Thursday, April 26, 2007


and this was before drugs

by Gary Horvitz (aka Nikko47)

Gary Horvitz is a health professional, truth-seeker, activist, dreamer and sometime poet living in the San Francisco Bay area who is perfecting the art of accepting things just as they are.


Fourteen I was,
back when time slowed down and I
began to clock the distance between
father and tomorrow
took my time to cover my tracks
measured out the difference between
school and the roadless anarchy
fractured under cover of darkness
a walking cadaver
toe tied to family meals
and algebra into moonrise
but in the mornings
sliding out from my slab of sleep
the symbols melted all over again

Thursday, April 19, 2007


Week at a Hotel in a Foreign Country: Inspired by a Movie

by Don Schaeffer

An encounter
he thinks as he stands
shaking her hand
with all his attendants milling around
saying goodbye.

He wants to give her a kiss
instead of becoming
a stranger again.

He massaged her feet.
She trusted him.
They talked the deepest
and quietest speech.

And just as the sun
begins to set
and the door of the taxi
opens, he gives her a kiss
and creates big
purple and red
memories.

The Female and Myths

by Charlotte Thompson (aka Golden Illusions)

Charlotte Thompson is a very distinctive poet with a sense of the mystic and an enormous passion. She is always turning ideas of the feminine over in her mind. She raises prize Arabian horses.

Minus one.

Just a while ago I planted flowers and brought seeds to the trash. It doesn't matter the need of grow now. Just something on my mind like washing clothes or going to Nik's or beginning a tea shoppe and trying to believe in Santa Claus. This isn’t going to be social I think. This is going to be way recluse like the piano at night. Just something soft-please not loud or garish or split the divide of my clothes that hang on me-restless carried away by the birds even. Threads can’t be that bare. Until the cows come home and moo around me I will be unable to have peace.

One day you died.

Damn that death boy charging around you like that-fuck.I always thought of always. You know like Cinderella. I did. Be a total truth-I did. Well now it’s the other way around. Bring me no prince or cathedral in candles or until forever -silly princed out vows.I want no mass said in my name or priests telling me I will inherit the kingdom of God.That is a ridiculous thought and I will have no part of fairy tales again.

Regina O Regina.

Hail Mary mother of all women or so that’s what was said.
How much of this out of whack bull shit must females endure. We are the make of wind and trees of birds and oceans.
The divine music of art. That part that sustains a birth
brings home those fantasy rules and then slits their wrists
bleeding to death the old story of caballeros blanco. Bleed them.

Watch a storm grow.

All smooth of skin and hair-finely precious. Female.

Thursday, April 12, 2007

Perversity

by Don Schaeffer


Not the feel of flesh,
nor the fragrance or
anything that touches the skin,
it's far away,
light entering my eyes,
a flutter brush with the outer filaments of nature,
the biology of far away,
hidden way back
in the angel breath of memory.

View From the Tobaggan Slide