May 24-30, 2004: Scott Malby and Melanie Goldstein

Scott Malby and Melanie Goldstein

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From Coos Bay, Oregon, whenever I’m asked for a brief bio I wonder about the tales my briefs could tell It scares me Fortunately, I’m afraid mine are nondescript I try to write every day I’m one of the three pigs rather then the big bad wolf I wash my clothes regularly and am under no illusion regarding the importance of my work Sometimes, it too goes through the laundry I write one good piece for every three bad ones I hope I’m getting better at my craft I’m the judge of that I don’t listen to anyone else They’re all crazy.

The following work is Copyright © 2004, and owned by Scott Malby and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Howdy, a sermon to my soul “Then answered all the people, and said His blood be on us and our children “ Matthew, 27:25 a High on the weed of my folly, in may of my life, speaking in tongues, crucified on the altar of the trailer trash blues, what questions I have of you tonight, Allen Ginsberg I’m late Can’t sleep It’s been days I missed my high Noth’n to do but slit my wrists and climb inside my mind fermenting on the juice of psilocybin whispers I look in the direction from which they come picking me up and planting me down thousands of thoughts from where I began, stranded in this all night porno store we call the world filled with velvet hallucinations Here, I contemplate excitedly my pending orgasmicly induced spiritual awakening, wondering if it will ever come, perusing the half price racks, wanting to believe in something but my minds rear ended, overwhelmed by it all, looking for symbols that will last Hey, I’m open, honest, I love to laugh I have fun wherever I go I have nothing to hide, the spiritual world’s got nothing on me, despite how innocent I seem, I’m very, very naughty, a unique lover too O Spiritual Awakening, don’t leave me on the outside looking in, take me in hand, strike me with lightning It was then I thought of you Allen Ginsberg and Walt Whitman Like Chaucer’s pilgrims filling the breeze with verbal ribaldry, peeking at the adds for penis enlargements, looking to meet new friends, and I wanted to walk up and smile and shake your hands and wrestle you both to the ground and say: Ginsberg, you did all right for a whacko, skinny kid from Paterson, New Jersey Had you loved women more and angels less, I might have been your spiritual son, wrapped in a baby blanket of sun flower mantras, having grass blown up my nose You’ve taught me real poets celebrate and when it comes to relevance the tradition is clear: going from Emerson through Whitman to Ginsberg Imagine my surprise to learn my poetic pilgrimage turns out to be not to Canterbury but to a mental ward or freak fest in Vegas Whitman, I said, tell me your secret, share that bag of windy tricks out foxing imperfection becoming Whitmanesque He pulled at his beard in a polite, petit bourgeoisie way saying the problem is everyone believes they’re what they create Be simple and clear Be specific and transcendental Exorcise from the plague of your pages their influences Suspend disbelief Believe what you’re doing Resist identities Paradox is essence Out of your own contradictions comes poetry See into things Keep moving that life can’t get a good aim or you’ll be overtaken by the pathologies of history I wish I could say he laughed but he didn’t b I’m inky eyed and hopeful My heart on fire with unclean sores blossoming into multi-colored Buddha babies of pain I’m a leper from society and damn proud of it weaving reality into taffy I pull with my teeth where all my dreams turn into bitchy grand daughters of a charming, mysterious thief knocking me through crazy hoops of fate, down visionary god chasms and up against the limp wristed tendrils of time My poems are plastic gardenias sprouting inside my head where I rake through hell the coupling vowels that war with me My poems are pimply bums pulling their trousers down inside my mind, seducing me into the metaphysical of their space I spit in the eye of their tease knowing that confidence is ignorance refusing to learn from itself, how in creating my own myth I distort it I see these words for what they are, full of promises that never pan out, blind in their revolution of non revolt Studied animals of the underground A parting between thighs, methane experts of hot gas But to be in harmony with yourself is to breathe no more and I refuse to be interred early simply to avoid disappointment or having my name mispronounced by literary guides with a lisp To all the old poems I once lived in, the states of mind I traveled through, the relics of jailed time sentenced into the oblivion of my past, my unmelodious yelps of icy protestations, images, aphorisms, raps reperplexing infinitude, I give thanks knowing I will always be a poet without portfolio, homeless, picking through my own alphabet soup, a miser without sense who turns on a vowel to pick up a consonant, a literary vandal ransacking the beatitudes of history Dude, I have big hairy ideas I might be an ass but in my defense, isn’t taste an expert without eyes complementing itself on how far it has come?

Melanie Goldstein
melanie_goldstein@yahoo.com

Cracked she said “this girl is like your egg” before the tears slid down and stained the paper napkin,  billowing around her index finger. Analysis eat the meat i’ll sit here, exposed to air and spoiled while you ruminate. The Coworker please just try to hold within your awe, your open reverence, your lilt, your gait, your tender worship’s made us simply sick those eyes, that smirk, a jerked up grin of solid satiety, that sucking up and pulling of your air has left rooms stale so careful not to scratch too rough the gloss-it smears, it slips,  it swims in shallow circles, full and taught by your intentions.