IWS Radio...You Have Advice For Me? Really?

Jay, Matt Man, and the IWS players did a radio show yesterday.

No, it’s true.

KleeShay Johnson was there, and he was hanging out with the everyday thing.

Bobby Kraft did an interview with the one and only Ben Franklin…

Who tossed it over to Willie Gene and oh mercy, the shit was on.

Buddy Acapella had birthday shout outs to Roc, and our official IWS lounge singer, Jackie…how you doin’ Jaxxx?

And we talked about internet “experts” who don’t know their ass from their hole in the ground.

The Bag Man was there with misery loves company help for Rose drinkers…

And after our personal chastisement of all of these folks, Mr. Spock summed up everything that is awful about our world.

It wasn’t pretty, but it was awesome good, so give it a listen.

And give it a listen right here…

A Special Thanksgiving Message from Paul Piatt

Gentle and heartfelt greetings to all of you discerning drinkers of the warm and aromatic coffee of life that is IWS Radio.

Renown poet and IWS Literary Editor, Paul Piatt here, bringing you some of today’s finest in the world of poetry, prose, and people.

Today during our journey along the sullied boulevard of words made magical, and life’s pentameters made iambic, I offer unto you a dollop of green bean casserole and slice of pumpkin pie of anecdotal nostalgia from my Thanksgivings past.

As a bright-eyed and wide-eyed erstwhile ragamuffin growing up in the bucolic cottage town of Moultonborough, N.H., the familial warmth generated by the annual autumnal reunification of the Piatt diaspora, was an emotional upheaval of good tidings, and the memories of which I have today, remain so.

November in Moultonborough is rife with the lavish harvest of the summer past, replete with a cornucopia of nature’s agricultural bounty as well as the comforting and beatified paradox that lies within the thunderous and towering Ossipee Mountain range to the north, and the soothing and ebbing waters of Lake Winnipesaukee to the south.

Moultonborough is enveloped by a natural hug, and for me, a familial embrace.  And I cherish with whimsy, my memories of Thanksgivings past during my many years of propagation into adulthood.

I can, some nearly three score later, smell the aroma of mother cooking a freshly plucked goose and turkey.

I can hear the whimsical conversations between my father and Aunt Louise develop into a naughty, yet, in jest only, series of double entendres and playful friskiness as they clinked their glasses full of Crown Royal.

I can see my Uncle Rupert looking into the mirror as he with the four hands of Hindu Goddess Kali trying to make his folically challenged scalp seem hair borne.

I can taste the fist of my angry cousin Winston as he would  forcefully baste his tightly curled five knuckles upon my pre-turkey ingestitive mouth…I cannot accurately describe the taste of his fist, but whenever I travel to Cincinnati on lecture tour and am served Skyline Chili, my taste buds recall the taste, and reactively recoil.

I can also, and am ashamed to say, that at the age thirteen as I was on the brink of burgeoning into a man, I remember the aforementioned Aunt Louise grabbing my hand, placing it upon her right breast and asking...

“How does this feel?”

As I was in still in my Dylan Thomas period, I responded…

“It feels that as though you have just turned me into an alcoholic.”

But alas…

I would not trade my Thanksgiving years gone by for anything, because while I have not much, I have everything…and while I do not everything, I have all that I need.

As Moultonborough summer resident and American poet John Greenleaf Whittier said…

To see our Father’s hand once more
Reverse for us the plenteous horn
Of autumn, filled and running o’er
With fruit, and flower, and golden corn!

On behalf of the IWS Radio family…

I wish you all a very happy, warm, non-judgmental, and angst free Thanksgiving!!

Paul Piatt
.

Coming Soon to IWS: A Paul Piatt Thanksgiving Message

Coming this Thursday November 28th, to the pages of the IWS Radio website...

A very special Thanksgiving message from renown poet and IWS Literary Editor...

Paul Piatt

Matt Said, Jay Said...Memorial Day 2013

Matt bugles…Jay trumpets…You sing, Taps.

Matt:  Bagwine residence, lady of the house speaking.
Jay:  Helloooo?  Helloooo?
Matt:  Helloooo?  Is this Jayman, the famous international internet radio star?
Jay:  You know it…Is this Matt-Man, the guy who prances around in Schmoop’s underwear?
Matt:  You had to go there, didn’t you?
Jay:  Of course, because not only is it funny…it’s HOT!!
Matt:  Word.

Jay:  So…Memorial Day weekend, what should we talk about?
Matt:  The Joy of Mayonnaise.
Jay:  Y’know…I love how you are so damn topical. Maybe this Christmas we can talk about Labor Day.
Matt:  I’m kidding.  I’m kidding.
Jay:  Alright then.  Can we be serious here?
Matt:  Yes we can.  Memorial Day HAS to be the topic.
Jay:  I know, because if we don’t honor the military early and often, we are sub-par radio hosts.
Matt:  And Communists
Jay:  And Troglodytes
Matt:  Don’t you mean, Trotskyites?
Jay:  Of course, that too.
Matt:  Uh-huh.

Jay:  So I was thinking we could honor those who gave all for our country.
Matt:  Sounds great, and as we should.
Jay:  But of course, do it in the light-hearted and jocular fashion that only IWS Radio can.
Matt:  Damn right.  Sometimes people take a person dying in defense of this country far too seriously.
Jay:  IKR?  It’s not like the fallen soldiers didn’t want to.  They were patriots and heroes; it’s in their blood.
Matt:  It’s in their DNA!!
Jay:  Exactly!!

Matt:  This show sounds as though it truly needs comforting words of prose from Paul Piatt.
Jay:  And the calming tones of Bobby Kraft speaking on wars and heroes gone unnoticed.
Matt:  And perhaps a weather report from Kirk Douglas so Americans can plan their cook-out schedules.
Jay:  Kirk will soooooo be there.

Matt:  We picked up a new sponsor for this week as well.
Jay:  Oh really?  Who?
Matt:  Incestry.Com
Jay:  That’s fucking funny!!  That adds a smile to the bittersweet and heartfelt solemnity of our show.
Matt:  That’s what I thought as well, I mean…
Jay:  You mean, it is right and dutiful to grieve for our fallen soldiers, but…
Matt:  But man?  Two hours of that shit?
Jay:  Exactly!!

Matt:  And speaking of fallen soldiers, we should also touch on exactly what Memorial Day is.
Jay:  Damn right.
Matt:  A day to honor those who died in battle.
Jay:  Yep.  Not those who came home alive…They have Veterans' Day.
Matt:  Nope, and not those currently serving.
Jay:  Oh hell no…Last Saturday was their day.  Armed Forces Day.

Matt:  And certainly not a day to honor those who design tree looking clothing for the soldiers to wear.
Jay:  Oh hell no, we celebrate those people on Arbor Day!!
Matt:  Word.

Jay:  So…I think we are ready for this week’s IWS Radio Memorial Day Show.
Matt:  Damn right.  We may even go, A Bridge Too Far!!
Jay:  Or end up cutting ourselves off, Midway through!!
Matt and Jay:  Oh Hell Yeah Baby, we’ll be talking war movies as well!!
Matt:  See you on the radio Sunday from Noon-2 PM ET LIVE.
Jay:  You know it big boy.

To catch this Sunday’s moving, yet hilarious IWS Radio show LIVE from Noon-2 PM ET, click HERE!!

Poetry 'n' Such With Paul Piatt

Gentle and heartfelt greetings to all of you discerning drinkers of the warm and aromatic
coffee of life that is IWS Radio.

Renown poet and IWS Literary Editor, Paul Piatt here, bringing you some of today’s finest in the world of poetry, prose, and people.

Today during our journey along the sullied boulevard of words made magical, and life’s pentameters made iambic, I offer unto you a poem by poet and co-cost of the IWS Radio Show, Matt-Man…

From his award winning book of poetry titled, Goose Eggs Over Easy, here is a poem by IWS‘ very own Matt-Man, titled…I Can’t Write Tonight…

Jayman I am sorry,
I cannot write tonight.
My sister is a jerk and incredibly uptight.

I’m trying to set up a party
for my big-footed son.
But I guess, as it is late…it’s hard to be done.

It is kinda funny
That I paid, lo all of these years
But there will be no high fives
Nor laughter
Nor cheer.

My best friend is languid, sleeping and all
My son has no clue
His Mom refuses to call back my call

I’ll take a deep breath
And the anger will pass
But for now, and until then…
They can all kiss my ass.

Goose Eggs Over Easy, by Matt-Man

And for now as I travel the road less traveled,

Paul Piatt

mattmaniws@ymail.com
@mattman_iws

Keith Olbermann Says Shame on the Pulitzer Committee

Keith Olbermann here offering an hola, cheers, greetings and salutations and a harty hail and salute to the thousands of people all over the world who read the IWS Blog. While I join the rest of America, and the world, in offering my deepest and most sincere condolences to the good people of Boston and West, Texas, I feel the need to come here today to speak out about another, equally appalling outrage.

As you may know, a couple weeks ago we learned of the 2013 recipients of the Pulitzer Prizes. No, I’m not here to complain about the failure of the committee to award me the Pulitzer for National Reporting, International Reporting, Breaking News Reporting, Investigative Reporting, Commentary or Criticism, although I most certainly deserved to win in any or ALL of those categories. I’m here today to stand up for IWS’ Poet Laureate Paul Piatt.

I was shocked and dismayed to hear that Mr. Piatt was once again overlooked. I understand the

committee’s jealousy and envy of my great accomplishments keeping them from rewarding me as I so richly deserve, but why do they treat Mr. Piatt this way? I also know that both Matt-Man and Jayman are equally as angry as I, but I’m sure they and everyone would agree that I am a much more forceful and articulate voice for Paul.

Given the illustrious career Mr. Piatt has had in the world of Poetry, one has to wonder if the Pulitzer Committee has spent most of their time wandering through the book section of their local Walmart. How could they possibly have overlooked Paul Piatt yet again? The lack of competence shown by the Pulitzer Committee is so shocking, so disheartening that I have no other choice but to DEMAND that they RESIGN IMMEDIATELY!

Have you no shame people? Do you not have any sense of decency or understanding of literary greatness at all? Here sits Mr. Paul Piatt, a good, decent man who has never asked for anything in his life. He has never called attention to himself or tooted his own horn. He has done nothing but try to bring the love words made magical to the masses. The committee could have shown the world that Poetry isn’t about elitism or about popularity, but about the words themselves. They could have reminded us that Poetry doesn’t have to be snooty and full of anger and angst.

Instead the committee decided to lower itself to the very bottom of the literary barrel and award Sharon Olds the Pulitzer for “Stag’sLeap.” Just when you thought culture could not go any lower, you are proven wrong as a poetry book about a woman’s divorce is the big winner. That’s right kids something that is better suited for Oprah’s Couch than it is our bookshelves has been elevated to the highest levels of the Poetry World. My anger and disappointment is such that I cannot put it into words. Luckily for me, my talented friend, Mr. Nispsey Russell can…

“Once again Paul Piatt was over looked
If you ask me those votes were cooked
So here’s my message to the Pulitzer Brass
The committee can kiss my fat ass”

Simple, crude, from the heart, Nipsey speaks for all of us on this day of shock and OH NO THEY DIDN’T! I, along with the entire team at IWS World Media expect the Pulitzer’s Committee response and attempt to right this unconscionable wrong with, at the very least, a very sincere apology to both myself and Mr. Piatt and a promise to reform their selection process and then ….. RESIGN IMMEDIATELY!

For IWS this has been Keith Olbermann.

Jayman3768@gmail.com
Facebook.com/Jayman68
@Jayman_IWS

In other news, Sunday was another EPIC episode of I'm With Stupid. We talked about the Boston Marathon Bombing and the terrible cable news channels. Then we previewed the NFL Draft by drafting our favorite Monarchs, Jews, Sportscasters, Poets and soooooo much more! 

Listen to internet radio with IWS Radio on Blog Talk Radio

Sometimes Ya Got Nothing...And Everything!!

Cheeeeeeers!!  Post-St. Patrick’s Day Matt-Man here…

Hey…I have a question for you all.  Have you ever fallen asleep at you’re your computer at say, 10:30 at night when you are supposed to have something up on your website by midnight?

No…Well I have!!  And that happened to me last night…go figure, right?

So, I wake up 7:30 this morning and I…gots…nothin’.

So I say to myself…”Hey the Irish had their day yesterday, let’s give the Colombians and the British their day today.”  So Here I go…

Brilliant right?  Hell yes it is and thank you, this concludes my post.

Ohhhhhhhh okay…I really don’t have anything, so let’s talk about yesterday’s IWS Radio Show which was AWESOME!!

Jayman and I launched our new two hour format, and by golly, we filled 1 hour and 58 minutes of it.  Not too bad for our first foray into a long show.

In addition to Jay and I being our typical charming and witty selves, we had laughter, music, and entertainment galore!!

We celebrated St. Patrick’s Day and all things Ireland as only IWS Radio can.

We had music from The Cranberries, The Irish Rovers, Denis Leary, and many others.

We called out and got LIVE, on the street reports of the St. Patrick’s Day festivities, from Billy the Kid who was tending the Beer Mine, and my brother Marty who was setting up for his band’s gig at the Buckeye Club here in Bagwine, Ohio!!  Those two provided us and everyone with some good radio right there.

Kirk Douglas gave a very impassioned weather report.  We drooled uncontrollably as we listened to a piece from the Dick Morris political file.  And we had local Redneckville news covered with a straightforward report by Dixie Ozark on chickens gone bad.

We talked Pope Francis, CPAC, and St. Patrick’s Day plans.  And in addition…

Joshua revealed the low down happenings in Hollywood, Paul Piatt read some very moving and uplifting Irish poetry, Slyder Balzcock reported on the All-Ireland Hurling Finals, and our very own Buddy Acapella sang Lily the Pink.

Folks, you need to listen to this show, because you won’t find funnier shows this on Cable TV.

Thanks to those of you listened LIVE and if you’d like to listen to the show in archives you can click on the IWS Funny Machine right c’here…

Cheers!!
Matt-Man
mattmaniws@ymail.com 
@mattman_iws

Poetry 'n' Such with Paul Piatt

Gentle and heartfelt greetings to all of you discerning drinkers of the warm and aromatic coffee of life that is IWS.

Renown poet and IWS Literary Editor, Paul Piatt here once again, in order to share with you some of today’s finest in the world of poetry, prose, and people.

Today during our continuing journey along the sullied boulevard of words made magical, and life’s pentameters made iambic, I once again artfully attempt to put finger to keyboard, and in one of my more randy moments, “get edgy with it”…as the vapid and unkempt adolescents of today would say.

I first met today’s guest poet in Grenoble, France during the 1968 Olympics de la Winter.  We had been seated prominently and serendipitously next to each other during the finals of the pairs ice skating event.

It was during our sitting betwixt one and other in Grenoble, that I had the good fortune to meet beat poet icon Jack Kerouac’s, younger lesser known brother, Zach Kerouac.

You see, I was in France in the winter of 1968 working on my award winning book of poetry, “Jean Genet Drank Nothing but Cham-pain” and Zach, ostensibly enough, was also in France working on his critically acclaimed, yet far less well-known book of rhyme and introspection, “Sauerkraut Tastes Better in Paris.”

It was a melodious and fortuitous meeting between he and I, as we watched in stargazement, the matrimonied Russian pair of  Ludmila Belousova and Oleg Protopopov skate to their second gold medal in as many Olympics.

The duo’s symbiotic fluidity and symmetry begged and taunted Satan to dare question the divine, supernatural, and awe-inspiring power of God.

Zach and I sat as we watched the Russian couple exude an abundance of love, grace, and athleticism upon the ice that had never seen before and will never be seen again.  It was during their perfect execution of a parallel spread eagle that Zach turned to me and said…

“These two represent a non-sequitur when it comes to the Soviets.  They are in love and their child…that child that they bore together, the greater love of their life, is the ice. And what allegorically represents the Soviet government, Paul?  The blades of their skates.  They are expected to lace up their skates everyday for Mother Russia and cut their ice child in the back.”

My thoughts moved from the exceptional beauty and excellence efficaciously provided by Belousova and Protopovov to the blunt force trauma of lexicon that Zach had instantaneously uttered.  He could see it all.

He could see that resting beneath a gold medal is a chest deflated…Beneath athletic success there is struggle…Beneath beauty, lie faults.

We kept in touch after that event which helped to shape our lives and provide definition and solidity to our souls, and before it was published in his 1974 book, “Big Brother Is Negating You”, he sent me an excerpt from that book that wondrously describes what he was feeling that day in 1968 in Grenoble…

The Sun

The Sun is Hot.
Hot, Hot, Hot.
The Sun is Yellow.
Yellow, Yellow, Yellow.
Well…
Not Exactly Yellow.

Just as the glorious sun radiates its imperfections through its spots, you and I do as well, as did the beautiful and seemingly perfect pair of ice skaters Belousova and Protopovov...Zach Kerouac is brilliant.

And now gentle readers, I bid you adieu, and look forward to once again offering you the best of the written word.

But for now, as I travel the road less traveled,

Paul Piatt

mattmaniws@ymail.com
@mattman_iws

Poetry 'n' Such with Paul Piatt

Gentle and heartfelt greetings to all of you discerning drinkers of the warm and aromatic coffee of life that is the IWS website.

Renown poet and IWS Literary Editor, Paul Piatt here once again, in order to share with you some of today’s finest in the world of poetry, prose, and people.

Today during our continuing journey along the sullied yet hopeful boulevard of words made magical, and life’s pentameters made iambic, I artfully and empathetically attempt to put finger to keyboard, and apply a balm of solace to the rage that has angrily graced the pages of the IWS website this week.

Jay and Matt, as if twins of Joshua, have spent this week openly trumpeting their anger and disdain for others who practice, preach, and or exhibit less than what one might consider ideal human behavior.

I understand their frustration with the world that encompasses them.  I too, as a young man sojourning through middle America in the 60’s, experienced a similar frustration which I wrote about in a poem from 1963...

A Negro’s in Brooklyn

I slithered through the streets of Brooklyn
like the snake through the Garden of Eden.
I nostralized the greens a-cookin’
and heard a colored family screamin’…

“Greens again mama? I can no longer do.”
“You’ll get what I fix, and you’ll like it too.”
“I want a steak like the white folk eat.”
“Steak don’t grow on trees, eat your pigs’ feet.”

An overheard conversation righted my ship.
For it was then I knew…
Pigs’ feet keep one grounded.

See, gentle readers? I too knew angst and anger yet kept it in check by the writing of words, and I hope too, that Jay and Matt, can use this as a lesson in therapy and self-actualization.

I have another cathartic poem to offer unto Jay and Matt, and you as well today.

My longtime friend and fellow wordsmith, Blanche Carte has this piece of excellelexiconitry from her new book, “Riding Shotgun with Billy Joel.”  I give you…

The Angry Cucumber

Here I sit.

Atop a mound of dirt,
sweating in the oppressive heat of the seventh month sun.

A bit of water here, a tint of water there.
I am abused and manhandled as a mighty, yet gentle flavor grows within me.

Here I weep.

Beneath the August rain,
fighting the aphids, the rabbits, the kids next door.

A bit of tending here, a tint of tending there.
I am plucked from the vine like an orphan stolen from his parents.

Dipped in vinegar…Seasoned with salt…Bathed in Rosemary.

I am stuck inside a jar and when ready for the tongue, eaten by a toothless man.

My earlier anger seems trite.

I hope that my words and those of Blanche have comforted Jay, Matt, and all of you.

For now, as I travel the road less traveled,

Paul Piatt

mattmaniws@ymail.com
MattMan_IWS

Annnnnd…Jay and I bitched a lot yesterday on the IWS Radio Show…It was a good time, and if you missed it live, you can catch it all right c’here:

Listen to internet radio with Im With Stupid on Blog Talk Radio

Poetry 'n' Such with Paul Piatt

Gentle, yet heartfelt greetings to all of you discerning drinkers of the warm and aromatic coffee of life that is the IWS website.

Renown poet and IWS Literary Editor Paul Piatt here once again, in order to share with you some of today’s finest in the world of poetry, prose, and people.

Today, during our monthly journey of words made magical, and life’s pentameters made iambic, I introduce you to a fellow tea pourer of the ginseng type, my friend and fellow, yet yellow poet (pardon me as I snicker), Deng Zhao Hiram.

Hiram is a Chinese Jew, and with the Hebrew holiday of Hanukkah nipping vigorously upon the soles of our soulless, yet plodding, and troubled feet, I thought it a most appropriate time to allow Deng to spread the wisdom of his tea leaves, and the eloquence of his bitter herbs upon the virtual pages of the IWS website.

The last time Hiram was in the states, I met him at an off-the-trolley-path coffee shop in San Francisco.  The café, cloistered amongst soiled, story-telling walls of high rises and echoing trolley bell clangs, smelled of Davidian sweat, Boxer Rebellion angst, and pierogies.

Imagining myself to be a Jewish-Chinese warrior fighting off both the Assyrians and the colonialists, I soaked in the aroma of ancient euphoric history like a sponge soaking up a 15th century stain of spaghetti sauce and herbal tea left upon the tablecloth of life by Zehng He or Mehmed the Conqueror .

Sitting down with Deng in that rustic eatery, I felt so alive, and then, while experiencing dizziness and euphoria as my head swayed side to side to the magical rhythm of an unseen metronome, in his perfect, yet broken English, Deng spoke to me…

“Rut the fuck up rith you Paullllll?”

I giggled as most poets do when in the presence of greatness of those who command the gift of words, and then sheepishly looking up from the menu which was a bit Spartan in its offerings, but did make available gluten-free items, I said to Deng…

“In your honor, I think I will be ordering the beef tenderloin in marinara sauce served gingerly upon a bed of angel hair pasta.  The angel hair pasta complements your heavenly use of the English language.”

Upon the verbalization of my culinary requirements, Deng smirked, and with a look of wonderment said…

“I think I’ll have the half-pound mushwoom burger wif a double order of unwin wings.  I am soooo sick of calramarwie and wice.”

After some secretive small chat, our dinners were served, yet before we began the ingestion of our main courses, he recited an appetizing haiku from his newest book, The Bok Choy Burned for Eight Days…

Need wight, temple dark.
Antiochus is a dick.
Ree must jack him off.

For now, as I travel the road less traveled,

Paul Piatt

And as always…Jay and Matt broadcast another epic IWS Radio Show yesterday.  If you missed their talk about sitcoms and how their uber-hot friend dissed them, and has bad taste in sitcoms, you can catch it all here:

Poetry 'n' Such with Paul Piatt

Gentle, yet heartfelt greetings to all of you discerning drinkers of the warm and aromatic coffee of life that is the IWS website.

Renown poet and IWS Literary Editor Paul Piatt here once again, in order to share with you some of today’s finest in the world of poetry, prose, and people.

Today during our monthly and continuing journey of words made magical, and life’s pentameters made iambic, I introduce you to a fellow sommelier of intoxicating words, my friend and fellow poet, Vincent St. Millay.

Vincent hails from the rich and resplendent rolling hills of the eastern Kentucky coal mining cottage town, of Pikeville, KY., and writes in a tone and temper that reflects the austere background, and prevalent communal illiteracy in which his familial rearing took place.

Whenever I talk to Vincent at this time of year, he undoubtedly oratorically waxes lovingly in timbre and song much like that of the lucid and lyrical tones of a happily impregnated indigo bunting, as he verbally relives the festive Thanksgiving celebrations he experienced while growing up in a town of 6,892 people who were all related to one and other.

And while much of his poetry is sprinkled and written on the bias of good times for all, Vincent, in his award winning book from 1994, Maybe I’d Be Happier If Didn’t Smoke Bluegrass, sums up Thanksgiving from a different point of view…

That of the turkey…

View of a Turkey*

The turkey lay on a barrow dead.
It weighed, Eustis said, as much as three of Aunt Sheila’s head.
Its eyes closed, pink white feathers.
Its trotters stuck straight out.
Such weight and thick pink bulk
Set in death seemed not just dead.
It was less than lifeless, further off, but us it will fed.
It was like a sack of wheat.
I thumped it without feeling remorse.
One feels guilty insulting the dead,
Walking on graves. But this turkey
Did not seem able to accuse.
It was too dead. Dead without a head.
A poundage of lard will cook it up nicely.
No more dignity, just a few spicelies
It was not a figure of fun.
Too dead now to pity, but man, oh yum!!
To remember its life as he cackled about
Of earthly pleasure that had been cut out
Seemed a false effort, and off the point.
Too deadly factual. Its weight
Oppressed me — how could it be moved?
And the trouble of cutting it up!
The gash in its throat was shocking, but not pathetic.
And when I did cut him, I became apoplectic
To catch a strong gobbler
That was faster and nimbler than a cat,
Its squeal was the rending of screwing a chick who was fat.
Turkeys must have hot blood, they feel like ovens.
Their bite is worse than a horse’s —
They chop a half-moon clean out.
They mock you and curse you with their evil poultry shout.
Distinctions and admirations such
As this one was long finished with.
I stared at it a long time, and knew it would be delicious…ith
We scalded it clean
Scalded it and scoured it like a doorstep…

And then, we gave thanks, and ate it like ravenous wolves.

Feasting upon the death of a turkey, cranberries in their hemorrhoidal glory, and a Jell-O mold that looked like a liver gone bad.

Happy Thanksgiving gentle readers!!

For now, as I travel the road less traveled,

Paul Piatt
mattmaniws@ymail.com
@mattman_iws

*With apologies to one of my favorite poets, the late Ted Hughes…

Poetry 'n' Such With Paul Piatt

Gentle, yet heartfelt greetings to all of you discerning drinkers of the warm and aromatic coffee of life that is the IWS website.

Renown poet and IWS Literary Editor, Paul Piatt here once again in order to share with you some of today’s finest in the world of poetry, prose, and people.

Today during our bi-monthly and continuing journey of words made magical, and life’s pentameters made iambic, I introduce you to a fellow poet and a dear friend of some thirty-five years…

The world renown Russian born poet, or poetess if one prefers…Mischie Karmakova.

For those of you well-intentioned persons who long to share in the intellectual dalliances of fine poetry, yet never seem to get around to it, allow me to offer unto you some background on the lovely Mischie Karmakova.

Upon the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991, she at the tender, yet not untainted nor un-jaded age of 25, emigrated to the United States and settled in the bucolic town of Newburgh, NY.

It is there that she began to pen her rhythmic words that speak brutally, reflectively, yet eloquently on her desperate past, her discordant thoughts on what the future holds, and her more than amorous relationship with vodka.

Her first book to be published in the U.S was her critically acclaimed 1997 book of poetry, Vodka Da, Whiskey Nyet, which charismatically compared and contrasted her feelings about the differences between living in her former homeland of Mother Russia and her new life in the United States.

From the aforementioned book, a poem she wrote titled, I Thought Potatoes Were the Only Vegetable, she clearly illustrates the lushness and richness of America’s bounty…

I had heard that far beyond my hammer and sickle borders,
things such as peas, such as carrots, and such as justice…existed.
Little did I know until I moved, that the potato upon which I had filled my body all those years,
was merely the empty starch that is Communism.

Following three more books that combined and varied in degrees of angst, wit, and hopelessness, she produced in 2005, her award winning poetic stylings that culminated in the classic book…

Ad Hominem…An Attack Upon Myself

This book contains the timeless and masterful offering, Being Tied to a Tether Ball Pole is Like Being in a Siberian Gulag, and from the prose contained within that priceless piece of poetic charm, she offers to us…

I was tied….No, I was chained.
The ball whizzed by like cosmic rain.
Trying to be still. Hoping to be free.
Gulags and tether balls make me want to pee.

And now, let’s fast forward to today. 

Just last week Mischie launched her seventh and perhaps best offering from her heart…

Fuchsia and Fornication

The book is laced with stories from her life and as always, each beat, pause, and poetic outpouring is besmirched with the beautiful and masterful verbal paintings of her well-honed craft.

For instance, a line or two from the title poem of her book, Fucshia and Fornication…

I looked hot in my fuchsia dress.
A box of donuts against my chest.
And from the street, there he waved.
He looked like Dad, so I went; I caved.

And as I approached he waved some bills.
He said he’d pay me to give him thrills.
I was so crushed, he was a John.
My fuchsia dress had done me wrong.

Beautiful as always Mischie; beautiful as always.

For now, as I travel the road less traveled,

Paul Piatt

And of course folks…Jayman and Matt-Man did another award winning IWS Radio Show yesterday that focused on Turkey Trot Week in Yellville, AR., so if you didn't catch it, you can listen here:

Cheers!!

Matt-Man

mattmaniws@ymail.com
@MattMan_IWS

Poetry 'n' Such With Paul Piatt

Gentle, yet heartfelt greetings to all of you discerning drinkers of the warm and aromatic coffee of life, that is the IWS website.

Renown poet and IWS Literary Editor, Paul Piatt here once again in order to share with you some of today’s finest in the world of poetry, prose, and people.

I was at odds as to what to pen for today’s literary repast, when while catching up on my scheduled reading, I intersected with Matthew-Man’s eloquent and deliciously ribald entry from Monday, which with exacerbated clarity, he spoke of his of his friendship with a woman who is neither his wife nor his girlfriend seemingly lovely muse named, Miss.

Upon completion of the reading of his witty musings, a spontaneous bolt of serendipity struck my creative juices and they began to boil over into a bisque of beauty and beneficence that is today’s offering.

You see, I too, have a special friend…a friend that has for years, and will for years to come, be the pacemaker of my heart, the peacekeeper of my soul, and in more colloquial terms, my pal o' pals.

His name is Thomas Dylan, a more than spectacular poet in his own right, and we recently reconnected after weeks of painful, personal, and professional separation.

As the comical kismet of irony would have it, we ran into each other this past Monday which would have been Tennyson’s 203rd birthday, at The Lady of Sha-Latte Coffee House in Yellow Springs, Ohio.

Oh my goodness.  Only my haughty stoicism and introspective nature prevent me from publicly laughing with vigor and alacrity over the myriad of ironic vagaries that could be made as a result of our jocular concurrence.

Thomas Dylan and I have known each other for nearly fifty years, and get together often, however, recently there developed an abyss between us that was perpetrated by a deep and profound tragedy in Thomas’ life.

He at long last, graciously shared his feelings with me Monday in the form of a hauntingly beautiful, yet painful poem that he recently penned…

The Greyhound Has No Eyes

Somewhere between dusk and dawn,
lies the night.

The night.
Where underneath its ebony foulard,
lies the “me.”

The me.
A creature blinded by darkness and fear,
awaits the dawn.

The dawn.
Illuminates my heartache as I rise once again,
to catch the bus.

The bus.
Rabid, speedy, and clad in steel; which ran over my lover,
six months ago.

Six months ago.
The last time I laughed.
The last time I loved.
The last time I lived.

© 2012 Thomas Dylan

You can read more of my friend Thomas Dylan’s work in his new book, Life is not Fare.

Also, I will be back here next month with a few excerpts from my newest, soon to released book of poetry…

Crabcakes and Unicycles

And now gentle readers, I bid you adieu, and look forward to once again offering you the best of the written word.

For now, as I travel the road less traveled,

Paul Piatt

mattmaniws@ymail.com
@mattmaniws

Poetry 'n' Such With Paul Piatt

Good day to one and all, ye gentle perusers of the I’m With Stupid web log.

With great care and humility on my part, and in conjuncture with a brief and kindly given moment of your time, allow me to introduce myself.

I am Paul Piatt, the new Poetry and Literary Editor for I’m With Stupid.

Some of you may already be familiar with my name from the myriad of books that I have penned over the years, and the awards I have dutifully earned, and humbly accepted.

For instance, in 1998, I was named Poet Laureate of American Samoa for my South Pacific inspired book of prose and poetry titled...

“Unleavened Breadfruit.”

Of course, most of the literary world is more familiar with my 2003 compilation of poetry and short stories inspired by my travels while holidaying in Cyprus titled...

“I Was Greeked-Out in a Turkish Bathhouse by Plato and Herodotus.”

For those few who may be unfamiliar with Paul Piatt and his craft, I offer unto you, this postaforementioned synopsis of my curriculum vitae…

For two score and ninety percent of another score of my five decades plus eight on this beautiful oblique spheroid that we corpuscular beings call Earth, I have dedicated my life to teaching the written word, seeking out the best of the written word, and above all, making love with and to, the beauty that is the written word.

Indeed…My temptress, my mistress, my target d’amour, is the lady called, Language.

And to that end, I would like to metaphorically look beyond myself, and attempt to ingratiate you and the Lady that is Language, to a new, and up and coming poet, one…Byron Lord of Wooster, Ohio who artfully wrote the following...

The Postman Never Rings Twice

I saw the mailman spryly step down the communal lane of my apartment complex.
He paused for a moment, and then with his rough and experienced hand,
began to micro-sort the tender trappings of communications he was carrying.

And then, woefully…

In the form of a meteorological banshee, a sudden gust of wind
carelessly and callously, kidnapped a letter from the hand of the strapping civil servant,
and I wondered…

Was that letter intended for me?

Was that carefully enveloped and well typed out communiqué, Jesus himself reaching out to me?

Was that piece of mail that is now reveling in the abandon of the warm currents of summer air…

An invitation welcoming me home to the sense of self I knew long ago?

I would have asked the postman if he knew, but of course…

The Postman never rings twice.

--Byron Lord

And now gentle readers, I bid you adieu, and look forward to once again offering you the best of the written word.

For now, as I travel the road less traveled,

Paul Piatt

neshobadude@yahoo.com
@mattmaniws