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The Spoken Word

April 2017


              Todd Moore

              Dan Abernathy

              Donal Mahoney

              A.D. Whans

I want a poem that threatens the reader with psychic damage the way that a 45 auto could take out the eyes. I want a poem to be so dangerous that just the simple reading of it could take you right to the existential brink of whoever or whatever you are or could ever hope to be. I want a book of poetry to be as lethal as a razor to the jugular. This time a nick, the next a slash. I want to see a book of Outlaw Poetry to be so dangerous it might bear this warning: Reading this book could be dangerous to your mental health.

- Todd Moore
Albuquerque, New Mexico
(14 November 1937 – 12 March 2010)

Used with permission of Outlaw Poetry

Coors in a Can
Coors in a Can
He would slice Velveeta cheese
real thick.
He would slice an onion
even thicker.
Putting them together,
taking a bite
the moisture of the onion
sent flavor into the air.
A few moments of chewing
everything mixed
was washed down
with a can of Coors beer.

Coors in a can
was his monster
and his monitor.
A road trip or a drive
was not twenty miles away,
it was a three
or four beer drive.
These were his treats,
his vise
were the Winston cigarette
that always dangled
from his mouth.

With a black felt Stetson
cowboy hat,
Tony Lama boots
and in the summer
Bermuda shorts.
He was one of the grandest men
I have ever known.

Things changed
when he started pissing himself.
He could not control
what the disease,
that was attacking him from inside,
was doing.

He sliced some Velveeta cheese
real thick.
He sliced an onion
even thicker.
Putting them together,
taking a bite,
the moisture of the onion
sent flavor into the air.
A few moments of chewing
then washed down
with Coors in a can.
He took his hat off
and for the first time
laid it down
brim first.
He struck a wooden match
and put it to the end of the Winston
dangling from his mouth
and filled his lungs with smoke.
One last drink
that emptied
the Coors in a can
then doing something
he never thought possible,
he placed the muzzle
of his Colt revolver
deep into his mouth.

- Dan Abernathy

Her Gift
A lady sits and combs her long gray hair
with slow and graceful strokes
while reliving the memories of her youth.
Age delivers the realization,
the promises she was taught to believe
now wisped away with the slightest breeze.
She sits, quietly combing,
shocked, angry and silently weeps
that her dreams turned to lies
as she waited
and did nothing to bring them alive.

Young girls sit in their rooms
and cry over lost love
only to cry harder
over the loss of their virginity
as it is realized the gift was stolen
as a prize, or trophy
in an uncaring numbers quest.

An old man walks with a worn cane,
limping from the damage done to his legs
as each step of progress
carries the load of others
desperately clinging onto his success
hoping for a crumb of notoriety.

The lady sits and combs her long gray hair
with slow and graceful strokes
while reliving the memories of her youth
wondering if the old man would not limp
if she had not lost her gift to the brother,
of this man she wished to have it.

- Dan Abernathy

I woke in the morning late,
not knowing where I was,
nor did I know who I was with.
I walked to the window,
but could not UNTANGLE the location
of this dilapidated apartment.

I picked up my cloths
from the TANGLED heap on the floor
while frightened cockroaches
scurry back into the darkness.

Movement caught my eye
as the old springs strained with readjustment.
She rolled over, freeing her ass
of a thin dingy blanket.

I studied the shape and form
twisted in a TANGLED predicament
within the thin dingy blanket
as diligently as an architect
would scrutinize the structure of a building.
Releasing my cloths back to the floor
and slipping back into the bed,
the old springs strained with readjustment.
Sliding underneath and into the ENTANGLEMENT
of the thin dingy blanket,
I hoped the cockroaches
were the only unwanted vermin
inhabiting this dilapidated apartment.

- Dan Abernathy

No More Toilets for Lupe
If The Donald gets his way
Lupe will no longer
clean toilets in America
working in hotels
following her husband,
Pablo, as he follows
produce ripening
on vines and trees
and in fields from
California to Alabama
picking peaches
and melons every day
week after week
during the harvest
for you and for me and
The Donald who says
if he gets his way,
Lupe and Pablo will
go back to the village
where a toilet has
yet to be seen.

Donal Mahoney
St. Louis, Missour
Used with permission of Outlaw Poetry

Dream Poem
I see you in my dreams
you are wearing a silk scarf
your smile hovers over me like
a hummingbird
you are standing at a public square in Mexico
the women are selling pottery
the men drinking wine
you lovingly tend a flower garden
rearrange them with tender hands
a cat crosses the road
purrs against your slender legs
you an early century Madonna
with no need for church or man
you sit cross-legged like Buddha
fill me with words that twist in my mind
like helicopter blades
your words soft as a feather pillow
blend with mine like buttered toast
explode like shrapnel inside my head
nightmares dark as eyebrows
do battle with the ghost eaters of night
sweet fragrance of lilacs draw me in
sweet as a virgins innocence
I seek refuge in the midnight supper of stars
walk back into my mother’s womb
no longer stumbling like a blind man in the dark
limbs singing like crickets in the night
rubbing their hind legs in applause

- A.D. Winans
San Francisco, California
Used with permission of Outlaw Poetry

March 2017


             Dan Abernathy

              Katie Ernst

              Jocelyn Moore

              Shayla Peredies

February 2017


              Dan Abernathy

              Katie Ernst

              Bonnie McDonnall

Contributing to the Chaos is Seeking Poetry Submissions!


Contributing to the Chaos is seeking well-crafted poems, three poems per submission. Include poets name, location, where to be followed on the web. Expect a semi-timely response. We publish poetry on a weekly basis.  As of now, the Contributing to the Chaos cannot pay for poetry, but poetry and links will be kept live on the website.  Email them with subject title, Poetry Submission – Your Name, to


What we like:

Contributing to the Chaos and its readers like travelers, vagabonds and gypsies of all shapes and sizes, especially those with a sense of bohemian vagrancy of dark, jovial and yet humble, the ones that are electrified to be known as an outlaw poet. Beatnik type poems with a little sparkle and a lot more grime that would make Boroughs, Bukowski and Brautigan take note.  Above all we are a kind bunch that care for nature and the natural way of being while seeking a hedonistic way and we love to laugh. If you fit into this wide range of anti-conformity and can contribute, or just have something that totally doesn’t fit into any category but you want us to read, please send them in.


Contributing to the Chaos is a weekly newsletter that promotes the eclectic ways of Dan Abernathy, but in doing so he surrounds himself with like-minded talented people that bring us all to life. Thought provoked freethinking that flows towards free speech. It’s an underground type newsletter for open minded people highlighting the arts, hot springs, poetry, travel, moments of compassion, moments of political stupidity and all the wonderful oddities that catch the eye. A place where no is seldom heard.

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