A Fistful of Dope Breaks (3 Poets)


We pick and borrow
what we know

regurgitate our urge
for originality

and gorge on what came before

We render our lives
as if they were interesting
forgetting trillions and trillions of men lived
and died before us
the memory
of man stretched

to the breaking point.

No final morals, no meaning, no universal
summaries, no make-up

just a hiccup of percussion
on the drum of a mammal’s tongue
picking and borrowing all he’s ever known

and rowing into a whirlpool
like a bored god’s mouth.

Mather Schneider “Born in 1970, live in Tucson, Arizona, married, no college degree, no awards, 4 full length books available on Amazon.”



I went to Mexico
— last year — water clear
— as your eyes (blue as a charm) —
but it didn’t last, but it did ~
— hovering yr thin, but muscular, body
— — to an arch, inviting yr beauty
— [in] to my black soul windows, of
— lustful, wide, duplicate energy
— — in the orange vortices of
— — wisping horizon dusk —
— — — corazon of the Pacific
— — — — — earth turning to
— — — its many sleeps & wakings . . .

‘Sometimes I love myself, &
sometimes I judge myself (alone
w/assorted chocolates &
psychoactive cocoa)’

-and I have pictures when memories are gone,
walking in old age down the sandpaper dobe
roads,.. dry western air chipping old age off
the melanin grooves of my face — . . .
& this is what Spengler meant
as the vast rotations of fellaheen life . . .
characters of earth moving sad indolences,
making small grooves of something-nowhere-paths . . .

walking past palm trees
on the narrow sidewalks
on an immaculate haze of
tramadol, clonazepam, &
carisoprodal — like the
Miltown & Equanil of Kerouac –

as the sun beats down
on my bopping head.

8:38 am
Feb 15, 2014

When not working with his writing partners Aleister and Emaly, Jonathan Romano is usually sleeping above his hundreds of poems tucked away in a thrift-store briefcase under his bed. He has authored two chapbooks: _bone-dial=wind haikus_ and _Monongahela Sketchings_. He resides in Monongahela, PA.



One of my exes,
the preacher’s daughter
with parents from Africa,
stroked my face one
afternoon tellin’ me:
You’re not like other boys
You’re not hard or soft
You’re something in between.
And I further agreed

recognizing that side of me
that only emerges out on the court.
Cuz 89 was the year of the Snake
and the Good Lord
painted my teeth with lye.
Don’t I love

settin’ a screen
on a motherfucker.
Feeling the impact,
the soft skid and squeak
of my heels holding ground.
Watching them fall,
staring down with my look like
“Shoulda known yo”

Don’t I love
throwin’ the bow.
Bowen got rings, you know.
Justa little “tap tap”
after the pump-fake,
shakin’ hands with the third rib.
They holler, I’m Magic
I’m Kiddin’ around.
Grin, hustle, make some

Don’t I love
castin’ tha scoooowl,
Brr no handshake no good game
No goin’ nice, never got me nowhere
but home.
Then I head home,
shut out the clicks and the “pffts”
and, 100 paces ‘cross the park
I realize I forgot my basketball.

For sake of face I can’t go back
I’ve lost about 4 basketballs
this way.

Remy Antonio Albillar is a poet and essayist from the Southwest. He is a Tejano and a Sonoran dawg. He is currently lives in Boston, pursuing his MFA in Creative Non-Fiction from Emerson College. Charles Barkley is his favorite role model. You can hit him up at on IG: @remyondemand


Published by

John Thomas

Author of The Last Great Glass Meat Million (Six Gallery Press 2003), e pit ap h (Six Gallery Press 2007), endo Poems and Sketches 2007 - 2011 (Six Gallery Press 2011) and Gloom Hearts & Opioids, New & Selected Poems 1996 - 2014 (Six Gallery Press 2016). He also appeared in the anthology Honeysuckle, Honeyjuice: A Tribute to James Liddy (Arlen House 2006). (Currently making out w/ yr Mom)

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