June 5-11, 2006: Stosh Machek and Alex Stolis

week of June 5-11, 2006

Stosh Machek and Alex Stolis

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Stosh Machek

Bio (auto)

Stosh Machek is from Chicago living in L.A , where poetry gets written like houses on fire, & gets read like car crashes He claims to have started writing and performing his poetry; ‘in self-defense’ .he has been published on-line on ‘poeticDiversity.org‘, and was included in their 2005 yearly anthology; ‘Literary Angles’ .he has also been published in the ‘Lummox Journal’ literary quarterly [spring/summer ’05], and The San Gaberiel Valley Poetry Quarterly # 29 .he has been a featured reader all over the Los Angeles metro area from libraries in Pasadena to coffee houses in Redondo Beach, including reading for poetry and english classes at Los Angeles City Tech College .he also hosts a showcase poetry reading at the Brand Bookshop in Glendale, CA .Stosh has 3 CDs of his work that are available in a sort of on again, off again kinda way: “L.Alienation”, 2004, “oils & minerals”, 2004, & “unicorn steak”, 2006 .his father was a cinderblock, his mother was a ragged Freudian impulse, & he had a grandmother who was a stewardess on the Luftwaffe
Visit Stosh on the web here: http://www.stashmachek.com/

The following work is Copyright © 2006, and owned by Stosh Machek and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

*all great poets should know how to:*

all great poets should know how to:
.lite a cigar
.open a bottle of beer with a disposable lighter
.become drunken on love
.fry some hash browns
.cut a man’s throat
all great poets should know how to;
.bite a woman’s lip just hard enough
.wear a tuxedo
.start a fire
.put out a fire
.marvel at the subtle & complex beauty of life
all great poets should know how to;
.let bad poets know it
.do some time
.live free
.nurture creation like a troubled child
.wear a hat well
all great poets should know how to;
.hear a soul’s pain thru a saxaphone
.stare at a great pair of legs w/out getting caught
.cradle a baby
.talk to cops
.charm old ladies
all great poets should know how to;
.live on the bottom of a sea of solitude
.live w/out a woman
.live with a woman
.experience art like being pounded by ocean waves
.give good head
all great poets should know how to;
.quit a souless job w/panache
.bum a cigarette from a stranger
.construct pyrimids of unconditional devotion
.laugh when it hurts
.cry when it hurts
all great poets should know how to;
.find truth under large rocks
.put a new starter on a jeep
.stop the bleeding
.sing at least one song in a forigen language
.hang thier hearts upon the cross of unrequited love
all great poets should know how to;
.not get any on thier shoes
.mind thier own business
.channel thier lust
.race a blue coyote to the moon
.say no to idiots
all great poets should know how to;
.function w/a hangover
.take a punch
.field strip a .45
.recognize a blessing
.oh yeah, 
& write a decent poem

Alex Stolis

Bio (auto)

Alex Stolis lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota.

The following work is Copyright © 2006, and owned by Alex Stolis and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Creation sounds like that—a small whisper in the corner
of your mouth, the splash of a pebble as it lands in still water It sounds like the shy smile on the face of a clock as it ticks

time into the next day If I could scrape the dust off my shoe
with a wave of my hand, wrap an arm around your waist and listen
closely I might be able to hear the sound of the earth as it spins
This soil is fine, too fine to plant and too fine to be able to hear
the coarse words that fall and ring in circles on the hard floor
like a lost penny dropped by a child It took six full days to build

one memory and even now its a struggle to keep from being buried
under all this noise and commotion At the end, everything sounds the same–
rose-petal pink, cracked but not broken—the color she now calls winter.

Happy Hour at Stand Up Frank’s

you have to pay for everything
but some things are for free
Mark E Smith

The shadows look like a ship
on the horizon–at the bar
the tender wipes glasses
with a dirty rag She holds

an unlit cigarette between
her fingers and has a coy look —
a desperate sound jumps
from the bandstand
The sweat and smell
of murder can’t cover
the taste of a lie as it slides
down your throat while her

tongue touches yours In the dark between extremities
there are no rules, unwritten
or unknown– in blank stares

and wide open spaces
there is honesty that runs
like a ladder in her stocking When your hand brushes

against her face you’re left
with a small smudge
of make up and you know  
your debt will never be paid.

Fight Club

If Robert Bly and Bukowski
got into a fight, Iron John
would get his assed kicked There‘s never room for more
than one poet in the room
at a time and when the shit hits
the fan you can count on less
than one hand the real men
left standing There’s not
enough whiskey to faze a dead
man—something a lightweight
like Bobby cannot fathom The way the end of the road looks
from here it won’t be long
until the sun sets and a woman
sighs with relief Maybe in a week
or two the dust will settle and one
more day will grate against the wall
and the round curve of her breast
will look better than the soft glow
and dark tint of a bottle of scotch.