one night in a blizzard of snow and madness in a little Indiana town lost to the interstate Christopher cut his palms with a butcher knife and worked through the night painting his heart in broad strokes swearing in ten second breaths at what a slut <p
mo cooks five days a week down at the horse head bar and grill he practices his art on a circle of drunks that crave his special flavors not all of them food but he’s not just a cook-ie cutter form of a man that fills the bel
lil’ t wakes with the sun two hours from the last time she cracked her eyes full of sweat to cry the pain in her back and get ready to work another day with smiles for the tips and kind words for drinkers getting drunk killing their pain <p class
bob’s got two heartbeats somewhere in redding ca. the courts take his check every other week but the heartbeats can’t be seen through the wall of a vindictive mother so he downs a dozen vodkas a night <p class="Mso
they told her it was pre-cancer like she was pre-registering for wedding gifts don’t worry they said the next test will tell us more and more and more <p class="MsoNorma
there’s an old man in white shoes he walks in circles around a green planter that holds a dying tree slumped to the side on the third revolution he lights a hand-rolled cigarette then he walks in circles <!--[if !supportEmpty
I love you brother. I'm so happy you found her. j.
they plop down in the bus seat behind me two teen girlies in piles of layered clothing to stay warm I’m invisible strapped into the slot for a wheel chair handicapped people can be hard to see one tells the other about cutting herself around her pubes so people couldn’t tell they’re talking in whispers, bu
there’s this guy that lives across the street from our new house I think his name is john or tom or something like that he told me he had just gotten out of jail for stealing a bicycle for crystal meth sometimes late at night I sit in the door and smoke a joint while I listen to the bodeans or the pixies or john lee hooke
when I was nine the year my father died and my mother started drinking she gave me a set of encyclopedias as old as I was I would spend hours reading in it, picking one out of the alphabet and going away in my head while my mom drank in bar downstairs I hated the bar and the drunks and all the shit that came with <
like it should be any different for you. Good work wardog. Johnny
You been reading Johnny again? Motherfucker, wheres book two? Great shit, I loved it. I remember the time too. And I know who you're talking about. And you wear a suit? If they only knew. I keep trying to tell them. Read my latest, brother. Oh yea, keep it in your pants. I love ya, Johnny
Moskowitz back in the day played the Flying Dutchman here today and gone tomorrow seeking shelter in a safe-house hiding from the man that said she was his wife then said "I promise I’m gonna KILL YOU!!!” J. Masuda © 2007
You're just too damn happy! Great stuff you fuck! Johnny
I’ve got a lot of aches and pains (living at light speed has it’s price) and there are times when only a handful of narcotics will dull the pain I bitch about it and sometimes I allow myself a moment of self-pity but only a moment, then I remember I’m not in Afghanistan getting my brains blown out or in Somalia starvin
I was forty-seven years old and I was finally making my first confession the church had seven priests in different corners each with a line of the confessing my legs were wobbly and I was sweating across my forehead like I had my own little rain storm going on I wasn’t sure seven priests would be enough to clean my as
when I was a boy six or seven I met this old Mexican drunk named Gus he would come to my mother’s café in the sunny afternoons on the Texas side of the Gulf Coast drink Pearl beer with beads of sweat glistening through the amber glass and tell me stories one Sunday I walked over to his place he lived
“oh, I love my junkie boyfriend” meagan said. watching sickboy drive the twenty foot cad steering the big wheel with his knees he timed the lights while he tied off with the seatbelt and pushed into a vein, he was dancing in his head just short of the nod letting go of the belt and breaking out in that shit-eating
Ya right-o brother. I thought you were getting a little thin last I saw you. I loved it. Johnny
How about some metaphors in that poetry? I like the sentiment a lot, and all... and everyone should develop their own voice, but the creative writing teacher inside of me longs for a few metaphors. Just a thought. Poetry is a wild animal that stands as it is. Metaphors are nice and useful, but it's poetry. That means the artist can use whatever palette they like. Throwing rocks, however polite, is like the red pen of of a writing teacher, more con
Always throwing mud at the clean white folks. Jeeez, when arwe you gonna learn? Outstanding piece. You need to check out Luis Campos--he's the "latin" Bukowski. Johnny
What? No one wants to step into this pile. The real question is will there be a copy of Johnny Masuda on every coffee table in heaven? And what about the royalties? Keep asking the hard questions, bro. You're bound to find an answer or two. Johnny
How the hell was I supposed to know you wanted sex. I thought you liked the way my ass moved. You're just to tough to make happy. That's it! Wait till I tell everyone in the office. You know they always liked me better anyway. Now I know why you don't return phone calls. You're the only poet I know that can write about love and I can eat afterwards. Good stuff Buddha, Johnny
Mod, I love the title--mind if I borrow it for a poem. I've been inspired. Johnny
You got me Sus, I'm an over 30 kind of guy and I got a MySpace blog. I started because my 16 yr old daughter was telling me all about it and wanted me to join so I could see her site. I like that she wqanted to share it with me (she lives with her mother in the town next door). I get to see who her friends are and I get to follow what she's up too. Then I started to read others and I like it's structure and network. It's much more visual and pleas
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