is the disorderly quarterly set and electrotyped by The Springound Mammoth Pancake Coalition, published by Fowlpox Press. Edited by Virgil Kay, from his paper canoe in a pit lake in the Isle of the Cosmic Drag, where featherheads play pinochle on the rooftops, and the boastful are turned into doormats. Layout and artwork by Paris Pâté. Pregnant pause by Silent Bill. ISSN: 1929-7238. Erratum, typos, and electrical fires: Unkie Bob. Published with financial assistance from the Ecum Secum Literary Brain Trust. Their contribution of a wooden nickel is greatly depreciated. Printed on the branches of Fairy Lake Tree, British Columbia "Everything has been said. But nobody listens. Therefore it has to be said all over again—only better. In order to say it better, we have to know how it was said before." --Roger Shattuck “Oh, goodbye, cruel world, I'm off to join the circus.” -- James Darren
Submissions: Send 2-227 poems, 2-953 paintings, or a twelve inch sandwich to: [email protected] Address to Virgil Kay, Editor and Head Rooster, and include a short bio, which we won’t use. The poems should be attached as a word document, or PDF. The artwork should be attached as a jpg, tiff, or other. The sandwich should be wrapped in clear plastic and include a small packet of mayonnaise. We accept poetry and artwork 365 days a year. We also reject poetry and artwork 365 days a year. We keep the sandwiches. We’re very busy. Leap years: You’re cordially invited to take a flying leap any year you like.
EKPHRASTIC SONNET FOR A CUBIST COCK-A-DOODLE-DO BY RONAN MIKAEL IN BOLD STROKES, PICASSO PAINTS A VASE ALIVE With flowers, their petals bold and bright as red. A rooster, proud and statuesque, stands beside Them, his feathers black as midnight, green as spring. The vase is not just any, but one that's been A part of daily life for years; its form Familiar to the hand that oft has been Its steady holder, steadying it from harm. The rooster, too, has seen his share of days, His crow a wake-up call for dawn's first light. Yet now, they're both immortalized in praise Of art that takes the ordinary and outplays The mind's expectations, making something new Out of what's been there all along. The eye Can see the lines, the shapes; the hand can too And understand the genius in the hue. But there's a depth that only heart can feel, A knowing that transcends the vision real, A connection to the artist's soul that steals Your breath away, as if you'd never known The beauty that can come from something grown From simple things, like vase and bird and bloom.
Tolstoy struggled with Sudoku.
A poem by Luigina Fabia, with English translation by Mirabella Sebastiana Un trattore, una ballerina, una delizia NEI VASTI CAMPI DELL’AGRICOLTURA, C'era un trattore, con la sua presenza imponente. Una Fiat 411R, una creatura leggendaria, La sua storia, una storia che durerà per sempre. Nel '58 fece il suo debutto, Competere con i grandi nomi del gioco. Anche Fiat, Landini, Lamborghini, Tutti in lizza per la fama dei 40 CV. Con i modelli cingolati e gommati tra cui scegliere, Questa macchina aveva tutte le caratteristiche giuste. Sei marce, presa di forza, contagiri e contaore, L'affidabilità, la sua più grande maestra. Nei campi vagava con disinvoltura, Come una ballerina, aggraziata e libera. I suoi cingoli anteriori e posteriori, in continua evoluzione, Simboleggia la versatilità del suo essere.
Equilibrato nelle dimensioni e nel peso, La Fiat 411R, un vero gioiello. Costruendo trattori segnò il destino della Fiat, Per la sua qualità, nessuno potrebbe condannarlo. Anche se l'avvio potrebbe richiedere del tempo, Come una prima ballerina nel suo periodo migliore. Una volta riscaldato, non si stanca mai, Una stella splendente nei racconti dell'agricoltura. E come la famosa ballerina Pavlova, Conosciuta per il suo cigno, così aggraziato e giusto. La Fiat 411R, una vera hostess diva, Girare il mondo senza preoccupazioni. Dal Sud America all’Australia, Dal Messico all'India, è andata. Un simbolo di forza e longevità, La Fiat 411R, mai contenta. In mezzo ai campi, danzava e faticava, Le sue prestazioni, senza difetti. Agricoltura e danza, per sempre avvolte, Nella Fiat 411R, un'esaltazione perfetta. Allora facciamo un brindisi, Alla Fiat 411R, una macchina senza tempo. In agricoltura, è il più,
Un maestoso, eterno sereno. A Tractor, a Dancer, a Delight IN THE VAST FIELDS OF AGRICULTURE, A tractor stood, its presence grand. A Fiat 411R, a legendary creature, Its history, a tale that will forever stand. Back in '58, it made its debut, Competing with the big names in the game. Fiat, Landini, Lamborghini too, All vying for the 40hp fame. With crawler and wheeled models to choose, This machine had all the right features. Six gears, a PTO, and hour and rev meters, Reliability, its greatest teacher. In the fields, it roamed with ease, Like a dancer, graceful and free. Its front and rear tracks, ever-changing, Symbolizing the versatility of its being. Balanced in size and weight,
The Fiat 411R, a true gem. In making tractors, it sealed Fiat's fate, For its quality, none could condemn. Though starting it may take some time, Like a prima ballerina in her prime. Once warmed up, it never fails, A shining star in agriculture's tales. And like the famous dancer, Pavlova, Known for her Swan, so graceful and fair. The Fiat 411R, a true hostess diva, Touring the world without a care. From South America to Australia, Mexico to India, it went. A symbol of strength and longevity, The Fiat 411R, never content. Amidst the fields, it danced and toiled, Its performance, without fault. Agriculture and dance, forever coiled, In the Fiat 411R, a perfect exalt. So let us raise a toast, To the Fiat 411R, a timeless machine. In agriculture, it is the most, So majestic, everlasting, serene.
Shall I Compare Thee to a Dalí Oil? By Beth Glaucof ASPONGY CAKE WITH GOLDEN HUE, But not quite like the ones we knew, For on its face, a radio screams, Its anger strong, its voice extreme. Surreal and twisted, the art of Dalí, A hostess Twinkie, the canvas of folly, A face of sound, on the surface it dwells, From the sweet cake, its scream compels. And on the table, tiny blocks of cheese, Elegant, yet without a sense of ease, For next to the Twinkie, they seem so small, Against the radio's rage, they cannot stand tall. The mood is eerie, the tone bizarre, As the cake and the radio engage in war, But beyond the surface, a meaning lies, A hidden message, with complex ties. For the Hostess Twinkie, often seen as pure, Is now tainted with the radio's allure, And the blocks of cheese, once a symbol of wealth, Now trapped in a battle of power and stealth.
No words need to be spoken, no alliteration, For the painting itself is a form of communication, A commentary on our society's obsession, With material possessions and false expression. So let the radio scream and the Twinkie stay still, For in this surreal world, it's the power of will, To see beyond the surface, to uncover the truth, And embrace the complexities of this uncanny spoof. Dalí 's masterpiece, a work of mystery, A reflection of our world's twisted history, And as we gaze at the painting with awe, We can't help but wonder, what the artist saw.
THE BARD BOYS & THE MYSTERIOUS MANUSCRIPT Mystery № 227 By JoDee Dixon MacLeish and Bukowski were drawn to the strange and unexpected discovery of the Walt Whitman manuscript in a McDonald's bathroom. The two literary heavyweights had been friends for many years, bonded by their love of poetry and their unconventional lifestyles. As they studied the manuscript, they couldn't help but feel a sense of fevered anticipation. It was a handwritten draft of a poem in a groundbreaking form. The language was vivid and raw, a departure from Whitman's usual style. And yet, the paper it was written on was old and tattered, evocative of the era of horses and carriages. “Holy Toledo!” exclaimed MacLeish. “Miss Henderson will dig this!” Miss Henderson was their 9th grade English teacher and a published poet.
Bukowski took a sip from his cola, scowled, and added some rum from a flask. “Hey, anything to get on Henderson’s good side,” he said. “She’s a ten!” They immediately set out to unravel the mystery behind the manuscript. They poured over every word, determined to uncover the truth behind its origins. As they delved deeper, it became clear that this was not just any old draft of a Whitman poem. It was a missing piece of literary history. MacLeish and Bukowski pieced together the events that led to the manuscript's curious placement in a McDonald’s bathroom. They discovered that it had been part of a collection of unpublished works that Whitman had entrusted to a friend for safekeeping. But the friend had long since passed away, and the manuscript had been lost and forgotten. As they revealed their findings to the literary world, the manuscript caused a frenzy among scholars and fans of Whitman's work. It was hailed as a significant addition to his canon, and MacLeish and Bukowski were lauded for their detective work. However, the true joy for the two poets came from the implications of this discovery. The fact that even in the most unexpected of places, literature
and poetry can still be found. And that the words and stories of our past are always waiting to be uncovered and shared with the world. Also, Bukowski did get Miss Henderson to go to the movies with him, but he got her home before ten.
3 POEMS BY HIRAM LAREW Took Over Surely why time was And always will be Wickery ivy As porch floorboards Or rained on In linseed Of hush brooms Surely why memory made Of steps up and Wet weeds The color of dimes Being shiny alive And how somehow evenings Took over with promise For raisiny pies And smudged glasses their screen doors As ever frilled aprons What stories The stories with dentures To corn stalks A future in history
Like chuckles From mysteries all wrinkles Or berries in bird baths Yes Surely bright berries In bird baths like time may So stayed alive
Galore Can a barn float Oh I think so especially when Branches shade its Doors and Birds day galore Up alongside it Can a barn dream Surely It can because The tin roof makes so Much of Breezes or once again Can a barn love Indeed It does even better than Me with A heart that bees sing over Years in tricks Of hay
Glide Open If rain blinks or should brisk want in Or what light does when it sits us down for some telling And if we could ever come true or take from but also bring about As maybe so opens wide like doors do that Turn blue If cream should wink us wake to bright or even beams And then when whatever else we may be flings almost new Like looking through Singing out and in Come with us
“Metaphorically speaking, Sigmund, my Shadow archetype can kick your Father Figure into next week.”
CITATIONS Ades, Dawn and Hayward Gallery. “Dada and surrealism reviewed.” (1978). Gertrude Runs the Show, photograph, Elliott McDowell. https://www.elliottmcdowell.com/ Girl Thinking About Cosco, coconut oil on gasoline, Odilon Redon. The Schmidt Collection, Museum of Fine Arts, Boston Hiram Larew Larew's poems are all muddy coops. So wear boots. And don't forget to leave the gate wide open. www.HiramLarewPoetry.com. Larew's newest collection of poems, Patchy Ways, has been published by CyberWit Press. www.HiramLarewPoetry.com, www.PoetryXHunger.com Mahat, P., & Chhetri, K. B. (2023, May 31). A case study on Impact of Consumer Attitudes towards hotdogs [sic] stands in Copenhagen. Aalborg; Aalborg University. Marino L. Thinking chickens: a review of cognition, emotion, and behavior in the domestic chicken. Anim Cogn. 2017 Mar;20(2):127-147. doi: 10.1007/s10071-016-1064-4. Epub 2017 Jan 2. PMID: 28044197; PMCID: PMC5306232. Rooster and Vase, oil on tablecloth, Pablo Diego José Francisco de Paula Juan Nepomuceno María de los Remedios Cipriano de la Santísima Trinidad Ruiz y Picasso. Just say the name out loud and it will cure your insomnia. Eleanor Steenie Pellinore ReeseCollection, MoMA MiA.
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