Remember Angelou

Today I learned Dame Angelou died
She passed as it is said
Passed from this life closing notable eyes
finding sleep forever

Day breaks
breaks our hurried pace
remind your own small heart
the precious hope the welcomed
gift of sound

Sound on paper
Sound from throats
sounds break our singular solace
remind our common hearts to rise
then fall, heave up, then down
a quicker pace

and memory then has more to lug around
other voices and voices of others reach
over and stuff each gift bag
the gift bag we call our mind

Deep or not
a small thin layer
the size of a postage stamp
micron thin invisible but brimming with understanding
it will no longer heave, rise and fall
it too melts away

This emotion, this patch of memory of how words felt
this too will no longer rise
this too with Dame Angelou has died


Foster Johnson
May 28, 2014

Wayback Poetry

SuperAM Vol 1 – 2

Poems of David Sutherland, Editor of Recursive Angel

David Sutherland is lead editor for a publication called “Recursive Angel” which looks for poetry, fiction and art on the net. Additionally, He has had the good fortune of seeing his own works in a number of publications with recent pieces appearing in “The Trincoll Review” and “The Poetry Forum”. David is a member of “The Academy Of American Poets” with his first book of verse due out early next year.


Tense the little muscles that
pour over shedding locks of
undisturbed hair and
pure and bright are the
vast energies that rise
to a setting sunset
at days start,
and days end.

Burnt magentas’
drawn like lips in silence.
Wilderness, desert, depth,
a whole canvas of fears shed to
an eternity and coined
to a calendar finishing month.

And cold,
cold the sharp porcelain of Winter
bluff and crags of

before Springs’ navel rings to count its 
rinse of tears on stone and
marauding ephesias twitch indolence in the 
eyes of sudden..Life

fierce your almost
tangible bliss of
softly spoken words.


In spite of the
many parts moving,
rolling joints wrapping-up
Life’s dull expressions in
quiet dismay.

There are
hairline cracks of
sudden un-becomings,
alignments shot in geometric clarity,
to the perfect angles of
cause-effect which
balance nature on reality’s Mean as
concrete actualities subsume this
fragile framework of Mind.

And Mind has
no edge against
rigorous calamity,
naked shock.

This thing is perditious judgement goes bereft as
sadly we slip, slip, slip on
insignificant signs whose
turing valves vent in force then
bloom and
Boom! similarly
your lack of warning, bravely my refuse of knowledge 
its done.


Vague the threat of consciousness
muffled words,
pretentious sounds,
choke-starts failing as ambitions’
misplaced hopefuls orphan-bound.

And ears that hear close in dissension,
and eyes that see cut back in spite,
as breath like stones
fall on each other
discord(cord) alibis soft lies;

Remain(main) chasten to the body
This moon heaves crescents to my side
a frailness wells is lost to recall
interned tonight;

they burn a candle
purports wind to scattered ash
seal the veil of sensuality
in mortared eyes of pebbled glass,

with skin soft paper apparition
skull like trophy on its side
shape lips, soft voice and broken symbols 
fare(well) in time.

Soon, Worlds that spin,
spin in contrition
and dream like mist,like rain, subsides
as pangs like teething lose their comfort, 
evade this silent passerby.


Her dark-tweed matte lay
frame to searching eyes,
words canvas almost speak
across beige mottled isles.

of weave or hue, birth lines
A sentinel guards waste
forth form, pastel and lace.

Minerva, all we know
takes hint between each tone
sad glimpse into your smile,

and colors you..
in stray magenta’s,
auburn lights descending crowns.
Life colors you,

in rouge and charpet
paramours and stifled loves,
the lockets’ blush on flesh cool tinder, 
the song of thrush spent on a winter,
a wanton lover, near
and unheard
colors you.


Life is
beating a fast retreat this winter
behind bluffs that bleed thin are
highs scattered behind grace,
receding, receding,
I lisp into suicide
lash out in daze,

Scorn these organs..
belly and groin grow
bloom on opposite walls of steel;
stuck in an off-sided game of trump.

And to soon I become loom,
hung on cottoned apparition,
eyes railline, teats votive,
fertile for a pretty boy
or a kill or
another grind of promise…
to pass me by.


Tour of force is a breeze lifting the gauze
of wound cooled by contraband.
And wars’ never;
and peace never,
makes mirth or

sense the ground
rising up in jump
bleating out these
mournful skies over
hop-scotch fields,
quilted daisies,
blown crazy eights.

And hope’s never;
and dreams never…
Circummure poles,

spill out from tight
circling currents of
desperate mass.

Canvas of flesh,
sphere of illusion and
lilly and cholera and laughter and bedlam, 
ever-thickening yoke
hold me.

And lifes’ never;
and loves’ never..


Like a medieval monk on manuscript,
or French novelist
quick and fluent maneuvers up sen-
tence. Hind right on balcony,
sorting through pieces of colored glass, 
note by note and shape by shape of
written word..

Never a writer would pen
Flaubert, Bovary, Plath whose
poisoned tongue sought immortal passage.
The engineered page

swears fanatical control,
as passion or dream – drives,
devours metaphor and

surely this outworn image
finds me lucid in it throes,
seduced to catch a feeble phrase which is
somewhat wrenched on return as

a lifetime of poise melts in
a brilliant conflagration
transcribed in sparks.

David Sutherland

Poetry of Foster Johnson, Super AM Editor in Chief at Large

Foster Johnson  with the help of guest poet Eric Paradiso

London Stinks

…of Soot and smoke
but it is a good reeking odor.
Much like a sharp foul stench of a delicious cheese
only more machine like
metal on metal
fuel and oil.
Polite little town – deeply Internationale.
HotSpots all over the place
Pubs beckon, a pint here or there
another and another

The Air was heavy and there had been little rain
In Soho.
The thunder cracked hard 
and reminded me 
of my old school days in a bristling electric sky 
of midwest dreary America

Smell the hops and taste the malt
Smoke a rich cigarette and think of tomorrow’s
coffee, toast and cheese.
Lights will soon be running up and down
like gay dancers at some transvestite all boy revue

It’s Hot in here and the rain begins
all those who seek wild shelter
find it near to us
packing in – arms reach at first
now side by side
thigh by thigh

Hot alcohol breath brushing
softly and seductively into the
corners of your ear and the soft curls of your hair.
The rain rains rain down
hard – streets glisten and the next crack
heralds slivers of nature’s own
artificial daylight
they make you grin – can’t help it.

London stinks of smoke and soot
but tastes delicious in its own polite way.
London stinks but good.
He draws me another pint
I think
and hope
that rain won’t wash what stinks away.

I hope it is the same
when I come back home to here
another rainy reeking delicious day

Foster Johnson

San Francisco Hand

Spiders walk, cross legged natural
darkness creeps across a once
brazen horizon
San Francisco will not sleep yet
San Francisco only draws a breath

The City by the Bay
They all say…

An entertaining place to waste
your time in free movements across
a desert of cultural vicissitudes.
We drive we ride we climb
and hike the tall hills hiding
small valleys of small guilt 
a despair that permeates both stone and air.
There is an evil here
that seems to call back to hardier days.
The History is good but the present
reeks of death.

It is unspoken

It is desolate, it is pain, It underlies 
the marina to the hills around the stick.
Somewhere, forever is
a clutching hand that will cradle,
hold cajole you
but will seek to keep you
forever in its grasp
Forever is never so long except in casual death
Except in carefree San Francisco Nights
be careful my children 
or the guilt might get you too.

Foster Johnson


Dream awaits somewhere far off
my fair haired one
long legged
with passions still unknown
I dream as I smoke and
see you curl about my head
as you would cradle me within
your real arms – flesh and blood
Hot and comforting.
For to be smothered by you
is a pleasure not
To wander alone these streets
that seem greyer than even the
darkest sky at night
To wander alone without you
is not a well planned
pleasant pastime,
instead it is a lonely pace
trudge-like through heavy
space, a task to walk alone
a task to move through air
of dreams of you without you really there.

Eric Paradiso

Toon’s Town

Toon’s Town not like Tinseltown
Ride a train and say goodbye
to all you’ve known.
It’s hard to remember your childhood
and the games we played.
It gets longer each moment
each year.
Hard to touch small memories
of childhood and even
stronger youth.
Hard to touch small movements
as the memory ages with you
No strike at old… but hold
on to your youth in ways to make it apparent
to send you back someday in hopes of
touching again a taste of hot summers and
pure innocence.

Foster Johnson

Instant Haikus

Speed Drills for The Non-Typist.

A straw still breaks
even when it’s bendable

nights are hot
but bring no relief

it blows

Happy Cake
who baked it?

My birthday
ahh.. another year of sin

I’ll break
You bend

Step lightly once for me
In light morning air we all must sleep

Cake eater
eat some more cake

Southbound darling!
you keep going south

Laura Taylor
too tall for her age

Green sheet
$5 on Whiskey Bartender
brought me a hundred

We fight, we brawl
but damn, dont we look good
dancing at the ball

No haikus too long

no fries

Rollerbladers sure
look good

I went mountain biking
20 years ago

You draw?
draw me a river to cry in

Rain falls heavy
most times

Street corner

Sandy Man

I do what I can
I’ll help you sleep
you’ll dream the week
when the Sandy Man drops by
another hope of dream
only on your walk
tired hopes to move
again to another rope
around your neck
around again to hold
you close
and pull you in
never stay
Your Sandy Man

Eric Paridiso

Daydream Lover

friend of mine
we share so many times
daydream lover
good in kind

I couldn’t walk away
even if I could

I hear the blues without you
I dance alone

I can’t hit a memory
without the wind blowing
away all our thoughts
and linotone dreams
day dream lover one or two
come with me and do
all the things 
we’re meant to do.

Foster Johnson

Rock N Roll

Billy Holiday brings tears
to my eyes.
Not from the passion
she bores me to it.

Blues channels its bull
Say it with some gravel in your
San Francisco owns the blues
Forty-year old white men with salt and pepper beards
slightly growing, ownin’ the blues.

Whisper Jazz, say it with a
whisper — Jazz eclipsed
when Davis died or twenty
years before… was dead before
it was born but was good that way.

Rock N Roll has rolled too,
like the railroads, railroads, rail roads
rotting frail and dangerous — somewhere
a new song awaits
At some time our stagnant regurge will end – U.S.A. we are not
fresh today.

Foster Johnson

Shake 94


In the early a.m. the EARTH DECIDED to SHOOK
SHOOK, SHAKE, ROCK n ROLL — homes in the a.m. L.A.
begin to break broken roads, broken hearts
broken bridges – homes
When you called
the wind was out of you
and tears weren’t on your face
they were in your breath.

Somehow I envied you then,
all lost, injured and hurt
a little bit but nothing severed
still alive, not blind or burned.
I envied you your loss.

Now you can start anew, while
I so far away and safe can only slide deeper
into what I would disentangle,
still in a web

When the earth did shake the shackles broke with the streets
and the concrete
with nothing to hold you, no damned possessions
you could sort and take responsibility
one by one
or leave it

start anew — go anywhere — do anything
start anew — the pain and smoke
and hell around you — I envied you — envied you,
and wished the earth had shook all over.

Foster Johnson


There was a moment in time 
when I felt too blue.
There was a neon beam accross a bar
and a small blackbird
or some baby chicken there.
Chicago was a long way off just to go drinkin’
and time wasn’t there.
Who knows the truth in times like these?

I wondered on the moment and it broke my heart in two.
There was a girl I knew I loved
but I didn’t want too.
There’s a guitar always playing
and noone there to use.
The fans go round in a background fog
and a movies plays its sad refrain.

I touched you in my memories and I trusted only the pain.
I’ll take another. And somewhere there’s rain.

I stood lonely in a decade in which I was lost
there was a trend there somewhere.

I wrote some volumes in a red book.
I passed time so lonely I never mistook…moments in sadness broken despair.
I looked once around me and even I didn’t care.
These weekends of laughter leave weeklong pain
But I lied to myself! and in so doing… lost a great part of my youth.

I’ll never remember all that love that we shared
I’ll never remember that you really cared
I’ll touch you again and you’ll not be there.

You touch your comrades 
and you know that they care.
You touch your woman
and there’s a rain somewhere.

Poems by Rosa Clement, Nature Rhymes and More.

I am Rosa Clement, a wife, a mother of two girls, a computer programmer, and what I most like to be: a poet. I’m also a Brazilian who lived in Hawaii for the last five years and now has returned home. In Hawaii, I started writing poems, something I always thought of doing since I was a child, but always felt too shy to put my ideas on paper. However, one day while thinking about aging, I felt a strong impulse to write my first poem and since then I haven’t stopped.

My ideas come from observations I gather from daily life, from feelings, and from things that really touch me. Often, I include nature in my poems.

Some of my poems have been published in Poetic Eloquence, The Ebbing Tide, Seaoats, and The Parnassus Literary Journal. Three of my poems have appeared on the web pages: The Open Scroll and The Blender of Love.

Here are a few of my poems:


A man decides it’s time to hunt,
to find a fur because it’s cold,
to risk and patiently confront
the trails along which hours unfold.

At dawn he finds a hidden cave
and thinks that if he wants to be
a hunter still alive and brave,
then he should hide behind a tree.

A hungry bear soon passes by,
and quickly understands it should
protect its fur, and also try
to find a way to get some food.

Before the nervous shootings start,
the wily bear explains and pleads,
they both should talk and be smart,
and find a way to solve their needs.

The man agrees and trusts the bear,
and happily they hug and walk
inside the cave to get the share
of what was decided in their talk.


I like to walk defiant and nude,
To be admired along my way,
But I may hurt, also be rude,
If I choose painful words to say.

I wander with the human race,
convincing them to look at me,
To see how pretty is my face,
Although I don’t like fantasy.

I have an enemy, I know,
who wears a sparkling frail disguise
to trace my steps and hide my glow,
deluding those who are not wise.

If my rival is insincere,
And on me humans must rely,
in life we are a constant pair:
I am the truth, and it, the lie.


The dentists like to see us twice a year. 
They tell you “open wide your mouth, don’t fear, 
relax, and tell me how you are my dear.” 
Your mouth then holds their tools, your eyes a tear. 
They ask the things they do not care to hear 
since whatever you say is never clear.
They tell you “the pain will soon disappear, 
and then you can smile from ear to ear.” 
You leave their office faster than a spear.


How sweet it was to hear the tales
my mother told us every night,
how lovely were their details.

Outside, the songs of nightingales,
inside, the flaming candlelight…
how sweet it was to hear those tales.

We flew beyond the ridges and vales
on words that carried full delight,
so lovely were their details.

The giant who lived along the dales,
The prince who never saw the light,
How sweet it was to hear those tales.

The headless mule from forest trails,
the dolphin man and his sad plight,
so frightening were their details.

While nights fell to their darkest veils, 
it blended ecstasy and fright,
but sweet it was to hear those tales,
and lovely were their details.


Pennies, pennies, come to me,
fall from pockets like the rain,
shine in spots where I can see.
Pennies, pennies come to me,
fill my vases rapidly,
flow like fountains from each drain.
Pennies, pennies, come to me,
fall from pockets like the rain.


The moon has already moved to your sky,
and the mountains have covered themselves 
with an opaque brown mantle,
because you have left, and the rain
preferred to follow your steps.

The sea is still,
reflecting only grey clouds,
and here, I wait to see green or blue
in its waters and sing them in my verses.

The palms have lost their waving sound,
and now are silent, bending to the ground 
because a long time ago, the wind left 
to take you home.

What should we do, we who love you?
Knowing you won’t return,
we want to forget or ignore,
but instead,
we just love you more.

Rosa Clement

The Lyrical Insights of Jonathan Chen, Player, Lolita, Nostalgia and More

Jonathan Chen, is a senior at the University of San Diego. He currently writes a column for the school newspaper. He sent the Monkey the following poems. The Monkey said, and I quote, “Go Man, GO!”.


I can’t live without you
you said
with a sickening yet earnest expression

You won’t die for her
No way, you said

as you awaken
she has a knife pressed against your throat Damn, you said

This can not be happening
the angels you never believed
have taken command


While in bed
he seems discombobulated
that she keeps repeating an unfamiliar name

He considers the option of self-denial
and ponder
with the thought of cold-blooded murder

He feels like a second-rated magician
trapped in an authentic straight-jacket

Opaque smoke and odorless stench fill the air in the light of total despair


he discovers his Buddha nature


Sometimes I stare,
at the dusty trophies
The innocent times,
are of distant memory

Worries were no more than
an occasional pimple
and catching the bus on time

I try to think,
but Freud, Shopenhaur, and Nietsche
argue constantly
in a cacophany
tick tick tick tick tick tick,
Hi, I’m Ed Bradly
and I’m Andy Rooney
we expose the real truth of penile implants.


His heart
a barren, deserted land

and when the seashell wept
he wept with it.

All the failed attempts
to seduce with the cliches.

The diary calls for a rewrite

Surrealistic paintings
now seem to connect with his stream of consciousness

is the only means to the end.


At the entrance of hell
My twin brother
Seems a bit too innocent.

I find myself laughing,

The get the wrong guy,

With a sweet smile
I look just like him,
almost magically.


The film director in the beret tells you 
that all this is for the sake of art
He touches you only the way you touch yourself, 
they are expecting answers

The choice is yours

Microwave stardom
or doomed obscurity

The choice is yours

People volunteer for medical experiments 
solely to claim some “dead presidents”

The choice is yours

The psychic frauds charge
$4.95 the first minute
$2.95 each additional minute

The choice is yours

In your dreams everybody wears rubber
the photographer couldn’t stop the shutter 
The non-English speaking immigrant working at the drive-through shouts 
the check out time is noon
the choice is yours


The muffled voice of the drive-through clown 
has the effect
of making folks hyperventilate

The ridiculously diverse menu
causes us to excessively contemplate

The unknown of the universe
with total disregard to our feelings
take away time,
at the most inconvenient moment.

We look up at the constellation of the sky 
and without shame but pride
believe that we are making something magnificent 
from our everyday, trivial lives.


Some character from Dickens
ask you to join them.

They invite you to eat living flesh.

Despite the popular opinion
you’d rather not do this.

At the end you finally notice
that you should have read the Cliff’s Notes.


People who refuse to believe their own senses are particularly fond of
the curses of too much wisdom.

But your attention is drawn to the fact
that you have changed your name to boredom.

If they show the re-run one more time
I swear I am going to die.


The blue lake is as cool as your eyes

While the limit is the sky
you can’t help but wonder why

Van Gough never lived long enough
to enjoy his 15 minutes of overdue fame.

A prodigy
ain’t worth a dime
as long as he sings, dances, and breathes.

To be good
the devil says,
you should think about suicide.

Jonathan Chen

Poetry of Allison Eir Jenks From Evanston Illinois

the Poetry of Allison Eir Jenks wafts the airwaves of the Monkey’s own AM

I am 23 years old and just graduated from UIUC and Columbia College in Chicago with a B.A. in creative writing/English. Originally, I’m from Evanston, IL. I am currently trying to finish my second book of poetry-the first should be out by the first week of November and it’s called, “The Liquid In Love,” published by Aegina Press in West Virginia. My first book is full of a bunch of styles, probably because I’m still searching for my most natural voice. Everything I write is either free verse or prose, except I let one sestina escape into the book. The poems here are not from the book.

I’ve had an intense passion for writing since I was three when my mom found me trying to type a book on an old typewriter in the basement. Hopefully, if I get accepted somewhere, I’ll be in graduate school next fall studying more creative writing. For the future I hope to be a whacked out poetry professor, overdosing on coffee, staying up all night and initiating spontaneous road trips searching for new themes.

Fabric of a Kiss

Young boy
tattooed himself
to my velvet temper,
My untamed parade.

Slapped him with melody
He choked and smiled
in my hedonistic web.

Coma in my lane,
He swam for my height,
Thinking it was all
that kept him from me.

On a day
Any heifer would do,

When an obscure
Light was leaking
-From his eyes,

Like some buttery monster,
I granted him a minute
on that vinyl couch.

His dizzy feet came at me
With a swollen breeze.

All I saw were
chaotic scraps of light
And stray, red knots.

My counterfeit kiss
peeled him to the skull.

Nine years of him
packed in a kiss.

He heard parachutes of violins,
Swan beaks insisting love.

I saw a drowsy sow.
Still, my lips tugged him to oblivion.


Last night I was touched
by an aged, black-eyed
Trojan from the back woods.

He made me fall like a bold faced
Ballet dancer with unclear eyes.

We lit through a sensuous, agonizing fever-
With the optimal balance
of the Big Dipper.

He broke the nauseating script,
Waking my neglected comedy
with October secrets.

Combing through the morning
bonfire with tribal concord.

Wind-chill bit at his semen.
Through the breathy encore
I accepted his release
Knowing the cold injection
would rapture me

Swelling my prolific doubt.


Hours of leaky meteors
Hound the oceanic part of my mind
that sinks for snowy, white soldiers
Back from horrendous scandals-

nights with sharp-toothed jaguars
in their pillows.
The nearest saxophone miles away.

you live there like a
Black dollar rogue
Lurking in
that part of me that is Venus

Rocking metro phases
through the thoughts
I never figured were pliable.


The octave of us is an avenue
of blackbirds with marbleized wings
As the blacksnake licks the bobcat
in a herculean daze.

Your impotent homeland spread
the last deep’sea of freckles
on your icy, olive face.

Your blemished hands belong on you like
Auburn liqueur on pale blue tablecloths.

I swim in the black of your eye until it 
liquefies like blues in autumn.

We talk like friends of jewel and berry bandits 
Erasing halls of bored handwriting.


Rays from his barren eyes
Collect the cranberry air,

Rain’fall carries the temper
of comets to the crib.

Consoled by the concord of thymes,
minerals and misty plums,

His blood is baptized
with the cocoa and
toffee climate.

Prancing through the
crooked underground

His roots condemn
the pressure.

Thoughts of solemn drifts
Time in laps
of waves and sun-down.

His dramatic, purple soul
lives in the sands
of wooden music and butterfly leaves.

Taken back
Not there but all of this here
Balances itself like landing tornadoes.

By Allison Eir Jenks

From the Pig – Tom Wilson’s Pig. Greased Pig that Talks

Tom Wilson’s Pig

Check it! My pig dictated a note to the Greasy Monkey.

The Sky: a facade

Like the buildings on a street on a Hollywood lot. 
A view from the inside of a dented volkswagon hubcap – The Moon 
From the beyond looking back earth – thimbles, millions of them. 
The big dipper. 
A hollowed out plastic mobile hanging over a childs crib. 
Foam insullation in the solar attic. 
The clouds. Lightning like neon crazy straws.
All brilliantly lit by the diehard power of the flashlight Sun.


Postcard Curt Bentz Walheim Messages from the Old World

Curt Walheim is back in the U.S.A. Three months strolling the hills and streets on the soil of Ol’ Europa, digging the old beat and living large.He sent my monkey a message from an old civilalization lazy and sleeping now, but firm within the soil beneath all of our feet.


There is no universal peace as you think
must rust across the broad bored
winding road asleep by the speed limit
sign. The tried tired mind slinks down
the slope of sleep and seeps into the
sleek smooth skinned miss who kissed
you in the mist flying by. Stop at the
drop of a hat, dance and prance, skat
a lot and do more for the mar – o.
Adore what’s in store, for you be not
here tomorrow. Go on to the loom
soon away from some undone finish.
Not we worth a smile while the file
grates against ancient moon over Nile?
Night of painless luna directionless
style. Find no mind to pay time to,
sire. Free runs the kind sign to deeds
aspiring to simply inspire the same
vein in some worthy find. Gotta
go on, go on, and go on. Be gone soon,
son….that’s all there is
to it.



Poetry of Sheryl Hannah new poems!

Sheryl Hannah Is married with two teenage daughters, She has been working for the local Los Angeles County government for twenty-three years, and She just started writing poetry in the Spring of 1995.

Sheryl Says, “I enjoy writing poems so much! I don’t want to write anything but poems. I don’t know why I was inspired or by what? All I know is that I just got on my computer one day and started composing poetry from the depth of my soul. I am also attending Cal State L.A. at night, I am working on my master’s degree. I am majoring in English. I plan to one day be able to teach at the college or university level.

Several of my poems have been submitted to various magazines such as Anthology in Arizona, by Inkwell Productions. One of my poems was published in their magazine, the September/October 1995 issue. The poem is titled ‘Where Are The Sweet Septembers?'”


It’s seeds are planted
Deep withihn the core,
Then Spreads out quickly through the body!

Like a malignant tumor
It grows pouncing on the fragile being
There is no rememdy to relieve the pain
No Medication to take
No Cure!
For spiritual death is imminent!

It sometimes happens because
We are too receptive, gentle and kind
Or perhaps too loving,
Trying to satisfy everyone!
This disease causes us to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune!
Whatever the case
It is surely not our fault or is it?

This cancer consumes our essence
It blows out our flame
Leaving us only a hollow shell that remains.

Like a candle in the wind,
Without a soul
Our light,
Like a legend,
Only the memories of when we had once been whole
Are left to linger in the shadows of the past!


Set my mentor, Egyptian God of Evil and Darkness,
has given me the dark gift,
A prisoner of the night am I,
A rich Dacian merchant in ancient Rome,
It was there that I met my fair Olivia!

In the early hours of twilight she emerged from the Coliseum
More beautiful than a Carpathian rose that blooms in the early Spring.
Her essence, naive, sweet and pure!
I looked into her eyes
Suddenly I was aware
That it was only for her that my heart did beat!

For centuries the joy of love had evaded me!
yearning, burning with desire to find it, 
Now I have someone with whom I can share it.
Passionately embraced are she and I
now I will give her the vampire’s kiss,

It’s forever that we shall walk as the undead,
Feeding on human blood,
As the darkness spreads across the sky, we will turn into bats.
Winged creatures of the night!
We will fly away searching for mortals to quench our sanguine thirst,
Before Sunrise we will return to the catacombs where we both shall sleep.

Our souls taunting us to see the light of day,
For it’s only an impulse that we won’t acknowledge
For it would mean for us;
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,
Destruction for us!


Like the Phoenix
She will rise and soar to the heights of heaven,
From the ashes of her destruction!

She shall be resurrected;
I can hear her heart begin to beat,
The people of various religions and cultures,
Shall be bound together by the band of unity,
Their love, hope and desire
Will breathe the breath of life into the Princess Lebanon!

The tears of war shall be wiped from her eyes,
The dove with the laurel wreath of peace,
Shall reign over all of her inhabitants,
The fear of fighting from years before
has been banished forever more!

Her natural beauty.
Her golden crown,
Shall be restored to her!

From the top of her head,
To the tips of her feet,
The tranquility of the sea
Shall be felt by all,
Who dwell within her land!

The Puppet

Govenor Spendhearty, Mayor Doolittle, and City Councilman Accomplishesnothing All pull my strings!
I am their puppet.

Hello, my name is Dudley Dooright, I am the new political pawn. I’ve just been elected by you the people of this fair city. I am an empty shell without a brain, opinion or voice to call my own.

What you don’t know is that after every performance or show Is that I know the truth for what it really is which is: “That you’ve all been deceived.
There won’t be more jobs, better schools for your kids, There won’t be shelters or food for the homeless. The rich will get richer and the poor will get poorer.

I answer to my leaders’ every wish.
They ask me to jump!
I ask how high?

You know the reason! Don’t ask why?
Even if you could give me a soul and a tongue with which to speak, I would not be free.
For I would still belong to them, the political puppeteers.

The Poetry of Evelyn Hunter. Poems written on the 5th of July 1995

Lyrical Insight on Super AM’s 4th of July Bash…4th of July

At Carpenter Avenue on the 4th of July
we really had a ball.
And do you know the reason why?
The answer is simple,
The truth lies bare,
It all boiled down to the people who were there.

There was Foster the Flea
With a sense of occasion,
Anna and Adele dancing in formation,
Kent doing Yoga,
Tony staying cool
Curt trying hard to keep every rule,
Adhere to his contract,
Keep out of trouble,
Keep the music coming and drink Buds at the double.

Tom leaps the tiki
Like a man possessed.
He may have singed his you-know-what
But he gave it his best.

Rodney turns up late
(with his partner in tow)
He brings news of Major
He’s always in the know.

Linda’s cooking kebabs
(Alas, the Brinkman’s last)
It’s done a great job for the three years past.

Scott’s giving cuddles,
British Linda’s feeling fine.

Bab’s looking hungry-
Feels its her turn to dine.

Jen’s potato salad
Makes quite an impression.

Marty wonders why he’s
In a funeral procession.

David’s, on camera, stands back
And films it all.

Now you’ve got to admit it
We DID have a ball.

Evelyn Hunter
July 5, 1995

On July 4th 1995 We buried a dear friend, in my backyard. The Brinkman Smoker, finally cooked its last Barbecue. Worn out and tired, its grills and pans were wearing away. So we buried it proper New Orleans style, at the end of that day. – Foster Johnson

The Brinkman Pall Bearers

The Brinkman Funeral

When Foster Johnson bids a friend farewell
He pulls out all the stops and raises Cain.
The neighbours say he’ll surely go to hell,
Not realizing how he deals with pain

With friends to succour him and share in his grief
He bids the Brinkman one last fond goodbye,
Remembering all those juicy chunks of beef,
With special homage paid to old Rib-Eye.

A barbecuing chef without compare,
FJ is now bereft of his mainstay,
So ritual acts like giving spit and hair
Enable him to bear this dreadful day.

Brave Foster Johnson swears he wont be beat
If time hangs heavy he can always beat his meat.

Evelyn Hunter
July 5, 1995

Tiki Tom

Mid-West Tom with neck of palest pink
Plays devils advocate – the party swings.
Will leap a flame before an eye can blink,
Composes poetry, tells jokes and sings.

Have we amongst us a Renaissance man?
His gifts are boundless – he instructs the young,
Emotes on film and puts it in the can.
His Franklin yet may set him on the map

To stardom and a future paved with gold.
His strength is legend – call him to move house!
Imagination, heart and muscle rolled
Into one perfect whole – Like Mighty Mouse.

The modesty of this man will amaze.
With gay abandon he shrugs off our praise.

Evelyn Hunter

July 5, 1995.


Curt Walheim – here my hand should stay its task
A mighty man in Old World and New.
Who can interpret – penetrate the mask
of clown which hides an intellect that few

Possess? This man is magic!
See him do The Worm – strain every fibre in the dance.
Observe him share his life-style with a true
Maganimity. Give him but a chance

And he will rustle up effects the like
You never saw. Pyrotechnics pose no
Risk for him. Olympian games merely psyche
Him up to better things. It’s Go Man, Go!

Creative talent such as this is bare – 
Forgive his peccadillos or beware.

Evelyn Hunter
July 1995

3 Poems by Justin Dixon

Three poems all written within the last few months, in no specific order. I hope you enjoy.


pallor pale, cold,
rough skin pocked,
pain blackened eyes,
nails bit to the root.

I recount details,
marks noted hatefully,
minor feelings enlarged
to sizes meaningful.

This is when I see you
for who you really are
just an ogre with a smile
and a cavernous heart.

I need your brand of pain
it consumes me like a drug
you see, the junkie heart inside me
thrives on callous blood.


Promise me,
peeled, painted fences
and over-grown grasses
calling for a cutting,
sunshine rich enough to burn,
calm waking moments
lacking fear of touching.

lie to me,
tell me stories
about our life to come
when we can muse about forever
without embarrassing fragile Truth
or twisting unbending Fact.

and let me listen without doubt
or skeptical logic
about a created world
full of fictitious beauty.

I want to live in a world
where truth grows to change
with each passing season
and fear is crushed by
slight, calming breezes.

The passive sound of falsehood
will ring glorious in my ears,
your voice will soothe my doubts
and hope will reach my touch.


Fear clasps my shoulders
then twists into anger
with reckless endangerment
but it’s alright with me.

my heart pounds
like the broken engine mounts
under the hood of our
not too long for the road car.

crossing Montana, endlessly
two lanes stretch out before us
as we make a break for destinations
hidden from Denver’s responsibilities.

you and I have mind alike
missing parts and filled with
just a few too many thoughts
but it’s alright with you.

we’ve gone far
and not far enough
to stop and fix this car.

the horizon pulls us on
to thunder storms, complete
where electric atmosphere
collapses panicked thoughts
while your hand falls into mine,

Justin Dixon

Kiss by Devin McCarthy. Dig!

Devin Patrick McCarthy is 18 years old and has lived in Oregon all of his life. Devin says, “I have traveled into Canada and Mexico and hope to attend the imfamous “Jack Kerouac School of Disenbodied Poetics” in Denver in the upcoming year.

If there is one thing that Devin could say about writing it would be,
“You must fall in love with words.”


The third eye
dances on plastic plate
and sees me in the otherside.
The down ward slope of lips
then up
until an impasse;
two ships,
the night half dissolved,
drift into one ocean,
like new baked bread
rising in its
sweet, heavy scent,
like knowing you love silence
and here again your lips

Devin McCarthy