Friday, August 09, 2013

REGLAR WIGLAR 2OTH ANNIVERSARY 1993-2013

I have no idea what this was all about. I guess it was a parody of some literary journal or supplement I saw somewhere. Maybe. Whatever. It's all made up. Enjoy!


RAIN DROPS
Published in RW#3, 1994



Welcome to the first addition of what I can only hope will be a long and successful career for the Rain Drops Literary Supplement. Regrettably, I had not a modicum of time to contribute any of my own work as I was so diligently working on the supplement as a whole—contacting various writers, poets and procuring the works of the legendary Charles Franklin Buchanan. The latter was a task accomplished with great facility, as Mr. Buchanan is deceased. Getting young writers and poets to contribute was a little more difficult, however. I would think that young artists would spring at the chance to be involved with a publication such as this. Rain Drops is, after all, affiliated with the Reglar Wiglar. But alas, none could meet my very lax deadline. Apparently, in today's hectic and poetic world, six months to complete a three stanza poem is too taxing on the creative mind and too stifling on the creative spirit. Whatever the case, or excuse, here is Rain Drops, what little of it there is. I hope you enjoy it or at least appreciate it and the work I've done, or at the very least, read some of it or maybe just read the titles and give a little contemplative "hmmmmmmm" for my sake, please—Jayne Wayne

C.F. Buchanan: Hard to the Core

The man that was, the legend that is, the late Charles Franklin Buchanan will never die. Too much legacy has been left to us for his memory to ever fade. Often thought to be the father of Hard Core Fiction, C.F. Buchanan wrote for over fifty years, leaving behind a body of work that fills three volumes of poetry, essays, and fiction. A political satirist and a sharp, unrelenting social critic, Buchanan remains unchallenged as one of America's greatest writers and crankiest old drunks.

The Forgetter of Things
by C.F. Buchanan

The rain urinated from the sky like a steady stream from a back alley drunk on garbage cans, concrete and broken city dreams. Cracker box laughter rifled through the avenue, piercing ears in its wake, sounding off like a bumper car chainsaw, waterfall screams from some hormone screw cup gushing like a bucket. Weeds, forgotten like beanbag chairs, collecting the ages in dusty neglect and discarded shoe trees whined for a little more than what they were getting. Weeds. Fucking weeds.

Booker staggered through the front door of the Back Door Tavern, wood creaking like a ruptured spleen in the night. "Goddamn the machine" were the only trio of words he could udder out of his crooked vain lips, flesh sagging like a sack of dead rats in the river. Syllables splashed on the cobblestone like dishwater--dirty and mean, filth from a thousand years of toilage and internal judgement. Bitter, then silent. Who could understand his pain? Not she. She who twisted, mangled his pumping organ rendering it incapable of any emotion with the ragged exception of rage, putrid and unholy, unclean like a bus station floor, grime, sin and filmy dirt of an unknown, undesired, unforgiving origin. You clean up this mess, man. This is your mess, man.

Booker swayed, unsteady like a ball bearing. External orbiting around playground perverts, sick and twisted. Mind? No, I insist, happy as only a molester of children can be, a forgetter of birthdays and anniversaries, unfit for the society that produced him, that preys on the weak and the sick and the tardy. You, man, you are the forgetter of things. You, man. You!

Then hunger. A new emotion sensation pelting, plastering, toppling, grating then chiding his gut wrenching bellow, balk and stammer in the sickly train light of the captured moon. Profess to know nothing. Stir, pillage, plummet, cut your gains and imitate your losses. Punch shock your sweaty deceptive dreams. Reach and shatter drive them. Watch them flutter, bewitched, hung like a horse thief in the night. Climb, grab and cling to the things you hate yourself for hating. Tamper with the pulse of the jiggly night. Be the beggar mouse princess, the pacifier of things that can not be. Son of a tax payer. Son of a brick layer. God damn the son of man.

I gotta get some sleep Booker imagined he thought to himself as crunchy knees consummated some sacred ritual with cold concrete coated earth. And then silence more soundless than the bottom of some gigantic cup of cool. Blackness to rival the dark side of Pluto's moon under an oak tree old as Jesus.

"Forgetter of Things" appeared as "Cup of Cool" in Reaction Magazine ©1990 C.F. Buchanan. This version excerpted from the novel Dirty Deeds Done for Free originally published 1991 by Big Horny Publications.

Under the Pus Filled Moon
by C.F. Buchanan

Under the pus filled moon
Things less then human dwell
Midnight to noon
In tattered rags
On nightly jags
To ring the bells of hell
In soaking trousers desire lurks
In Turkey where they sire Turks
In a can of lye a hot brain jerks
To summon sleepless voice
From prison walls to urine stalls
and shopping malls where freedom falls
Life never had the choice
Go brethren of man
Go sisters with sickly livers and splattered crow's feet
Hear not he/she who judge thee
Judgement shall you not meet
From the poison pig that danced a jig
Of those jowls you shall eat
Under the pus filled moon
I thought I heard a cry
It was the man I used to be
It was no other man than me
"Under a Pus Filled Moon" originally published in Graft Poetry Anthology. ©1981 C.F. Buchanan

Legalize Crack, Give Guns to School Children and Kill the Homeless
13 Steps to a Better, More Violent Society
by C.F. Buchanan

The press fiddles have been at it again. Fired up with their pearl lighter football games, strutting around with toothache smiles and sloe gin grins, tooling for some asphalt dumb dickey, too loaded on jag hornet bullshit and pocket swivel to cop a sense of the times at hand. It burns me like a dust bottle scalp spray when clear, clean stone demographics of where the lagheads dwell and are drowned in their own self pity are traded like a Tuscon winter sled ride for some two bit information super highway that never knew what hit it.

Leaving you and me to fight off the overzealous zealots, despots, crackpots, hacks and other politicians bleeding like an ulcer in the stomach of a nation too crushed on candy-coated sound bites and spin doctored keep-you-in-a-can cucaracha baby, "ya no puedo caminar."

If the sinners keep sinnin' then the devil keeps a-winnin' and we know better than to let a bunch of fool proof, off the bottle into the pan hooligans with jack boots and ignorant pants flailing in the heat like so many unborn burdens we least desired most. There's no easy way out of the twisted forest this time, Cinderella. We all gotta face the music even if it is your own twisted bodily nosing off about the price we pay for the people we lay.

So give crack to school children. It couldn't hurt their tiny souls anymore than the lies we pack into their knowledge vessels. Pack the pipe and clean out the filth that a plumber and a can of 'fuck you up' couldn't cope with in a termite's ass. Unpatriotic? Maybe. UnAmerican? Never.

Yes, the press fiddles have been eagerly at it again, conjuring up these mad, yet benign messages forcasting doom for the damned. Stone Demographics don't lie. You can crack a hundred eggs in a bucket and not break one yoke but that doesn't change a thing. Put that in your screw cup and drink it.

Moronic men have made meaning out of the meatless items on the menu, not knowing, not caring about the jellyfish stigma of unwashed heathen at the gate, prepared to do battle with the neverending, the unphotogenic, the cursed multitude who show no gratitude.

*excerpted from a lecture at University of Wisconsin, Madison in March 1990. ©1990 C.F. Buchanan

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