Wednesday, December 31, 2008

Kerouac won't let me get no Sleep! by David Mac


Ode to that jack K, and I know he comes around and stays up all night drunk and talking fast of the this and the that, and pointing his finger up and considering bop and jazz and yelling, 'Go, go,' and, 'blow as deep as you want to blow...' and blah, blah, blah, until soon I am drunk with him.

Little does he realise or even stop to think that some of us are TRYING TO GET SOME SLEEP! in this town in the night when only madmen and saints and holy angels stir and refuse to lay still without a word.

But we finish all the whisky and he goes running down to liquor store for some more and I know when he returns he will have picked up some other beats and bums who he’s found who go up to him and say, ‘Hey, you, Kerouac, where you going, man?’ and he’ll bring them all back to see me shake my head and gaze at the clock (who is also saddened and tells me it has gone two in the morning).

Ah, but he don’t care coz he’s been up all night finishing some book in heaven that he throws down with stars and dust. Something glorious and blessed no doubt with his blues and spontaneous sudden sweating visions and scribblings.

Kerouacky, great and holy writer of legendary fifties America who is now spinning bottles on the floor of my pad and talks of making it with some baby in some city of some place I never been. And he lays back and I just know he sees the picture deep, deep and wild mystic visions he is creating as he goes, to store for another book time.

He is always sacrificing himself to be in the scene so his eyes may see it all as it all goes down, then he’ll boom and clap and be delirious from everything all at once. ‘Dig that, dig that! Ah, fwa, oomph, you gotta really dig it all! Aw!’ and he tells me of when he was out to get some booze and great hanging epiphanies he saw, constructed golden and angelic, and illuminating down from the black sky-ceiling of Times Square.

‘I’m gonna make you some coffee,’ I tell him, but he’s already trying to speak to me the greatest sketches from the back of his mind (and this is younger Kerouac, just after On the Road, before he got all puffy and eternal world-hater of it all).

He don’t know he’ll die a drunk in Florida.

But he came and he saw. ‘I’m a brakeman who worked on the railroads,’ he spits at me, and I nod and tell him I know all this. He tells me about his routes west from New York, to Denver, Frisco, down to LA, down to Mexico, on great endless roads in backseats of huge worldly automobiles that race fast and straight with Neal Cassady (AKA: Dean Moriarty, Cody Pomeray) just a hunching and leaning, topless and driving the whole way.

He’ll tell me of diners and bars and neons flashing, and girls, gals, gurls…

He’ll speak of kicks and good times, Benzedrine, Dharma, God, Marijuana!!!

He’ll tell me of the convulsions he had and the desire to write endless prose with sentences that stretch out on the page for thousands of words.

I bend down and hand him boiling cup of coffee and hear the birds sing and see sun rising up, and still Jack K is still here and won’t let me ever sleep again. So we sit up and I listen to him. ‘Lissen to me, man!’

Then I get up and stretch and say, ‘Jack, come on, man, I gotta go to sleep to get up and go to work in just a few hours.’

And he goes, ‘Ah, just time, time and time! I’m a teabag of time!’ Then he mentions the world’s misery and tells me I must accept the loss.

I nod and show him to the door.

He steps through it and I watch him cut up my street to go and knock some other person’s door, or else go back to his mother’s house and sit in his chair.

There he goes, that old Jacky Kerouacky (Jack Duluoz). He turns the corner as I turn the page as I turn out the lights. I go to sleep. I dream of him.

'Aw,' I smile.

Demons Dancing - Pretty Good Dance Moves

David Mac is an ancient sea monster that awakes from the depths now and then to get some work done. He writes using his flippers and loves beat writers like Bukowski, Kerouac, Miller, Donleavy and Thompson. He has work in Ambit, Mudluscious and Monkey kettle magazines. He is currently riding his agent around London town trying to get the first book published!

Photo by Adam Lawrence.

Chicago's Genevieve Schatz has one of the most sensual and original voices in music. Pretty Good Dance Moves is a her fun electronic side project as she moonlights from her full-time band Company of Thieves.

Thursday, December 18, 2008

Putrefaction by Michael A. Kechula


I’m in Haitian territorial waters. Destination: Miami.

A Haitian patrol boat’s coming with sirens blaring. They fire a shot over my bow. I quickly stop the engines. Four sailors brandishing machine guns come aboard. General LeHate follows.

“What’s your cargo?” he snaps.

“Cadavers,” I say, passing the manifest. “For American medical schools.”

“What’s their degree of putrefaction?”

“Advanced. The refrigeration units are busted.”

“Let’s see,” he says.

I hope he doesn’t inspect too carefully. Millions in illegal drugs are stuffed inside the cadavers.

He opens the hatch. Greenish smog escapes. The stench is nauseating. Suddenly, a female corpse sits up and moans horribly.

“A zombie!” LeHate yells. “You’re carrying contraband. Zombies are Haiti’s national treasures. They attract tourist dollars. Kidnapping her is like stealing our Big Ben, our Eiffel Tower, our Mona Lisa. This crime is punishable by death.”

“Don’t arrest me,” I plead. “I didn’t know she was aboard. Here’s $5,000.”

He pockets the bribe. “If she were your wife, there’s no crime. For $5,000 more I can give her a travel permit.”

“Then I’ll marry her immediately,” I say, handing him another $5,000.

After he leaves, I’ll toss her overboard.

We stand in front of him, holding hands. Her hand is slippery. It’s leaking green goo.

He pronounces us married. Good grief! What have I done?

“Kiss the bride,” he orders, pointing his pistol at my head.

Her eye falls out as she faces me. She grabs me and bites my lips off. While chewing, she drags me into the hold, and throws me to the floor. I land on squishy corpses.

“Honeymoon time,” she cackles.

miami ice - Icy Demons

Michael A. Kechula's flash fiction tales have won first place in seven contests and second and third place in four others. His stories have appeared in ninety-seven online and print magazines and anthologies in Australia, Canada, England, and US. He’s authored a book of flash fiction stories: “A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales,” which is available as an e-Book at Books For A Buck and Fiction Wide and at Amazon as well.

Photo by Adam Lawrence.

Street art by Ian Sanity.

Chicago's Icy Demons took the world by storm this summer with the release of their latest album Miami Ice.

Saturday, December 6, 2008

Spider Love by William Doreski


At a crosswalk a tiny car

and a spidery creature leaps out

and flails you with hundreds of fists.

Horrified, I grapple the monster,

breaking at least four of its legs.

At last I stifle it—a brown

leather bag, deflated, a scrap

of runaway DNA. I kick

the panting carcass and it spits

a feeble venom stream.

You laugh despite your bruises, and explain

this was your husband before

he abandoned his legal practice

and devoted himself to Kafka,

eventually persuading himself

he’d metamorphosed into

a spider. Now with legs broken

he can’t function. His pinprick eyes

wobble in fur-lined sockets.

His mandibles creak like metal.

The cops arrive. They want to shoot

to end the creature’s suffering;

but you claim the spider part

is an illusion, that something

human still functions. You insist

that with therapy he can shed

those extra legs and resume

his former lawyer face. The cops

shrug and radio the ambulance.

As they tow away the tiny car

I drive you to the hospital

where surgeons try to re-attach

the broken segments of leg

that look like hickory logs.

I’m surprised by your tolerance

of such literary abuse,

stunned by your postmodern calm—

your bruises already healing

and your love of that arachnid

persistent as moonlight in fog.

Big Black Spider (Les Petits Pilous Remix) - Anglo Satellite

William Doreski teaches at Keene State College in New Hampshire. His most recent collection of poetry is Another Ice Age (2007). He has published three critical studies, including Robert Lowell's Shifting Colors. His essays, poetry and reviews have appeared in many journals, including Massachusetts Review, Notre Dame Review, The Alembic, New England Quarterly, Harvard Review, Modern Philology, Antioch Review and Natural Bridge.

Photo by Adam Lawrence.
Street art by Keely.

For more on Anglo Satellite please visit their MySpace site.