Archives For Poetry Corner

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The Only Jack For Me

 The only Jack for me are the mad Jacks,

the Jacks who are Jack to live,

mad to Jack,

mad to be Jacked,

desirous of everything at the same Jack,

the Jacks who never yawn or say a commonplace thing,

but burn, Jack, burn,

like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding

like Jacks across the stars

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.



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,


Bus Ride to Newtown

On city bus riding on provisional tar roads layered with rain,
Watching silently in my head while water roars on the windows and people in coats grumble crowdedly,
And me in my thin blue jumper! Silly for such a cold day but what is there to do?
I suppose I could get off at Newtown and get me a cheap raincoat or windbreaker from Vinnies,
And then if Josh doesn’t show up catch the next rainy bus to Lewisham,
But that’s in the future and this moment is passing better soak it in ah look over the panorama of the city bus, where people stand with solemn and somnolent faces looking down always, and the woman next to me,
She talks.
Trucks and cars and a myriad of vehicles all howl on past outside my mobile window vvrrrooooom-sshhhwwwww
And gone into the haze of the day,
While somewhere out there Josh awaits in o his adorning clothes I can see him now –
Sitting in a cafe leaning elbows on wooden table, sitting on wooden chair sipping at a coffee ha ha watching the scene and loving the grey clouds that spatter the footpaths and enshroud the sun, to give a fantastic lighting to the whole scene –
Happy and contented as I in his Buddha-mind and stationary cafe
And me here dreaming of windbreakers and coffee cups, in observational silence
No sublime revelations or agitated plans,
Nor anxiety of the day to come or mourning the loss of the sun,
But simple silent no-thought save for light wanderings thru my little head as the bus hums smooth on the long road flooding with river-water that flowed down narrow streams and picked up moss from the hiding rocks, and was urinated in while nearby twenty-seven years ago the salesman then age 7 plucked a daffodil and forgot about it:
All of this flowing by lightly and eternally ephemeral unspoiled and unrecognised by the city road under my feet.

Life & Death

Twin horns beat against the backdrop
Twin horns dancing
To their own song
Twin horns color an otherwise
Black night
Pale street lights hug trash in the middle of the road
A winos lips grab that last gulp
Never enough despite being told its too much by so many
The twin horns remain
Always in sync
Despite the separation
Of time, space, and understanding

Lewisham Visitation

A football oval somewhere –––– long verdurous grass growing thick from good soil.
By the footpath concrete, sitting, watching the ancestor of an illegal dutch immigrant,
Who last week just lost it and sat on his desk upside down in a rage,
And the kindergarten teacher with her dog,
A small little animal with short curled fur and a grinning mouth,
And slow-like, the thin strips of velvet silver smoke ascend into the blue air
Twirling infinite-fold in curlicue pirouettes rising rising into broader strokes across the air
That encompasses even the entire oval and the smoke dematerializes
A few inches above my fingers,
Widen yr aperture let me see the sunset in yr eye all red and beautiful as the world goes to sleep in yr

Wither goes the dutchman? Thither goes the sex-monkey
Driven wild by the sight of a schoolboy,
And slow now, there passes a
Brown-haired girl,
With prosodic grace
And bhikkhuni simplicity. . .
While somnolent and watchful the bell tower pokes its head curiously above the clouds,
And ululates its paean of creation and worldly grandeur
To vibrate across a purple sky
Purple sky all round the world at that moment while
Over in France,
They hum the melody–
Ma, visitation of the sun not forgotten,
Forever in my browning skin,
Ni, sundry planets suspend themselves,
and look up from their darkness
Everybody looking up in the universe
No one looking down
At the lights that glitter so good
From this cushioned

Meeting of the Dharma Bums at Piper’s Bar

Jack came back at Piper’s Bar

He was doing snuff with Chuck

And laughing at me

“I’m always here, man.

I’m the other half of your heartbeat.

I need you to keep me alive.”

I cursed and I swore

That I thought that I didn’t need Jack no more

But he came down from Oregon

To put me back upon my rails

“You know how old I was when I died?” He asked

Placing a hand upon my shoulder

I nodded, “Two years older than I am now.”


Jack smiled that beatific smile and told me

That I was the Golden Eternity

I reminded him that he was only pulling Snyder’s leg

And that the Scripture was a conceit

Jack looked at Chuck and asked him if HE was the Golden Eternity

Chuck smiled through a ‘stache that is whiter

Than the winter snow in Lowell

Knowing that he was the Golden Eternity

I didn’t know then what I knew now

And that WE are all the Golden Eternity

Existing in nothing

Because we are beyond it all


Jack straddles two worlds

It would be unfair to say that he walks among

The living and the dead

Because they are just precepts

That the weak and infirm cling to

Like marigolds and candied skulls on the Dia de los Muertos


No matter how often I remind Jack

That he isn’t here

He dismisses me

And points vaguely

At something out there

What was out there in the Mexican night

Was of no worry to me

I pointed to my chest

And told Jack, “It’s in here.”

Chuck looked at us both and pointed to his head

Before downing a teqtonic


I snapped off 47 pics of Jack and his aura

His voice too fragile to be read

“Yeah, okay.” I conceded

As I put his words down on paper for him

He grinned that Kerouac grin

And slapped me on the back


Jack came back at Piper’s Bar

He was doing snuff with Chuck

And laughing at me

“I’m always here, man.

I’m the other half of your heartbeat.

I need you to keep me alive.”

I cursed and I swore

That I thought that I didn’t need Jack no more

going places

going places

where are you going with your body
which never really came here in the first place
there is a three foot bubble around me
and only the animals are tame
but some of them are wild as russian tigers
which i avoid assiduously

as a human your alibi is tight as air
a migrating bird got lost in a restaurant
i picked it up with only one hand
and showed it to the door
it rejoined its comrades in a parking lot
you would do the same if you had any

December 2012 Gaines I. Milligan


how unique you

how unique you

this moment in time is molded by entropy
it never will happen it already happened
the other day there was no other day

are you aware of other animals or people
watch them come out of their burrows then hide
a handful of nuts might attract them or pheromones

you proliferate thank you jesus they lick your brain
oboy it feels good taste it yourself often imitated
never duplicated the unique you and unique they

funny little machines come and go throughout our country
often duplicated illegally imitated especially the money ones
wind up the money machine it runs away

your precious singularity is like oil on water
lie under a microscope and feel the danger
the light under the slide heats it the oil spreads

all the others you know are in the experiment
there is no scientist taking notes its that secret
the world turned suddenly the sun came up

December 2012 Gaines I. Milligan
I can write more. I accept gratuities