Scott D. Coldiron (crksboye23@aol.com) is 26 and says his literary influences include Peter Lamborn Wilson, W. Somerset Maugham, J.D. Salinger, Hakim Bey, Kathy Acker and Cormac McCarthy. This is his first publication, I understand.





listless

What of
The riot of guns in my head
The beer in my hand
The smoke in my lungs
The 2nd 3rd 4th-hand rig
In my vein
The girl in my arms
On my couch
In my face
The friends I thought I had
Nowhere near
Licking their own wounds
Under some forgotten tree
The thoughts I kant write
The job I dont want
The krimes Ill kommit
The words that pretend
That will not prevail
Sooth my sickness
Or pay my rent
What of this?
I am listless...


untitled#1


"how can We The Dispossesed act?"
---'Algeria', Kathy Acker

If we oppose
We fail to uplift.
If we revolt
We fail to endure.
The madness of art lies
Nowhere if not
Within the konfines
Of the time that is
Not our own, and yet
We still breathe
An act executed
With thoughtless
Faultless determination,
We are the masters
Of no slaves
Kultivators of the
Fields of death
We are innocent of all krimes
Free to be nowhere, just as
The madness of art lies nowhere,
We are nowhere.


untitled#2

i have ceased to assign daring occultish meanings to the caterwaul of the trains whistle heard usually in night skydistance, because every town has one and if i obeyed every hazy command of their trains i should never rest eat or sleep a dreamless night, and she tells me i am a witless scamp for assigning daring occultish meanings to occurrences as common as a train slowly rushing by in its romantic iron escape, how unlike woman she is in this admontion, how anti-revolutionary, how common, how right she might be if i truly believed these signs but to me it is tv, tv without obscene drunken newsanchors or ads for hideous consumptive death at the hands of overzealous toothpaste, tv without the kennedys or kennedy or skippy or starwars, tv without the m, tv without the t or the v, these latenight hazy assignations are my source of entertainment and self-denial, my acknow- ledgment of the latent communicative abilities of manwrought earth in its steely oily smokefilled imperfection, the trains whistle telling me to rush into headless night and chase down the irretrievable ideal of escape and set myself on fire in the wind of hot human hope, and when i look up she tells me i am a witless scamp for not obeying the daring occultish meanings i have assigned to the trains whistle in night skydistance, how unlike woman she is, how anti-revolutionary, how common...


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