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RUSTY TRUCK PRESS All Art by F.N. Wright Š Original Authors All Rights Reserved 2010

Contributors Alan Catlin Doug Draime Father Luke F.N. Wright Hosho McCreesh Todd Moore A.D. Winans Scot Young

book of jack senators and congressman priests and preachers sodomize gomorrah as nero plucks a minor chord on the last day of the rest of your earth one arm statues fall beside road side bombs & IUDs block the canal to covet soccer moms selling their hot pink soul for a percentage to mary kay to support their habits and hobbits are not what they once were the signs are posted on charlie’s head the one eyed prophet cries & cites jack 3:16 for he loved the road so much he sent his only forgotten son and there never was a scroll dead sea or otherwise and yoko killed rocknroll and the very soul and the weapons of mass erection fabricated on a hollywood back lot a small step for mankind and no one shares and no one cares and poetry has been doomed

and damned to hell and tarnation and raped and gagged by lucifier’s half brother naropa and it burns when you touch it it scorches the words blisters the tongue and similar similes as metaphors flash like winter grass soaked in seldom seen they are your children you taught them he said and syllables turn into ashes fall mute on the backs of dead angels there are no trumpets in the book of jack -Scot Young

lonnie & jack were playing russian roulette for quick shots of beam & ten dollar bills lonnie went first the 38 went click so loud his bones were sha king when he downed the shot jack sd i wanna get real fucked up & blew the side of his head off then lonnie drank jack's 2nd shot

& licked the blood off the ten -Todd Moore

Throwing Dice In The Dark Phil threw the dice again against the dark wall of the alley, in the only sliver of light coming from the cracked-open back door of the Tabernacle Bar & Grill. It was snake eyes once again, for the third time in a roll. Jack started laughing. "You're gonna have to put some more meat on those bones if you wanna break even," he said, "otherwise, we need to call it a night out here in the dark and get our asses inside and party with everyone else." Phil shook his head and put the dice back in his pocket. "You got a point, man. No way a cat's gonna break even out here It's all fucked-up." "Now, you're talkin," Jack said, as they both walked up the back steps of the bar, pushing the door open wide, the light streaming out into the dark alley for just an instant. -Doug Draime

SUNDAY BLUES These Jehovah Witnesses have a way Of ringing the bell at the wrong time Usually when I'm eating drinking Making love or suffering a hangover They offer me salvation and grace Their own personal vision of God When what I really need is a woman A drink a glass of ice water They want to heal my soul But it's my head that hurts Or my ass or my stomach Not my soul They come at the wrong time And for the wrong reasons Like an executioner offering A blindfold And sometimes I am grim And sometimes I am mad A joker in a frayed deck of cards But usually I’m silent A picture of everything I am not Drinking does this to you Religious fanatics do this to you They come at the wrong time and For the wrong reasons They see through my gluttony It shows in their eyes And to make matters worse

Their women (there is always one) Are young and lean They are like ladybugs sedated On the wings of butterflies I keep telling them to go away But they keep coming back until I finally get an idea And it's so simple that I don't know why I didn't think of it before I tell them I'm Catholic I tell them I would invite them in But it would be a mortal sin That I'd have to go to confession Face ex-communication from the church And they look sad but seem to understand And soon they quit coming back But a funny thing has happened I am lonely I am sad I miss the bastards Especially the young blond With the blue eyes And ass that jutted all the Way down the stairs I can't write poems I can't sleep God is not good to me God is not good to me And strange voices inside me Keep pointing me in the Direction of The Book Of John:3:16 -A.D. Winans

THE HANDSHAKE I was just a young sailor eighteen I think stationed with a guy a little older than me like his dad mr. v johnny was a sax player grew up in north beach & like his dad johnny wanted to play with the jazz greats who looked up his dad when they needed a sax player while in town for a gig myself wanting to be a writer & already familiar with "the beats" & kerouac especially johnny could get us into all the jazz clubs and bars in north beach even though I still had peach fuzz on my face whenever we went to frisco on 3 day liberties one weekend he said I was in for a big surprise but wouldn't tell me what it was vesuvio's was packed with poets & writers & though I'd read many of them I didn't recognize a soul

there was more excitement in the air that night than usual you could feel the electricity sparking in the cool night air soon the crowd pushed out the door & headed for Mike's Pool Hall it seemed to triple in size in the short distance to Mike's & Johnny & I were a part of it kerouac was in town the leader of the pack buying beers for everyone that had followed him to Mike's after a few beers & it didn't take many johnny persuaded me to approach kerouac I shouldered my way through the crowd surrounding him until I was next to him where he stood at the bar I manage to get his attention he looked at me with eyes of a drunk unfocused & I'm certain he couldn't hear what I said because of the din of the crowd but when I extended my hand he shook it & mumbled something before turning away his handshake had not been firm but rather weak & disinterested but still it was a handshake from jack which I guess if you get right down to it

doesn't mean shit & is hardly worth writing about except maybe to me. -F.N. Wright

Another Chapter in the book of Jack

Jack stared at himself in the reflection of his polished black shoes. Whatever happened to the three year old he used to be? He uncrossed his leg and smoothed the crease of his Dolce Gabbana pants. He looked at the people gathered around him, listening at the meeting. Not one of them gave a damn about what was being said. He stood up, and walked to the floor to ceiling window and looked out over Manhattan. He watched the taxis on the street splashing through puddles. "I'll be leaving now," Jack said. He didn't care that he was giving it all up. He didn't care that this meant professional suicide. He turned and left the room, and walked back into his life. -Father Luke

Jack Beneath the almost Army regulation crew was a three inch blue Mohawk waiting to grow out, "If you look close enough you can still see the dye near the roots. I learned a long time ago that a hair cut like that doesn't help pass the time when you're doing a stretch in county. Besides it makes a good impressions with the straights when you apply for a job after. Nice good looking clean cut boy like that wouldn't never do nobody no harm. " He was one hell of a short order cook but the job only held his interest for like six pay checks, long enough for the hair to start growing out, the black leather and the rings and things to appear, that other person, the head banger on acid to emerge. - Alan Catlin

Hell Mary (another page from the book of jack) holy communion in a kenworth sleeper she found jesus pint of schnapps and a kool when it was over it may have been the light reflecting off the mirror that tricked the eye but for a minute she swore it was him

-Scot Young

A STREET BOOKSTORE on A Street Hayward, California owned by an elderly man I got to know well one of the few he would allow to prowl through the mint condition paperback books on the 2nd floor many of them correct first editions like copies of Kerouac's Tristessa one day as I stood at the register after coming down from upstairs he pointed out a man thumbing through the books he was a throwback from the 50's knapsack, hiking boots, beat-looking the year was 1972 the old man whispered, not unkindly, "he was minor character in one or two of Kerouac's books & seems stuck in time." as I left I replied, "I guess once you're in one of Jack's books there's no escape." -F.N. Wright

Advice for Jack Make your peace, Jack, make your peace with this: accept that nothing you do will matter; accept that you will not "make it"; that you might only-ever sell a few copies; that you might never break through in the 'really good mags'; you might never have books made by the artisan best; that your readings, if you must do them, will be for five ugly people who all know you, or just wanted in

out of the rain; you'll make nothing, you'll be paid in copies, and you'll be either ignored or hated, and that's if you're lucky; no one will fuck you over your poetry, and, honestly, who cares? Now, go write your fool-head off anyways, if you've got the stones for that. There, put that in your book. -Hosho McCreesh

The Book of jack  
The Book of jack  

poetry anthology