Sunday, June 29, 2008

brand new ULA active member brings to the mix . . .

. . . honky tonk vignettes and authentic "mail-art"
independent DIY alternative grassroots


RITA RangerRita RangerRitaWebb Ranger Ranger WEBB

mail art by

mail art verso of "A Fable"

& Rita Webb’s

Who's sorry now?

Mrs. Lovejoy was perfect. She had a beautiful face and a flawless figure. She always dressed with impeccable taste – hat, purse, and shoes matched to her stylish outfits – and not a hair or a speck of makeup out of place. Mrs. Lovejoy was divorced. Her husband had run off with a slovenly math teacher named Lila Scruggs.

All of the other women at church watched Mrs. Lovejoy with envy, while the men couldn't take their eyes off her, as she'd gracefully glide down the center aisle on Sunday mornings to her pew near the front, with two perfectly-groomed but very plain children in tow.

There were stories in the newspaper about Cynthia Lovejoy, the star of the Phoenix Ballet, and my mother said that she was the same one who went to our church. I was about nine years old when I first saw her name in the paper. The articles were always accompanied by black-and-white action photos in which it was impossible to see the ballerina's face.

So a few years later, when I began to read the text of the news items, I was shocked to learn that Mrs. Lovejoy's first name was Eleanor, and that, despite her graceful demeanor, she wasn't a dancer; it was her taciturn teenage daughter who starred in the Phoenix Ballet. Cynthia wasn't attractive, but she had waist-length black hair and a future. Mrs. Lovejoy was interviewed frequently, always making it clear that she was "giving Cynthia everything that I never had," but Cynthia never said anything to the reporters.

It was rumored that Cynthia's little brother had a name, but no one knew what it was. He was sent to reform school when he was fourteen for having committed arson.

Cynthia had been the main source of income for her mother for a long time. Cynthia was sick of ballet. She wanted to go to college and study philosophy. Mrs. Lovejoy said no. One day when no one else was around, Cynthia put the barrel of a .45-caliber revolver into her mouth and pulled the trigger. Mrs. Lovejoy came home and found blood all over her perfect, white floor.

Wednesday, June 25, 2008



A th e is m

Why don’t they have a church for the Atheist?
A place we can go to praise the non-existence of him.

And we’ll give ourselves titles and ranks,
that determine just how much we don’t believe in him.

We’ll accept donations, have pie sales,
and even play bingo on Tuesday nights.

We’ll have holidays for those extra days off,
and at annual town fairs
run a booth with raffle tickets.

Our prophets will be the best of the best
from Nietzsche to Sartre,
their books used as bibles.

And the people of the congregation
will gather on a much better day than
a Sunday or Saturday. Maybe a Tuesday night
can work, everybody seems to be free then.

Homelessness in New Jersey

My idea of homelessness came from cartoons,
a happy character with a stick and a polka
dot handkerchief tied to the end to hold
all his worldly possessions.

I first attempted to be homeless when
I was 7 years old living in Jackson, New Jersey.
I packed up a comic book and a jacket
took some cheese and crackers from my moms fridge
and walked to the clubhouse in my backyard.
It had its own imitation kitchen with a stove
and plastic red doors. I stayed there
for at least 4 or 5 hours looking at the pictures
in my comic book trying to find things to do
to bide my time. The cheese and crackers
were gone by evening and it got dark quick
and I was scared of the dark.

Now I’m 26 years old and I have a car
and a nice state job with benefits up in Cranford.
Because my car works I’m considered to be
an upper class person without a home
and since I’m pursuing my Masters Degree I will have
plenty of things to do to take up my time.
When I was younger and homeless I went back home
because it was dark and my mom called me in.
Now I have a flashlight on my keychain
and I don’t think I’m gonna listen when she calls
because I want to see the sunrise thru morning dew
windows and that means really see the sunrise
before I get old.

Walking in a Field with my Friend Evan

I was walking in a field in my backyard
With my friend Evan.
And if there’s anything he knows it’s
A shitload about birds.
And he explains only the interesting
Things about the birds
Like the mourning
dove and how
The sound it makes
Is actually coming from its wings,
Not its throat.
Or the Grackle whom can make
Two different sounds
At the same time.
Who gets all excited before singing
Puffing out its wings
And breast spazing uncontrollably.
We talked of Wallace Stevens
his 13 ways to describe
A blackbird.
And than we finally decided
That every bird has a poem to it
Especially the
Who jumps around
Making it sound
Like rain
Tricking worms
To the surface only to face
Their inevitable fate
Being pulled from the ground
That keeps them alive.

credit WALKINGENGLISH.blogspot @20001BCE

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

new active member ULA 2008: CYNTHIA RUTH LEWIS

Cynthia Ruth Lewis


I've never rushed out to see
a "hit movie"

I don't "do" the mall

I don't pay attention
to or
participate in gossip

I listen to Beethoven
and Marilyn Manson

I've never read anything on
a best-seller list

I am not ruled by the dollar sign

I've got a few gray hairs I
refuse to cover

I prefer the company of books
to most people...

and for this I am considered
a threat to society--
but since when is individualism
considered dangerous?

If I whipped out a gun in public,
would I be any more normal?
Would that be expected of me?

Just because I prefer to avoid
the masses, and choose to put
a fork in the beaten path,
for this I am shunned
I am feared
I am dismissed

I enjoy being on the other side
because if being different
is deemed wrong in this fleeting
fuck of a world

I don't ever want to be right


Who the fuck are you to snub me ?
We're both writers--
but just because you lost your gag reflex
to get your book on the bestseller list
is no reason to look down your nose at me

I write from the gut; I don't shit words out,
and I don't take them for granted
as you seem to do--

the last 'original' thought you had

you probably left floating in the bowl
this morning,
so get your nose out of the air
and stop acting like you just smelled
the essence of your latest plot...

I may not be a world-famous writer,
but at least I h
ave a decent group
of loyal fans,
instead of the entire world
eating shit out of the palm of my hand


You have to acquire a taste
for my particular kind of poetry

I'm 100%
no preservatives added;
no sweetener

I'm not sugar or spice
or anything nice--
I tell it like it is

some people find my writing
rather unappetizing.
Most of them simply don't get it;
they act like I'm speaking
in a foreign tongue,
but my tongue is merely twisted

they don't want to admit that people
like me
actually exist,
because I'll be the first to tell you
that there's no Santa Claus
or Easter
and there sure as hell aint no happy face
at the bottom of the cereal bowl

you need to have been face-down in the dirt
a number of times in order to understand
my brand of irritation
the so-called "straight and true"
brain-washed individuals that make up society

you need to have experienced a few major
disillusions about the world today
to feel which direction MY wind is blowing...

so if you're one of those people that
really believe the hole in the ozone layer
is not going to get any bigger
while you're still walking the planet,
fear not--

I'm here to tell you that it is

Amazing Barry Silver, BED OF NAILS. photo:Geoff Hall@ 2006