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.
it rained last night and through a cloud of aromatic steam i look at the tree tops from her porch as i sip my coffee and listen to the delicate savagery of birds in the morning.
i like it.
soon though a static wave of disquieting, obsessive compulsion and indoctrinated, brainwashed, plebeian adherence will rise with the sun and the coming day; vexed, as if some specter’s trained dog, so too will their slumbering cars be awake, and what’s left of the deteriorated arboreal beauty and beleaguered atmospheric global balance that once was will be laid siege to; yielding terrestrially yet again, its’ crude essence, to those countless self-perplexed, ego driven, vehicular, asphalt distractions stuck between the imperialistic, pneumatic breath and billowing exhaust of churlish, multinational, corporate verbosity and the militaristic threat of a towering, particle smashing, sub-atomic, bathtub crank, bio-engineered, mega-death tally.
determined, to meet head on this apocalyptic ultra comic book existence from her bed, i turn to go back inside, whereupon, i spy a small rabbit crying out from the mouth of a calico trotting up the alley, next to the house. it stops for a moment… they both look at me, in silence.., then it turns and moves on with that poor desperate bastard firmly in its jaws, kicking its unfortunate little feet and screaming once again to no avail. so should life be, i thought, but it’s worse than that.
in this time of great social upheaval, a looming economic catastrophe and a civilization, along with all traces of humanity, teetering on the brink of extinction, comes this ill-mannered knucklehead, Gerard Padron, an american poet, on the ground, who writes under the pseudonym Botched Resignation. like many of the oxymoronic, idiosyncratic writers of his day, he is a lover of women, hero to children and champion of the poor. Botched Resignation is everything that is disdainfully fashionable. just ask him. he drinks heavily when he can and can’t dance. as to the many things which have been said about his personage, one cannot expect everybody to be as bright, clever, and optimistic, as they are self-assured and talented.
from the hypocritical top down, the collusive heads of every department on the globe, have insisted that everything we do, must be… from this point forward.., state of the art… fuck’em… it is not as though Botched Resignation, has not sent notice. the village idiot, elevated a tremendous fool, Botched Resignation is The Venomous Dog of the House of Padron / High Chancellor of the Witless, the Ardent and the Tawdry, who that on more than one occasion, has been mistaken for Jesus, and declared a much smarter man by more than just a few staggering drunks.
an inebriated rogue, inspecting from head to foot, an intoxicated, duplicitous, secular pride, he is his own worst enemy. on the field of poetic contention, Botched Resignation has no rival, no job, no money and no prospects. none. he is the point and shaft of an elegiac spear, as well as the archetype who wields it. however, odds are, up against it he can never hope to win and doesn’t give a damn.
On their own people live and die. Some leave a scar behind. Some are mute as stones. Some are shrewd. Some are burnt to ashes. We all should look forward to death.
I will drink to it in the pouring rain. Day and night, I will drink to it. Many of us will all stiffen on some coroner’s slab, our raw flesh, dissected.
We should feel lucky to be ghosts. We will haunt and pester our enemies. We will never grow weary of our new lives. We will own the night.
I will clear my throat at odd hours. There will be no blood inside me. I will offer deadly poisons to my enemies. The ghost life will be glorious.
A Man Dines Alone
A man dines alone. His name is Pat. He is at the bakery with coffee and cake.
To hell he says with doctor advice. The diabetes is coming any day or night.
How many days will it be to go to the hospital and be declared not alive?
He is eating and drinking himself to death. He listens to no one. He will die alone.
Dead Bugs
Dead bugs on the window screen. Some are big and some are small.
I can see for miles and miles. The dead bugs no longer see.
I am convinced there are bigger windows and dead bugs. I am sure size makes no difference to death.
Born in Mexico, Luis lives in California and works in the mental health field in Los Angeles. His poems have appeared in Blue Collar Review, Cajun Mutt Press, Escape Into Life, Mad Swirl, Oddball Magazine, and Unlikely Stories.
The palm trees are full of bats you’ve no money but the conductor lets you on the tram the rain falls in slow motion and you almost swear to yourself some of those drops are actually falling upwards there’s a flash as someone runs the red and you drop your blues
You play tic-tac-toe with The City on the window’s condensation and by the end of the line you finally have to concede a cat’s game you swear to yourself you almost had it this time and you drop your blues
I’m going to rail this skyline tonight you all just sit and watch then I’m going to toss it away and never jump back on this line
Christian Garduno’s work can be read in over 100 literary magazines. He’s the recipient of the 2019 national Willie Morris Award for Southern Poetry, a Finalist in the 2020-2021 Tennessee Williams & New Orleans Writing Contest, and a Finalist in the 2021 Julia Darling Memorial Poetry Prize. He lives and writes along the South Texas coast with his wonderful wife Nahemie and young son Dylan.
It is wet outside
Even here I can tell that much
There are other bodies
Sitting, crying, smoking
mostly women
No one talks
A form with a face moves toward me
“Back again?
You can have a cigarette now
First, take these
They will help you relax
Don’t be afraid.”
Afraid?
Afraid is something that died with my mother
Taste the pills and wait for morning
Faces that are mine mill in the hall
The Arab with the sheet
The old woman rocking and singing my thoughts
They move us into a large room with many lights
We are in a circle
They are throwing a colorful ball to each other
When someone catches it they shout their name
The ball hits me
a chance to be heard
They will listen to my story
I will speak for all of us
My voice rises to the air
“Spare change!”
I hear laughter
Someone is moving me away
I see my face on the ceiling
A color with a light
A light that is sound
The air drags against my voice
I speak
“1, 2 buckle your shoe
3, 4 dead on the floor
5, 6 beaten with sticks
7, 8 you came too late.”
“Take these, do you know where you are?”
Eyes focus
A white snake
Look above the sky
I could hear my voice in another room
screaming
Paula Hackett’s poetry is influenced by her life experiences growing up in Berkeley during the vibrant and explosive ’60s. The daughter of novelist Paul Hackett, she studied under John Beecher, Angela Davis, and Grover Sales. She has written lyrics in collaboration with her brother John Hackett, for many great jazz composers including Teddy Edwards, John Handy, Ivan Lins, Joe Sample, Eddie ‘Cleanhead’ Vinson, and Cedar Walton. Her life long love of jazz is reflected in her many poems about musicians and in her CDs with pianists Rudi Wongozi and Connie Crothers. Her discography is represented in the images and links below.
