POETS PLACE
JANUARY EDITION 2023
It’s January 2023!!! The start of the new year. I am starting the new year with a fuck you world tour beat poetry show! YES!! I want to start off this year making a statement about death and how it feels to me in my senior years. Waiting at death’s door is a trap and I have fallen into it. Everyday I’m given a pass to keep on living. I’m pretending to not notice it’s approach, but death’s mojo keeps slapping me in the face letting me know it has no soul. When death’s tattoo starts to fade thats a good sign. Death is incongruent with life, there’s no shelf life. No grey area. If you hear the death rattle, get out of its way! Just turn up the stereo and dance the night away! “All but death can be adjusted” writes Emily Dickinson. And “Life is the tillage, and Death is the harvest” says Walt Whitman. So let’s get out there and plow MOTHERFUCKERS!!!
Thank you everyone for another year in prose!!!
HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!
Love, Linda :0)
Keep On Living
By Linda Kaye
I keep on living like a time bomb without the fuse
I keep on living because dying is just too painful
I keep on living because I love to watch the sunset crawl through the clouds that pass by my bedroom window
I keep on living not because I’m afraid of death
I just don’t wanna be there when it happens
I keep on living because I haven’t finished paying off my fees for my final resting place
I keep on living because I want to be alive when Trump gets arrested and goes to jail
I keep on living to watch my son’s progress as he grows and to see his face light up when he sees his mom after months apart
I keep on living hoping to one day travel to foreign lands and eat my way across Italy!
Start From the Beginning
By:IE Carlo
27 March 2021
What’s on my mind today. I am not responsible for my parents behavior, nor do I have much to say about their behavior. I know as much about life as they knew about theirs. Judgement not a concern of mine for what do I know? I defend myself by the awareness of what I know. I suppose nothing. Today is the day and only today exists, tomorrow I leave for tomorrow. Plans I make from second to second, minute to minute, hour to hour, and when tomorrow comes, if so, I’m sure I’ll be planning in sequence as well. My moment to moment thought is of the self, the thoughts that enter from moment to moment are sparks at times, at others, boring with little to add. I have a romance with life, it’s inspiring this thing called living, especially when I laugh and make others laugh, maybe not so much by what is said as to how it’s said. I also give myself challenges and with these challenges comes failures, but failure can be a grand reward, for then I know to change that failure into a mistake. Unhappy, sure at times! Especially when that unhappiness is brought forward by someone I love and care for deeply, a friend, a lover, and family can be hurting by way of their actions, especially that of trust. My behavior at times is crude and unsympathetic; there’s a madness to my madness of being as well, you see it's not what I say but how I say it. Forgiving, I think I forgive but I also equate whether or not to trust again? Some of us are directors at heart, we direct not others but ourselves; given the situation we change the narrative and outcome of that narrative. There’s an old saying, a quote: “The Devil knows more, not because he’s the Devil, but because he’s old”.
Jealous of others, there are times that that enters my being, but that’s part of that behavioral thing, the outgrowth of negative advertising. I view that of the haves and the have nots, a pattern of inequality as a follower of righteousness…Yes, even at this tender age of 79 plus years I want to change the world. I want to see people laughing, having deep philosophical conversations of life, family, and all that incompasses life, be it politics or death, and most important showing respect and love for all living things, be it air, earth, plant, or animal. But believe me there are times I wish I was somebody else, another person, me! That of a person full of anger and hate perhaps. Full of prejudice, not caring for others, not involved, giving no quarter. No explanations, just that of the ‘me’ syndrome. And to hell with others, and I mean all others! This feeling could not exist if it were not placed there by others. [B]ut I am not that person, and could never be that person, or blame others for my actions. I do not hate anybody, I don’t love everybody but neither do I hate anybody. My anger lasts two minutes, that’s thirty seconds too long, and then it’s over, forgotten! The question is: “Does it matter what this person is doing to me?” Or, “...why even contemplate it”! There’s no room in my space for hate. Neither do I fling accusations, nor look down on another individual. But I am a person with thick skin and vibrations justify my actions. As the saying goes, if it doesn't feel right it isn’t right! So move on and find your justification and happiness somewhere else. Regrets I’ve had a few but never enough to mention. Can’t change what’s already happened or came before. So, why give it any weight of thought! But change can be rewarding in and of itself. And that’s what I aspire too, change of mind, change of will, change of heart, changes! Always looking for the bright side of things, what makes me who I am is what I aspire to be and for...to be with honesty of heart. Clear of mind, brevity of words; as Shakespear wrote: “...brevity is the soul of wit”!
Ismael (East) Carlo, poet, actor begins on the streets of East Harlem, el barrio whose monica of “East” happened due to others not being able to pronounce the name, Is-Ma-El…
East, considers himself more a storyteller than a poet, although at times he gets lucky and poetry emerges from his stories...
For more about East, visit IMDB. Paz en Vida
JOY
6-3-20
1:23 a.m.
By Mary Cheung
When u dance , its infectious,
Like a smile spreading across my body.
Transparent and apparent,
Ur joy hooks me in .
Starts at my toes and races up to my heart.
Wipes away all worries and dumps away lifes shitty parts.
Ur joy hooks me in,
I cannot deny.
It just does,
Don't think or ask why.
releases my soul, timed in step to the beat.
Soaring to new heights,
On two new happy feet.
A cheshire smile wrapped up in plaid,
grooving and moving , ur such a cool cat....
Joy rolls off of you,
The scent intoxicates, seeps into my nose.
Caught up in ur rift ,
Spinning out of control
Infect me with ur joy,
Im high on living this dream
And in those few minutes
2 bodies become one team.
When the music finally ends,
And the energy fades
Lingers still the feeling,
I'm still glowing,
in a magical haze.
Mary Cheung- she is an innovative Artist and Costume Designer. Her works contain a strong sense of story as well as a highly sensuous style. She mostly works in paint or photography and sometimes making art that is wearable and innovative. She states “I am usually more of a Visual style Artists and have only recently been open to sharing literally art/poems, often paired with visual art of my creation, birthing a new form of spoken word art as another form of expression”.
Victoria Ester Orantes
My Man is a Mountain
By Victoria Ester Orantes
My man is a mountain who is not made of sand,
Thus to solid stone safety, wild waters ran.
Raging femininity freed after all these years.
A solidity whose warmth evaporated fears.
A virile embankment that diserns his complement,
Therefore are the sacred equipoise of opposites.
United not from a despondent longing,
rather two autarkies found true belonging.
Here, she is nourishment and not a flood.
With her, his soil yields growth and not mud.
A frontier for what is feminine,
Is the moralistic masculine.
Victoria was born and raised in Los Angeles, California. She is the owner and operator of the first 1966 Volkswagen Beetle boutique, V.E.O. Visions, where she sells her original art, original jewelry, hand-painted clothing, and curated $5 thrifts. Victoria’s art has been featured in local NELA establishments, art-walks, and recently Shoutout LA magazine.
Poema
By G. Billie Quijano
New days have begun
The opera of La Sirena is sung
Landscape of mind
Love universal
We return to the divine
Mystery of life unfolds, illuminating
Breath of cosmic messages
Energy, forward, rejuvenating
Brilliance, dreams
Poetry swaying in the streams
Allure of color weaves emotions
Vastness of light and passion
Peace flowing
Bliss exploding
Unforgettable
19 echoes of children's laughter
Now in the beyond
Torrential tears
Flood our dreams
Club Q
Negligence of civil rights
Justice prevails
Drag not a crime
Mantra to connect soul
Tragedies and victories
We remain whole
Britney Griner, home
Synchronicity
Synergy aglow
La Mariposa, constant flight
Inner festival of light
Ocean of consciousness
Shadow of the moon
Vida, gratitude, spirit, corazon
G. Billie Quijano-Hija de East Los, Hermana de San Pancho. Palabra mujer, Natural Creative, Instigator of Beauty. My wish is to share my art and my words. A desire to make a connection, contribution and to maintain beauty and balance in the universe. Only Love, never Hate
Feliz Ano Nuevo, 2023
Big Night
By Michael Meloan
Driving up the long incline toward Bukowski’s New Year’s Eve party, we could hear music. Cars were parked on both sides of the street all the way down the block. We walked along the dark and narrow driveway toward the front door.
Chrissie rang the bell and we waited. Then she rang it again. Finally, I knocked hard. Linda came to the door smoking one of Buk’s Beedis.
"Oh my God! You have got to be kidding!"
Linda laughed uproariously, then called people over to see Chrissie's leopard print Lycra spandex body suit. A number of other women laughed. Chrissie shot me an angry look. It was my idea. We stepped inside.
A man with a heavy German accent said, "I like it!"
Chrissie’s face was flushed. I grabbed her arm and led her past Linda into the living room.
There were two scenes: one centered around the hors d’oeuvres table where director André Broussard stood; another around the long sofa and wooden table in the living room where Bukowski held court.
People were perched on big pillows arranged next to the table. Chrissie and I sat down on the sofa. Buk said nothing as we arrived. He was already drunk and in the midst of a story. There were long pauses as he sucked on a Beedi. The group hung on his every word.
"I read in the downtown public library during the day and slept in the alleys at night. Told stories in the bars to hustle drinks. Normal people bored me--I couldn't live that life, couldn’t be around that. But in the end, the bums bored me too. The only thing that lasts is wine.” He took a puff. “Just drink, and drink...and whatever else happens is just what happens."
Bukowski’s speech was slow and his eyes were like slits. He continued.
"Later, I had my own room in a skid row hotel. After a long night of drinking, I started puking up blood and foul-smelling chunks of flesh. It just came and came into the toilet. The stench was overpowering. They took me in an ambulance to the charity ward at County General. One of the doctors said he'd level with me--I had about a 50-50 chance. I stayed there for a month, and slowly got better. When it was time to go, a doctor sat down with me in a little white room. He said if I EVER drank alcohol again, I would die." Long pause. "So, I walked out and found a shitty little bar right down the street. It smelled good--cigar smoke and stale booze. I sat down and ordered a glass of beer. No hard liquor, because I was trying to go easy. I watched the bubbles rise up for about 30 seconds, then drank it down fast.” He paused and took a puff. “I didn't die."
"Amazing story!" blurted out a young guy.
“Wow,” gasped a middle-aged woman. Everyone murmured with approval as they took deep pulls of wine.
Bukowski stared out the window toward the harbor. Then he turned to me. "I was wondering if you'd show up, man. I thought you might be grist for a poem if you have enough wine. So drink up!"
He raised his glass to me. I clinked it and took a drink. Then I glanced over at Chrissie. She was scanning the room looking for rock stars and listening with one ear to André Broussard’s monologue. He was saying something about the French Revolution.
A guy sitting on the other side of Bukowski said, “You’re the most important writer of the late twentieth century.”
Bukowski slowly turned and asked, "What do you do, kid?"
"I'm an actor," the guy said. He had a finely trimmed goatee and wore a black turtleneck with tight jeans.
Bukowski paused and looked into his face, then took a drink.
"You'll never make it man...your eyes are dead. There's nothing there. Give it up now, before you waste any more time. Go into insurance or real estate."
The group went silent. Bukowski took another drag from his cigarette as the guy nervously got up and walked away.
I suddenly noticed that Chrissie was standing next to Broussard, looking at him adoringly. Sean Penn and Bono hadn’t shown up, so Broussard was the biggest fish in the house. As I got up and walked past that group on my way to the kitchen, Broussard was telling Chrissie a story about the Marquis de Sade.
“The Marquis whipped the people into a frenzy, with political rants and kinky sex monologues.”
I saw him glance at her chest. Then I heard him say, "I like your outfit. It's very chic. I think you are making your own fashion statement."
I sat back down on the sofa next to Bukowski.
"I'm glad you're here man," he said. "I need somebody with a brain sitting next to me."
He stared at me, waiting for a response. I took a drink. The crowd around the sofa had thinned out since the encounter with the actor. Nobody wanted to get too close.
Linda came over and sat on the floor next to Buk, with her legs crossed in a semi-lotus pose. Long strawberry blond hair flowed halfway down her back. She lit up a joint.
"I've got my own rock 'n’ roll groupie," he said. “She parties all night in the brand-new convertible I bought her. And I don’t even ask who she’s fucking. Do I?”
"This is not the time," she said, taking a drag from the joint. The muscles in her jaw tightened.
"You've been riding my coattails for years. If it wasn't for me, where the hell would you be?”
“I have no idea,” she said. The room was silent. Linda’s eyes blazed with anger.
"I think you're being too hard on her," I said.
"I think you'd better shut up, motherfuck. You haven't been very entertaining tonight. In fact, you're beginning to bore me," he said, moving his face close to mine. His eyes were mean and glassy, like a vicious animal.
He got up to go to the bathroom, lost his balance and reeled. I reached up, but he swatted my hand away. Then he staggered across the room.
A group of Linda's friends from the health food restaurant stood near the bathroom talking about how much they liked John Tesh’s music.
The bathroom door flew open. Bukowski emerged and walked quickly toward a balding man in a cardigan sweater.
"Where's your drink?!" Bukowski demanded.
"This is my drink," said the man, holding up a Calistoga water.
Bukowski turned to a woman nearby, "Where's your drink?"
"I don't drink," the woman cheerfully replied.
Bukowski went nose-to-nose with her and said, "Then get out! You bore me!" He turned to the man and said, "You get out, too!" Then he looked around the room and shouted, "In fact, I want everybody out. I should be upstairs typing. I might die tomorrow and I DON’T want to spend my last night on earth with this bunch!"
He walked around the room screaming in people’s faces, "GET OUT! GET OUT! GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE!"
Most looked afraid as they gathered up purses and coats and quickly headed toward the front door.
Bukowski continued to scream, "GET OUT, GET OUT!"
The arteries on his neck bulged and his face turned purple. He occasionally planted his hand on a back, male or female, and pushed them out.
Linda watched in silence, still seething with anger. Bukowski stood guard until the last stragglers had gone.
As I left, I looked over my shoulder but there was no hint of recognition.
Walking slowly down the long driveway, I scanned the crowd. Chrissie was missing. When I got to the sidewalk, three men in their early twenties were craning their necks, trying to look inside the house.
"What is happening? What is happening?" one asked, with a German accent.
"Bukowski threw everybody out because we weren't drinking enough.”
"This is very cool," he said. “Very Bukowski!"
“We’ve come all the way from Munich to meet him!” said another guy.
“It’s a bad night to ring the doorbell,” I said. “He’ll tear your head off.”
“We saw André Broussard!” he added. “Got his autograph as he was leaving in a limousine with a nice prostitute.” Then he smiled, “I’m sure he got a good blowjob as soon as they were inside.”
My throat knotted up.
I got into my old Citroën a few minutes before the stroke of midnight. Skyrockets whizzed into the darkness. Gunshots erupted from the neighborhoods at the bottom of the hill. Rounds were going off in all directions. Suddenly I heard the buzz-and-zing of a nearby bullet.
Driving aimlessly, I screeched around corners and floored the accelerator, almost hoping the engine would blow. When I got home, the message light was on. I thought it would be Chrissie giving me some bullshit story about where she was. Then I recognized my mother's voice. She was sobbing uncontrollably.
"It was...almost midnight. One more day…and we would have been gone on our cruise. Just one more day!”
She was gasping for breath. Then the message ended.
McIntyre and my mother had stepped onto the balcony of the Jonathan Beach Club for some fresh air. He lit a cigarette as they gazed out at the sweeping arc of lights spanning toward Palos Verdes Estates.
“I’m so happy tonight, being here with you,” he said, turning to look at her.
She hesitated for a moment, then turned toward him. They kissed.
He looked at his watch. “It’s nearly midnight. I’ll get some Champagne.”
My mother stared at the towering Christmas tree covered in fairy lights and hundreds of ornaments. It reminded her of New York City when she was a young woman.
She made eye contact with McIntyre as he left the bar. Smiling broadly, he walked toward her. Then his expression suddenly changed and his eyes widened. He abruptly stopped as his face became a twisted mask of pain. The glasses dropped to the floor. Clutching his chest, he staggered, then fell to his knees.
“My God! Somebody help! My God!” she screamed as she ran into the ballroom.
I called my father. He said that McIntyre was dead on arrival at the emergency room at St. John’s in Santa Monica. My mother had ridden in the ambulance. Then she called my father and he picked her up at the hospital.
“She’s here with me now.” He sounded more himself than he had in months. I could hear her crying in the background. “I have to go,” he said.
I turned on the TV. It was a replay of the ball drop in Times Square. Counting, 5-4-3-2-1…then explosive crowd noise. Happy New Year. I cracked open a beer and turned on my computer to write an email to my boss Lamont at Raytheon. The company had demanded that I break up with Chrissie because of her drug bust, or my secret clearance would be denied. But in the middle of the note, I deleted it. Instead, I started writing a story. By 3:45 am, I had knocked out seven pages rapid fire. I had the machine gun rhythms of Bukowski’s black Underwood typewriter in my head. Then the telephone rang. It was Chrissie. Her voice sounded faint. She was in the lobby of the Château Marmont hotel.
"Broussard said he was going to put me in a movie. How stupid could I be? He’s a drunk and a bore and an asshole. You’re the only one who really gets me. I love you. Will you let me come back?"
I paused, "Yeah…come back. We’re going to hit the road--Prague, Morocco, India, who knows where. Are you ready for that?"
"Cool," she said without hesitating. “I’m there.”
Michael Meloan's fiction has appeared in Wired, Huffington Post, Buzz, LA Weekly and in many anthologies. He was an interview subject in the documentaries Bukowski: Born Into This and Joe Frank: Somewhere Out There. With Joe Frank, he co-wrote a number of radio shows that aired across the NPR syndicate. His Wired short story "The Cutting Edge" was optioned for film. And he co-authored the novel The Shroud with his brother Steven. This fall, RUP press in Germany will release his memoir/novella PINBALL WIZARD.
A Nation on the Verge
By Ronald G. Carrillo
“Look at Mother Nature on the run in the nineteen seventies”
-Neil Young 1970
“They paved Paradise and put up a parking lot”
-Joni Mitchell 1970
“Come on people! Sons and mothers! Keep the dream of the two
young brothers – Save the children – Save the country – Now!”
-Laura Nyro 1969
The heralders from a past golden age
Sounding the alarm
The house is burning
The children aren’t learning
Our government supports concerning
The wheels of justice slow in turning
The blue and red no longer conferring
Domestic racial unrest and violence returning
White supremacy spewing and gurgling
So many global issues converging
Mother Earth in crisis and surging
The common people cutting back and conserving
Whilst the elites continue diverting
Polar social economic spheres headed for a cruel purging
Our democratic system and its people diverging
Global wars and hatred whirling
Children coming of age and their futures swirling
The window of climate change very worrying
The red, white and blue of democracy unfurling
The political left and right continually quarreling
Their division reflecting on the American streets churning
In the swirling winds our nation lurching out of control
Ancient wounds from antebellum times festering
Our constitution of ideals only words curdling
Good Americans hurling to a breaking point
Uncertain future lives searching for answers
Hurdling over obstacles at high risk
The nation must change course divorce herself from this insanity
Reaching our breaking point
Survivors and liars no longer conversing
Liars scurrying toward extremes
Americans homeless and verging off course
A merging at year’s end for judgement
The blade of justice hurrying toward closure
Returning her people once more toward balance
Coda: The ghosts of Lincoln and Kennedy
Twin martyrs overlooking the precipice of the nation’s state
A manifest destiny of ill fate
A check that the current generation can create
Before a disastrous global checkmate
Think back when the glass was more than half full
Remember when the dream was truly real
Not a red, white and blue political cliche
Our country becoming a cracked abstract surreal image
Russian and Chinese hackers pillage
At our backdoor gates of bounty
Depleting our creativity and invention
For deception and ill will that will spill blood
The giant chessboard will be toppled in animosity
A species self-destructing for what gain
Turn back from enmity people of this earth
Recognize our common bonds as brothers
Or we will continue to suffer the horrors of war
That Bob Dylan wrote of back in a time of nuclear buildup
O humanity let the children suffer no more
Their careless caregivers only deliver greed
O rulers of nations put down your swords, your bombs
Go look into the children’s eyes
Realize the true value of life in our children
Suffer no more in war
But instead play with your children
Little girls can do anything even rule the world
Little boys no longer forced to carry the load
Kings and queens be gone
Dictators and tyrants no longer have a place at the table
Once again we must return to the garden of our best possibilities
Ronald G. Carrillo is a native Lincoln Hts Angelino, living in Eagle Rock and a retired LAUSD educator and influencer. He writes of his passion and rebirth into the golden age of living. He has been writing since high school and was initially influenced from the songwriters, Keith Reid, Joni Mitchell, Laura Nyro, Neil Young.
Thanks for joining us! We will continue to host writers and poets of all genres.
Please submit your written work to: lindakayepoetry@icloud.com and include a short bio.
Linda Kaye writes poetry, curates poetry, produces films, produces spoken word and art events and produces a poetry column POETS PLACE for the online publication LAARTNEWS throughout the Los Angeles area.
Linda’s poetry events have included several summer poetry salons, and shows at the Align Gallery, 50/50 Gallery, Gold Haus Gallery, Ave 50 Gallery and Rock Rose Gallery in Highland Park .The Manifesto Café in Hermon, Pilates and Arts studio in Echo Park, and Native Boutique, Zweet Café in Eagle Rock, The Makery in Little Tokyo. And at the Neutra Institute Gallery and Museum in Silverlake. Her first short documentary film “BORDER POETS” was a socially and politically inspired event with poets and musicians filmed at the border wall near Tecate, Mexico on the Jacumba, Ca. side of the US. The film co-produced by MUD productions is available for viewing on her website and on youtube. https://youtu.be/5Te4-dlhxco
Her rap music video project in collaboration with Mary Cheung, “ERACE-ISM” can also be seen on youtube. https://youtu.be/NfrbveNUBgg
Most recently, February 19, 2022, she debuted her staged poetry production of “20 Years Left” at the historic Ebell Club in Highland Park! Two sold out shows with 2 standing ovations!! Check out the links to reviews and the video!
https://thehollywoodtimes.today/20-years-left-new-show-performance-poetry-music/
20 Years Left youtube live stream 2/19/22
Linda Kaye is a native Angeleno who grew up in the San Fernando Valley. She claims to be both a first-generation Valley Girl, and The Original Hipster. Educated at Antioch University and Cal State Long Beach in psychology and social work. Linda, now retired from medical social work, was working for the last seven years as a psychotherapist and licensed clinical supervisor for an out patient mental health clinic. She was a licensed medical social worker for 30+ years working on the front line of healthcare, a private consultant for Physicians Aid Association and for skilled nursing facilities throughout California and Arizona. She was also an adjunct assistant professor at the USC Suzanne Dworak-Peck School of Social Work. Oh yeah.
Twitter/Instagram: lindakayepoetry
http://voyagela.com/interview/daily-inspiration-meet-linda-kaye/