*`!THE HOLD!`*
Issue 14 December 24, 1998
Welcome to The Hold Christmas Eve Spectacular! In this Spectacular! issue we have, per usual, Dave Gitomer and Cait Collins with their Spectacular! poetry stylings. Readers, don't take this as a sign that your submissions aren't welcome and desperately needed. It's just that they are the regulars, and as such they have their own little engraved barstools here at the Spectacular! Hold. Dolomite has one, too, but it's in the back somewhere and the things he's done with it won't stand the light of day.
1998 by Shadow Wall Press
All works copyright their individual author
s
Issue 14 December 24, 1998
Contributors:
Dave Gitomer
Cait Collins
Daev
Columnists:
Dolomite
Cait Collins
Editor: Daev
RANTING
Hoe, hoe, hoe. That's what I say when I see a bunch of prostitutes this time
of the year. I pass by them and I hear "$5, suckysucky". Then I tell the
stupid Asian whore to piss off. I do this only because experience tells me
that though that five dollars is well spent in the short run, pissing out
blood for the next couple of weeks makes it a bad idea in the not-quite-short
run. That experience has taught me to set my standards at least at $10-whore-status.
Speaking of something red coming out of a long cylindrical object, Santa is
coming to town. Why does everyone believe that Santa is such a nice guy for
no reason other than that he brings joy to young children's lives? Why will no one
admit to the perversity of the concept of an old man who lives in the
wilderness (the North Pole is wilderness for the purposes of this Ranting), is
surrounded by farm animals (reindeer) and small boys (elves), and is known by
his wife to cum but once a year. Yeah, you read that last part right. He is
known by his wife to cum but once a year. Yet, the little boys work without
pay (sweatshop) and the farm animals can fly (drugs). Hell, the one farm
animal has a big red nose (large amounts of alcohol). And we are to believe
that this is all for the children of the world. He just wants them to sit on his lap, the dirty pervert.
Think of the one carol, Santa's Coming to Town. Think of the one line,"…heknows what you've been thinking, he knows when you are awake. He knows if
you've been bad or good, so be good for goodness sake!" Is this the warning
of the coming rampage of pedophileness? Who would want to know what a young,
slightly teenage boy is thinking? I know that no one would have wanted to
know what I was thinking in those early years of masturbation. You know, when
you just got that funny feeling.
Has anyone forgotten about the true meaning of Christmas? No, not the fact
that it is thought to be Jesus’ birthday. The fact is that it is the night
when the Grand Duchess of Sphincto must perform the ceremonial soaking of the
sacred pasta made from the golden seeds of the holy olive tree that grows in
the plentiful hills of Luctavia. Surely, I am not the only one to know of
this great feast day, outside the Sphincto-Luctavian area of northern
Mooselvania near what was once the former Republic of Naked Hanging Dogs,
modern day Romania. It is renowned internationally for its great bowls of
pasta and buttery rolls of bread served by busty waitress in skimpy uniforms
that ARE of the age of consent, despite what that judge in Berlin tries to say
about that incident. Damn Berlin judges…
Anyways, while you are about during this festive season, whether it be forthe Big Red Pervert, the birthday of the Lord's son, or the busty waitressesthat serve warm bread with those great mounds… of pasta, make this holiday
season even better by praising either me or Daev as absolute rulers of this
world. C'mon, you knew it was coming sooner or later. Quite frankly, though
Daev is known for cumming sooner, I think it would be a welcome change from the perversity of the Clinton administration. We would admit who we banged. (editor's note: I'd make up people to bang!)
Dolomite
THE FORUM
CHANCE MEETING IN A DINER
"aren't you Dave? "she inquired. across
diner's partially empty non-smoking
section. she was cute, but unfamiliar
looking. this Dave inquiry, threw me
for a loop, bender, frenzy. how to
answer? admit, deny, nolo contendre?
she was cute, glasses, well dressed,
but sitting. I could not analyze figure,
completely. maybe she will stand up?
dreams, salivating notions, desire rose!
no, I stepped back, crawled, strutted.
stuttered. words of investigation, lingered.
my memory for people and faces was
never a strong point.
"aren't you Dave?" on a metaphysical level,
this question cut to the quick, the bone, the
very nature of the beast. one I have asked
myself millions of times and never obtaining
a satisfying answer. at times, some made sense,
only to be shattered in the next moments
onslaught, time is merciless assassin.
"aren't you Dave?" she continued, now making
eye contact. I loved the glasses, "you borrowed
a philosophy book in Stony Brook, from my
roommate Zelda, you stayed up all night to do a
paper, and you got an A, she got a B, Zelda
is dead you know" I wondered if it was related
to the grade, a B in philosophy could be fatal?
it was all coming back fast now, amphetamines,
that drove my fingers into frenzy, pouring words
onto sheets of paper, in those days you had to
use a typewriter, correctotype was essential.
steaming cups of tea, I remembered. the fellows
I was with, faded into the plastic chairs, more like
the menu on the table than people, my focus
relocated. I hastily scrawled my web page code
and email address on a napkin, caring not to rend
it useless but readable. then I dropped the bomb
"you married, Judy?" she answered "once a long
time ago, for short while"
I wondered if I was going to hear from
her again.
WORDS AT WAR
tepid battles in this world
seize assorted moments
begging infinite realism.
specters or ghosts have
nothing to fear. this twilight
where success lies naked
and failure fully clothed.
both amorphous sights
and turn concrete in
vats of wants and desires.
fervid fantasies die and duel
in the dank dungeons of
ego seeking validation or
self professed demise.
scaled illusions come across
all too real and will never
be etched in to the cosmos
of the stars, a comet's tail
a meteor shower and fallen
galaxy.
THE DUO SETS OFF FOR CAMELOT
they walked down
this road and that
alley with determination.
their guardian fate tossed
a laugh then a tear then
another compromise.
the greatest victories no
longer spoke in whispers
or even clarity. storming
down the well-trod road
only lit by a flickering candle
buffeting in the oncoming gale
winds of silences untold
swirled in the forgotten cave
and a lover's coven. as if
it could or might even would
ebb the tides and cause the
moon to surrender. they joked
too often and found serious
thought a menace. fates just
watched and wondered
where has this genus gone?
what price evolution?
Dave Gitomer
email: dogentao@villagenet.com
websites:
http://villagenet.com/~dogentao/index.html
http://members.aol.com/freeme123/index.htm
--------------------------------
**the problem**
he sits
in front of the tv
and watches movies
rated r or x
or rents them
sometimes
he buys
magazines
with nudity
and profanity
or ones with centerfolds
of beautiful
naked women
posing
in compromising
positions
or the ones
with famous
models
showing off
everything
he reads books
with love and lust
written
on every other page
by famous authors
anything immoral
or indecent
turned him on
dirty words did too
he had a problem
with ejaculations
and I told him
he jerked off
too much
he said,
you think that's it?
and I said yea
he said
he wouldn't
do it
for a while
if I came
to see him
I told him
to wait at least
a week
he said
he would
but when
I got there
he still had the
same problem
and he told me
it was from
thinking about
all the kinky
things I'd do
in front of him.
©cait collins 12.13.98
** moondog café-style**
like wow man!
it was like a side show circus
or more like a dobie gillis sitcom
in the back room of the moondog café
in L.A. on melrose.
leftover beatnik men and women
with knitted winter scarves wrapped
around their necks in 77 degree weather
and some sort of beanie type hats on their
heads…
snap, snap, snappin' their fingers
down by their sides
as they strolled past the café tables
to the stage
in a maynard g krebs fashion
(the g stands for walter)
snap, snap, snap!
there were the ones with their old guitars
the great story tellers
strumming as they read their old-fashioned odes
with great memory and distinction
and they still had their
50's type clothes and shoes
and hair that looked like
an archie cartoon character
sticking out crazily everywhere
and then there were the balding ones...
and there was the midget
that said his poetry was stolen
from the back of his pickup truck
(the thieves left the truck behind)
and if what he recited was any indication
of the poetry that was stolen,
then the thieves were robbed!
snap, snap, yea man!
then there was the frustrated old lady
of about sixty some years sitting
where I was
bitchin' and complainin' about every-
thing that went on while
she spiked her soda underneath the table
and I asked her name
and she told me she was #7 (in a snotty tone)
and she didn't like it when
I referred to her as #7
the entire night
then it was her turn
but we had to wait while she primped
her jane wyatt style hair
and put some red lipstick on…
(like it made a difference…man)
she smoothed the bottom of her
flowered dress before she sat
on the stool on stage
(her gut stuck out)
and she read some love poem
she'd written with great imitation emotion;
her hands crossed her heart
then cupped her right ear
as if she was trying to hear somebody
saying something back to her
and her eyes rolled and blinked
as she read
and when she returned to the table
she was almost in tears saying
'if I only had a man!
christ! snap, snap!
and there was that short
HUGE BIG FAT BLACK LADY
maybe in her 40's
400 lbs.(at least, honest to christ!)
and she took the microphone and
squeezed between the tables
reciting her erotic poetry
in a sensual but 'we shall overcome',
black attitude way:
"make me mooooooist…
make me mooooooooooist...
make me wetttttttttttttttt…
with your liquid wooooords..."
like wow man!
like I'm getting' all misty now!
snap! snap! snap!
and then my turn came
and I walked up like some normal
person, I think
but I was dressed in black
yea, yea, they liked everything black
but I didn't have a winter scarf
or a flimsy hat
and I didn't snap my fingers down by my sides
or strut their way
as I approached the stage
and I didn't belong to 'the click'
(I was already fucked before I started)
and my hair hung in my face over my
small oval wire-rimmed glasses
hippie-like instead of like a beatnik
and I mentioned bukowski
(only because this WAS once his territory)
and I got one applaud
and I read the one about the pubic hairs
and the one about the dude that jerked off
all the time…
ha ha ha
I think I got one more applaud
from some 80 year old guy with a swedish accent
fuck me
and the dude that read after me
said:
"after that, I think I'll read some poetry!"
'like fuck you, man' SNAP SNAP!!!
so
like wow man!
like I haven't been to a side-show circus, man
like since I was a kid, man
and like if this is yer gig, man
like it was fun, man
then you'll like it at the moondog café, man
like on melrose in L.A., man!
(be careful though, like they have rotten food, man)
like
snap
snap
snap
THIS, man!
you rang?(maynard g krebs (the g stands for walter))
like fuck you dobie
man!
cait collins 12.16.98
----------------------------
Sunlight
Sunlight blows through windows
I revel
And ponder
wonder
at what sunlight is that feels so good
go back 2 million years
the birth of man
from bosom ape
a freak mutation
a freak
mutation
and the first he saw was sun
le soleil
blinking, squinting
simian's maternal instincts save him
he grows
learns
eclipses parents
kills
eats
parents
he knows
Sun is God
his loyalty is to God
Serve God
Arms raised
not humble
humility has no place with God
God as power
armor and sword
battle against twilight
God gives fire
to kill darkness
fire births tool
tool begat wheel
wheel begat microchip
and finally
FINALLY
technology slaughters Jehovah
true God returns
and I stand
naked and virile
arms raised
I
SCREAM!
Daev
BEDTIME STORY
A story? You know, the well of Daev may dry up pretty quick, here. Send me those stories! I've yet to deny printage to anyone who sent me one, mostly due to the fact that I've received only one.
Okay. This is a very short excerpt from the book I'm working on entitled "Tales From A Coddled Schoolboy". During my short stint as a rockstar.
~
dec. 98
foreplay: this is the holiday season, everyone's doin' it!
the other day someone said to me (pertaining to one of
my poems she read):
"maybe you're not writing what people want to hear."
"well, I suppose you're right." I said. "no one wants to
hear shit. I think I'll change my format to piss, there's
better flow, thank you!"
anyway, here's the scenerio:
christmas eve: lights everywhere, blinking off and on. :::silent
night, holy night theme::: a tree decorated with fancy balls; some old,
some new and the designer series ornaments collected over the years:
star wars, barbie, mickey mouse, etc. set a special effect to everything
that says santa, happy holidays and Hallmark. then there's the ones with
the little toy soldiers, standing stiff, tap, tap, tapping on their tiny
drums, while marching nowhere but in the same place. and the ones with
the ballerina's and mice tour jete'ing around a hickory dickory dock
clock in tutu's or the ones that play a merry tune and the old fashioned
flowered ones grandma handed down and there's popcorn strung by family
members draping around and around the tree going on endlessly instead of
the glittery garland and the tinsel hangs like icicles on the eves of a
house (if it's cold enough where you are) and the star on top shining
holiness everywhere and there's a pile of presents underneath; unopened,
wrapped in silver, green, blue and red foil, big fancy bows stuck on the
tops, some on the sides; different sizes, different shapes, labeled
individually to their prospective recipients. all spread haphazardly
underneath for everyone to see.
then there's the candles flickering upon the mantle; a holly and
poinsettia centerpiece in between, the stockings hung there (with care)
and the fire crackling where it's supposed too and there's a dog keeping
warm in front and look out the window, there's snow flakes
criss-crossing as they drop to the ground softly. and the dishes
overflowing with red and green candies, chestnuts, candy canes, santa's
cookies waiting patiently….and it's serene and quiet…
and this seems like a perfect setting for a perfect christmas day.
and it might be. but this year I decided to do without all of this just
like the ones who are deprived year after year. not because they want
to, but because they can't afford too. the ones that make up another
story to their cryin' kids explaining why santa claus didn't stop at
their house. the ones that don't have the feasts we indulge in. the ones
on the streets that their families forgot, the ones that struggle
throughout the year to survive. now I know there's much more to all of
this and we all know but I have to tell you that doing this really
didn't make a difference to me because I know the next day I'll still
have all my conveniences and people will bring me gifts and someone will
have a feast and invite me over. there's always somebody for me. there's
always me to do these things if I want them because I happen to be one
of the 'lucky' ones.
but to those that wish and struggle the whole year for all these
things, (through no fault of your own) I can only send you my best
wishes and prayers for a special holiday season, you can make it what
you will, and to all my friends and family, I wish you all the same.
PEACE!
cait collins
FROM THE DESK OF DAVE
My head hurts. If I may, I'll recommend a little christmas listening here. Mark Weber's "Brother, Can You Spare A Dime? I Need A Christmas Tree." Write 'im at
Mark Weber
725 Van Buren Place SE
ALbuquerque, NM 87108
email to
janetpod@aol.com
he has many cd's, books, from Zerx Press
----------------------------------------
GRAFFITI
loved the line... rare as bill having relations with hillary
Dave Gitomer
(editor's note: Good show, Dolo!)
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