\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\The Hold////////////////////////////
Issue 8    October_, 1998

No Gainor this week, but I did write a poem I'll share.
By the way, I hope you all are enjoying this shared psychosis I call...

*`-!THE HOLD!-`*

(maniacal laughter and a cathedral choir)

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Copyright 1998 by Shadow Wall Press. All Rights Reserved.
Published Wheneverwefeelikeit by Shadow Wall Press

Contributors:
cait collins
Hilary Kerner
Dave Dembinski

Feature Columnist:
Dave Gitomer

Columnists:
Joshman
Dolomite

King of The Hold:
The Almighty Dave


BEDTIME STORY



NOPE!! HA! YOU WERE EXPECTING TO READ SOMETHING HERE,
WEREN'T YOU!!!!??!?!!!


THE FORUM
The place where all your small press email extremely local publishing dreams come true.

 
UNTITLED

**look out for the blonde bimbo bitch in the white caddy**

I'm traveling east across the
WW bridge on my way home
from Philadelphia in the afternoon.
I'm in the left lane approaching
a tractor-trailer that's in the right.
I start to pass...
a white cadillac
with this fat blonde bimbo
about 30ish cuts in front of me.
I slammed the brakes and
lean on the horn.
she sticks her arm out the window
and gives ME the finger!
what the fuck!? bitch!
I catch up to her on the downside
of the bridge heading into NJ...
she sees me pull behind her,
so she stretched her arm out the window
waving the middle finger in the air
at me.
"all right huzzy!" I say to nobody.
I push myself up towards
the dashboard above the steering wheel,
pull my t-shirt up around my neck,
lean forward toward the windshield and
expose my tits to her.
hahaaha, I'm laughing...
I see her laughing too and
she gave it to me again!
I kept pace alongside the white caddy and
I looked her way,
stuck my finger in my mouth,
pulling it in and out like I was
sucking on a little cock.
she's still laughing
but quickly I turn my head straight
so if she gave me another
finger gesture she'd think I didn't
see her.
I sped ahead, in and out
of traffic along Rte. 42.
I see her in my side mirror
trying to catch up...
we must've been going
80 mph at this point,
neither one of us paying attention
to any other's passing by.
so, I'll fix this wench, I thought:
I reached into my backpack and grabbed
my dildo...
I let her catch up and I stuck that
pink silicone dick in my mouth and
sucked on it hard.
my exit came up and that's too bad.
because she wasn't giving me the
middle finger anymore
hell, she smiled and waved goodbye.

© cait collins 09.19.98

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$ is a popular subject

not just for Joe Schmoe Average
but for the poetarily inclined
as they need a Great Satan
America is no longer this
In Iran's eyes
In Citizenspeak it is
For the voting public
Republicans do nothing
Democrats did nothing
and yet they quarrel and bitch
that the other is the Great Satan
Clinton is the Great Satan
and so is Gingrich
and Bob Dole is only impotent
But Dole, do they make Viagra for the soul?
Living off the dole could be heaven for the common man
were it less degrading
but taking pride in humility is heresy
to the common man
junkies
no one WANTS to be a junkie when THEY grow up
but i do
my peers do
my teachers are
my president is a sexaholic
my God is a narcissist
every soul is addictive
every personality worships idols
the gods change
if Baal was still around he'd worship his own statue
and what would his Great Satan be?

Dave

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~*~ Hell in life

Sounds of the living falling on deaf ears
Screams Moans Pleas to God
Lips silent not by choice
but by situation
The strength that held the flag
held flesh and blood of themselves
walked the dirt stained with sweat of the past
missing
lost in mass of splintered bone and blood
and crushed dreams
GOVERNMENT PROPERTY
"Uncle Sam Wants You"
Fuck Them
What about me?

Hilary Kerner

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FEATURE

TEENAGE LOVEA POETIC TRILOGY
Part 2

THE TEENS FIND LOVE AGAIN

hers eyes were sweet, as she
drew me close, hushed tones, hues
of heated passion, we embraced.
young and innocent, it was ...
but her parents would soon be home
we undulated with abandon,
supple skins interweaving,
an angelic glow, radiated.
timeless, forever love...
but her parents would soon be home
on her very bed, the temperature
soared, the quilt listened to
the voice of the fingers,
lips and tongues.
but her parents would soon be home
the "oh gods" serenaded, speaking
punctuating the moans. we were
getting closer and closer. then
we realized and stopped...
but her parents would soon be home
eyes and hearts took a vow,
the oath taken, promise made.
another day we would...
when her parents wouldn't be home.

Dave Gitomer


I'M DUMBER THAN I LOOK

     So we're living here in Allentown, and it's hard to keep a good band down. Oh, sorry...been listening to Billy Joel lately. Well, I am no longer grounded, and my parents still love me! (or do they..?) No more car jacking for me...not for a while anyhow.

     Well, I've been thinking about what I've been doing with my time the last few weeks, and have realized I'm a pretty boring person. The highlight of the month was being grounded. Yippee. So then I began to think about dumb things I've done, (hence the column title) and I've decided that, although sometimes exciting, riding anywhere with dolomite is dumb. On my part. Allow me to explain. At times, dolomite will take me home from school (being that I have no license and all, as explained in the last installment) and I am grateful for this (I think). I don't mind riding with the boy, but those weak at heart need not apply. It is not a nice little Sunday drive kiddies...no, no. If roller coasters had auto mobiles instead of, well, roller coaster car things, good ole dole here would be the driver. This boy is just not satisfied unless he gets up to 80 mph.

     True, he listens to Ghoti Hook in the car (which is a definite riding bonus), but I dunno if that cancels out the fear I have of riding with him. Dole-boy ignores stop signs and red lights, and other drivers for that matter, and just barrels through at break-neck speed. Now, for him I'm sure it's cool, cause he's got 300 pounds of grade C beef backing himself up, but me, I'm not exactly the biggest guy around. I weigh 148dripping wet. So, if the dolomonger crashes, he'll just walk away like he was bit by a large flea, and I'll be all crumpled up in the car wondering why I rode home with him again. Another danger is the fact that the dole-meister gives the ole one finger salute to any driver in front of him doing the speed limit. Now I know we don't live on 21 jump street here, but there are people who carry firearms and will shoot if provoked. But again, the Doloblob has 800 pounds of kibble protecting his life and I've got a t-shirt. It just doesn't even out. So, if Dolomite ever offers you a ride, proceed with caution. DO NOT operate heavy machinery before, during, or after riding in the dolo-mobile, and if you're pregnant take the bus. He may be a bad driver, but he's a big dumb teddy bear, isn't he? Later.

-Joshman-

recommended listening for this month: THE HUNTINGTONS "high school rock". THE QUEERS "don't back down". THE MR. T EXPERIENCE "revenge is sweet and so are you". GHOTI HOOK "songs we didn't write". OUTERCIRCLE "s/t"

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FROM THE DESK OF DAVE

     The Josh speaks the absolute truth. I mean, I'm no small guy, but I've driven with Dolomite and seen many lives flash before my eyes. None of them were mine, though.

     Now, The Almighty Dave issues a command to all his faithful. Any Erie residents, GET YOUR ARSES DOWN TO WEST SIDE CDS on 26th and Greengarden in the Oakwood plaza. I was just talking to the proprietor a couple minutes ago, and he is one hell of a man. Got some stones, too. Starting from scratch. Can you believe that he has nothing but new releases?! If you want something he doesn't have, he'll order it and next day it'll be there. And local bands, give him your cds. he wants em. Seriously, support this fine gentleman. It's local business like this that keeps the apocalypse at bay.


THE PADDED ROOM
mOnkeys, chimPS, a Few gorILlas

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RANTING

     Hey there sports fans! As you know, I, the great and horny Dolomite, am here to give another great bitchfest. The topic for my bitchfest for this week: Fast food. Yes, that's right, fast food, the one thing more American than finding a way to increase the size of a woman's breasts. Yes, the thing that makes four out of six overweight people run out of money faster than Bill Clinton at a whorehouse. Of course, as some of you may know, I have inside knowledge of some of the industry of fast food. This is due to my temporary employment at one of Erie's local Burger King's. Temporary literally means, "when I can afford to leave, I will." Unfortunately, that great day will fall upon the same day that the Antichrist...err...Dixon gathers together the forces of darkness and descends upon us poor mortals with a bloodlust of biblical proportions in her dark minions' eyes that will paralyze us with fear until the moment of our deaths. Now that I have that off of my chest, we can get on to the main point of this particular Ranting. As was said before, the fast food industry grows fat on our fat-desiring tendencies and our general fatness as Americans. Look at the Whopper. It has over 600 calories, nearly 450 of which come from fat. Then there is the next step up, the artery clogging Double Whopper. This bad boy packs a whopping (thus the name) 984 calories, almost 800 of which comes from the fat of the sandwich. Then, in select Burger King locations, there is the Death Whopper*.

     This mound of beef weighs in at the following figures: 1237calories, .85 pounds (precooked estimate), 1195 calories come from fat, and enough grease to fry your owfries in when you get home. And this does not include the fries, pop, chicken, or the general grease in the air when you happen to be at one of these "fine establishments." Since Burger King is known for being healthier than McDonalds, and the fact that I just don't want to go there; I will not even make the attempt to illustrate their part in America's fat problem. So on to Taco Bell. Where Burger King, McDonalds, Wendy’s, and the rest of their ilk, piss off your colon, Taco Bell does the next step of irritation. It actually issues a challenge to the colon. It says, "Yo colon! When I am done with you, you will fear the phrase "Yo quiero Taco Bell!"". Your colon reacts with the sudden courage of holding back the laxative effects of four soft tacos chockfull of beef, cheese, lettuce, and hot sauce for at least five minutes after they have finished your stomach off. Don't make me get to the effects of their Mexican pizza. Now you are probably wondering, "Dolomite, is there any fast food that you do like?" Yes, I find that LJS (Long John Silvers) has an excellent taste to its batter dipped chicken, batter dipped fish, batter dipped shrimp, batter dipped French fries, batter dipped plates, batter dipped forks. Just put some ketchup on it, and its all good to me. Well that's all for this issue.

     Be here next time for a discussion on leather wearing, abortion hating, crack smoking, cocaine selling, hemophiliac, homophobic, vegan lesbians that believe that they have the right to tea chat a parochial school..

Dolomite

*The Death Whopper is a Dolomite-only item due to my connections. Do not order this item. They will look at you in an odd manner unlike any you have experienced before, unless you have done it before.


GRAFFITI

And I abhor baby harp seals. In fact, I wish to club them with my cock. Unfortunately, I can't club fruit flies with MY cock.

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THE TOWN SCREAMER

Dear Poet, the following is a poet's manifesto and a pledge. Please sign it and send it on to another poet that you know. Let it circulate and grow and be a vision that we can all agree upon and live by.

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AN OUTLAW POET MANIFESTO

     To be one from whose ashes someday truth shall arise -- a troubadour wandering the byways of America, traveling from coast to coast by its railroad tracks and highways, stopping off to recite your poems, to stay with a lover, visit friends--to walk the streets of cities and towns, searching for the ghost of something that may have never been but had only promised to be, and hoping to crystallize this phantom ideal through the power of your language, the sheer force of the rhythm in your heart, fire in your belly, vision in your head; to live broke and unknown but admired by other poets who are equally down and out; to watch others go that same road and come to ruin and yet to courageously continue on your way; to watch the decades pass and others less gifted then you get ahead because unscrupulous and yet to pen your words anyway, paint and hang your pictures in empty rooms and sing your song to an audience that at times is no more than just a handful of drunks who are only half listening, and to wake them up, stand them upright, watch their faces brighten and backs straighten and heads lift high because of the hopeful truth of your poems; to need people yet feel eternally a stranger; to try and reach out anyway and, with that painful joy that comes from knowing you are never truly with anyone but your Maker and the wind in the trees to live as one who believes in such crazy things as Truth and Justice, Dignity and Beauty; to be all this is to be an Outlaw Poet and to live as the Universe intended. And if, my friend, you are such a one anywhere, in any land, a writer in any language who believes in and performs such things, then you too belong to the lyrical brigands who have assembled here. Let us hijack the ship of Poetry and set sail for a new vista, a vastly different horizon then the one looming all around.
     What do we see as we pass the coast but the burning neo-fascistic world ruled by Corporations and Gingrich's, Gates and Gay Bashers and Paparazzi and child murderers? And over there, in their own sleazy corner, are the cowed arts administrators, the soul's assassins, and those slick editors and producers and huckstering dilettantes and critics who squeeze the life and meaning from American letters by pandering to what is cheap and annihilating about our culture and in ourselves.
     This manifesto is a pledge to write poems of profound decency and passion in the last days of the Twentieth Century; to be poets who share a belief in openness and freedom, excellence and democracy in an era that is without virtue or honor. For us, the new millennium just ahead promises no better then more ruin unless somehow we change for once and all the hearts and minds of the people we live among. This and nothing less must be our purpose.
     And yet, in doing so, we should not be just prophets of dishonor, rigidly dogmatic or politically correct, nor permit mere cant to pose as poetry. We must be first and foremost poets who will not compromise our beliefs, our art, and who will continue to act as though our words contain the seeds of change, and in the certain conviction that poets are yet the most dangerous persons in society, the bottom line threat to tyrants and fools.

Signed,
Alan Kaufman, San Francisco
Dave Dembinski, Erie PA


NEXT ISSUE - Part 3 of Dave Gitomer's Trilogy of Adolescent Amorosity.


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