zine poets

It’s not a lot of zine poetry that you remember 15 years later but I think often of the small stapled interestingly folded booklets of Christien Gholson. “Monkey Dollar dollar dollar monkey dollar monkey dollar!” So that occasionally I am in some situation and think to myself “Monkey Dollar!” and have an identifiable feeling that those words describe perfectly (though I can’t explain it as I can’t find the poem anywhere. Somewhere in a box of papers and zines.) A good poet. wonder what happened to him… I should look him up. I thought of tipping the hat to him in Composite, not that he owns the idea of folding pieces of paper in fun ways, but just because I still think of him and his work with fondness and interest. His poetry forayed off where most people don’t go. I would like to talk with him about Nettlebeck and send him some things. I dont’ even wonder if he is “still writing poetry”, there is no way he would have stopped unless dead.

***

Yes. Well, his muddy pawprints are all OVER that muse. I AM THE BODHISATTVA WHO SAVES 
THE PEOPLE ON THIS BUS 
FROM THE SMELL OF MY FEET
What did I tell you? He is alive and kicking and the poetry is like no other.

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2 Responses to “zine poets”

  1. More Like This WebLog



    I Am the Bodhisattva Who Saves the People On This Bus From the Smell of My Feet

    You’re on a cross country bus. You want to take off your shoes. But you don’t want to unleash the WMDs your feet have become on your fellow travelers. Your dilemma inspires a vivid poem:

  2. Prentiss Riddle



    Before I’d ever heard of zines, I had a strange neighbor friend who photocopied and spiral-bound thin volumes of his poems and browbeat local stores into carrying them on consignment (this was of course before chain stores devoured the world). His name was R1ch8rd H0rt0n (not any of several more famous people with the same name) and his masterwork was a piece about an, ahem, professional woman which began:
    “Long pink cars/pulled into her driveway”

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