Scott Waters lives in Oakland, California with his wife and son. He graduated with a Master’s Degree in Creative Writing from San Francisco State University. Scott has published previously in Cajun Mutt Press, Third Wednesday, Main Street Rag, Better Than Starbucks, The Pacific Review, A New Ulster, and many other journals. Scott’s first chapbook was published by Selcouth Station, and his poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize.
Simultaneous terror Hair stood on end 500 million volts Bolt and Clap are one Human Communion with An impersonal god and goddess. His load delivered to her surface Through blood and bone. Painless instant transition Is of no concern to them. As all bodily fluids boil Boots burned through
Bad end to a good day In the deep woods My Bleached remains found By a fellow wildcrafter Years later amidst a huge chanterelle flush
Picked up my skull and said "Ah the Heretic Vicar, I knew him once!"
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DEATHSTYLE
Hey kid welcome to the human race Got your carbon chain shackles and a working cranium Prepare yourself to take your slice Of Gaia's pie. This progressive linear resource butchery Has been our phillistine practice in many ways throughout hominid existence. Rules are : Consider yourself the last generation. We all thought we were. whoever digs the deepest hole wins. Blinders on stay focused. Never mind the noise or chemical smoke. Give No quarter to the woke. Step on toes. Compete! It's the 4th Reich Fuck the liberal elite! Eat their lunch. Remain in denial. Never play fair or they'll win. Dig like a pig for 80 years give or take. If your lucky grab your chest. Sorry you were born so late You may BE the last. No American Dream for your kids. Bear Witness to human extinction. 30 or 40 ice ages from today The cock roaches will say The monkeys had their chance.
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I don't know how deep the well. the angels won't tell . they frequently speak through my pen. They're here again. Provide the only thing that makes me excited about life anymore. guided trips through my grey matter imagery. Hamsterwheel chatter..it never stops. Goddess forbid if it did of what use would I be.
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Memories of war Abhorrent acts On the Killen floor Faces live forever in Minds eye Thin veil Rationale It was them or me. Thought I could drink away the feelings But it doesn't work anymore Thousand mile stare I'm back there Like it was yesterday
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Whats left after closing time All the shred and drama done. Only music fit for listenin In my arrogant opinion
More stories of the killen floor and my dying day played on some slack key resonator Preferably a Pegamule with an abalone inlay..don't make it sound no better Just pretty like a full body tattoo girl Curled up around my soul Might as well dream still While I'm on this side of the dirt
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I have a part in all my wrongdoing I can no longer point the finger Serenity exited long ago Insomnia coupled with amoral thoughts Too much late nite chocolate
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YAQUI TANKA
Ain't they the same place Killen floor and prayen ground Transition spirit Death approaches from the left Yaqui desert sorcerer
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Looken foreward to tea with a coven adorable michigan druids. Dredlocks, snakebites. Faces tattoo'd With celtic knots And ravens. Conversation kept light; as I'm the only man seeking divination advice. A misplaced word might be misinterpreted as a slight. Resulting in a curse ,Jinx, or hexes Cast the bones, read the stone. Melodic incantation Tell me witch! What do you scry? Does intuition say she's the one? Do I give it another try? Or preserve my occluded heart And say goodbye.
Voracious reader but lately doesn’t have the time.
From an auld Bucks County family of poets (brother and grandmother were both published).
Despite working around the performing arts, Chris didn’t pursue creative writing or performance till a year ago when; through some introspective journaling to cauterize a broken spirit he noted certain phrases had a ring. After attending a fellow poet’s funeral he was invited to read at the New Hope Beats gathering and hasn’t looked back! He now seeks to be published, travels to many open mics and hosts a Thursday monthly read at the Living Room Ardmore. His work has been described as ruminating introspective.
IN THE PACE OF THE PATH is one of the most interesting and unique books to ever come across my desk. Everything about it is masterfully crafted. This is a beautiful collection cover to cover, and an eye-opening read. Alan Bern brings an issue to the forefront that many choose to ignore: Homelessness. He does this in a way that makes you realize we’re all human beings with the same wants and needs—no matter your circumstances—we all yearn to be seen and loved. Not to be swept under life’s proverbial rug.
Inside you’ll find a slipstream of thoughts from conflicting points of view; in an alleyway and behind a reference desk at the local library. Broken up in sections beginning with bullet point memories that could have come from either side. Memories of a longtime city resident with no discernable past/present timeline. Brought on by walks around Berkeley, CA. Peppered with photography taken by the author of local scenes around his hometown.
This is a hefty book both literally and figuratively. The heavy stock paper gives this 114-page book weight, and even more weight is added with Alan’s words. You’ll know you’ve gotten a hold of something real when you hold it in your hands, and the text brings substantial depth to that statement. This “hybrid fictionalized memoir” is a thoroughly enjoyable read that slips seamlessly between poetry, prose, and storytelling. Taking you on a journey around Berkeley relayed through the experiences of people from all walks of life. IN THE PACE OF THE PATH is a must-read rollercoaster of emotions. I promise you won’t be let down if you grab a copy.
—JDCIV, Founder/EIC of Cajun Mutt Press, author of Bad Weed Never Dies and I Pledge Allegiance To The Flag
IN THE PACE OF THE PATH by Alan Bern
“A captivating literary experiment, as well as a moving story.” — Kirkus Reviews
“Alan Bern’s prose and poetry are an empathetic and lyrical journey through his life. Magical and unexpected. I was surprised again and again.”
—Delia Ephron, author of Left on Tenth
“Alan Bern’s fictionalized memoir IN THE PACE OF THE PATH also represents a diverse array of styles as he moves between free verse poetry and prose to build the story of his life in Berkeley and his career in the public library system.
Bern steps away from the library reference desk to pursue the atmosphere of Berkeley from various vantage points past and present. He captures this milieu with vignettes that move between experiences with the fluid viscosity of time travel and psychological self-inspection.”
“Alan Bern’s IN THE PACE OF THE PATH walks the border between poetry and prose, between the surreal and the realism where surrealism spawns, between the past and future which is the pace of the moment by moment of a life. I have learned from Bern’s clarity in poetry and prose to walk the edges of my homeland and step out into the unknown, while carrying the life I have lived within me. This is such an important work to read now and reread as we move through our lives.”
—Rusty Morrison, co-publisher of Omnidawn, and author of Risk, to be published by Black Ocean April 2, 2024
Alan Bern’s IN THE PACE OF THE PATH charts his life in his hometown of Berkeley, California, and gives an insightful look into his career in the public library serving that hometown, especially the unhoused, with love and compassion.
Retired children’s librarian Alan Bern received an MA in Creative Writing from Boston University studying with poet Anne Sexton and classicist Donald Carne-Ross. Alan is a Pushcart nominee and has published three books of poetry and a hybrid fictionalized memoir, IN THE PACE OF THE PATH, UnCollected Press, 2023. Alan has a chapbook, because lack, forthcoming from back room poetry in June 2024, https://backroompoetry.co.uk. Recent awards include: Longlist, The Bedford Competition (2023); Winner, Saw Palm Poetry Contest (2022). Recent/upcoming writing and photo work include: EcoTheo Review, Thanatos, The Hyacinth Review, DarkWinter, Feral, Porridge Magazine, and Mercurius. Alan is also a published/exhibited photographer and runs a fine press/publisher with artist/printer Robert Woods, Lines & Faces: linesandfaces.com.
The ecstasy of space Robots on acid Fuck me space-boy, FUCK ME! Bloody virgin on a bed of cosmic dust, we can plan an interplanetary genocide or start a religion But maybe it’s all the same in outer-space The ecstasy of space Robots on acid Eating peyote The perennial singularity Phallus slammed in a closet door, waterlogged in microwave painting with sound- can we break the brain of god this unknown source of which we feed upon its corpse My mind is glowing Vulva shaped spaceship performing terrifying miracles of light as darkness eats stars, wanton nebula jettisoned in birth reverse swirling fabric of being and time The ecstasy of space Robots on acid Astronauts in love A carnal quasar pumping frenzy Nameless Recordless no real living beings here there are no cages but boundaries without pasts an ever uncertain present and veiled future dire transformation distracted bv skin and sin the divine motive looking for that spark in primary colored space-jockeys switching sex organs, eyes and limbs lies, fate, false memories The ecstasy of space Ocean of the void Robots on acid The singularity will be fragmented and unrecognizable
“You can draw what you want, you can read what you want, you can stay up late watching old monster movies if you want… But you will do this, you are going to do this: you need to learn skills for the real world!” My father was yelling at me, but it was not in anger, it was out of sincere exasperation.
I didn’t want to do it — no way, but I knew how limited my options were, and my dad had begun his argument with more gives than I had yet been granted, all at once. “Please,” he said. “Do this and then we will all get on with what’s left of our day.” I felt the redness of my cheeks, I felt hornet stings in my eyes, I felt my tears flow out the stressed dams of my eyes. He threw the rabbit at my feet…
And as shown, as told, I skinned the rabbit.
My dad was happy I did it. When my tears dried, I spent the rest of my day drawing.
I hated my dad that day but I have loved him for it.
Slackers
The secret of the slacker is they rarely make mistakes, so they can present well to management, and they rarely make mistakes because they don’t work hard enough or often enough to create opportunities for errors to occur. When hard working staff decide to work together, leaving the slackers to work with each other, none of the slackers will have a hard worker to hide behind, and be forced to work or else, they will create a third option for themselves, and will spend their energies not working, but work to make hard workers look bad.
The hard-working staff pick up the slack doing twice the workload which doubles the potential for mistakes. When the hard-working staff picking up the slack of the slacker, doing more work, and tiring faster, makes a mistake that shouldn’t have been their mistake to make in the first place, the slacker will point in fake righteousness and triumph and say, “See? See? There, I told you! Do you see?”
… As they stick their nose up some manager’s starfish.
Fires Of Summer
How did we sleep while our forests were felled by fires, homes were burned and lives imperilled?
True, you would not hurt a fly, but is it likely you would help it? You would await the arrival of another, to whom you would delegate the duty of aid.
As you wait for this one to arrive, you would watch the harmed creature writhe, all the while claiming inability to help.
If no one arrives for you to delegate to, you will stand idly by, as they say, and you will watch as life leaves it, without it ever dawning on you to feel guilt over your inaction, and lethargy.
True, you would not hurt a fly.
Ascent
She had the only private room in the ward. In there, a scent of something unknown, unfamiliar yet, inevitable greeted your entrance. You stood at the foot of her bed. She broke the silence between you, asked, if you remembered how she used to look and you did… She asked, if you remembered times she began to speak but did not continue… And you did.
It was hard for her to believe you remembered her beauty beyond the ravage of the malignant. Her dreams run dry: she prayed to drown.
She had wild blue-green eyes
not even cancer could steal.
Your bodies told you once, you existed.
Nothing was as sacred, as profane, as the fading warmth. Her flight left lingering a remembered scent of a perfume nameless and indelible.
You perpetuate the pedestal she flies from.
Route
Oncoming cars slow: I walk where pedestrians are not allowed. Many well worn roads cover our world. You might drive fast, while I walk along; you will see wind swept signs as swift blurs, only gaining sight in cracked rear view mirrors. I will see them all too clearly, weary at roadside. Dried clumps and flecks of dead flies loosen from grills, wipers, mirrors in swift passage. There are always live flies above road kill. Roads we choose may be under construction. A sniper upon an overpass may take aim and fire. Municipal bridges in derelict ridings may collapse beneath us as we cross. You drive. I walk. But if you break down, I will walk no further on
David Alec Knight grew up in Chatham, Ontario, Canada.
He includes his middle name in his pen name as a means of disambiguation, his first and last name being fairly common. It is in response to being ignorantly perceived as a pretension by others that he wrote the poem “Disambiguation”.
In 2021, David was recipient of The Ted Plantos Memorial Award for Poetry. His first book of poetry, The Heart Is A Hollow Organ, soon followed. His second book of poetry, LEPER MOSH, was published by Cajun Mutt Press in 2022. It featured his artwork on the cover. Cajun Mutt Press would also feature a portfolio of his artwork online, as well as publishing his first full color comic story online, WRATH: The Masks We Wear.
Recent poems have appeared in Verse Afire, Cajun Mutt Press Featured Poet, The Lothlorien Poetry Journal and Medusa’s Kitchen. Anthology appearances include By The Wishing Tree, Poets For Ukraine Volume 1, Love Lies Bleeding, Phantom Parade, and The Cajun Mutt Press Halloween Anthology Zine 2022.
David sees dark and light around him in equal measure and that is reflected in his poetry, whether exploring working class themes, neurodivergence, addiction, urban living, our conflict with Nature, and/or the effects all these things have on individuals and relationships.
