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Friday, November 13, 2009
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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.
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Friday, November 06, 2009
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Category: Writing and Poetry
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-
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Friday, November 06, 2009
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Category: Web, HTML, Tech
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
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Friday, November 06, 2009
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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!!
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Friday, November 06, 2009
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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"
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Thursday, November 05, 2009
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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
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Thursday, November 05, 2009
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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...
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Thursday, November 05, 2009
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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.
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Thursday, November 05, 2009
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Category: Writing and Poetry
Elizabeth Anne Elizabeth A. Jones
I Will Remember
 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
~

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Wednesday, November 04, 2009
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Category: Writing and Poetry
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.
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Wednesday, November 04, 2009
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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.
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Wednesday, November 04, 2009
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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)
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Wednesday, November 04, 2009
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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.
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Monday, November 02, 2009
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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.
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Monday, November 02, 2009
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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.
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