Saturday, June 6, 2009
Adam Meora unsane verse live at Yoga 1405 Walnut. From, Philadelphia Poetic Arts Performance Project
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Letter Head 2 David Williams the fake hecklers caught on more video from ULA/TheIdiom Rotunda show, April 7th!
HITS THE LAST STANDS HARD AND DEEP THE POST- APACALYPTIC MULTI-DIMENSIONAL BREAKTHOUGH INDEPENDENT JOURNAL CONSPIRED IN BUFFALO, PUBLISHED OUT OF CHICAGO IS HERE FOR THE PEOPLE..
GET YRS BEFORE THE BORDERS ARE SEALED AND THE WHIP COMES DOWN! HIGHEST HURDLE PRESS
DIRECT INQUIRIES: email@example.com
to the editors
Here's more evidence that Augustin Bolanos and his side kick, "Ex- academic" were more agents of the dead-heads than frustrated post- punk rockers, more importantly the Imaginary Band makes the official 215- fest tainted official Philly Poetry scheme look like Gestalt cry babies!
DAVID WILLIAMS, OWNER AND INTERNATIONALLY RECOGNIZED ( yes, Virginia, even in the picture that serves as the cover on his latest CD here below!) SPACE-MOZART, has composed, compiled, recorded and now published a set of torch songs whose beauty are matched only by their disruptive strangeness... available in Philly at Germ Bookstore & Gallery
Germ Books + Gallery, LLC2005 Frankford Avenuebetween Norris and Susquehanna between Rocket Cat Cafe and Circle Thrift ShopFishtown, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA
Monday, March 16, 2009
below: Reed Books incredibly multi-dimensional and beautifully wrought meta-zine replete with four-color vellum "inner lays" and a CD of his action-reading this epic anarchist tome of sardonic and socio-economic proportions. ENOUGH said!
MANDY KATZ pulls a fast one,
flourishing "found" poetry: a bicycle repair manual that would give ee cummings a run for his mullah!
above: PAUL WALKER'S samizdat chap without reservations; touching mystically stoked lyrik findings of the transformational working class kind with ample pen and ink sketches by artist CORIN DROSS
SUSAN SUBWAYS! SUSAN SUBWAYS!
Mz. Subways story- tells for the urban ear and conscience ...
REED who is also a rad musicians in his own writes enters into the stream that is...
... The Nothing Factory!
host Dave Onion , the brains and heart in the LAVA autonomous space
[center] Kenneth [far right]: super-real prose vignettes of situations and and the people in 'em were shocking in their honesty but as well put down on the page and then read as any of the best writing to be experienced in the "underground!
Claire Christina's subtle yet exceeding sharp verse allowed one to levitate for as long as their savor reverberated in the individual sensibilties.
"Jeepers "narrative poetry, free associative and thoughtful at the same instant, skimmed the universal while impressively resisting generalization.
Everyone included who read stood in the light and read with honesty, clarity, embracing plurality with natural voice confidently wielding efficient skill. What a break from the disconnect of typical academic and corporate literary events that hypnotized their unfortunate staid audiences with monotony and "sincere" posings...
A glimpse of the LAVA library as James Brown' s heads looks onward
Saturday, March 14, 2009
CEE Community Cultural Exchange Coming UP// Donnelly's Ditty SF pertaining to the repeal of gay marriage in CA// Travis Johnson, surrealist "stike"
Gary the Storyteller
Rachael & Chris
WE ALWAYS NEED FILMAKERS AND VIDEOGRAPHERS!!!!
Community Cultural Exchange
P.O. Box 63808
Philadelphia, PA 19147
344 South Street
Philadelphia PA 19147
- every other Wednesday, 6:30-7:30pm
at Starr Garden
6th & Lombard Street
###### ####### ####
REENLIGHTENMENT MAN (RE: RENAISSANCE ) TRAVIS JOHNSON, ST. AUGI'E, FL.
Published in the COLLECTIVE PRESS, Independent radical free monthly rag, in St. Augustine
subtext: [copies of this issue as well as other back issues are now available at the LAVA space public "library" at 4134 Lancaster Ave. Philadelphia, in the real 'hood!]
[SUBTEXT: EXAMPLE OF REAL CONCEPT BEEN MINDFULLY ACTUAL]
Travis invited you to "Festival of Ostara at the Fountain of Youth" on Saturday, March 21 at 8:00pm.
Event: Festival of Ostara at the Fountain of Youth
What: Erotic Party
Host: The Universe
Start Time: Saturday, March 21 at 8:00pm
End Time: Sunday, March 22 at 1:00am
Where: Fountain of Youth
This in from Tim Gilmore, editor of DeadPaper lit journal, via email:
The April 2009 deadpaper reading will take place on Friday, April 3rd, 7 p.m., at Chamblin's "Uptown," downtown Jacksonville, 215 Laura Street (less than a block south of the new Main Library and Heming Plaza)
[subtext: Ron Chamblin for my money is the current independent literary culture champion a class act and wisely kind very much to my mind like Lawrence Ferlinghetti and James Laughlin (who Frank Walsh was lucky enough to meet at the Pound /Williams Symposium at Penn in the early 80's, thanks to Andrew Lovatt) whereas he has stocked both his huge marvelous bookstores with all ULA Press titles plus Joe Pachinko's urinals of hell and C. Robin's Zen Baby and more including the UNHOLY SIDESHOW MOVIE, directed by the Alliance's Matt Broomfield.]
deadpaper.org monthly readings are held the of every month.
You'll soon hear about May's reading, which will be our publication party for the Spring 2009 issue!
Also soon coming, new collections from Lois Wilson, Joe Goosey, and at some point, yours truly. More word on those when we have it.
Come. Listen (or) read (or both). Sing. Play the guitar or the alphorn or prop up an in the doorway and pray for some wind. Have some wine. Have a pastry. Hang out. Browse for books before the reading. Meet people.
Support each other. It is your forum.
"The world is in my head. My body is in the world."
"The Pirates of Somalia
are a wacky funny bunch,
They'll welcome you with open arms,
and then have you for lunch.
they drink a lot of rum
and they screw a lot of holes
oh! to be a pirate in Somalia!
where they never do grow old..."
Gawd, the pirates in Somalia are having better luck than the free philly wireless!?
Michael is not available to chat
show details 11/19/08
I want to tell you more....
they have had gay marriage
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
LEGEND: upper, SUNDAY, MARCH 15TH// lower, FRIDAY THE 13TH...
Arriving in the nick of time or is it "neck", well this will make sense perhaps when the chance interlocutor gets a gander the modus operandi of the grand opening collective art show at a new and hopefully enduring "gift horse stared in the mouth" hosted gallery on South Street--- part of the so so attempt by South Street and Head House Square Business Assocs. to up the ante by maybe baiting and switching free art spaces on the "straped" profit margins merged along the cultural/ commercial corridor on the head- waters of the old Southwark district that hugs the river and mummer-land, or is it th other way 'round (one can only hope for such!). Whatever the case one can only sincerely wish the attempt on the part of the enlightened land-lords success in their attempt, otherwise wish the artists and especially SAINT MARCH AT 7TH & SOUTH success and flourish for real (being honest in their case!), as shades of the Seventies, the artists are being deployed to bring back foot- traffic and them thar new freesh minted dollars back to the track for abetting!
Anyway as this blog was assaying, just in the neck of time Tim Dunn comes running in to the Rotunda ULA/the Idiom Mag Anthology Big Lit Action Reading show with Reed or is it Read
with arms full of hand-bill fliers posting another event one that this ULA cat has been anticpating, waiting for with fingers crossed since he happened to falll back into the circle of Gothicks, ie. Bagdadadelphia back in late last October--- a seeming no holds barred, deep grass roooted radical poetry reading and representing, whether they like it or not, the underground writers and poets and zinesters, of Philadelphia, more so, of West Philadelphia (Yes Richmond, there is a difference!) in the "place", on the spot most likely to naturally bolster and sensitize such a situation. Namely the LANCASTER AVENUE AUTONOMOUS space at 42nd and Lancaster Ave. approached most surely and securely if that be important to those wishing to attend by the number 10 subway/surace trolley heading west, of course.
This is besides last Saturday's ULA presents event and mad cap literary revelation the most important underground literary resistance situ to hit the city since the beginning of the new year. Get up the nerve screw your heads back on and get yourself to the LAVA in the 'hood were the American English is parleys and in your face. This is where one learns and hears the "Voice That Is Great Within Us". Ula will be there out in force!
Monday, February 9, 2009
... well as the column, Messages From The Exiled King of Poland, at www.epicrites.org.
As far as places to get a hold of me. I have a myspace page. www.myspace.com/karlkoweski
I'm a featured writer at www.epicrites.org
other than that, I've pretty much cut ties with every other poetry type organization. hope you're well.
“Obama’s The AntiChrist!” She Cried
Sundays in Alabama can be brutal for a guy like me with no interest in organized religion, crystal meth or professional football. I cared nothing for riding horses, tractors or logs pulled by ATVs. And I had no money to pursue the one thing in life that did bring me joy. That being strange women.
So the Sunday afternoon before the Presidential election found me lying on the couch torn between the sorrow of a refrigerator depleted of beer and the fleeting ecstasy of being away from the factory for an entire twenty four consecutive hours. I was vaguely aware of my wife inveighing me to wash dishes from the night before. I was in no mood to be inveighed.
I should have never quit the hard drugs. I see that now.
As is so often the case when there doesn’t seem to be enough insanity in my life, insanity comes walking through my trailer door.
“Obama’s the AntiChrist! Oh Lord! Obama’s the AntiChrist!” Lovella heralded the end times.
Her rant began somewhere near her trailer and hit second gear in the foyer of mine. Foyer being a fancy way of describing the five foot by five foot space directly entering the front door separating the kitchen from the living room.
“Everybody! Obama gets elected, he’s gonna destroy the world, y’all.”
Lovella, the second wife of my wife’s deceased father, stood trembling in what can only be described as god-fearing Armageddon lust.
The wife peeked out from the kitchen. I raised my head off the couch pillow. Our eyes met with dual telepathic messages. You deal with this shit. Lovella stood between us like a pendulum that had forgotten to take its medication, freeing it from the constraints of logic, physics, and the polite etiquette of knocking on a door before entering one’s aluminum domicile. The wife rushed into the safe haven of the bathroom in the time it took me to get a foot on the floor.
Lovella swept her jittery eyeballs in my direction. Her hands were empty of weaponry. At least that. Usually, when the brimstone began beating a hellfire cadence against her addled brain, first thing she’d do is arm herself before warning the citizenry of hillbilly row.
“He’s gonna legalize abortion,” she caterwauled. “There’s gonna be queers marrying in the streets. The world’s goin end in a rain of hellfire!”
The end of the world bullshit called to mind one of her earlier psychotic breaks with reality. The Y2K business. At the dawn of the new millennium when the computers, ill-equipped to handle a year beginning with “2" were prophesied to come to a screeching halt, dropping airplanes out of the sky and enabling queers to make a mockery out of the sacred vow of matrimony. We were still eating canned foods from the Y2K stockpile.
Seeing my kids cowering under the kitchen table as Lovella ranted put me on edge. So I decided to prick her jesus bubble with a couple barbs I like to refer to as truth and logic.
“All right, goddammit. First off, woman, abortion is legal.”
“No it ain’t neither. It ain’t ever right to kill a young’un fore it even got the chance to be borned proper.”
“Hell, I didn’t say it is right. Which it is. I just said it’s legal. Roe Vs. Wade mean anything to you?”
“It don’t mean squat to me cause I don’t read the Satanic Bible. My good Christian Bible says abortion ain’t right. Ain’t legal. Ain’t nothing but killin innocents.”
“Okay, fine. But don’t blame that on Obama. And as far as the gays... it’s a state decision whether or not to legalize gay marriage. Obama won’t have no say in it.”
“That Obama devil’s gonna bring the whole world to an end. You wait and see if he don’t, “ she hissed. “He’s gonna end the world with his Muslim idolatry. It says so in the Bible.”
“The Bible says Barack Obama’s gonna bring on the Apocalypse?” It seemed we’d had this conversation before. Only Britney Spears was the culprit. And before that it was home computers, www.com being the new number of the beast.
“What do you really know about him? He came out of nowhere like the beast rising from the pit.”
“Well... he’s a strong proponent for hope and change. And he says he’s gonna tax the rich more. And he graduated from Harvard Law.”
I felt my blood pressure inching up dangerously high for an off day. I tried to imagine myself as a balloon tied to a sphincter, floating above this shit.
“He doesn’t even salute the flag, y’all. Anyone voting for him ain’t no Christian at all and they’s goin straight to hell.”
“So you’re voting for McCain and that crazy bitch who thinks men and dinosaurs walked the earth together.”
Here she got to shaking and tremoring all over like she’d just been snakebit.
“No, I ain’t, neither. I ain’t registered.” She said.
“You think the AntiChrist is going to get voted in and you can’t be bothered to register and vote?”
“I don’t want no jury duty. Besides, I ain’t worried. I’m goin straight to heaven in the rapture, anyway. It’s them young’uns I’m worried about.”
I laid back against the couch cushions, glanced at my five year old son who thought Barack Obama was a Star Wars character. I couldn’t wait for the rapture. She’d leave behind enough canned goods and bullets to keep the Muslims at bay from our mountain strongholds for a hundred years. And I wouldn’t have to hear her doomsday threats parroted from her crazed Baptist preacher ever again. It’d be like heaven on earth.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Someday I Will Write A Poem That Will Flood The World
And I will own all the
arks, boats, ships,
rafts, and canoes,
and tug boats, ferries,
all forms of water transportation.
People will have to come
to me for their means
The stubborn and destitute ones
will drown in my poem
sinking to the bottom,
screeching like anchors on
The rest of humanity will plead
for cut-rate discounts. But fuck them,
I’ll make them pay out
the ass. No rainbows
Century City in
1967, or 8, very stoned
speech. We were
crowd the cops
were pushing back
and yelling at us
to cease and desist.
She took my hand
and placed it
between her legs
up her lily white
sun dress. When the
speech was over
she drove me home,
to my place on
Lexington in Hollywood.
And she jacked me
off and I came in her mouth.
When i finally got
outta the car, she was
insistent that I take not
one but two, Stop The War
Jerry From 13th Street
There was the perpetual
Pall Mall cigarette
hanging from his mouth.
And he was always
picking on kids
smaller and younger
His wooden leg and
foot clanged and
he walked. It had happened
when he was twelve,
trying to jump
into a boxcar
of a moving train. Two of
his friends had
made it, one chickened
out. Jerry miscalculated
his run and came up
short, reaching for the edge
of the boxcar’s
open door, and the motion
of the train pulled
him under. Somehow he was
able to keep one leg
free, with the rest of his body,
from slipping under the
steel wheels. Every kid
in the neighborhood
of him, every kid but me.
To me he was just a pimpled-face
fat kid with a wooden leg.
One day he was coming
down the alley
with a couple of his friends. I was
fifteen, but already well over
6 feet and a solid 175 pounds.
He and his friends were
maybe sixteen, overweight,
and a couple of inches shorter.
They were all three smoking
as they passed..
Jerry sneered, flipping his Pall Mall
at me. It hit my t-shirt and
bounced to the ground. They
stopped and were laughing,
calling me a
dumb ass and a son-of-abitch.
I didn’t say a word, I just
quickly walked right up
into their faces. They were
took a step backwards.
My uncle had lost a leg in WW2
and I knew what the
of a wooden leg was. I was an
arm’s distance away
from Jerry, who was
lighting another cigarette,
still sneering. I turned my body
slightly and kicked
his wooden knee.
He seemed to fall instantaneously,
to his left,
in a barrage of yelling and
clanging. His friend, who was
standing to the right
of him, took a step forward,
as if he was going
to take a punch at me. I swung
wildly, hitting him
somewhere around the
collarbone, and I was winding up
another, when he turned
and ran down the alley. The other
kid was faster,
passing his friend easily.
I watched them run
out of the alley to the sidewalk.
Jerry was still yelling and crying
on the ground, begging me
to help him up. I told him I wouldn’t
help him, but that I would
call his parents
when I got home. I left him laying
there crying, as I jumped
over the next door neighbor’s fence,
I walked across
their backyard into mine, went into
called Jerry’s parents and
told his mother that
he had had an accident and
was in the alley. My dad
overheard the conversation
what was going on.
I told him I had just kicked
the ass of Jerry from over
on 13th street. He laughed
and said it was
about time someone
cleaned that bastard’s plow.
That was the first time
I ever drank a beer
with my old man,
but not the last.
Watch Their Castles Tumble
Not everyone wants
To hear the truth
Though everyone gives
It enough lip service
“Just be honest with me, “
they’ll say, “tell me the truth.”
Their eyes oozing sincerity
So, you tell them the truth
And watch their castles tumble.
Coming Down From The Mountain Unenlightened
We trudged down the mountain path
to the water
like warriors beaten.
Our whiskey bottles empty,
all of our mescaline eaten.
Five days without bathing, we threw
and stinking, clothes and all,
into the ocean.
The two girls stripping down to
their panties and bras.
Thomas claimed he saw
a flying saucer.
Lucy swore she had
a brush with Big Foot
on a rocky ridge above the jade cliffs.
But the rest of us
knew that mescaline
was the cause.
And we mixed our trips
with a few cold beers
to level them out a little.
I laid in a foot of water
staring up at the mountain,
thinking how normal everything appeared.
After five days of
and discussions of
astral projection, change shifting and time
travel, nothing in the world
looked any different
We dried ourselves in the sun and
headed down 101 for home, still unenlightened.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
In this editors humble opinion Doug Draime is one of the most important voices in underground literature today. His poems are refreshing, entertaining, and address what is really going on. Enjoy!-MDG
You Might As Well Dance Till The Fat Lady Sings
Tune in to the tuned out
Turn on to the turned off
It doesn’t Matter
Anyway you work it
You can’t please ‘em all
Who cares if you’ve written
40, 000 poems
Blind folded in a deep dark pit
Though you may be the
Last poet standing
Some poet-ego-enfant terrible
Will come along & bomb
You when you least expect it
All you can do is keep on keep on
Pounding those keys like freedom
Tune in to the tuned out
Turn on with the turned on
It can’t Matter
Anyhow you work it
You can only please yourself
Who cares if you’ve written
100, 000 poems
Blind folded in a pig stye
Though chances are you are the
Last real poet standing
Some poet-ego-enfant terrible
Will come down the road & shoot
You when you have your back turned
All you can do is keep on keeping on
Pounding those keys like freedom ringing
Tune out to the tuned in
Turn off to the turned on
It don’t Matter
Any time you work it
You can only please the moment
Who cares if you’ve written
420, 000 poems
Blind folded in a vat of pointlessness
Though the fact is you are the
Last poet with balls standing
Will stick the blade repeatingly into
You just as everything seems to be falling into place
All you must do is keep writing the truth as you see it.
Pounding those keys like freedom singing
What good is a poet
who cannot dig a ditch
What purpose is a poem
that is not a blazing sun
What value is art
that does not rage at war
What importance is love
that is not fearless spirit
When Rock n’ Roll Was A Teenager
When rock n’ roll was a teenager,
Great Balls Of Fire
was throwing punches
at a man twice its age
on a gravel parking lot in
laughing and drinking Jim Beam
between ducks and jabs.
When rock n’ roll was a teenager,
had its finger up the local car hop
after she closed down A&W for the night,
her hand around its hard dick,
pumping it slowly,
in the back seat at the drive-in movie,
in the Wild Ones
on the screen.
When rock n’ roll was a teenager,
Only The Lonely
was in the county jail locked up for
drunk and disorderly, reading
Tropic of Cancer and writing poems
of sex, rage, and revolution,
trying to conceive a way
to escape from jail by taking its own life,
but, oh, we all know, rock n’ roll
can never/will never die!
Thursday, January 8, 2009
North Florida : St. Augustine mixed media shaker and mover, TRAVIS JOHNSON reminded the ULA's FDW at one point that HP Lovecraft spent some quality writing time in the Ancient City and for good reason.
Well it all begins to fall into place, doesn't it.
This amazing creative livelihood reflected in Travis' performing in big experimental "noise" music projects in mostly underground outlets cooperatively and independently, his organizing and hosting the notorious
WEIRD FILM SOCIETY FESTIVAL OF ST. AUGUSTINE, his genuinely surreal verse of an accomplished degree, and especially amazing textured paintings, found object bricolage and constructions, goes without saying, yet at the same time crazy grace under pressure from a right wing privileged Jim Crow contempt from the vested interests of law enforcement and commerce in America's oldest city.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&&&&&& &&&&&&&&
From Philadelphia's West Bank, its cold flats, squatter strongholds, newly rehabbed tenements expensively falling down under the weight of corrupt utility company monopolies and red- line Immanencies find below samples of the experimental socio-real expressionist "autiste"
KALI MILES CLARK. A self determined alchemist and gypsy wanderer haling from the crossroads of the Great Smokey Mountains... she is currently showing her work at the Satellite Coffee House at 50th and Baltimore much of which incorporates encaustic, hot organic bees wax techniques where found substances are suspended and applied to photographs that have the general effect of illuminating the arte-fact...