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Last Updated: 10/29/2009

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Friday, November 13, 2009 

Category: Writing and Poetry
PRESS RELEASE

A new voice comes to internet radio when 10K Poets debuts "Late Nights With Cisco" on Blog Talk Radio, Saturday night, November 14, at 9 p.m. West Coast Time (Midnight Eastern Time).
"Cisco" is award-winning poet and journalist, novelist and playwright Chris Dickerson, who will host the 90-minute literary radio talk show every other Saturday night from Los Angeles, California.
"I was delighted to be offered this program by Glen Still at 10K Poets," said Dickerson, a former radio newscaster and veteran newspaper reporter. "It's a chance to cut through the fog of commercial publishing and make some serious writers, poets and novelists, known to a larger audience. And of course, with the technology of internet radio, that mass audience is now worldwide."
According to Glen Still, founder of 10K Poets and producer of "Late Nights With Cisco," acquiring Dickerson was a coup for 10K Poets.
"I listened to one of our other shows, 'Poets Dream In Color,' where Cisco was the guest, then we invited him on another of our programs, 'The English Pub,' and he was great on both," Still said. "I thought, this guy is a host who just needs a show of his own. So I called him up and made the offer. I couldn't be happier to have him on the 10K Poets roster."
Dickerson is a well-known playwright (his latest work, a one-man show focusing on Lincoln assassin John Wilkes Booth, played New York's Times Square Arts Center in spring 2009), poet and novelist (his books "Crossing The Frontier - Poetry & Prose" and the novel, "I Only Wanna Be With You" are published by Mariposa Ink). Originally from Baltimore, Dickerson resides in Los Angeles.
The format for "Late Nights With Cisco," according to Still, is "a topic each time - our first program focuses on the novels of Charles Bukowski - with guest writers, and others will be able to phone in and join the discussion, and we'll set time aside during the program to have writers call in and share their own work."
Still added, "We're very enthusiastic about this new program. I think it's going to take us all in a more serious direction and open the horizons for serious books and poetry that we haven't seen in a long time."


For further information, Glen Still can be reached at on MySpace @:
www.myspace.com/10kpoets
Chris Dickerson ("Cisco") can be reached via email at 
ciscorides@yahoo.com or via his MySpace page at www.myspace.com/ciscowrites or on Face Book.

Friday, November 06, 2009 

Category: Writing and Poetry
The Luxman Empire
 
Beasley Barrenton

gettin off on the jump down(lipstick and underskirts...a vile mans permission)
 
well enough was left alone
standing
against
the wall
he told the firing squad where to stick the bayonnet
he
moved
along
keeping his date
with
the lounge lizard
showing up early to happy hour
jes
to make sure
he
got the same seat at the bar he always gets
(he can see the world
bloom and wither from there
plus
the maid on duty will do for now)
wrote a couple of pieces
on
a napkin
folded them up
discarded
them
in his back pocket
will
pull
them
back out
after all prospects of pussy to be had
have
crawled from his lap
wiping
the sweat from his groin
he
kicks
open the door
any door
every door
the sun goes down way to early these days
and
eventually
here he is again
sparring
with
the smut
and
the saliva
and
the temptation he smells on his fingertips
the finer things in life
mixed
with
molotov
it is gonna take quite the set of hips tonight
put
your tits in your own mouth
-I am gonna need more than my wallet
the sweet talk
the street charm
I am going to need these balls to catch fire
as
I hang your daggers
over
my shoulder
I am gonna need your heat
I am gonna need your hunger-
he
has
never relied on the luck of the draw
but
take your steps
pull it out
times up
leave
well enough
alone-
Friday, November 06, 2009 

Category: Web, HTML, Tech
klean
 
Michael Sutter


Netsum

Of all the things to dream of
Broken butterflies
I Nurse their injuries
I’m teaching them to fly
Again
     Away
I coax them to the wind
Another one and another
They crash to the ground
My fingers stained with their color
     I dream
          One more
Friday, November 06, 2009 

Category: Writing and Poetry
Nicole

Nicole Chernick

I stand in a room of
I slept with him and him and her and him
But you,
you don’t get to call me a whore
I stand startled in a room of your morose broken image
to the idyllic of my dreams
As your whispers fall against me; Improper
The slack that fell out of your mouth, as I
I stand in a room of all I wanted at the time I wanted it
My eyes will not advert and my tongue will make no apology
for the way I handled the crumble of rocks of privation
I can smile through you
This (s)liced silence, this toxic thing between your eyes and my air
and I can’t breathe with the depth of your eyes holding
Yet, we continue
without logic we move through
this forged disposition of a playground
This rush of revelry
where I watch you watching me
as you twirl around your new blonde jade du jour
This is what I forgot to say
That night I walked to your door
 wasted on regret
and the vodka you got me hooked on
You,
you don’t get to call me
a whore!!
Friday, November 06, 2009 

Category: Writing and Poetry
Lordhelm (*) KaZan:a.k.a.Hunter Of The Shadows
 

"Love As It Was"
Life as it seems and Love as it was
of convenient, of rummaging, of extravagant
Life as it seems and Love as it was
of occasions, of searching, of names
Life as it seems and Love as it was
of farts, of grunts, of sizzling grit
Life as it seems and Love as it was
Blood red Life and as it seems and as it was
Abandonments and breasts dragging to the ground
As the road closest
As the road turns to mush and water
I got no time left to wonder and wallow
I got no doors to open and no keys to hold
Pick an lottery and the old Man loses again
Accoladed and the ignored
The pretty old dog of mine
The yam and hum
The hammer and thumb
A robot bag of shit
Forkanodd and COPY COPY COPY COPY COPY
of all together and Life as it was
Basically torn off
The parody of gods playing the part
Vanish the hostile attendants
I know where you are coming from and where you have been going
The toenail rust and the old cloths on old Men
The absence of hearts
of peers, of lovers, of friends, of phantoms
It all means what it is not and what it was
Life as it were and now just unknowns
Little challengers and little crazies
Tee Tee Hee Hee
I am the tale that just gets furious
The house of no rules
The construction site of no property rights
Distractions and the redesigned
A private liar in opulent dedication
Try gettin' these thoughts out of these thoughts heads
Lumber nights and pile days
I listen for every note that is singed
Hawk a twat
sit down on a rock
To think?
To dream?
To hope?
To Be?
To see?
The grand show has come to pass
The grand show of candy bars, whores, thugs, and touchdowns
Spine broke and locked down
Hunching and bending
Fucking and Winning
cheating and being
Not in a trap of concentration
"I'm out there" as they have said
The gap between is only illusion
The grip between is only bones and decay
of triumphs, of bitter defeats, of direction
Write Write Write Write Write Write Write Write Write Write Write
Might Might Might Might Might Might Might Might Might Might Might
These are meaning in them yells
There are rebels in them throats
of building, of repairs, of ascendions
To his heart he was a young Man, to his peers he was a strange Man, to his lovers he was everything, to his friends he was the GREAT unfolding chair
The hot baked pavement, the sparrows wing, the boxer with the knockout punch, the dreams of all little things, the over yonder and far away, the caves and dens of flames and MEN, crows and flies.
Nothing at last
Nothing at all
Life above
Life below
Love as it was



This piece will be in my 2nd book "Nymphomonk"
Thursday, November 05, 2009 

Category: Writing and Poetry
Sate
 
J B

Forgery

I just have to throw this out there
The hell of never knowing what to do
You think it’s sad not getting
But, really that’s not the bad
It’s the never ending self-inflicted quandaries
And
Digging up of useless foundries
Prospecting for the meanings and purpose
While Puzzling with
What’s raw
Ores and boundaries
That keeps me so unsettled
And blue
I’ve got such soft shoulders
Mostly things fall off them
Like blushed and watery dew
Rolling down and beyond
Into the streets
And bouncing up
Hitting up those behind
With brackish liquids
As I search for Zanadu
But even if I crawled up
And made it
Learned to speak
Their Zana spele
Would I belong there?
Or be long there?
Would it be real?
Tell me?
I am mixed up
And heavy
With an overriding feeling
That I’ll never make it
It’s so late already
I should have melded to life
I should already be
An aggregate
A sharpened Steal
But
There isn’t anyone alive to help me rally
really
That’s why I’m stuck aground
Undug
This world’s a forgery
For the badly forged
That hand around

Thursday, November 05, 2009 

Category: Writing and Poetry
kongolia
 
Kong Vang

The Two Joyful Scholar

The zither slowly cries that night;
The ink drips from your fingers...
On my face,
You mark your finger prints;
On your face,
You laughed as if you're drunk...
At our cottage,
You painted an artwork of me;
You named it, 'The Joyful Scholar'...
On the red mountains,
We sang poems with jokes;
Our echoes wrote poems across the lands...
But like the sands
I couldn't hold on to you
As you slip away like a fairy tale...
Thursday, November 05, 2009 

Category: Writing and Poetry
allison
 


My Castle
by Allison C

The Castle lives
in a changing field,
but the trees
that surround it
are constant.
The light is
filtered
by familiar leaves,
These leaves
that stay bright,
as though Autumn
has only begun
to put it's
companions
to rest.
I walk the perimeter.
The windows,
all in a line,
beckoning my gaze
to the topmost floor,
suggesting
that which
I already know.
I've already
walked across
the tips of it's
jagged spires,
and leapt from
stone to stone
in it's gaming pit's.
I've opened it's
heavy doors,
and wandered
through it's
system of hallways;
distractions at best.
I've been here before.
I've been here before.
I know what's inside.
So since my return,
this castle has
changed hands.
Again and again
it has been
bought,
sold,
captured,
captivated,
aquiried,
and left alone.
Yet inside that top
room,
a trap door exists.
It opens up
to a hall,
Full
of lost things.
My lost things.
Intangible items,
diaries,
toys,
dolls,
clothes,
memories,
happiness,
childhood,
long since gone.
But still they hold
a magic
that comforts my soul.
This castle that
guards that place
in my mind.
Where simple
recollection
is such sweet
relief.
Thursday, November 05, 2009 

Category: Writing and Poetry
Elizabeth Anne
 
Elizabeth A. Jones

I Will Remember

Photobucket

I do not require
An album of photographs
To remind we of
How you were
That is permanently
Etched in the fondest
Recesses of my mind
Oh, your innocence!
The wonder and joy
You displayed while
Reveling in the most 
Simple pleasures
Bathtime games
Frolicking with clean linens
Daddy's stuff, Mommy's stuff
Your stuff!  Oh, how
We laughed!  It was better
Than wonderful.
I was a loving
Mother.  I sang to you
Songs most original.  I
Caressed you most
Tenderly.  I affirmed
Your wonderfulness
Consistently.  In that, I
Truly believed.  My one
And only child, bequeathed
By a miracle of nature
But I had wondered ...
Could I properly parent a son?
I always perceived
Myself as the
Mother of a daughter
Clothes, parties, dolls
French braids, finger curls
All so very familiar.
In her place
 I welcomed a hero baby
A 'manly' child with whom
I play-wrestled and laughed
With a bursting heart
I could not have been
Happier, nor could you
Until you changed ... 
That long, greasy hair
Heavy metal rock blaring
Dank, messy room
Filthy laundry everywhere
Weed, booze, secretive friends
A dark and spiteful demeanor
Constant ingratitudes, the
Time you wrecked my car, and
Oh yes! The incessant
Nasty blame game
Now, that  really hurt.
 
So guess what, my love?
Your mother is not perfect!
Surprise, surprise!
The revelation is
Neither are you, my
Former 'baby blue'
But I adore you regardless
My whole heart is
Still in it for the long haul
Most unconditionally
With every shiny or dull penny 
I find, I pray for you
'To the health and well-being
Of my son' .. That I chant
To the Powers That Be
So remember
Darling, I love you most
Keenly.  Now and
Beyond forevermore.
So shape up, or I swear
I will punch you out!
2009liz


~

Photobucket
Wednesday, November 04, 2009 

Category: Writing and Poetry
Archaeopteryx
 

Asleep
by Archaeopteryx

He lies on slats in the yard aside columns and a café
The trees here weep and look dark and miserable - maybe they never sleep?
Slumber is opium else I might go crazy
It breaks the days into nice divisions
A place to go where nothing shows up
A piece of disparate reality - I can murder, rape, hoard the world’s estate
I can face the edge but never cross it
Terror can consume me
I can feel hopelessness but each time produce a new start
The cold creeps in all the while and hazy mists cloud my motivation
When I am gone I am not cold but I am not real
Yet I prefer here and now and I’m not 
Asleep.
Wednesday, November 04, 2009 

Category: Writing and Poetry
Social Conscience 
 


Tricks
by Social Conscience​ 

Stood on the corner, looking for tricks
Hoping that this lip-stick will still stick to her lips
Bones poke out of hips, what a way to exist
But she gotta find a way to feed addiction to kicks
She lights up a cig, flicks the ash on the ground
Takes a little stroll over to the lost (not found)
Her life's like a roundabout
The more she tries to hide, compound with lies
The more it's found her out
She sips liquor just to drown the doubt
Feels like the narrator in Orwell's Down and Out
With a frown on mouth, the night owls come out
and she never feels lonely when there's crowds about
She smoothes her dress, fixes her pout
Which soothes the stress and disguises her scowl
It's a daily routine of obeying these fiends
That gate-crashed dreams, then invaded her teens
A car slows down, and the driver looks keen
She's a rabbit in the head-lights of his full-beam
But she doesn't pause, it's the code of the whores
Plus the punter is always right - even on all fours
In the streetlight, it's hard to see the sores
Bought so many T-Shirts - she could have opened up stores
and traded passion for passive transactions
Manufactured like fashion - instant gratification
It must have been about a week later
A prostitute got murdered, I read in the paper
They'd caught the trick who strangled and raped her
His name was Corporation - the victim was Mother Nature.


Wednesday, November 04, 2009 

Category: Writing and Poetry

Note to self: Said

everything is slow
she moves by inches
in amongst
a mango orchard
trampling all over his
delicate flirtations
while every eye
is on her ...

hint of eccentricity
full of virtue and
filter coffee
he be
f### she knew
he was different
his fingers
told her from the start
he likes her hands
they cook like his mother

romance sees you doing
and saying
his heart tells her
she tells him all

repetitive she was
with her wow and wows
and the lines below
she likes to say them often
cant deny
he is her joy in
every spot . .... .

she adopts his behaviours
while eyes glow
on the right side

traditional and modern
he looks
without change
very fetching
he indicates
gently also . .... .

two geniuses
he be
each understated enough
to let the other shine

unwrapping her clothes
with his high pitched voice
and undressing her soul
different tones
that loved forever

that's when
said covered
her naked skin
with percussive licks
and a thousand words
of pleasure were heard

his words said
she keeps
because of there
clarity

silence at times
isn't possible
intensely personal
publicly expressed
she misses him
in the
late hour
of the night

in the morning
he evokes
a certain horniness

he be her ...
with a hard on
she be
the i and am
with a U.

© Mswordswithmusic 2009 (aka Baby M)
Wednesday, November 04, 2009 

Category: Writing and Poetry
Roel Corpus
 

Song of my Heart
by Roel Corpus

There is a peace
more like a prayer
as if Nature is calling me
to become part of its world.
That can only be understood by the soul.
Something I have forgotten
yet like a distant bell
reminding me to come back home.

To have had the opportunity of making your acquaintance,
like so many.
How can I forget
but now more than ever wish to find you?
How long will I wait in this place
or must I follow the stars.

Yet this is your story,
it must
and so as best as I can will listen
and hear you speak.
Maybe from a distant planet
or the little creatures that awakens during the night
and sings your song.

You are everywhere.
Under the stone,
behind the clouds,
in my chest
and it is there I will find you.

Monday, November 02, 2009 

Category: Writing and Poetry
        Dye

   James Dye


10K Poets
by James Dye

An indefinite myriad
of neurons in your brain
move at the speed of neutrons
processing an expanding lake as
birds walk down Myria trails
through valleys of smoke
and into the cypress swamps of war.

An asteroid of 10,000 poets cannot be stopped
neither can the largest volcano ever to erupt.

Long now, the clock ticks like
a phantom, at a very low frequency,
barely audible to nonpoet ears.

My number is 10,000 indefinitely.
My army is 10,000 immortal poets.
Our words march on since BCE;
no longer a lake, we are the sea
on wavelengths never imagined.

Monday, November 02, 2009 

Category: Writing and Poetry
peter kloiber (BadWriter)

peter kloiber



"azure-grey"

in the shadows and shade, the sun parting clouds as birds flock wildly in the sky just out of reach of man, the winds, desperately pushing leafs and leaves of worn-out lawns just so. summer's swelter looses its grip and a creature's comfort lingers in the air of august's aire. so then is reborn a tinge of winter's touch, as nighttime chills brush brusquely through these hills. and the sheep shoern understand its time to regrow their coats all too well. fast do the fresh herbs become bitter as the basil darkens and wilts; quietly losing the inevitable battle with the turn of seasons is more a tradition than a trial. and with the clouds and winds and cooler rains comes the sweater weather which this year I can embrace with everything I have. the scarf I lay patient to wear sits latently on my shelf. and soon with its necessity will be the inevitability of a return of a love gone sailing off. and I wonder if the reunion will bear the union I dreamed so vividly of. all I can do is be honest and with myself and the rest is left to the heavy heart of nature and her deft indifferent hand. calm is swept over me, and till then I dry out in the storm of uncertainty, rage, frustration, affection, and longing.