Archives For August 2014

I am Bartleby i

“It never meant juvenile delinquents, it meant characters of a special spirituality who didn’t gang up but were solitary Bartlebies staring out the dead wall window of our civilization . . . ” Jack Kerouac

I am Bartleby,
So don’t bother me
The narrator say
“the easiest way of life is the best”
That, too, is my bray, don’t press it
“a bit of wreck in the mid Atlantic”
Sailed from Perth to Niantic
So let’s not get frantic
“No; I would prefer not to make any change . . .”
Think that’s not at all strange
“No, I would not like a clerkship . . . ”
Who’d give a flip to scribble slips?
“I would not like it at all . . .”
Bartley is right on the ball
“I would prefer not to make any changes at all . . . ”
Adam and Eve did, then the big fall
Eccentric unaccountably so
To Jersey City and Hoboken will I row
“ . . . a subordinate clerk . . . ”
Suddenly removed by a jerk
“ . . . in the administration,” you see
The same bloody thing happened to me
Bartleby, you’re my hero
And that crude CEO, minus zero
i Melville, Herman. “Bartleby the Scrivener: A Story of Wall Street.” 1853. Melville. New York: The Library of America, 1984.



not interested in anyone older than 35




mixed latino 19 (downtown LA)

is looking for


maybe an older brother type (meaning 28 and under)

so plz no dad types unless youre like Anderson Cooper hot.


if you are straight and curious it’s a plus

or if you got a gf or wife it’s a plus.




sunday :] – 19 (lancaster.)

Please no fat guys or guys old enough to be my grandfather, Just a prefrence. Dont have a cow.




looking to get nailed

need a masculine top




Let’s do this now – 24



I SUCK BETTER THAN YOUR GIRL – 26 (pasadena/los feliz/glendale/burbank)

you bust on my face and i take off.  can do it once or ongoing.  masculine latinos to front of the line.


Melvillian Flat

There’s something about this second-floor Red Bank flat that hints of Melville, poor Bartleby scribbling away at his lonely desk, (or Kerouac when he took the job in the Hartford filling station and typed away gloomy hours). Maybe it’s the curve of the rounded windows or the rectangular window facing the street with its late nineteenth- century commercial buildings or the hardwood flooring with its long planks or the kitchen stool I use at the little desk, perched there like a Wall Street scrivener. There is a New England feel to this town on the Navesink River. Actually, when we came to see this apartment on a deceptively quiet Sunday morn, the first thing we noticed was the wharf-like building next door and the narrow street leading to the boat yard and yacht club and silver twinkles on the river blue, and I thought, this is like Portland, Maine.
We’ve been everywhere, man, sailing New England waters: New London, New Bedford, Nantucket, Martha’s Vineyard, Cutty Hunk, Newport, Blue Hill . . . everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. You might say our heart is in the sea, all salty and brined and gray-green-blue, and wouldn’t you know, right down the street in our lovely waterfront gardens park, this week’s feature movie is Jaws. Jaws and all those great Neptunes of the sea and Moby-Dick and you and me. Melville was a sailor, and Jack was a sailor, and me, too, a sailor. Right now, like those doomed sailors of the whaling ship Essex, I’m sailing The Doldrums, right into Obscurity Sea, see, sì. My heart breaks when I check out the local music store window and see my little book still on the shelf there. Don’t people read anymore? Melville sold less than four thousand copies of Moby in forty years . . . the book was ignored. i
Oh, this White Whale life, and watching as my family stops speaking to each other after the enormous pain of horrible neurological disease and trauma and unexpected death and all its sad aftermath and how it capsizes this Pequod called life and plummets one into black depths of deep, deep
sorrow, shark-infested waters, only to be knocked down by immense Jonah-like waves ii again and again and again . . . and as Jack said, and as Bartleby Melville said, in so many words, what is the point? But we have to go on, and keep living, and do our best, and go to the sea, through Fair Havens and rummy rum Rumsons with estates and monies and unaffordabilities and open mics and closed doors and seek refreshment for our souls in the vast sea, sea, sea, beyond the Atlantic . . . and into eternity.
i Philbrick, Nathaniel. Why Read Moby-Dick?, (New York: Viking. 2011). p. 6.
ii Kerouac, Jack. Road Novels 1957-1960, (New York: Literary Classics of the United States, Inc., 2007). p. 735.

What to Expect from Beatdom #15


Beatdom #15 has been on sale for more than two weeks now, and we thought we’d give you a glimpse inside this WAR themed issue. Here are a few selected pages:
2014-08-01 11.27.002014-08-01 11.28.27
2014-08-01 11.27.13 2014-08-01 11.27.40 2014-08-01 11.27.59 2014-08-01 11.28.17


We live in a pornographic world –

soiled with piss-covered sheets

and cigarette-ash-stains

that anchor down the curses

begrudgingly departing

an angry nonconformist’s dilapidated lips;

lips gone tired of a world filled with artifice,

deplete of luster,

and above all things

Grey, Grey, Grey.


This world is dry; parched.

It is fatigued from

carrying problematic wonderings.

Should one please with thoughts or think of pleasure?

Musings of lascivious roses

once properly pruned and nurtured,

now metamorphose into burdensome whisperings

of perennial demises;

of severing and relocating to

cold, painful, and empty vases

now pervading bourgeois living rooms

that hamper the floral desire

to forever wallow in the wind,

the breeze,

and the dust.


If this world were hydrated,

tepid colors would procure its moisture

as faces evolve into waterproof vessels

preventing unwelcome leaks from seeping in.

Invisible horses

would gallop straight

into heavy clouds

that one could cut with a pair of scissors

instantly terminating

any possible multiple droplet pregnancies.


This world knows neither rest nor sleep;

only turmoil, instability, and destruction.

It disseminates chaotic images of

blizzards, earthquakes, and whirlwinds –

photographs of a man’s fornication,

with his golden cross

repetitively thumping against

his gentle lover’s forehead

who finds herself

lividly lost

wanting the cake yet wanting to eat it too.


In this world we live in,

Irish pots of gold are profuse

but filled with caffeine instead of riches

stealthily suffocating the voices

that touch thoughts

and plant the feelings

that might one day grow to

fertilize minds with abrasive

screams of “Mutiny! Revolt! Resistance!”

all the while reminiscent of heavenly treats:

soft, pure, white

and once upon a very long time ago,


Of the Beautiful Alene Lee

It was Paradise Alley so long ago
In the alphabet downtown east
Lived a subterranean in clouds of strong dark tea
By the name of Alene Lee
San Fran or New York City
Names, places changed but ‘tis the same
Heavenly Lane and hipster games
Pillow talk and pushcart walks
Of the beautiful Alene Lee
Of the beautiful Alene Lee
He was young and drunk and jazzed
She younger and cool and sweet
High cheekbones and velvet slacks
She was brown and blue and black
Nineteen fifties USA
What would mother, sister say?
Of the beautiful Alene Lee
Of the beautiful Alene Lee
He was sad
She was sad
Angels, seraphs, poets mad
Poor back courts and gray sheet pads
Love was doomed
In urban gloom
Modern, new, small, and thin
A writer writes of soft rose light
Of the beautiful Alene Lee
Of the beautiful Alene Lee