Poetry Super Highway Chat Room | short stories | Pomes | address of importance | Even More Pomes | News! | Interview Page | Reviews Page | Photo Album Page | Contact Me | Archives
Dirty Dishes


last we spoke
he wanted his "cut"
for a story of mine
based on him
he yelled as he left
the bar
so I paid
our tab
walked home
& mailed him 1 of
2 contributor's copies
he hasn't
returned a call since
or responded
to any of 8
Xmas cards
proving the strength
of his character
more than
either of us
would like
-----Mark Wisniewski

(a poem for Yusuke)

I sit with Rain River at side with thoughts of poems;
"jack" and Town and the City Wolfe inspired literary
failure and imagine drunken Kerouac tears floating
like feathers in a broken wind

The Rain was a melodic and beautiful gift read on a
ebon encrusted April three a.m. night of American

madness madness madness

where the news earlier tonight screamed of six children
shot at the Washington national Zoo and I think to myself
that she, Kwannon, Bosatz; where is love love love
Goddess of mercy

Oh, how the devils(laugh and dance) deaf to the Mexacalli
Blues poor poor children
You have seen Yaksha but as Kusunoki Masashige seven times
Seven times shall your children sing forever graced
I have held the broken wing and wept
I have lived the twilight duel
Thrice have I given and received
Love in rose petal softness
My being holds your being poor poor children
My eyes weep your tears
With the suchness of snow
I am the mother that
Suckled you my poor poor children
And today the red sun rises over love
And the warmth burns over both hunger
And the man and the woman who dance
And lover's touch excited with passion
And the warmth continues to burn as
Children born and aged cease
So my poor poor children
Welcome home
For my tears were like rocks thrown at
The moon
And I, I am only sand and the need for
Love and to be loved which is both my
Greatest weakness and strength under
The flowing of life

My Poor Poor Children

And a red rose is picked for a young
Lover's heart while a pink rose is placed
On freshly turned earth and the cycle that
Is forever continues unbroken as life is
Love my poor poor children
The rains flood and feed as I cast my net
On the blue peaceful waters to touch your
Hand my lover on the shore where I first
Beheld your eyes, where our bodies were
Bound together as the stars are fixed
To the sky

My poor poor children I am
The spring from whence you
First arose and today the
Red sun rising brings the
Warmth that burns over love


Slept five years on the floor
80 to 90 in summer
lookin' like a gothic
meth lab reject
in Garth Brooks country
turned 50 in June
still don't know what
first novel in slush
piled like a scene
from Morpheus
that I can't escape
BIRDS CRY to remind me
It's feeding time
Maybe we're all just
In a zoo and that old cosmic
Gatekeeper forgot to tell us

Wednesday, December 12, 2001

We enter the magic cave
Of play and healing,
Shedding our fiction characters
We use outside,
Ego masks, skin tight,
Limiting..limiting the expanding.
Those masks will change
When we put them back on,
Softening to fit our new bodies, new faces.

Here we are
More than ourselves
More of ourself
Expanding into one another
Rubbing skin
Friction of pleasure
Falling into the in-between
Surrender to the falling
Out of time and space,
Surrendering into discomfort
Of strangeness which contains
A strange comfort of remembering
The body and soul

Falling into the in-between,
Surrendering into the trance
Pleasure friction of creation
Rubbing dead skin into each other,
Aroused and excited,
Going into each other,
Taking each other in,
There is no THE OTHER,
Breathing each other deeply,
Smelling and tasting,
Licking and kissing,
Prickly state of inter-penetration,
Nerves connected
In the skin,
Melt bodies together,
Removes the lies of separation,
Hearts beat together strong relax,
Rich red blood flows deep.

We rock calm deep contained within each other
Within the combined body
Deep pleasure flows over us
Washing from deep within.

We have been here before,
Being contained within everything,
Enveloping everything within.
Lying extended within our combined body,
Combined self/soul,
relaxed, enjoying being within,
Sucking aroused pleasure up
As a tide of change,
Enjoying being with each other
Without going anywhere,
Being enough.

The tide,
the laugh
Giggle, sobbing
Leave our body reality
Trance of inter-dependence,
Holy healing play dance,
And flows inward into the whole cosmos,
Changing everything,
Changing healing unseen, unknown

We leave the cave
With each other inside.
And our masks expand and soften.

In Freedom
Frank Moore
Visit http://www.eroplay.com
Listen to LUVeR!
LUVeR Alternative News


shooting stars light up the


like cherry bombs kissing the


--A.D. Winans


white crystal wrapped

in cellophane

like sugar cubes

in a confectionary store

--A.D. Winans


I like Kung Pao Chicken

the tiny hot peppers hidden

in spicy sauce

I like lean pork dipped

in hot mustard

I like curried chicken

seved over a mound or rice

I like green tea

and fortune cookies

I like the feel of chopsticks

pressed to my lips

I like Chinese waitresses

in white blouses

and bow ties

I like eating


--A.D. Winans


the old geezers have gone mad
George Foreman, Sugar Ray Leonard
meeting at Burger King
looking for the ghost of Gabby Hayes
the old radicals have died off become
politicians or retired to Palm Springs
there's no one left to get drunk with
no one to get down and dirty with

I don't want to be remembered
this way
forget the elegy
hold a party on top
of Mount Davidson
have twelve Saint Bernards
stand by with kegs of beer
tied around their necks
hire thirteen naked women
to shock family members
a whore to fuck
my best friend
at the foot of the cross
play an old Billie Holiday song
as they stir up the

--A. D. Winans

college roommate

the sight of him walking around in just his underpants
was thunder. the sight of him drying off naked
in the shower was lightning. he had a great body, a wonderful
face, a fantastic cock.

sometimes i
wonder how he turned out. i suspect he married, had 3 kids, maybe more,
he would be a great father, he was patient and kind and
willing to listen and willing to entertain.
sometimes when i drive past a trailer park, and see an old
double-wide sixty-footer, i think
of him, and me, during our last two years of college,
living in our own place that was just
like that.

i think right up until the absolute last possible minute,
we perplexed each other. him not quite straight,
and me not quite gay. but it felt sexual. everything about it.
and nothing about it. then graduation happened,
a tidy little chopping block as we subtracted each other
from our lives.

now, thinking back, visualizing him walking around in
just his underpants, heading for the shower, the smell of steam emerging
from behind the curtain, often he kept right on talking to me
from the shower, continuing
our conversation as he stood in the tub behind the plastic curtain, and
me standing just inside the bathroom door, the
hot water would be running over him,
him talking & me talking, then
he'd shut off the water and fling open the curtain, drying off, still
talking to me, there's a smile on his face, a glint in his eyes, his naked
body is beautiful, beautiful... our conversation is animated and loud,
it's young and brilliant, and quite
possibly ridiculous --

and when
i look back through all the years and i see us like that,
i feel odd and old and foolish and
incredibly sad.
---Carl Miller Daniels

My Neigbor

From where I kneel
I can hear her back
bone break
when she bends to sit.

Cupboards and drawers
open and close
with the slightest
of thump or creak.

No telephone
ever rings
No visitors call.

Not even whispers
filter through the air.
But sometimes she sighs
in ways that make me wonder.

Is she using
two fingers


or the whole hand
like me?
--Dave Church.

this is not a poem

this is not a poem
but a rant for the world
to hear through their
bitter ears and denial of fears.

this is not a poem
but a chant for the sacrificed lambs
who sleep in our minds
and bleed before our eyes
from diseases of the mouth,
cancer of religon.

this is not a poem
but a charge of incest
to those who fuck themselves
into oblivion until their minds
close to reality.

this is not a poem
but a voodoo hoodoo curse
to hypocrite-liberals who remain
because of their token
nigger, dike, or queer.

this is not a poem
but a reflection of solid breath
that suffocates our lives--
so we can be buried,
forgotten along with
genetic flaws and free-thought.

this is not a poem
but a mirror stained
with AIDS infected blood--
memories of reagan and apartheid.

this is not a poem
but a cry for hope.

this is not a poem
but a call for change.

this is not a poem
but words smeared
along paper and mind.

this is not a poem
but thoughts of the people
who must die everyday for being themselves
because identity is not a valued commodity.

this is not a poem.

--David M. Taylor

Hi.  I'm Dan's Friend Glen.  As You can see, I'm very good at blowing.  If you'd like to learn more about me, just click on my face--yeah, click on it, ooooh baby, click on it.  Anyway, if you're cute send me a piture.  grj


Cool wind hushing through the garden,
the Poke-Weed huge, proud, exuberant,
amazing how long the delicate little Foxglove
bells hang on, and the red roses, all women
around the fencing, reaching up, up, up to
the roof of our little sleep-house out in back,
wanting to be castrated and/or transsexualized,
basta computers and agents, editors, wives,
kids, jobs, sex, when all I want is skin to feel
the wind and eyes to close.

The white geese up on the lawn, off the river,
the brown ducks still in the water, white geese
feathers washed up along the banks of our island
like ripped-up paper, some bird in the bankside forest
screeching Please, please, please, please, my shadow
a hundred feet tall as I sit writing with my back to
the setting sun, the half-wafer of the moon already
in the pale blue sky, cool like late September as we
close the curtains on July, why should sea turtles
live hundreds of years, and we're gone before
apenas/hardly we realize who and where we are?


Like an antique cracked record stuck in a grove,
hot, hot, hot, hot, surrounding me with my years
in Caracas, Trinidad, Tobago, Manaus, Belem,
Florianopolis, the trouble with L.A.-Santa Barbara-
San Pedro that my ten years there passed like
the wave of a hand, and my old buddies, Schwartz,
Erlandson, Sullivan, Cassasa never died but are
still out there waiting for me to come back, break
open a beer and just BE again instead of worrying
Will it happen today with Bernadete, should I
take some more Muira Purana, Yohimba,? it
happens, we go to the mall, I look at twenty year
old girls and seen them ninety, look at ninety-year-
olds and see them bones, where will all the Oxfordian
dorms and towers, music schools and cyclotrons at
Michigan State be in another few million more
years, wanting to be like Menke Katz and just
BE, a couple more Lach Heims, a walk in the forest,
along the blessed river, past the fields of blessed
corn, only Morris keeps ghosting into my ear.
"It all just happened, there's no one behind it,
what's the difference if we ever were, another
few turns of the turntable and well be dead
forever . . . .ever . . . . ever....," hot, hot, hot, hot,
and then when you just start to expand out into
it, it's gone.
---Hugh Fox.

fragment #98
after Sappho

you feed
the horses
the green

that you

and they

as we are
for such
--Mike James



A feather train and work boots
stick out from below the Chevy.
It's a wallet photo of Uncle Reno
and an AWOL peacock from city park
answering the call of his ball-peen hammer,
the Morse code of mechanics. The bird knows
the language of blue-collared hands, hands
that coax toggle bolts and lug nuts, hands
that twist jackscrews and Phillips heads,
hands that squeeze a little more
from expiration dates. It knows
in hands are held secrets.

I can almost see what the peacock saw
so long ago under my '51 Power Glide,
my uncle's hands, the ones with good genes
showing off skin-pricked medallions
and Sunday-best burns and blisters.
It is a snapshot with powers
like the pocket watch of a hypnotist.
At times I see a peahen in the Persian Gulf
eying the raftsman who wraps
and clamps reeds for a journey
from Qatar to Rangoon.
I see an illusion, a rainbow bird
examining the abracadabra of hands
tending to propeller spikes that will land
a Lindbergh in Paris.

I remember asking, "Can you fix it?"
his reply the turn of a rtchet wrench
while the refugee peacock fanned it's tail,
a hundred eyes upon him.
---Rich Kenney

kill the mother fucker, beeeyatch.

Let's start the get Dan Crocker's books on the Powell's best-sellers list campain.  Are ya with me People?  Then let me get a Hell Yeah.  Hell Yeah.  Hell Yeah.


Every Picture Tells A Story.