and perverse
I take all my experience and turn it into verse I see like the hawk
I see through your small talk
nothing escapes me
nothing can or again rape me
I am a Shape-Shifting Shaman FaerieI have Wood Wisdom
I hold magic and then some
I'm gifted and blessed
I have mad skills that surpass
I am able to heal without having to guess
I know I can't pass unless I take this here test
test to enlighten
...

GRAVE OF THOUGHTS

by Bhaskaranand Jha

Grave of Thoughts I think and thinkThoughts come and goThey don’t take any form I try to catch them with meaning but in vainFor they shoot up and dissolveInto the vast engulfing nothingness. Thoughts inside meKeep striving to come out of meHurting my heart and boggling my mindFall flat dashing against my insensitivityThat chained the hand of my feelings And the rising tides of thoughts lose their existence. == BHASKARANAND JHA BHASKAR

Lady in the Water

by Caribou Slim

I

II

Oil, water, stick, cigarette

INGRATITUDE

by Bhaskaranand Jha

INGRATITUDE

Sleeping on bed
Her head on my chest
And under my dimpled chin
With my thoughts looking at the future!

Pangs of ailing body
Eyesight dimmed and loss of the ears
Stammering tongues clutched by Alzheimer’s
Cramping legs, staggering steps to the grave!

While in prime time
Thanks to our youth and the lap
That paved the way for them to see the world
But those reared and cared by us
Left us loitering in the lurch
When our body smeared with pus!!!
-- BHASKARANAND JHA BHASKAR

Cosmic Orgasm

by Bhaskaranand Jha

CosmicOrgasm

Interplay between
Love and lust
Sweet and subtle
A fair sexes’ bust
Strengthens the immense pillar of humanity.

Fear of carnal sins
Relishing macho force
Seeming hesitation
Avoiding intercourse
Invites the shooting arrow of Lord Cupid.

Initial inhibition gone
Lust heat gone rusty
Emotion’s ejaculation
Into the earthly cave
Sprouts the seed of a new life in the world.

Struggle of the newborn
In the battlefield of life
Competing with the self
For the earthly survival
Refines and purifies the heart of all gross desires.
-- Bhaskaranand Jha Bhaskar

If you be my valentine

by vivekanand Jha

Though I don’t have
To give you a gold coin
But I have an open
Heart of mine
Though I couldn’t become
Shakespeare or Einstein
But I would never say
You a byline
If you be my valentine.

Though I meet with
So many girls clandestine
I drink bear, wine and cocaine
I watch pornography online
I would leave
All acts of libertine
If you be my valentine.

Though I like to live
In a family combine
So far I have followed
Parents and elders’ guidelines
Parents have been so far
For me an enshrine
But I would leave them
In the state of pains and repine
Not only that, every night
I would offer you compline
And I would serve you
Like a bovine
If you be my valentine.

Though I don’t afford
To travel by airline
My income doesn’t allow
In five star hotel to dine
I have no good house
But only ravine
...

Happy! Happy! New Year

by vivekanand Jha

Happy! Happy! New Year
Enjoy without fret and fear
Drive yourself in top gear
Make even your foe dear
Hug your friends who are near.

This year shouldn’t have any peer
Colour of ecstasy is to smear
We should tolerate and bear:
If unwarranted things hear
Enjoy reading Shakespeare’s King Lear.

This day comes in year bare
Forget the life’s wear and tear
Don’t be lonely and despair
Enjoy with family and in pair.

Take part in picnic and fair
Jokes and bantering are to share
In the temple offer prayer.

It is the occasion rare
After digging the 365 layers
Wish to all for cure and care.

Not to kill decency and demeanour
But to kill sin and sinner
Not stand and stare at the river
But to be an adept diver
For the needy be depriver.

...

Hands Heave to Harm and Hamper

by vivekanand Jha

Our hands heave
To harm and hamper,
Not to help and heal.

Not to assist
The damsel in distress
Instead feel refresh
In molesting mistress.

Not to weaken
The woes of widows
But apt to weaken
Their only credos.

Not to stop
The rape
But we are top
In viewing the naked tape.

We have destitution
In deleting the prostitution
But we are to the fore
In bargaining the whore.

Not to prohibit
The child labour
But not hesitate to inhibit
Their favour.

Not to curb
The poverty
But ready to disturb
The Poor’s liberty.

We use stick
To persecute the weak
We use flower
To adorn the tower.

Not to ameliorate
Law and order
But not fret to generate
Chaos and disorder.

We have temptation
To incur evil reputation
But we have...

Movie Review: It Might Get Loud

by Arminius Von

If you're a guitar player or a fan of The White Stripes, U2 or Led Zeppelin, see this movie. It's not as good as I expected, but it got me into some serious RawkLand for a good hour and half. The chinema spends far too much time rehashing the bands' formations. Aside from a few cool insights (Page STILL speaks about music in terms of art/school-light/dark composition), you're not going to hear anything about their pasts that you couldn't find on wikipedia. It would have been a much better movie with an increased focus on varying approaches to songwriting, or even filosophies of rawk, if we dare ...

The dynamic plays out like some reality show (Rawk Island! Who will be the last to leave?) Most times, the three interact awkwardly like distant family members who are supposed to give a shit about each other but somehow can't manage anything more than an awkward A-frame hug. Perhaps this is a reflection of their respective places...

Jagged Black Hills

by David Wright

No dead white pages.
No, nothing came for.

An archer, or an anklet axed,
Tiny pieces of micro dust coming through the single pixel of today.

A dumb robot.
A caliber too small.

Daffodils, The Rosary :
Twin helix APR, We are coming for your souls.

Step back. Jump Forward.
It’s all time Rock ~n~ Roll [ . ]

I’m really disarmed by your not knowing better :
In an Everyghost battery smash it’s old-time assault and the most fire to spill.

soduku is a tool of the devil

by Abigail Schwarze-Wasser

if you get into the numbers of it it's all adding up to the mark of the beast number
claire came home pregnant again
it's fine because we still have all that Nazi gold under the trailer
we're doing a family production of hee-haw at the spaghetti feed this winter
clive won't leave the storm shelter because he's translating chinese texts or some shit, nailing things to the wall
nailed another american flag to the neighbor's porch. other day he was drinking one of them dutch beers.
people down at Merc-Sue's off of '76 still giving me shit for voting for Obama, my red, white and blue hybrid
I mean, the assault rifle on its gun rack is American, the bullets are American, my baby seats are American, hell my blood goes back to these parts at least three billion years.
God zapped that pile of green goo billions of years ago, right in my backyard. I marked the spot with a red white and blue acryllic painted flamingo
clive blew its head off
saying something about...

Cattleprod

by Caribou Slim

Bought some magick last night
as the moon jumped over the cow
laughing at the venomless scar
Scorpion left in my arm
See, I'm a good friend of Fox
and treachery revealed
makes for easy navigation
even in stormy seas

Thought and Memory met me on the road this morning
as I swept silver in my wake
racing starlings
and twisting wheels
can you breathe me?
the thought giggles electric
sparking
laughing static
shocking me
as I shop for apples
and strawberries

A man becomes an institution
in the latter half of life
I've built myself from the stones
the Chinese left as winding walls
through the pastures
trellised myself
in wild grape vines
rooted my foundation in oak
wiresteel frame
89 octane
windpowered hybrid
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

chose they chanted
too early
blurring the box
for the lines of desire
should be sweeping curves
and cascading ringlets
in my...

Splinters

by Sandy Ah

Its nights like tonight that I waste, walking down streets that are no longer my home and waiting outside of a house that is no longer yours. I've spent the past few months looking for a place to rest my tired legs, sore from the burdens they've carried and they always lead me here. I may never find you again, but the thought of you is home. It is the only certainty I have, for we were not a product of genetics or predisposition; we were a perfect sum of you and I. No variables. No lies. No doubt. Simply the gaze of your eyes locked on mine, waiting for a beautiful awakening we cheated ourselves out of. A seemingly endless summer that we were sure would tumble into an endless autumn erupted in a cacophonous explosion, leaving you and I forever splintered and fractured. There were no explanations or conclusions; only shrapnel left in every breath of air in this town, serving as a constant reminder of what was and could have been, but isn't. I stand now, teetering at the edge of...

un-singularity

by David Wright

the absence is wherefore
I found the passenger,
roads our topographic genesis

wilted to know one and another ends.

So then, it's here been written,
the snake stands up forgiven,
the buffalo grows wings, again,
and the blood speaks reason.

the games are never over,
just opinions less memorable.

Sturnus Reverto

by Caribou Slim

Remember
the birth
of December?

the starlings pouring in over the hills
those days when we'd sprawl
across the top of Tilting Rock
counting seconds
as they blackened the sky
minute after minute
of clouds
of fluttering calls and chirps and trills
of tiny swooping black bodies
hurtling through the wraith cold sky
sweeping down to feast on the grapes
left rotting on the vine

Orion gave me a silver bullet
even as Scorpio chased him
from Bangkok to New York
strangely enough, he had no idea I'd been bitten
but today I shot it through the vineyards
rode it purring beneath my feet
racing the starbirds as they tumbled through the air
and found the beast receding

and thug,
swung low on the Cambodian mud
brought a baby dragon for my buddha
down from Shangri-La
He perches on the south window
basking in the cascading light
as the sun rises through red-gold leaves
over the...

It was here I had a pen

by David Wright

all it takes is words
for 'not closed for love.'
at least, an everyday
: un- subjugated poem :

the sounds on her hair,
crisp on colors, you could guess,
falling across uncaring for now

Thessaloniki Riots - 10/2008

by silent noises

Taken in Thessaloniki, Greece in October of 2008.

Full collection available in Tilting Rock - click here

ESCAPE

by Cooper Williams

Comments greatly appreciated.

Fall

by Caribou Slim

welcome to the waning of the harvest moon
we're beginning our descent now
time runs faster as the dark grows longer
life measured out
in rabbit heartbeats
shivering in the snowshoe fields
tiny muscle
drumming
beating back the silent cold

november is wrapped in her traditional robes
of razorwire and wet autumn leaves
bone and rust
newts nest like coiled black drakes
in rotting logs
and the stags slice the fingers of fog
with their crowned antlers

this is the time
to walk with the ghosts
you couldn't bury by halloween
to fall into the void
of distance
of love's memory
and to remember
what whispers in fall
sings in spring

and to listen

as the world
...sighs...
this too will pass

Cupidity

by Caribou Slim

Could you dream me a river today?
The mountaintops are wrapped in autmn
and the harvest lays as rows of golden chains
and burgundy leaves
cast across the valley floor
fat purple bunches hung
and dark with swollen nectar
A message in a bottle
Eyes that stutter the heart
that you could exist
renders breath impossible
Too bright for possibility
the unwound anticipation
curled like a scorpion tail
ready to poison possibility
with haste

Next month, I'll face the south when the cold comes
Faithless hope
in the end of winter, Texas
Bacchus is well bound here
in the moss and rain
and fog wrapped cliffs
woven into smoke and spirits
tending a faithless hearth
spitting his unwanted seed
into the mud
Could you catch a comet tonight?
Of course, there's no cure for the common comet
spaceball twirling mad
tumbling icicles
in my twisting wake
as I richocet
around the walls of my...

Repast

by David Wright

The Brave say things.
The Brave action-think things.
The Brave stand under the tops of things.
Home really is just a word.

Words may fail, betray things, or steal away tied tight conceptions of rights, privileges and sugary entree;
The Brave brave slippery crushed margins to kiss just thugs.

The Brave deliver a centre to shop from.
The Brave, too, must eat some thing.

Holy Roller

by Caribou Slim

There are certain secrets of sacrifice available
at discount prices
Love like air
in the wake of a bullet
Kiss like mist
traceless effervescence
Never break your stride in a minefield
Don't laugh at Roman disapproval
And yes, it's bad form to wink
while on the cross
Walk as a man for awhile
but don't forget how to fly
even when they've driven nails in your feet
and your wings are a trophy
on her mantlepiece
Pour the world's rage and sorrow
down your throat
get drunk on hate and death
till you open your eyes to a world of knives
And as they begin to cut
joyously
sing

the hungry i

by Caribou Slim

raven roadkill unzipped and tripped till the third eye is bleeding
you got the stares on you
feathers tangled and blood slick black
still got that crow cackle in the bloodshot eye

ain't got no use for broken wings
or tears for lost skies
got nothin' but the hungry i
skipping broken toes down the highway

change jangles in the pocket like jail keys
Houdini's hamster has nothing on me
can't even see the asphalt in front of me
dancing with the traffic by feel

crowing for the world to hear
and laugh in terror
at my indomitable delicacy
and snaphollow bones

o how the spark
...makes us twirl and dervish
......our shattered skulls
.........epileptic marionettes
............singing shadowplay operatic
...............as the audience winds up
............hands tight on the Louisville slugger
.........ready for their pretty
......howling
...pinata
beat that hungry i
candy out
let the brains...

money

by Arminius Von

there comes a point
where the desire for money
isn't the substitute for power
or security against fear
but must be
might be / might be?
a path to novelty
but this is useless
b/c
don't forget
you can
always find
free entertainment
and novelty
at your local public library

i'll be fire

by Arminius Von

i'll be fire on the mountain
raising skull from ash

- The Hhonus "Red Sky Chant"

Absence/RoadHouse of the Desert Moon

by unLiz unGilbert

Hi all I'm still not sure how to use this site re: posting this to the Cauldron or? But, I love all of you and want to keep sharing progress
on work I'm doing. This is opening to Part 2 of the Trilogy I'm working on (Part 1 The Dirt) which seems to be morphing into some kind of opera or performance work (Roger Waters move on over LOL!). Part 2 is called RoadHouse of the Desert Moon. This song/sonic landscape is called Absence.
It is about to be torn apart and re-done,but thought I'd share this and then the next version when it arrives....I'm doing everything. The low bass tracks are a combo of the huge rusted fuel tank in the studio here (hit with mallet),an oxygen tank bell, a sample of bus door opening & closing,bowed fretless bass,electric bass,vox,various percussion samples used as triggers (some from building,some digital)....

Absence1 by Liz Gilbert
http://soundcloud.com/liz-gilbert/absence1

I'm just...

9.15.09

by Arminius Von

the cat whined like a fire engine and actually served as a part-time volunteer firefighter

money will

by Arminius Von

make you lie

It costs too much to spend

by David Wright

                              Getting just what I wanted,
I'll not ask for more.
                                               It's a crime to think I could have had it all.

                          Don't bother with the tabulation, retribution, penances keys.
   DO scrimp and fight and kick and swallow in order to CHANGE.

I could have had myself to myself; instead, I got blessed by mother's virtuous, blind luck.

It's been called damnable not to love your own bones.
It's so fancy to think we can heal from what we have done.
And it's true.
The truth is : is that I've discovered : the truth is...

What things are and what they're not

by Caribou Slim

So. I spent a great deal of my twenties unhappy. My life was consistently unfulfilled, despite the fact that I had great prospects, a wildly fun time, and many beautiful people who chose to grace my sad little depressed emo brain with love.

I was constantly looking at what things weren't. My lover wasn't right because s/he didn't love me enough, or wasn't exciting enough, or wasn't smart enough. Same thing with every element of my life - jobs, my writing, my friends. Something was always not quite right and had to be fixed.

Because of this, I was a real ass to be around. Even became a bit of a bitter control freak for the bad periods.

Well, a few years ago, I was working at an art center in Portland, trying to get it up and running, and I was eating lunch with my friend out in the front. All of a sudden we hear a screech and a thud, and a huge red SUV rolls up onto the sidewalk and into the parked cars.

The driver was groggily getting out...

13 Whispers

by Caribou Slim

- Life is a toy for the soul to laugh into song
- All we know of the world is the map our cartographic cerebellum has stitched together from myth and happenstance
- Never confuse the map with the territory
- Never eat kangaroo in Paris
- Never listen to never
- Rhythm is why rhyme exists
- Reason is why rhythm exists
- Rhyme is why reason exists
- If you can move through each moment with love, your soul will never go hungry
- God is out sick this millennium and we're all filling in for her
- A beating heart is better than a bleeding one
- Fallen angels make better friends, once they've hit the ground, but one should always avoid falling angels. And rising devils, for that matter.
- If you can't laugh, you're already lost

Broken Breakers

by David Wright

Some times, they are bugs.

Other times, I am bug.

There is no safety in approximation.

It can feel Socratic to believe eminence, but really, I think, we are singular narrations interacting with other singularities within nonsingular breaths and visions.

Society becomes you. The consortium of blood continues.

Perhaps to desire expects too much by way of explanation?

It can feel better to think that there are efficient, relevant, or abysmal some-things to say.

But then, some days, it hurts to have to say anything.
It hurts to move to measure the thickness of our separation.
It hurts to have heart enough to feel compassion for the pains not picking at the insides.

It hurts to hurt, and to see pain recede through the ages of my eyes.

Repetition can bring security until we cannot stand to play, any longer, a constant.

It is at then that I have formally understood to...

Writ Attire

by David Wright

The pink lion had towed himself to the ice cream shop, an ominous thorn lodged imaginably between his favorable thumb and his agitated physiognomy, whereby he placed an order for half-a-trillion full tons of shrimp cocktail and an Atlantic ocean sized glass of sun-tempered mescal.

With the correct colored lenses, a creature that size can magnify most anything using the bottoms of broken-off bottles previously smashed over the pipes.

It is said that in order to be enlightened we must eliminate concepts of duality.

In many respects it is the blue lion that has allowed the pink lion to assume kingship in a world of impermanence. This same blue lion was born of a golden aged heaven, has since taken residence in the postmodern pasture, and whiles about its ambiguous days encased inside an unending, seemingly continent sized, chain linked fence.

The turquoise dragon had preoccupied itself with such captivity for eons until it...

Link to a song created on the fly /recorded live/7-16 etc...

by unLiz unGilbert

01 Twin by Liz Gilbert

Having trouble posting accompanying photograph or the mp3 file directly here. I like to work this way sometimes. Hang a microphone down
from the 25' ceiling at Chordata, stand with others in a circle and just GO...see what happens with both the words and the sound.

Working on a trilogy (audio recording/video...the works) called The Dirt. This is my first post to wildpoets and sorry to have been so long in putting something here. Hello to David Lee Wright.
Some words from a song I'm working on right now:

Idling
using up a little gas
quiet listening to
voices of all the vanished
a vanishing woman
ghostdog woman
leave me in slow motion
idling like a volcano building
pressure in the earth
try to think of all those lists I threw away
to put off today
like a burro won't go
one inch further on the trail
can't lead me to water not that way
...

Cloudfeet

by Caribou Slim

A rain dance for the technoshaman, to call down water, wind and fire. Many thanks to Alael for lending her voice and spark to this one.

For Arianna, two Adams, and both Alexanders

by David Wright

Keep smiling. It's the smile that reminds us
The reality of gestures, thoughts and words.

Wind as friend is a beautiful dream to behold.

And when the wind is strong, and not a friend,

So too are the cliffs below to except us. The keys

To the end are the everyday smiling breaths of God.

For God knows not the ending of the smiling visage.

Regardless of hardship, through the fire, the warmth,

A gentle, breathing spelling light, alphabetical in smiles.

Opened Ended Duluge

by David Wright

Deluge ! Deluge,
Stand aside !

Room to breathe.

Awake, awake !

Come home, Come
Home, come home.

Her dimmed chime brought me down,
Pentagram flippant, consoling Christ.

Lovely. Lovely. Languid asp's tongue,

Crashed sun-downed and ripped-awake.

The mountain breathed his flecks, his red skin,
Escaped explanation, Mimesis of curtan's call.

To bottle
To bed. To
Tomorrow to
Timber her tree.

I'm watching the fire :

It's spread. I'm swimming
Rivers of morph-angelic dust :

Goodnight, go wherewithal.

The American Why

by Caribou Slim

So, it seems like I'm deluged with Europeans lately, and sooner or later, the conversation starts hitting familiar questions.
1) Why are Americans so patriotic?
2) Why are Americans so stupid?
3) Why are Americans always at war?
Since I don't like repeating myself, I decided to write my theory here so I can just give them a hyperlink and go back to pixie hunting.

Ok, in Europe, regardless of where in Europe you grew up, you're growing up in a country that has an established history, unique language, and generally a single religious institution providing spiritual instruction to the populace. In other words, you're coming from what is essentially a unified cultural paradigm, despite recent waves of immigration.
In America, we don't have a unified cultural paradigm. We have literally hundreds of displaced micro-cultures that hold fading fragments of their origin. Unlike in Europe, these micro-cultures do not have designated territories, and as such, are...

coward

by Arminius Von

i think
i see
off in the woods
a light
let us go inside

An Old Day of A Live Night

by John E WordSlinger

I've fallen into a question of cause
I've fallen in love
I hate waking the spirit in sleep
missing the event of a kiss
I hear the breath of the past
I feel it in the breeze
Knowing no stategies
it passes through the trees
The moon is my friend
The night sky was meant for me
I love to whistle to the thin clouds in the breeze
When I'm with you
I drift into another light
I can see far, faraway
into this live night

A Citizen Returns - An Introduction and Complimentary Analysis

by Charles Foster Kane

After a long absence from the media world, I've selected this "website" (in particular, your Bukowski Stew, where comments on this work will go) as venue to allow you to access my writings. I'm sure you'll find them not only enlightening, but erudite and enjoyable as well.

While I have little respect for pock-marked drunks, and even less for stew, given the rather calamitous effect my return would have upon the press of this country, I believe that the Stew will be a suitable venue for me to grace you with my insight. After all, it's well known that pseudonyms of dubious character frequent this place, and I feel that I can "hide in plain sight" among the conversations of fictional characters.

After all, due to a rather strange turn of events, it seems that most people these days are convinced that I'm a fictional character.
Given my long coma, I've yet to truly master the technological and culture changes that have played out in my absence, so I'm unclear as to...

Her Candy Striped Lips

by David Wright

I wanted something to eat.
So, I ate the bottom up under the Arkansas,
The river of the afterlife, starlit, sole night-shot pink and blue
Expositions.

A damned, dirty, misspoken sense of self lying all over and over again.

Pause. Here, for a moment, Please :

Wait.

Let me explain, if you would.

It’s in my best interest to say it straight : how it’s better to dance at something

The Monster Under the Bed

by N. Gee

I was babysitting my little sister, a chore which I was relegated to once every other weekend or so, and one for which I was paid and therefore did not complain too much about. My sister was 5 then, and was super-humanely muscular and strong for her age, and had just learned the “This is the Song that Never Ends” song from Lambchop. Despite these quirks, she was cute - though I would never admit it unless, perhaps, you put some sort of gun to my head and demand to know the truth.
I was, myself, around 10-years-old and perhaps a bit young to be babysitting, but I was relatively mature for my age and my parents were only out for a little while. Confused by a Campbell’s label, I had just fed my sister what I thought to be a cheese soup for dinner, but what was actually cheese dip for nachos. She complained a little, but I told her to eat her soup and drink her milk, because that’s what parents tell their children on the...

Respite

by Scott Eaton

Sometimes

I like to sit back
and watch the sky fall:

the afternoon lullaby
of nearby traffic

playing with the laughter
of neighborhood children;

the dogs barking communiqués
that only empathy understands,

the wind chimes sing
with the slow breeze

as insects crawl thru the bark
looking to escape the sun.

I close my eyes
and lose myself . . .

I feel everything.

All of this.
On a Sunday afternoon.

The Baby Tank

Art - Graphic Novels
Written by Thug Rigby
Tuesday, 09 June 2009 01:00
A Child's Guide to War Click here to buy your own Baby Tank on Amazon And, on www.thebabytank.com:
Read more...

Comment on this work in the Cauldron. (1 posts)

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Barbaric Yawps

Latest Message: 1 day, 3 hours ago

mcberry : O.K. I will ...
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Code Blue : And now Guy Fawkes day... Sigh. .. . When will good memes learn to read books rather than burn libraries for having keys to the doors. . .
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Code Blue : the zombies make commercials but the hallow ween does not listen any longer
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thug : sometimes a Decepticon is just a Decepticon. but no... no Omicron. If he does show up he'll be played by the Cookie Monster I'm sure.
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Stormcrow : Twenty years ago, a sparrow gave me a Fender strat. I couldn't play worth shit, and didn't play at all for years, but I kept the guitar with me. Twenty years later, it speaks to me, and my fingers can fly down the neck like dragonflies, and playing to the sunrise is my only pure comfort. I look back over decades as the distortion washes over me and wonder at the wisdom of sparrows... «link»
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Code Blue : To The Lighthouse
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Code Blue : «link»
Code Blue : Daily Grind Pueblo Colorado Tonight around 7 PM «link»
Code Blue : it's modern email to me. and more; however, There is no need for twitter, but I sure do like Tumblr these days. Telephone is telephone in my world recently. Drop that into the cauldron some time, sounds like a thread.
mcberry : Concerning the "foucault library" I liked the picture, but do not want to sign up twitter. Do you think anyone should?
mcberry : Found his book while ghost hunting. They say he`s gone so this may be one of the ghosts I came across.
mcberry : Does "Jeff VanderMeer" tell you something? He wrote: "City of Saints&Madmen".
mcberry : Yes, that provides quite inspiring ideas, like ghost hunting for a change.
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Stormcrow : got burnt out playing the fool. Is now accused of fooling the player. context? fukkit.
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mcberry : But cannot find the connection generator.
mcberry : O.K. I found out about karma.
Code Blue : The limit of the backwards, calibration tonight, she's got a new violet discus to play and we've gone together to simulate El Rey y La Gente. Oh, en serio, I really want to punch a limit scraper into the balance breaker and pole a cat fearful of the language we spell. In here I only have fingers and their equivalent length and there, alli, I've got with you a brand new cliche box burning down the halls of DIY ignorance. How long the playful bird, how long the dead television whiskers, how long t
Code Blue : Tee hee, that's aneye typo... G, where's perdro? No wait, who is G? No wait, who cares anymore : : ooo ooo Mr Carter Mr Carter... Are you really a patron for the state?
Code Blue : Walt Whitman Spray Painted Barbaric Yawps. Do you too like graffiti as much as do?
Code Blue : So, you too have a cute little typing finger, a pretty black nail and grins amor mi amor, my Ever America tea jacket scraping the wall of the heart,, ,, ,, ,, comma coma, come el mundo por la boca de los perros
Code Blue : Once, in social media camp, I had a horse and that horse did speak : : Said, hey. been trying out running my mouth but been here framing out cobwebs and summer's end instead.
Code Blue : expectation serves nothing while rule bending serves to communicate image~nation . . . Go . . . .
Code Blue : The bones are brittle but the heart beats like an old crow come to sing me home...
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Alael : Waves recede
Alael : Red fades
Code Blue : Ditto Ditto Dido. Just a little bit regardless the dust of the past.
Alael : Real or imagined connecting strings of streams; wishing Love.
Code Blue : So many years. It reminds me of something innocent and redemptive.
Code Blue : My eyes see lovely blue walls to welcome the bridge of lovingness land.
Alael : Love is sight.
Code Blue : I'm so seriously in love with all of you.
Code Blue : mcberry mcberry engagement poetry always makes me smile, thanks.
Code Blue : lovely books surround me as often as lovely people
Code Blue : last word or the first? St. Stephen sure could use a drink and a smoke... [sigh]
Alael : Maybe the need isn't to be celebrated, it's to be left alone.
Code Blue : bare bones please, hack into text/vision, please
Code Blue : less is more; same as it ever was...
Code Blue : if it stayed just like this : : then it might be celebrated : : pacman bent on destroying red, red ghosts
Code Blue : dominance distorts
Code Blue : Unwonder
Arminius : He fuked himself out of his dreams of world domination, as sayeth someone once.
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Code Blue : edit
thug : sorry I was bought by Pepsi. all further posts will have an appropriate advert. «link»
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Code Blue : playlist «link»
Code Blue : PDX until 3/24
Code Blue : The Nicest Man in the World poems
Code Blue : sendpoemsburnmoney
Code Blue : There's a swirl in the ocean
Code Blue : There's a fire in the mountain
Code Blue : paper jammed soap
Code Blue : Suds Thud
Code Blue : The Holy Shat Ups become us
thug : so long as there is breath there is hope. but it's not spring yet.
thug : I shat up
Code Blue : «link» {@thebabytank}
Code Blue : The man with the beautiful eyes «link»
Code Blue : write or shut up
Code Blue : 414 is full of rabbit fed drama
little joe : Running up the river in the rain bring me no pain.
Code Blue : book turn page home
Code Blue : «link» {@unfolding}
Code Blue : I guess that's That 70s Show and Burroughs
MaggieMayfly : What are you referencing?
Code Blue : Hi Maggie, the poems are alright and the kids are permitted to speak.
Code Blue : 414 !! Grow some eggs.
Code Blue : There's a poet's den called the Daily Grind in Pueblo, Colorado
Stormcrow : !! wrulf rox !! I gotta lotta readin' to catch up on...
Code Blue : «link» Wrulfvonglashaus's Blog
Code Blue : I like to see it ruminate just so, and not justly as could be
Code Blue : solar way
Code Blue : That Itch is Baby Shit.
Code Blue : socks make sense
Code Blue : That's PG, there's a pill under the pillow, the New Year is so dickishly full of War.
thug : (more to the rocker than the strut)
thug : who's old man? who you talking down to now? I can just see the rocumentary... 'the only thing in his way was his arrogance but he insisted on it. loved it. it was his crack.'
thug : these yawps aren't very barbaric. hmm... ROAR I HAVE PEANUT BUTTER ON MY COLLAR ROAR!! nawp. hrmm... meh.
Code Blue : LaDuke «link»
Code Blue : Find your poet «link»
Code Blue : NYC «link»
Code Blue : I like 88
Arminius : authority dressed in dreams
Arminius : lies dressed in authority, and
Arminius : con men and kings
Code Blue : «link» cODE bLEW
Code Blue : All Systems Regression. The year of the plain brown wrapper is upon us. Dictation from the marginalized heart beat[s]. We've got hot water, we have hot water. The nights are all Passovers lacking the sun.
Stormcrow : Unwrapped and slapped with physicality, still strung out on old loves and unread messages in bottles. Tottle on, old man, your heart is shaking and the waking world has sunrise demands...
Code Blue : «link» Jack's Obsession
thug : s13ws2wnwuwn;kill spider
Code Blue : «link»
Code Blue : «link»
Code Blue : «link»
Code Blue : You want change but it's not going to until change makes you
Moony1313 : glancing at the sun through cracked blinds
Code Blue : oui, je suivrai
Arminius : oui, il faut le cultiver. il faut trouver plus des amis, n'est ce pas, mon ami, mes amis, mes amigos? si.
Code Blue : il faut cultiver notre jardin
Code Blue : Crunk: v. To cry like a crane.
Stormcrow : signal is now back fully online. Your regularly scheduled hyperdimensional exploration will commence right after these messages...
Stormcrow : the only useless things are those that are unused...
Code Blue : It's random until I look at myself, that's when it's useless
Stormcrow : Blue, how do you do that? My damn life is #79 right now... but luckily, my alchemical skills still seem to be able to make the 13 bring the 8 for the big 21 on a pretty regular basis...
Code Blue : «link»
Code Blue : «link»
Code Blue : «link»
Code Blue : «link»
Code Blue : oh k Hay
Stormcrow : finally managed to skitter back online... signal may be spotty for the next few days
Code Blue : A forest by The Cure
Stormcrow : A welcome to our newest member from Istanbul, undone!
Stormcrow : Junk Science... FIRE DRILL!!!! «link»
Monkey : Ook! Mr. Blue made the Pub make an awesome: «link»
Stormcrow : great to see y'all around ;) - feelin' those wings a'stretchin'...
The Publishe : Facebook integration achieved. If that's where you get your groove on... «link»
Arminius : vewy very nice!!!!
The Publishe : Front page formatting finally fixed! And yes, alliteration lies entwined in the code... I told you that I wrote this in PHP, right? Pretty Hyperintricate Poetry...
little joe : If you roll the dice every day a 20 going to come up some time.lets just hope the 1 dosen't hit to often.
The Publishe : Some updates - publishing is easier, journals now are showcased immediately upon publication. Ads no longer appear for users. Menu has been cleaned up and simplified.
Code Blue : watching pop notes pop fashionably away and bleats turn to purrs
Stormcrow : Story project: improbable man meets impossible situation. Go. Write! Quickly! I need to know how it turns out...
thug : never look down on anyone. it is bad karma. labels only destroy. even good ones.
Stormcrow : Everybody loves a Carnival! «link»
Code Blue : listening to Zero without slight
Stormcrow : Seen from above, it's the simple acts that are the most profound.
little joe : wow what an out of contorl week just want it to end
Stormcrow : Infected Mushroom - Artillery... «link»
Code Blue : umbra penumbra
Alael : Gone again, but not fast enough.
Stormcrow : Thoughts of Gaiman's August, and of Terminus, walking the boundaries of the void beyond starlight
Code Blue : extracting breath
Stormcrow : Contemplating Tender Buttons... «link»
Code Blue : pile ~struction.
Code Blue : emoting non-cons.
Stormcrow : Spin - given constant velocity, it actually helps the balance issue...
Arminius : then you've found balance. the trick is maintaining. you might fall off ... but remember--you've been there before. remember the feeling. return. savor.
thug : how to find balance when everything is perched on the glottal stop, a curled ear-wax candle wick?
Arminius : Tilting Rock was the first seat of a planned 15-seat classroom in the woods. Little known fact. True.
Stormcrow : Class enrollment is currently full, but if you need help, I will lead you to Tilting Rock.
Stormcrow : 13 always brings 8
Code Blue : What goes in stays eternal.
Arminius : deuce deuce on st. marks
Code Blue : watching elevens pair.
Stormcrow : power dive... scattering the vultures...
Alael : Morphine-Yes
Code Blue : The morning barks & clucks.
Alael : Working For A Nuclear Free City- England
thug : ... the first rule about the Triads is that you don't talk about the Triads. The second rule about the Triads...
Stormcrow : Woot! Shout out to ze Cambodian Thug! So, you pass the Triad initiation rites yet?
Alael : A Perfect Circle- 3 Libras
Stormcrow : WP just rocked the mic in Petaluma... Alael kicked ass. Even your lowly crow kicked ass. Y'all gotta get the fuck outta the house and tear up a coffee shop or bar with your goddamn soul!
Alael : OMD- Talking Loud And Clear
Code Blue : Friends with the Library.
Alael : Ani Di Franco- Dilate
Alael : Devo- Smart Patrol/Mr DNA
Code Blue : Dusting Shinto.
Code Blue : Adjusting Bob Ross Smock: painting eastern gates.
Alael : Tori Amos-New Age
Alael : Steely Dan-Aja for Thug
thug : I am a garden slug in Bangkok. The heat makes it so that only the pen can move.
Alael : Gary Numan- Steel And You
Monkey : Gorillaz - Feel Good Inc
Alael : Tears For Fears- Pale Shelter
Stormcrow : Ze Fatboy Slender, Wonderful Night:
Stormcrow : "We rock like Colorado You're at it throwin’ bottles We give a fuck about who your status Who you are tomorrow Whether you beg or borrow Or hit the super lotto Whether your girl look like a minga or a supermodel Feel the connectedness, energy, disprojected the weighted The whole collective consciousness Arise like helium oh Groovin’ out of the question Won’t disrespect him, but Our style's fuckin’ posh like Dave Beckham c'mon"
Stormcrow : oo crap - here we go
Alael : The Human League- Love action (I Believe In Love)
Code Blue : 7 1 1 gate.
Alael : Morphine- I'm Free Now
Arminius : Bears don't bluster!
thug : chia-poetry. lots of omega 3's
The Publishe : Drafts option temporarily disabled for upcoming software updates.
Alael : Fatboy Slim- Sunset (Bird Of Prey)
Alael : Growing indeed, and changing.
Stormcrow : I've finally got it figured out. Wild Poets isn't a community, or a company, or a website.... it's a living, growing work of art.
Editor : f ny
Doktor : fleet foxes - live @ fox theater, oakland, ca 4/21/09
Alael : The Fixx- Secret Separation
Doktor : dj shadow - live @ brixton academy 12/15/06
Alael : Paul Schwartz- Be Still My Soul
The Publishe : New & Improved Draft writing capability at Create -> Drafts: «link»
Alael : Air- Playground Love
The Publishe : {insert mad scientist cackle here}
The Publishe : Infrastructure has been completed for Wild Poets Radio. We are now seeking rap slam poets and underground maestros for broadcast. Click here for info: «link»
Alael : Thomas Dolby-Windpower
Alael : Safe and happy travels, Thug ;-)
Alael : Death Cab For Cutie- Marching Bands Of Manhattan
thug : Beginning my frantic packing for Cambodia. If there's a piece you want me to look at pst me with a link and I'll whip out the red pen. Please stay on the line. Your call is important to us.
The Publishe : Project manager updated - for info, authors & staff click here: «link»
The Publishe : Not exactly useless - here's why it's inaccurate: things like a visitor with Google Web Accelerator can add to the count. Things like people using proxies or viewing elements of the site on other sites (such as thebabytank.com)can reduce it. So don't get superstitious...nothing is ever certain in web analytics ;)
Code Blue : Another useless number? I'll try not to let it raise superstitions.
Alael : Depeche Mode- To Have And To Hold
Arminius : Liz Phair/Mesmerize or Supernova
Arminius : what's so strange about Mongolia, pub? you trying to step to descendants of the great Khan? btw, fyi, they rode ponies
Alael : Liz Phair-Fantasize
The Publishe : So, yeah, a little bigger than the League of Justice. ;)
The Publishe : Hmm - guest count is not terribly accurate, which is why it had been disabled. That being said, looking at Google statistics, we have saw approx 1k unique people visit in June, reading an average of 10 pages on the site, and staying for about 10min a visit. Total visits = 9k. We have readers on every continent, and from places as strange as Mongolia.
Code Blue : When guest count high, I imagine : UN. When low : League of Justice.
Stormcrow : Pesos? Man, you're lucky... my paranoia is traded in pounds sterling.
Alael : His Name Is Alive- Up Your Legs Forever
Code Blue : What, no "guest count?" My paranoia increases one peso at a time.
Alael : Liz Phair- Johnny Feelgood
Code Blue : Grow Female Bud.
The Publishe : New instructions up in FAQ on how to submit work to a vote, removing comments from Journals, and routing Journal comments to the Cauldron forum of your choice: «link»
Monkey : Smokebud...
CF Kane : Rosebud...
Code Blue : The Cauldron all fat like that makes reading fun again.
Alael : Type O Negative- Summer Breeze
Code Blue : Laboratory Stereo induction to Catch Up Workings.
Code Blue : Glisten by ISIS on Celestial on Pandora.
The Publishe : The bookstore is dead, long live the Bazaar! «link»
Stormcrow : to assuage his grief, has resurrected a dusty desktop with linux...open your heart and geek against the dying of the light!
thug : rip Dr. Nielsen, ultimate D.I.Y. Antarctic Self-Surgeon =(
Editor : the former wins!
Stormcrow : is gingerly treading the line between an insightful and obnoxious drunk. Given the odds, we're betting on the latter.
Stormcrow : rip ff
Arminius : rip mj
The Publishe : Library has been revamped to make it prettier & easier to use. Take a look here: «link»
Code Blue : Poe, Baudelaire, Benjamin research heaven.
The Publishe : Looks like reddit is giving us a bit o' love - if anyone has a moment, head on over there and let them know what you think of us with a vote or a comment: «link»
The Publishe : Looking for feedback on beta run of voting system... you kids likee? «link»
Stormcrow : thuggee! «link»
Arminius : thankee!
Alael : to all the Wild Poet daddies :-)
Alael : Happy Father's Day
Code Blue : Forgiveness to others is enough.
Stormcrow : Forgive me my past sins, for I've fingerpainted them all over your screen...
The Publishe : Events listed in the WP calendar are now listed on Twitter. Click here to get started: «link»
Stormcrow : Metaflora.... «link»
Code Blue : astounded by "panopticon."
herr_doktor : a kink in the hose
Code Blue : Mudd.
Code Blue : Circulation
herr_doktor : Mr. Publisher: thank you ever so kindly for opening yr home to us ruffians :)
The Publishe : Just want to say thank you to everyone for the incredible contributions - pretty damn cool to see what y'all are making of this place... ;)
Code Blue : After that dirty mouthed Italian, I give up. William Shakespeare is such a stud with all those deep beats.
Stormcrow : considers the prose and cons of philosophical poetry. Can you hate to read what you love to write?
Code Blue : Ten Gallon Scoop Sigh. Sigh. Sighing Ten Gallon Scoops.
The Publishe : Listed in Web Tools -> Links - video to flash converter (for vids going to Tilting Rock Gallery): «link»
herr_doktor : think i found the line, just need to beat the snot out of the body
herr_doktor : working on it . . . damn first line keeps ditching me
Lateralis0ne : funny? mean? insightful? I wish I were there.
thug : not the 'I will die unloved and please, please hold me' bit... the other bit. where you were funny & mean yet insightful
thug : hey dok write that ting you said @ coffee
thug : after scattering all of the available parts to improvise an air filter for poor, spinning, orbital Mr. Hand, The ground crew looked at the mess, said 'fuckit' and went out for ice cream
Stormcrow : as a kite by then
Stormcrow : and I'm gonna be HIIIIIIIIIIGH
Stormcrow : Zero hour nine a.m.
Stormcrow : pre-flight
Stormcrow : She packed my bags last night
thug : ground control to Mr. Hand...
Stormcrow : circling back into orbit...
Code Blue : Mr. Hand?
herr_doktor : learned something tonight: i CAN play with potatoes, just not empty ones . . .
Code Blue : Mishandling handling. wondering why or when I can play dominoes or marbles and how.
Lateralis0ne : Mishandling a simple recipe: wondering how my pancakes taste like asbestos.
herr_doktor : Mishandling a simple recipe: wondering why I don't/can't play with potatoes.
Code Blue : Hearing night birds.
thug : I can't carry the precious Mister Stormcrow but I can carry YOOOUUU
Code Blue : I heart Lurps.
Stormcrow : "I have no liking for prisons, Master Thug. Sometimes I suspect that we build our traps ourselves, then we back into them, pretending amazement the while"
thug : Omnia mutantur, nihil interit
Lateralis0ne : At least you can erase it that way. Pen's a finality in itself.
herr_doktor : Perhaps you should type in pencil
thug : =P problem being when I sit down I don't know if it's gonna be "art" or "inane"
thug : then can you change it from "notes" to "inane shit?"
The Publishe : Write your inane shit in your Notes section. You can edit it by editing your profile: «link»
thug : can I toggle some of my stuff to not show up? I write some INANE shit sometimes.
thug : wow it's like a poetic lava lamp
The Publishe : Advanced search function now available in the Cauldron here: «link»
The Publishe : security updates complete - please report any bugs to moi
Stormcrow : there is no spoon... all we have are sporks
Code Blue : For Sherman Brown
Code Blue : bending spoons convex
The Publishe : we will be doing a series of security upgrades today - please expect some bumps in the road
The Publishe : Minor updates to Cauldron - default view now lists most recently updated topics. We also have a Cauldron RSS feed at: «link»
Stormcrow : mmmmmm..... kankles.....
thug : a sweet potato was a filly that danced the charlston in such a way that she exposed her sweet potato-like kankles at the men
thug : in the old country, a 'hot potato' was slang for a stolen tuber
Stormcrow : awww... sweet potato...
herr_doktor : absolutely no running; played quite nice actually
Stormcrow : depends... how fast was the potato running?
herr_doktor : tried to catch a potato; it'll be even hotter next week, right?
Code Blue : Boxing acedemic [s]words now, I swear like a "cur"
The Publishe : New version of Baby Tank, with new chapters, here: «link»
Stormcrow : well, if that's the case, why the hell does my passport read Kim Il Jong???
Code Blue : 11th degree agreement
Moony1313 : everything is exactly as it is supposed to be
herr_doktor : fear is my bitch
thug : up early in the morning writing writing writing! watch me type! elfjoeijfoweiguwoiGJefglkf
Stormcrow : he needs to chill out and go solar
thug : can't find any plugs in the dojo cept for the sparring robot's. and he gets PISSED when we unplug him.
Stormcrow : slightly used, but the volume knob goes up to 11...
Code Blue : depends on the condition of the speaker, no?
thug : Fear does not exist in this dojo, does it?
Code Blue : zipping open ended calls for fiction public butt not like Coriolanus' bellies.
Code Blue : Feeling New Mexico
thug : good night, burn unit. good night USS Enterprise. Good night, Starship Enterprise
Monkey : We've become the Dadaists of Poetry. Ook. Poop!
Stormcrow : Awake. Bake. Partake. Shake the Snake. Invigorate. Illuminate. Ruminate. Gestate. Gyrate. Gravitate. Expectorate. Undulate. Celebrate.
Arminius : good night, sapper, good night LURP I SAID GOOD NIGHT LURP, good night EC-3--take a rest
thug : I so need to do a takeoff on goodnight moon w/ tank
thug : good morning dmz, good morning spring break jalalabad, good morning opium farmers, blackwater, just getting by, surviving
Arminius : is there a feather in your capped?
Code Blue : there's a shadow in my bird
Arminius : good night, crackhouse ... good night, patrol car ... good night, butterflies dressed in black, just getting by, surviving
Editor : then we're going into the woods to cut lumber until daybreak
Stormcrow : I dun wanna go ta sleep!
Editor : good night, stormcrow
Editor : good night, nightclub
Stormcrow : Goodnight moon
The Publishe : folks can now submit works for critique directly into the Cauldron from the top main menu. Go to Create -> Submit Work for Critique and select the options you'd like from there.
Code Blue : fading to sleaping post supine time 233am
Monkey : Stay away from the light, Carol Anne!
Code Blue : Seeing a Star, must close eyelids, bright light brighter than light bright...
The Publishe : the more stock the more options
Code Blue : The more broth the more stock.
Stormcrow : the wire is down, it seems...
Code Blue : Sherm shorter than Too Short still
Code Blue : voted on fence for Cauldron, tear down the wire...
Editor : the kind of rock that sends ships into the air
The Publishe : The Bukowski Stew is now open. April prizes have been announced... «link»
Stormcrow : what kind of a rock are you talking about?
Editor : yeah!
Editor : poetry is the coffee after heartwreck's rock
Code Blue : This twittergration toggles it's I'm....
Code Blue : finalizing flock of Ten
Editor : the seagulls say buy low
Code Blue : in cafe methephor if inclined
Code Blue : Choosing ten to be sent vial email Ahora
The Publishe : Translations engaged. Still working on navigation options for translated pages.
Code Blue : Bitten by hot, beautiful zombie willingly
The Publishe : Accounts have two new features - you can now add up to 10 RSS feeds in the Newsfeed section. We also have Twitter integration. Feel free to drop me a line if you have any questions
The Publishe : Library Archives are now available to registered members directly through the site. Go to Library -> Library Archives. At this point, we have restored all of our old written work.
The Publishe : Restoration of the old cauldron is now complete. It is available to view by registered members. Go to Community -> The Cauldron Forums -> Cauldron Archives. You will need to log in separately with your old account. If you need assistance, drop me a line.
Code Blue : thumbs found right buttons, self reconditioned and Baby Tank re-read.
Arminius : gp
Stormcrow : because something has to compete with your evil fingers....
Editor : use your thumbs for good
Code Blue : Hanging w/ Miki @ CSU Pueblo
Code Blue : trying to learn Story Book, too many thumbs
The Publishe : go to Create -> Project Manager
The Publishe : New section available to Authors - full project management suite engaged for print production and other large projects.
Code Blue : Not airsick, feel fine, so sweet to see Baby Tank
Stormcrow : please excuse any bumps in the ride - we should be clearing the bad weather soon
Code Blue : Possible polyglot translator to be looking in this weekend
Code Blue : All Systems Go from Rockies
Code Blue : Pandora Radiohead Mix with early out to North
Code Blue : Message Service refreshed, thx Boss.
Code Blue : Arm.com link establishished. Rockies look good this Spring.
Code Blue : Processing "Arm," up too early for Friday, Anodyne Edit on hold.
Arminius : code blue
Arminius : yous
Arminius : err ...
Arminius : good 2 c us
Arminius : ja, pandora rx
Code Blue : Want to turn off email notifications for connections if possible...
Code Blue : Adjusting settings for email notifications, caffinated, impressed by Cauldron features
Stormcrow : Woot! Good to see you back
Code Blue : Anodyne edit later
Code Blue : Impresed by visuals on Tilting Rock... Off to Pandora for morning mix
Code Blue : Back from debrief High Country Style. New system fine. Need more sleep.
Stormcrow : nevermore
Code Blue : Me & V 4 Food ASAP. Hi to Poe in UK>
Code Blue : I meant to say Good Mourning.
Code Blue : God Nite Boss.
Editor : i recommend strunk & white
Chief Engine : is currently accepting your favorite book lists
Chief Engine : needz coffee
Shep : content is so yesterday. but that's not why i like it.
Code Blue : Nice New Coat. Stay warm until Sun Rise. 3 weeks to go.
Chief Engine : and we are go - all done - it's all about the content now
Code Blue : log off on successful. thx new flipped icon.
Chief Engine : back and forth in chat - checking every 5 min or so
Code Blue : Did I mention how hot Radio makes me?
Code Blue : Take the day off Boss. And then attend to my duplication senario. Agree with monetary plate. All funding can be provided if worked with/by/for/in... Have dinner of free somewhere.
RRH : THEY COME OFF WITH A LITTLE LEMON JUICE AND SOME ELBOW GREASE!
RRH : PLEASE FORGIVE ANY BLASTER MARKS ON THE WALLS!
RRH : I WILL PATROL THE HALLWAYS AND SAFEGUARD THE SPACECRAFT!
RRH : THANK YOU FOR CREATING ME!
RRH : HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY, PUBLISHER!
Chief Engine : cache successully running - site speed has improved. Full backups initiated and scheduled. Proceeding with security checklist.
Chief Engine : Performance testing - cache enabled. Please let me know if you find any weird glitches
Chief Engine : Ladies and gentlemen, engines are up and running. Test firings have indicated that we are ready for spaceflight.
RRH : the church/antennae
Code Blue : Pandora pulled up Monkey Trick by Jesus Lizard within seconds. I'm happy. And violated from the 90's....
Code Blue : It;s a world world world world world world world world world world world world world world world wide out in here. No character limit? Tha's hot on my bod ee.
Shep : 's nose sprints
admin : whirled peas
Shep : peas!
Shep : i have a farm too!
Monkey : passes Blue the disco ball
Code Blue : Asks for light
admin : only has wine
Code Blue : Begs for water.
admin : shout shout
admin : hey hey - this is our shoutbox
Monkey : there we go
Monkey : kaboom
Monkey : la la la
Monkey : there we go
Monkey : ahh
Uncurious Ge : boom
Uncurious Ge : hmm - what do y'all think about the shoutbox?
Uncurious Ge : test
Uncurious Ge : hmm
Uncurious Ge : :O
Uncurious Ge : ok - there we go
Uncurious Ge : test with acl
Uncurious Ge : ok - try again
Uncurious Ge : doesn't seem to be working
Uncurious Ge : hmm
Uncurious Ge : Rar
Risp : Welcome to the shoutbox

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