war – Cajun Mutt Press

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 06/03/24

June 3, 2024 James D. Casey IV

Eulogy Menage

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!"

_______________________

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.

_______________________

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.

_______________________

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 

_______________________

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

_______________________

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 

_______________________

YAQUI TANKA

Ain't they the same place
Killen floor and prayen ground 
Transition spirit 
Death approaches from the left
Yaqui desert sorcerer 

_______________________

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.

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 05/15/24

May 15, 2024 James D. Casey IV

The Pale Horse with the Marble Eye

All things considered
I would take the Gambit of
the pale horse with the marble eye

He slipped silently from the fog
on the periphery of my field

Marking the little time that we have

Thanks for the update you say
As I go about our day
and I’m lost on the on- ramp
Waiting for the excuse to cut in to the line
Of human succession

A blinker should do
But
Is that right?
Or is it left?

Not knowing the weight of the day I put on the hazards
Just to play it safe
And yet
I have managed to go no further than my
Driveway

I am stuck
along with the oil stains
wishing to be

Gone
without a trace

no spark

No idea
As to what makes us human
Makes us move forward

We are the generation of promises
The generation of easy
The first family of peace

And
We suffer for it

We are not defined for defending
We are not defined for freedom
We can not see the absence of war
Entirely connected

And yet
Lacking the ability to say “Hello”

NO,
We are the ones that know how often death can be

And yet,
fail to grasp the consciousness of the day
We are your parents lost generation

There is no denying it

The truth is
We can have no authority to what America is

We have landed in a reality that betrays the word

And we can not unite
And we can not understand the truth
Only the differences that we are

We have lost the Great Dream
The Great Experience

And we are too scared to do anything about it.
Forever the in between

So give me the Gambit of the Pale Horse
with the marble eye

And we will slip silently back

into the fog.

**Brother Holland reading “Johnny Depp is Not Coming” at Gonzofest 2023**

The new face of the seeker in the crowd, Ben Holland has traversed the globe in search of many things – mostly himself. To now reside in Kentucky after having been chased out of Camelot (some may call it Connecticut), surviving tours of duty in as far away and exotic places as Iraq and Kuwait, is what could be called a small miracle. Belonging now to tribe of transplants that is Louisville, he finds himself square amid a life that is once again evolving into something more fit for his creative spirit. At the urging of his lovely wife, he is finally pursuing an active writing career, and it starts now!

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 01/15/24

January 15, 2024 James D. Casey IV

Standing on The Corner

After dinner, we’d meet
on the corner to trade baseball
cards and talk about our heroes.

Most kids were Yankee fans,
and the Twins were a relatively new
franchise, with Harmon Killebrew
raising eyebrows.

It didn’t take long to switch allegiance
from one team to the next, and I had quickly
become a Cubs fan, sighting Ernie Banks
as the best ever.

In the life of a child, a year is an eternity,
and by the following summer
our baseball cards were shelved
or hidden away in shoeboxes.

We still met on the corner,
but we had new interests
like which brand of cigarettes
had the best taste, and the neighbor girls.

This was about the same time
our local policemen began to take notice,
they would pull up, and tell us to scatter
with hints of the Red Wing Reformatory.

Thoughts of the reform school
struck terror throughout our circle of friends,
and anyone connected with its history
which predated us by more than 100 years.

We had heard the conditions were harsh,
and they turned factual when one of our own
got caught stealing a canned ham from
a railway car; he was 12 years of age,
and sentenced to six years.

I had been out of the community
for quite some time when news of his release
landed near his 18 th birthday, and like so many
small towns, they can be unforgiving and
prejudiced toward previous offenders.

Upon his arrival, the town elders
and the police were quick in pressuring
him: you’ll never be employable;
we’ll be watching you; Saint Cloud
is a much worse lockup, and other horrors.

They convinced him to join the army
⸺a real break and a chance to succeed
in the world. He even received a police
escort to the bus depot.

He was sent to Fort Leonard Wood
for 8 weeks of basic training.

After graduation, he shipped out
to Viet Nam, and was never heard
from again.

Richard D. Houff is originally from Austin, Minnesota, and currently lives and writes out of St. Paul, Minnesota. A former magazine and book publishing editor, he has had poetry and prose published throughout North America, and Europe. His most recent collections are Night Watch and Other Hometown Favorites, from Black Cat Moon Press, The Wonderful Farm and Other Gone Poems, from Flutter Press, and Dancing on Rooftops, from Homage Press (Czech Republic).

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 01/12/24

January 12, 2024 James D. Casey IV

Catastrophe

Polished dance floors dissonant harmonies distressed rhythms confuse the beat
solo artists stand in the wings practising pirouettes frenetic pace
the maestro struts into the war room holds meetings distributes plans
automatons obey each command rattling through smoky rooms
birds of prey hover around wait for their chance to pounce
papers flutter across the auditorium feathers flurry into the sea
the dancing plague the midnight ramble rock the auditorium
mannequins display their artful poses limbs detach torsos remain
the rioters fall into line armed for the fracas pumped for the kill
seasons change rains begin jungle swamps swallow violent men
leeches suck human blood monsters turn destroy themselves

Jay Simpson was born in Sydney, Australia and now lives in Perth Western Australia. She is recently published in Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Fevers of the Mind, Voices from the Fire Anthology, Horror Sleaze Trash, Ukraine: The Night and the Fire and Bedroom Anatomy Lessons. Jay is also published in a number of online magazines and journals. She is currently working on her book to be published in 2024. Jay loves poetry, art, music, satire and black comedy. She is the Creative Director and Author at ‘Living Dangerously’. Poetry Jay Simpson (wordpress.com)

Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 10/23/23

October 23, 2023 James D. Casey IV

Happiness Black

needle craving
god tear my skin

need thirst for happiness black
nausea the color
of an unexploded grenade

bird is torn in the air
clogged with mines

Winner of the international competition «Art Against Drugs», bronze medalist of the festival Chestnut House, laureate of the literary competition named after Tyutyunnik. Nominated for Pushcart Prize.

Published in the journals Dzvin, Ring A, Polutona, Rechport, Topos, Articulation, Formaslov, Colon, Literature Factory, Literary Chernihiv, Tipton Poetry Journal , Stone Poetry Journal, Divot journal , dyst journal, Superpresent Magazine, Allegro Poetry Magazine, Alternate Route , Better Than Starbucks Poetry & Fiction Journal, Littoral Press , Book of Matches , on the portals Literary Center and Soloneba, in the Ukrainian literary newspaper, Ice Floe Press.