Bar Writings part 3 by Alan Berg

6/10/06  @ John Henry’s

Went to the Horsehead briefly for a shot of whisky.  Nobody there I knew so I checked out the artwork for five minutes and left.

I struggled w/ the “God” concept, again on my way over here.  It’s the math problem I can’t solve.  I don’t know if I’m trying harder to figure shit out and therefore, getting deeper and being faced w/ tougher concepts to understand or if I’m just getting more and more worn out and giving up easier.

Supposed to be some kick-ass metal band here tonight.  I hope they crush my nuts w/ guitar and serve my brain like cabbage w/ their vocals.  Seems to take a foot up my ass to move me much anymore.  I used to think getting older meant deterioration of the physical, but I’m now realizing it’s more insidious.  Age= less and less hope for those who grow older.  Loss of hope= deterioration, not the reverse.  It’s a powerful spell to defeat.  Some folks, they find what they were looking for and lose hope like you lose your tonsils.  No need to keep dreaming, man.  You get the woman, have the kids, good job, people like you…you make a deal w/ the bigger powers to stop hoping for better if they’ll let you live out 30 years or more in relative….

“In The Name of God” = Band (arrgh-metal)

“Sorry I’m a fucking fag” – says lead singer.  Claims that even if he doesn’t come from here, Eugene is the best show.  Apparently, we’re all on DVD here tonight, though I doubt very much the cameras are gunning for my table here in the back of society (and the bar).  Still, I paid only $3.

Where was I?  Obviously I’m not at peace, so my goal is to keep hoping.  The dark brother of hope that must be dealt with is: “dissatisfaction”.  People, all people, hate whining.  Whiners are universally seen as not only bad but justifiably killed in the dark alleys of the universe.  Unless there’s a tribal council, people w/ complaints in this country are viewed as the fuckers in check-out lines who write checks and ask what the date is from the next person in line.

Looking at the mosh-pit now.  I’m not there because I don’t have their energy nor enthusiasm for this sport anymore.  Normally, I’d discredit the worth of said attributes but really, I’m just jealous.  I used to care.  I used to want to be up in that crowd, jumpin’ up and down so bad.  I’d do it (despite my OCD qualities).  Now, from this balcony seating, I merely gaze w/ “old man impunity.”  But I’m not happy w/ this.

Aw, look at these stylish fuckers.  They rock like Iron Maiden during a  solo and they have the stage presence of a topless dancer after Robin Williams bombs.  Needless to say, I like them, but am too nervous to get into the pit and on camera.  If I wrote this 13 years ago, I would’ve smoked pot!  And I did!  Hooray for consistency.

There sometimes is a ghost who lingers nearby me.  I saw him tonight.  Thought about not mentioning it, but re-evaluated, thinking of posterity.  I’ve seen it before.  Always hangs in the shadows when I’m drinking.  Either I’m too drunk ) not the case yet) and wanting to see such or ghost is real and choosing best scenario not to get discovered by outsiders.

More on the Ghost:

Seems neutral for now.  Always corner of the eye thing.  I think there’s someone there, etc.  It is dark and there’s many shadows where I sit.  Could be non-ghost.  Could be shadows, yet seems to have personality…probably one I prescribe for it.  I don’t know, I’m just trying to be smart about this.

So the band doesn’t sound better than any garage in Eugene on a Thursday night.  Why do they get to air this concert on the internet nationwide?  There’s no stage presence (besides the usual black t-shirt-wearing rockers thing, minus any banter w/ the crowd).  I’m thinking they’re banking on the crowd to make this happen by announcing the whole “broadcasting” thing.

For the love of god, it’s not bad but not good.  It, meaning said band on stage, just like hard elements of rock put into a blender and poured out onto the John Henry’s stage, just like 96% of everyone else.  I don’t mind, in fact I condone, bands gettin’ songs together and showing their stuff, regardless.  The thing I hate about this band though, is that they did as I prescribed, yet think they’re unique and good enough to announce “this show is gonna be recorded.”  So was I, at the age of 4, by my parents.  We didn’t call the neighbors over for a CD release party.  We recorded my shit in secret and brought it to light, against my will, every time a new girl came into my life and visited my parents.  Oh well, self-esteem is the big prize.

The band is now done playing and all their friends are getting out of their seats and shaking hands.  I’ve  been here before.  I, too led a band into congratulations from my parents.  Just ask Steve.  Aw Steve…the reason I still drink.

It’s now 10 ’til 2.  I’ve got 11.00 dollars and a full beer.  There’s part of me trying to rebel.  So—– across the street when we finish.  The rebellion is due to the fact that I may engage in a little snuff this evening.  We’ll see.  If no people come out of the woodwork then it’s on.  Meaning: I get chew, call Tamra, get rejected, hate her, write about it, then forget my hatred.

There are people looking at me, but not that much.  A glance, usually.  There is a chemistry of wonder, but they all want to know why without approaching the stranger.

AND NOW  THE WRITER RESPONDS:

There’s a light in my face, to erase the desire to come back in.  But…what can I say, other than I must leave.  Still, I can hear everyone here.  The guy in the kitchen, the peeps at the bar.  They all talk individual talk and its like sucking the sweet flavor out of the Honeysuckle flower: High expectation, low yield.

Parking Meter

@ 2:50 am, called Tamra from pay phone, asked if I could walk over…she seemed pissed, though I did nothing wrong.  She said, “I’m tired of this relationship, Alan.”  Don’t let her forget this tomorrow, when she shows up at your door apologizing!  Chances are she’s finally being truthful.  Could’ve been I’m not happy w/ this relationship.

Or (at another parking meter @ 14th & Willamette).  Could be “I’m unhappy w/ this relationship”- but it really seemed like “unsatisfied”, bases on my faulty memory.

So that’s done for now.  Now I’m @ 15th-ish & Willamette and thinking the streets are almost like the bar: opportunity to BS w/ a cop or a passerby is keeping my interest.  I’ve done nothing wrong and I’m feeling very social yet!, I’m ok w/ going home w/ myself and being with said self.

What I wanted to remember was: this state of mind (siren in background just now).  Alan, its quiet now and you’re all alone on Willamette St.  This feels good.  Maybe cause you’re alone.  Maybe cause you’re finally reflecting when you normally wouldn’t.  This is not a place you should strive for (alone, buzzed, and stopped in the middle of relative* nowhere [relative meaning all is dark and quiet now cause its 3:15 am]), but you always want to distance yourself from this (and for good reason).  Just remember the good of this.

Mayonnaise???

Beth Ditto shows up in gossip columns and I relate more to Liono & Cheetara saving unicorns.  The state of the world is in shambles, I know, I liked it on facebook when my mom posted it.

2011…the year of the numerologist.  Nostradamus wuz right: McChickens are still one dollar.

The man with the brown hat shaves his head and the cow barks at midnight.

Ruminations on Love & Fucking Poets by A.g. Synclair

Ruminations on Love & Fucking Poets

I knew this girl

when I had that blue Camaro

when I hung copper wire out my bedroom window

to pick up far off jazz stations on my shortwave

before sex

could kill you.

she called herself

a poet

so I fucked her

on the dirty bathroom floor

of a wood panelled fern bar

left over from the 1970′s.

the kind of place

where any dumb fucker could get laid

as long as you were clean

and bought Black Russians

for girls who would fuck guys

that would fuck girls like them.

which was better than not fucking

on a Saturday Night

when the world was cumming all over each other

and the only other option

was jerking off in the IHOP bathroom

or pancakes.

sometimes

I see her in front of the Haymarket

drinking coffee

selling homemade chapbooks

and broadsides

to old hippies.

someone told me

she got published

she got published

received a check for two-hundred dollars

and five contributor copies

of New Voices in Contemporary Poetry.

I’ve read her poetry
and just between you and me

I’m betting
New Voices in Contemporary Poetry

-like simple submission guidelines-

cumming together

and love

is only
an illusion.

© 2010 Ag Synclair

Untitled by Joe Cripps

Dark man, real dark
I’m talkin about that deep inky darkness you feel,
when you are alone and thinking hard on old times
when aint a damn thing around you make you wanna see the sun
been thinkin hard on what used to keep me goin way back in the when
so I go get my knife, the really fucking sharps one with the broken serrations
gonna do a little painting on the skin canvas like back in high school
so i draw the broken teeth hard across my left arm,
high enough that my t-shirt will prevent awkward questions
and all it does it hurt really amazingly bad, and bleed a whole lot
no rush or relief of tension
just a loud “FUCK!”
and a mad dash for my first aid kit i stole from my last firefighting job
so i stand in the bathroom,
holding a wad of gauze and iodine against the gash in my arm
and realize that i have grown up
and shit is a little more complicated than it used to be
and i stare at myself in the mirror,
with my blue eyes that are losing the blue
as the blood that ran down my arm hardens into a thick black crust
and i hope to god i don’t need stitches
because i am an american,
and we don’t get health care without losing so much money we can’t make rent
and i realize how stupid this whole thing is
you can’t fix yourself with a knife
you can’t bleed your way into mental health
all you can do is make a mess that you hope won’t blow your security deposit
so i peel back the gauze and it isn’t too bad
i slap on a clean piece of gauze with some ointment and cover it with with duct tape
and i get back to living my life.

“Thank You…motherfucker.” M.O. Interviews Ray Succre

Steve:  Ok, we’re sitting down here at the Blue Moon restaurant, me n’ Ashly Salmon, w/ Ray Succre.  It’s Thursday, December 23rd, 2010.  And it’s about 3:45 pm in the afternoon.  Um, we’re in Cooze Bay, Oregon.  Ray, take the mic.

Ray:  How you doin’ Cincinnati?

(laughter)

Steve:  Ok, so you’ve been writing awhile, you’ve got some shit published…what’s yr ultimate goal as a writer?

Ray:  I think my ultimate goal, as regards to writing and publishing, is to get as many people as I can to actually read what I spent all that time writing and trying to get published.  Um, I managed to do the first step, which is to write a bunch of things.  And the second step  of the phase is now complete as well, because a lot of it got published.  The third step is to get someone to read it and that’s the one that’s kind of out of my hands, so I’m having a hard time getting that one done.  The fourth step would be to get paid and that’s gonna be even more difficult.

Steve:  Why don’t you tell us about yr recent projects?

Ray:  Well, first of all, I changed my name.  It is now Blackjack…my most recent project is a book I wrote with my son called Beyond the Great Gate…

(waiter interrupts)

Ray:  I could use some more coffee when you have the time.  Thank you…motherfucker (after waiter leaves).

(Laughter)

Ray:  No, I wrote a book called Beyond the Great Gate.  I did it for NaNoWriMo.  It’s not really my thing to do NaNoWriMo, but I decided to go ahead and give it a shot.  Uh, the idea was my son was gonna give me a bunch of details and a story line and then I was going to write it as an actual cohesive novel and then read it to him at night as a bedtime story for like a month and a half or two, which we did.  He loved it very very much.  He was cheering at the end, which made me feel really good.  I’ll remember that forever.  I have no plans on publishing it, but, uh, I did write it, so it’s my first and probably only venture into writing fantasy, which is real weird, uh, not my thing at all.  Uh, before that I wrote a book called Miel.  Before that I wrote a book called Thank You and Good Night, which I’m revising right now.  And those are my most recent projects.  That and sending out things to, ya know, various magazines and trying to, you know, kind of shoot a wad at Modus every now and then and destroying Frankie Metro.  Back to you Steve.

Steve:  Um, this question comes in from a fan of yours from Oregon and she wants to know…Ashly from Oregon wants to know why you use a pen name?

Ray:  That’s a very astute question.  You see, Steve, and Ashly if yr listening…um, a long time ago I decided that I wanted to, y’know, write, and eventually the internet was invented and so I did that vain thing that most of us did when the internet first got invented, which was to look up our names to see if there was anything about us.  I don’t know what we thought would happen, like there’d be secret files or something, but in looking at my name I discovered that somebody, with my exact real name, Robin Morrison, uh, had a shit load of books out and I thought “that’s kind of strange and lame”, and I looked and he was a very famous photographer from New Zealand, um, was a great photographer, I’d love to take pictures like that.  There was also some other guy who was writing short stories and it wasn’t me and since all I wrote at that point were short stories and occasionally trying to write a novel, I just didn’t want to share the card catalog with someone in the future, so I decided to use a pen name.  Um, I’d always liked the name Ray and then, uh, one day while I was at the Blue Moon, I had a sugar packet from Canada, from Montreal, and on the back it said “sucre”, s.u.c.r.e., and, uh, I wrote that down after the word “Ray” and added another “C” just for the fuck of it, I don’t know.  I guess I thought I was being artsy.  And I’ve been using that name ever since.  And I’ve now officially signed that name exponentially more than my real name and when I look in the mirror I actually think my name is Ray Succre.  That’s how much I’ve used it.

Steve:  How do yr ideas come to you?

Ray:  I have an old, retired Good Year blimp in my backyard that I have tethered to one of those old, y’know, giant satellites that people had in the 80′s.  It’s no longer functional, but the blimp is, so I attach it to this little steel cable that I have, it’s a 40 pound test, and I let the winds take it up into the sky.  And when the blimp comes back down, eventually, y’know cuz it runs outta helium…helium’s expensive, I can’t really afford much of it…so it eventually drifts down towards the Post Office and I gotta real it back in.  And when I do I’ll find a piece of paper on it and attached will be some sort of idea.  I haven’t figured out who’d been putting these ideas on the blimp yet, um, y’know a part of me wants to go “it’s some sort of magical thing like God” or whatever, y’know, doing it, but I’m a realist, I know there’s somebody out there that’s been writing massively strange things on these papers.  But I like turning them into novels.  I actually have no ideas of my own.

Steve:  So, on that note, how does yr wife put up with yr dedication to writing?

Ray:  I am an excellent lover: renowned in 3 counties now.  I’m looking to add a 4th.  I also cook and there’s no one to watch our son, so I’m kind of crucial most of the time.  Um, I occasionally forget to do the dishes, but I make up for it by writing characters who do dishes.  So in a certain way, I kind of managed to round all the bases.

Steve:  I see…do you plan to live in a small town forever?

Ray:  Dear God no!  I’ve actually tried to leave Cooze Bay many many many times, but like a sordid kind of sociopathic exgirlfriend, I just can’t get its fingers from around my neck.  Uh, I’ve left a couple of times, and due to financial difficulties have had to come back.  I plan on moving as soon as I have my Community College creditting all done, so that I can transfer out of here, which should be within the year.  Um, I’ve been honor-rolling my way through cuz I’m cool like that.  Uh, I’m hoping to get to Iowa or somewhere else, but I am gonna transfer to University and it is my hope never to, uh, live in Cooze Bay again, unless maybe I retire here.  I like small towns, but it’s gotta be near something large where people read.

Steve:  And then Ashly’s got one written here that I can’t really read, so…

Ray:  No.

Steve:  Oh, ok.

Ray:  No, go ahead.

Steve:  This one right here…

Ray:  When did she get here?!

(laughter)

Ashly:  So, your son said the word “platypus” at a young age.  Were you a good talker then?

(chuckling)

Ray:  Yes, yes, I orate and I speak well.  And when my son asks me questions, I give him detailed and rather large explanations of things, to the point where he’s almost sick of it, but he does learn quite a bit, ah, y’know, we had a word of the day thing going for awhile where I’d be like “today’s word is ‘vivid’…” and I would teach him what “vivid” meant and then “today’s word is gonna be ‘plausible’…” and I taught him what “plausible” meant, which was an open doorway to teaching him what “implausible” meant and so, uh, my son’s got words, yeah.

Steve:  So, uh, Frankie Metro has challenged you to a rap battle…how’s that going?

Ray:  Any chump steps to me gets thrown.  I worked him over.  I blacked his eyes.  I troubled him.  I bothered him.  That’s pretty much about it, ya know, that’s my dime.  I hit him so hard it feels him where his undies climb.

Steve:  Alright, we got a couple minutes left.  Uh, well I got one more question for ya, Ray.  Would you ever sell yr soul to Satan?

Ray:  I did that in the 6th grade.  I didn’t have any video games left.  I was all mad cuz I beat all my games and there was this game that came out that I thought would be really cool, called 3-D World Runner, for the NES.   And I was walking around on the playground one day and I quietly muttered to myself, “I would sell my soul for 3-D World Runner”, and when I got home that day, my dad had bought it and so, uh, I don’t know if that was just weird coincidence and he happened to pick the game that I wanted that I never told him about, or if  in fact I am now hell-bound, but, uh, that game sucked and I regret it…it’s a true story.

Steve:  Wow, that sucks…Satan punked you.

(laughter)

Ray:  Yeah, Satan punked me for a shitty game!

Steve:  So, um, you know, you’ve been a long time contributor to Modus Operandi…

Ray:  Seven times actually…

Steve:   Seven times apparently…again.  So, um, y’know, is there anything you’d like to add to this interview for our fine Modus readers?

Ray:  Steven Purkey is a brilliant man.  The things he does with his magazine…there is no comparing all the bounty that is Modus Operandi and its head captain, Steven Purkey.  There’s no way you can compare that to any other thing currently being processed in this bulk of a nation we call America.  I would venture to say that Steven Purkey is America…all the way in, as far as you can get, into Steven Purkey…that’s America!

Steve:  Ahh, well, Ray, thank you.

Ray:  Your welcome, Steven.

Steve:  Ashly, thank you.

(Ashly chuckles.)

Steve:  (at Ray)  We got 5 seconds, go!

Ray:  Fuck, I don’t know man, uh….

(End of Interview)

Submit!

Modus Operandi Zine is now accepting submissions for issue #19.  Send shit to moduszine@hotmail.com or just leave as comment right here on this site.  Thank you for your support!

HIGHdra Syndicate Radio Show Ft. Modus Operandi!

 

h:70552 s:1424602

Check out the blogtalk radio show we did w/ Frankie Metro and Diana Rose! today our guest is STEVEN PURKEY: the editor and founder of MODUS OPERANDI, the print/online quarterly mag that has been felching the blood from the small press world since 1997 and based out of the Portland area. open mic as always to follow the interview.

 

http://www.blogtalkradio.com/highdrasyndicate/2010/12/12/the-sunday-brunch-invasion-w-angelheart-and-franki

The Future Is Now by Steven Purkey

We have no more time.  Things aren’t falling apart, they’ve already disintegrated!  The apocalypse is over.  Armageddon was yesterday’s news.  The future is now!  Get up and live!  Before you die!!!

The madness of this post-apocalyptic chaos is that no one is stepping up to lead: take charge.  Our leaders don’t even know what the fuck is going on, so why give them the power?  Take it back!  Start taking over!  Take what is yours, which is whatever you can grab!  Do it now!  Before you die!!!

The preparation is over!  Time to act quickly, act now.  It’s already too late!  Do it now!  Before you die!!!

Soldiers and Media by Ashly Salmon

Soldiers and Media

by Ashly Salmon

 

camo men get shot up in deserts

pulling triggers towards people who kill their own

brothers, sisters

sons, daughters

 

the heat is in deserts of their minds

fighting for unknown strangers

their families

 

drinking dirty water

with stains of dirt on their back

and finger tips

 

broadcasted all over the nation’s televisions

cameras in helicopter

when it seems only the cameramen survive

 

reporters talking to fellow men

women

who are now suffering with ptsd

maybe became an amputee

 

legs split apart by bullets

leaving stubs for knees

doctors construct prosthetics

 

hoping to get a right fit

and give them a chance to walk again

psychiatrists slop signatures on sticky notes

to deliver pills to cure the auditory hallucinations

or a blurred mirage of their mind’s eye

 

again televised

factory printed

only to get the fabricated bullshit

that we don’t really know nor have we seen

unless we have stepped foot and listened to the

desert of their minds

Epic Rap Battle between Joe Cripps and Newamba Flamingo

Dear Mr. Purkey,

I find my self sitting at Ray Succre’s house, playing Rock Band 2, drinking whiskey and cokes, and eating tacos Mr. Succre has kindly made.  I am also perusing the latest issue of Modus, which featured me and you neglected to send to me, again, you commie fuck, the only reason I have one to read is because the lovely Ms. Ashley Salmon has furnished ray with a few copies.  I digress, while reading this toilet rag I came to the conclusion that I want to use this perverse and poorly written “zine” as a forum for the airing of grievances, in other words, I hereby challenge Nuwamba Flamingo to a written rap battle.  Here is my opening attack…

Your words are whack

you must be smoking crack, Jack

you oughta know

I got the flow to make you go

to the bathroom and read modus

you see my name and weep

I’ll put you to sleep, creep

you can’t dodge the sweep

of the of the bullets from my crew

Me and Ray got a .22

it’s a Henry repeater

you know if I shoot a doe I’ll eat her

so if you think you can roll

don’t just sit on the dole

hit me back, don’t ask

and like Slayer I’ll wear you like a dead skin mask.

boo-yah

Joe Cripps aka Dj Tubbyboots

Newamba Flamingo August 7 at 2:03pm

i’ve seen your stuff there and i liked it. but if you wanna step up and get bitch slapped in a rap battle, then i can arrange that. i saw that wack sucker ass shit you sent to purk. now i retort-

so wanna step to the kid
bitch ass nigga
i make you wish you never did
your rhymes is wacker than wack
worse than a necrophiliac
and i bet yo breath stink too
just like doggy doo doo
i gonna shave all your hair with a chainsaw
i is the baddest motherfucker that you ever saw
see you in the street and run you over with my lexus
that’s how i flex this
kung fu chop yo bitch nigga ass
right in the solar plexus
cuz that be how i wreck this
motherfucker
step off before i twist da latest issue of modus up
and swing it at your nuts
like what
word is bond

Joe Cripps August 9 at 7:24pm

essen mein scheisse, you pink pussy punk
I keep yo body dead in my trunk
what you know about a killer mentality
I leave your body bloody from my battery
bestrafe mesch, ich will bestrafe du
listen to these words
I bet you never knew
my name is not a dick so keep it out of your mouth
I be droppin dirty bombs on the dirty south
bringin sucka shit, bitch I thought you knew better
you don’t wanna fuck with the neck shredder
ich will faust fick du
even in german I will fist fuck you

Newamba Flamingo August 10 at 4:20am

ha ha ha ha!
fick dich
bitch
your german is shit
your retort can even fick with one line that i spit
it’s on
so you
better
duck like fuck
slap u like a mack truck
you talking about dicks
well mine you can lick
and suck
you getting stuck
with my desert-made scimitar
i cut off your nuts and keep ‘em in jar
and feed ‘em to the feral cats
then i beast you up the ass with a metal baseball bat
and swing the shit covered stick at your ugly ass face
you a total disgrace
your rhymes make me wanna puke all over the fucking place