Wednesday, November 17, 2010

POSTCARDS TO JACK

These poems are bright islands in the black of the back-wood highways that still criss-cross our country. They are the thin blue notes of jazz that circulate under the neon signs of all-night diners. And, yes, they are postcard messages across time and space to a simpler and more vital period of American life when a young man might follow his hopes and sensuality forever into a younger country lost in the promise of its destiny. Jack Kerouac put an American landscape of the post Eisenhower years into his own words, making that landscape his own for generations to come—a long scroll into the passions, loves, and loss of our poor small bones. That landscape has now departed and fallen beneath the bulldozers of the most powerful nation in human history…the two lane, three lane, four lane interstate highways scattered in the rubble of superhighways of indifference. But there is a time and space still for postcards to that inner world that Jack wrote of, and our survival as a civil and progressive society may well depend on our ability to write and read those postcards. Albert DeGenova has found the right notes to sing in this volume of the open road.

--Jared Smith.

Terse imagery, tightly expressed, and tautologically complete . . . DeGenova weaves his poetic language into poems that are tough. They express what the world needs to hear form the dark shadows and raw alleys of 21st century America. Haibun. Fresh haibun like the off-tune remark getting swiftly punctuated by the soft, warm open palm slap from a scorned woman. Yes, his haibun and short poems are fresh. Expertly wrought and forged form the authentic iron of experience. Postcards to Jack is wonderful. Kerouac would have been jazzed to read them.

--Jeffrey Winke.

Monday, September 27, 2010

ROSE COUPLETTE

This

kiss
of
love:

a

gay

sin

in

our

half—

powerful—

dull,

savage

age.

My

shy

Rose

rose

from

some

shit,

it

grew

through

this

piss

and

sand,

smiles

piled

on

wan,

base

faces

escaped

(caped

like

kites

on

drawn,

low

bowstring

stems)

from

numb

earth

–mirthless

nest—

to

bloom

‘mong

strungout

louts,

ape

shapes,

crime

time

T

V

and

bands

of

love-starved

dwarves;

I

tried,

too,

to

plant

phantom

mums)

more

poor,

thin

sins)

but

cut

them

when

my

shy

Rose

froze.

© 2010 Duane Vorhees

Thursday, May 20, 2010

Monday, May 17, 2010

HAUNTED BY THE RENAISSANCE MAN

Title: N/A

Author: N/A

Publisher: Naked Mannekin

Format: 7.5 x 5" Chapbook

ISBN: N/A

List Price: N/A

Inquiries: tcurry55@gmail.com



So what has Tom Curry been up to during months of self-imposed exile? That's none of your damn business. Just read the poetry and keep your hands to yourself.

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

NOT SO SINISTER

There are times
in spite
of everything

when my left
hand is
actually pretty
useful.

© 2010 Matthew S. Barton

Monday, April 19, 2010

ERSATZ




But when I send
them home
my body doubles and stand ins

my understudies
with their
stage props and stilted dialog

muscle bound
doormen standing behind
velvet ropes

buxom cigarette girls
with red lipstick
and starched white collars

when the stage lights
are switched off

will they notice
that the face
behind the mask isn’t mine.

© 2009 Matthew S. Barton