Gary Beck| litchaos.com

The last utterance of immortality,
an old poet's tongueless scream.
The senile words fall unheeded
and heads nod, remember what he was?
Trapped in vision corridor
my mind swirls Chinese new years.
Bang go the firecrackers
in the year of the Dragon.
Forgetfulness a movie, opiate a woman,
I bent and creaking with a knobby cane.
The darkened walls laugh hooks to hold my body,
but I awaken, and am only twenty-six.

Recon In Vietnam

It was a tough day at the office.
I left early to avoid rush hour.
I got home hot, sweaty, tired,
desperate for a cold drink.

And stands the creature in its own light, declaring
That Consciousness is the knowledge of shame.

I turned on my TV set; evening news.
A recon platoon picked its careful way
through vicissitudes of jungle bush,
stakes, snakes, slopes; lurking, hoping
some American-born, middle class G.I. kid,
comfortable, soft, naive, unable to conceive
that Charlie will do whatever must be done,
march, hunger, fight, die, for a dialectic dream
more urgent than girl next door, dad's car, apple pie,
to defeat, drive out, deny victory at any cost
to the round-eyed sons of the good old U.S.A.

I took off my jacket and shoes,
sat down in a comfortable chair,
ready to relax and forget a busy day
and really enjoy the sports coverage.

I watched the recon patrol pick its careful way
in living color and quadrophonic sound,
from the secure perimeter of my living room,
seven thousand miles removed from soggy boots,
rotting skin, shaking nerves and stoned perceptions.
The Hollywood myths of fixed bayonets,
noble sentiments and thunderous artillery barrages,
didn't seem to help our guys much,
while those television grunts, black, white, hispanic,
were courteously interrupted by the network
and prevented from dying before the commercial break.

Hemorrhoids, hamburger joints, roach motels
crucial issues in life and death ads
that told me how to fight the real enemy,
itching, flaking, ring around the collar.

I watched a recon platoon pick its careful way
moving deeper into an Asiatic quagmire,
while the nation's purpose, policies, pride and power
were only interrupted by media networks
concerned with increased circulation, ratings, sales,
the great society's sacred way.
Then back live to harsh breathing, tension, fear,
cutting the director's grateful sigh
that there was no combat action
during the pause for sponsors' messages,
so any death would be shown live.

I got tired of waiting for the baseball results,
flipped the dial, reruns, educational crap, more news,
so back to my favorite station
resigned to endure 'til the end of the war.

Labor Relations

Disgruntled employees
are finding satisfaction
by discharging the boss
with a firearm.

Refrain: (Pack up your troubles)
Pick up your uzi
after you've been fired
and shoot, shoot, shoot.
Settle your grievance
with a final blast,
shoot now, pal, just shoot.
Ain't no use surrendering,
they'll treat you like a nut, hey!
So, pick up your uzi....

Employers are therefore cautioned
to carefully consider
the consequences of dismissal,
before a complaint is filed.

Biography

Gary Beck¢s poetry has appeared in dozens of literary magazines. His chapbook 'The Conquest of Somalia' will be published by Cervena Barva Press. His recent fiction has been published in numerous literary magazines. His plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes, and Sophocles have been produced Off-Broadway.

	Gary Beck
Home Archives Guidelines Contests Letter Links Tips Labor Relations by Gary Beck Disgruntled employees are finding satisfaction by discharging the boss with a firearm. The important words are underlined by Maurice Oliver Did I ever tell you about the time oil from/ a leaky canister seeped into my thoughts/ then expressed its dissatisfaction with my/ sexual life. Nonesuch Dreams and Wills by Ray Succre Her discovery of him will also be gradual/ [X=X+1]; she does not startle anymore./ She has been alive [cavity] before. The Mob by Doug Draime He: How we gonna do it? She: Don’t ask me, you’re the one with the gun He: Can’t use the gun. She: Why? He: Never bought any bullets... Spudadelic by Jeff Crouch visual art centered around one dietary staple Sometimes Suicidal by Aimee DeLong Sometimes a suicidal person fixes her hair. Sometimes she looks in the mirror to smooth it. Sometimes she goes four days without washing it. Last Night at Southport by Justin Hyde tell her i'm a butterfly with sixteen wings beating in succinct anarchy. Categorical Imperatives by Maurice Oliver Try to imagine a small room where the only/ furniture is a TV. The TV has a hundred/ channels and two sets of memories. Beerwigs by George Anderson 1. A canoe full of moose meat 2. Beerwigs 3. The Great Vodka Massacre 4. The Bootlegger & the Professor 5. Puke-O-Gram Visual Art by Claudio Parentela Poverty by Papa Osmubal I saw a handful of dead cockroaches/ on the floor this morning./ You must have filled the house/ with your endless litany of dammits’ and ‘bullshits’/ while chasing them with last week’s paper/ you borrowed next door for the purpose. dance a line by Sophia Kidd i get stuck thinkin' of words/ and meanings of you and of him/ the smell of leaf/ on dirt Contagion necessaries: sensorial numb by Kenneth Mulvey reach into pocket/ for a light/ to find I pissed/ myself again Pamela in the Spring by James Dilworth I can't talk in the human way, I tried to learn without success. I could only watch her day after day, as the seasons began to change and the world grew colder. The lost art of visualization by Andy Riverbed Now that I think about it;/ I’ve realized I don’t like poetry/ and I don’t like literature; I/ hate movies and music is nauseating;/ my job is a boring mind-/ numb. Dream by Cecelia Chapman A short movie	Birthday Vision The last utterance of immortality, an old poet's tongueless scream. The senile words fall unheeded and heads nod, remember what he was? Trapped in vision corridor my mind swirls Chinese new years. Bang go the firecrackers in the year of the Dragon. Forgetfulness a movie, opiate a woman, I bent and creaking with a knobby cane. The darkened walls laugh hooks to hold my body, but I awaken, and am only twenty-six. Recon In Vietnam It was a tough day at the office. I left early to avoid rush hour. I got home hot, sweaty, tired, desperate for a cold drink. And stands the creature in its own light, declaring That Consciousness is the knowledge of shame. I turned on my TV set; evening news. A recon platoon picked its careful way through vicissitudes of jungle bush, stakes, snakes, slopes; lurking, hoping some American-born, middle class G.I. kid, comfortable, soft, naive, unable to conceive that Charlie will do whatever must be done, march, hunger, fight, die, for a dialectic dream more urgent than girl next door, dad's car, apple pie, to defeat, drive out, deny victory at any cost to the round-eyed sons of the good old U.S.A. I took off my jacket and shoes, sat down in a comfortable chair, ready to relax and forget a busy day and really enjoy the sports coverage. I watched the recon patrol pick its careful way in living color and quadrophonic sound, from the secure perimeter of my living room, seven thousand miles removed from soggy boots, rotting skin, shaking nerves and stoned perceptions. The Hollywood myths of fixed bayonets, noble sentiments and thunderous artillery barrages, didn't seem to help our guys much, while those television grunts, black, white, hispanic, were courteously interrupted by the network and prevented from dying before the commercial break. Hemorrhoids, hamburger joints, roach motels crucial issues in life and death ads that told me how to fight the real enemy, itching, flaking, ring around the collar. I watched a recon platoon pick its careful way moving deeper into an Asiatic quagmire, while the nation's purpose, policies, pride and power were only interrupted by media networks concerned with increased circulation, ratings, sales, the great society's sacred way. Then back live to harsh breathing, tension, fear, cutting the director's grateful sigh that there was no combat action during the pause for sponsors' messages, so any death would be shown live. I got tired of waiting for the baseball results, flipped the dial, reruns, educational crap, more news, so back to my favorite station resigned to endure 'til the end of the war. Labor Relations Disgruntled employees are finding satisfaction by discharging the boss with a firearm. Refrain: (Pack up your troubles) Pick up your uzi after you've been fired and shoot, shoot, shoot. Settle your grievance with a final blast, shoot now, pal, just shoot. Ain't no use surrendering, they'll treat you like a nut, hey! So, pick up your uzi.... Employers are therefore cautioned to carefully consider the consequences of dismissal, before a complaint is filed. Biography Gary Beck¢s poetry has appeared in dozens of literary magazines. His chapbook 'The Conquest of Somalia' will be published by Cervena Barva Press. His recent fiction has been published in numerous literary magazines. His plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes, and Sophocles have been produced Off-Broadway.
	Home \| Guidelines \| Archives \| Masthead \| Links

Gary Beck

Home

Archives

Guidelines

Contests

Letter

Links

Tips

Birthday Vision

Recon In Vietnam

Labor Relations