Jack Grapes


Photo by Alexis Rhone Fancher

( The haiku are from Jack’s forthcoming book,
301 haiku.)

Hearing Mom and Dad
fighting in the bedroom room.
Outside, the red moon.

I lost who I was.
Then I found who I would be.
Only who I was knew.

In the safe darkness
of the theatre I find truth:
Annie gets her gun.

There’s Charlie Chaplin
running but getting nowhere—
a plan for a life

falling in rhythm
to the buzzing of the bees
over something dead

Would that I was wise,
not this enlightened monkey
wearing monkey mask

They open my chest
and then put my heart on ice
while my brain simmers.

To write War and Peace:
In the stationary store
ask for more paper.

Poetry kills me.
I can’t face its stern demands,
heart filled with cobwebs.

When I’m gone, I’ll sure
miss that dove whose song wakes me,
but will she miss me?

Fortune cookie says,
“You will go on long journey.”
Pay check. Leave at once.

How to eat this life?
Break the past into pieces,
eat one piece at a time.

I love this sharp knife.
How it cuts the red pepper.
Salad filled with blood.

My childhood is gone.
I don’t want to go back there.
Too much mystery.

Once I was a dog.
No one was afraid of me.
I licked people’s hands.

I’m a proud Virgo.
One day I’ll be organized,
surrounded by worms.

Some things are too sad
to write about on paper.
My closed mouth writes too.

Poems not money
give such meaning to my life.
Sometimes meaning sucks.

Shakespeare, bricklayer.
Dante, the wise carpenter.
Me? Corn to chickens.

At a loss for words?
Call Jack Grapes, home or office,
day or night, for help.

I’ve squandered so much,
and given less than I could,
asleep in the rain.

Sit still a minute.
Now, let your heart open wide
and see what falls in.

Jack Grapes


The Rapp Saloon is Proud to Present…

Alexis Rhone Fancher and Lisa K Thayer In an All New 2-Woman Show,
“2 Hot L.A. Poets Bare Their . . . Souls”
Friday, January 24th
8:30 P.M. at Hosteling International, 1436 2nd St. in Santa Monica
Open-Mic to Follow
Photo by Alexis Rhone Fancher
Alexis Rhone Fancher
Alexis Rhone Fancher is an L.A. based poet/photographer whose work can or soon will be found in Rattle, Fjords Review, The MacGuffin, Deep Water Literary Journal, BoySlut,  HighCoupe, Gutter Eloquence, GoodMen Project, Bare Hands, Poetry Super Highway, The Juice Bar, Poeticdiversity, Little Raven, Bukowski On Wry, numerous anthologies, and elsewhere. Her photographs, published world-wide, include a spread in HEArt Online, and the covers of Witness and The Mas Tequila Review. A member of Jack Grapes’ L.A.Poets and Writers
Collective, Alexis was nominated for two Pushcart Prizes in 2013. She is poetry editor of
Lisa K Thayer
Lisa Thayer is an award winning stage actress, Member of The Actor’s Studio,
Photographer & Poet, Creator of The Poetry Juice Bar Website, Reads her poetry around LA, including Poetry In Motion at Beyond Baroque
Library Girl at The Ruskin Theatre & many other venues. She is also a member of Jack Grapes’ L.A.Poets and Writers Collective.

“Like Girls Do” by Susan Staraci

Image 9

“I hear the moan that gets lodged in your throat,” she says.  That

‘uh, uh, uh, uh,’ I do.

Just like boys do. “My Butterfly Penis!” I say. She likes


to look at my face right before I make her

cum.  “To watch your conceited gaze, “ she says.  The

point at which she knows I

have her.  “What else do you see? “ she says.  “I hear a little

girl. With a dainty voice.  Making


soft sounds,” I say. It’s more of a look on your face.  Your angles

get softer.  Like the muscles in your jaw relax. 

But if you could fit inside my skin with me and fit inside my

love for you.  You would see, you would feel all that I know. 


And you would lie there naked-unafraid.  Totally

exposed.  Like a little show-off.

Susan Staraci

– Photo by Alexis Rhone Fancher

© 2013

“Captain At The Crow’s Nest” by Benjamin Bourdon

On Fridays we wear fedoras and go down to the Crow’s Nest. The ocean view reminds the Captain of Key West, or as he calls it, “Kayo Waso.” I order him the tempura prawns and a glass of chardonnay. As soon as we’re seated, I watch his pale blue eyes following the young waitresses in their short skirts and high heels.
“Nice atmosphere!” the Captain shouts at me across the table. Then his eyes dart back to the tan legs and red lips.
“Sure is, pal.”
“I’m hungry!” he says, as if it’s an amazing discovery.
“How convenient, I just ordered you the prawns.”
“The frogs?”
“I don’t have any fucking idea of what he just said. I’m all fucked up.” He makes eye contact with me. “I’m sorry, I was just talking to myself, not to you.”
“That’s okay, Captain. I ORDERED YOU THE P-R-A-W-N-S.”
“Didn’t you just fucking say that?”
“I did. I thought you didn’t hear me.”
I start to explain again, until I notice the Captain’s grin sneaking out from under his bone-white mustache.
“You heard me, didn’t you?”
His smile confirms my suspicion. “WOOOOOOOP WOOOOOP WOOOOOOO!” he hoots. “She has a nice leg, WOOOOP WOOOOP!”
I follow his eyes to a waitress at the table next to ours.
“Good news, pal: it’s got a twin.” I laugh.
“I’m a dirty old man. Well, just call me DOM then,” he says, taking a sip of his wine. “I’m hungry!”
“Good, I ordered you the prawns.”
“The who?”

Benjamin Bourdon

Photo by Alexis Rhone Fancher

© 2011

“upon running into my ex on a summer afternoon” by Alexis Rhone Fancher

we up broke.
got back ack ack.
broke down, betty.
broke open like eggs,
crack crack.
we had a rhythm,
a mad love,
mad, I tell you!

how long’s it been, baby?
you up still to
no good?

oh, that hot
tequila night
I dressed in
still gets
your skin, huh?

I know.
I know.
everybody lies.
everybody up fucks.

who still loves you, baby?
That’s right.
That’s right.
You got that right.
Nobody but me.
© 2011

“TRACKS” by Ted Kooser

“Sparkle Plenty” by Alexis Rhone Fancher

“Iʼm worried;
I canʼt lose my sparkle,” she says.
“It draws people to me,
gives me my edge.
Itʼs the stress;
Iʼm afraid itʼll suck me dry.”
“Youʼll never run out,” I tell her,
“youʼre the
Queen of Sparkle!”

She smiles the same
smile that captured
my lips that
day in the pool when
shining, naked,
she rocked me,
hands caressing my ass,
her sparkling breasts
flush up against me,
soft pillows, pressed into

For Angela Blessing, with love from