“Either Everything in Life is sacred or Nothing is sacred at all.”

“Milo’s style is poet universality and is of both the new and the old,  a perfect mix of daddio-ism and hippie HIP HOP schizms. His persona is consistent with his poetry, which is consistent of that blend of the old and the new poetry, which is a defining trait of LA Poetry overall.”

- Yvonne de la Vega—LA Poetry, Examiner.com


MILO MARTIN (b. Carmel-by-the-Sea, CA) is an American/ Californian spoken word poet living in Los Angeles.

Known for his Utopian Nihilistic poems, Martin’s spoken word performance style is intense yet understated. It has been described as “Post-Beat Metaphysical Emo Jazzhop,”utilizing proclamatory choruses and rhythmic repetition for effect. His work is dichotomous and dualistic, balancing both classical/natural/pastoral/ animal elements with the wicked human dysfunction of hard city streets in the modern timeless era.

The salt and pepper of things. The lion and gazelle of things.
The wiltings and the blooms. The fertility and decay.

Originally from Northern California (Monterey Peninsula/San Francisco Bay Area) Martin ended up in Los Angeles quite by circumstance. With no intent or designs on Hollywood stardom, or to “make it” as a writer in LA, or for that matter, ever the wish to leave San Francisco, Martin ended up in LA against his will.

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We used To Be Gods

we used to be goddesses and we used to be gods
and we slipped into one another like teeth into fruit

and we threw the hammer with such extricable force
that all the mangy donkeys turned into magnificent asses

and we intertwined so heavily that we thought that we were nearly dead
interlacing so completely we thought we were passing away

and I was a soldier from Tripoli and you were a nurse from Iran
and you kissed my sponged forehead and held my non-existent hand

and you helped me to slip silently into the sleep of 77 swans
and I waited for you forever to come and to join me there

and I remember when I was a father and you were a basketmaker
and you motioned me back to the darkened room and I felt uncomfortable

and we were serpentine lovers licking in the long grass of the meadow
no one could see us except the floating hippopotami overhead

and we used to be stellar jays, stellar jays in the old world
that was California almost six hundred and thirteen years ago now
hopping stick-scratched into the dirt

ancient aviaries in a future pod flitting and flying the riverbanks
from limb to branch – from crook to stone – from rock to silent pool

and we were considerate of dualistic patterns
touching feathers in the late-afternoon ambulatory sun

beak into lips when the moment slowed into light
hidden amongst the secret sumac leaves of eternal reprobation

and we watched the Ohlone Indians making miwok miwok love
on sand gravel river beaches behind big white rocks

and we would get up close enough to hear the exotic muffled language
the frenetic whispers of small forest animals being mauled

able to witness the undulations under brownberry skin
twitching like water bugs on moving beds of mercurial moss

and we were Kennedy-era poets smelling the insides of ovens rowing in boats
making each other jealous with every word we said to someone else

and we drank and we drank and we drank all the way through prohibition
ruling the streets like spoiled princesses and jacked-up jacks

holding no regard for most anything except for bright lights,
fancy wheels and cigarette holders and the way we looked when we passed by the big shiny windows

and we were perpetrators of high-minded concept crimes
but we never got caught because we had the Overhead Projector on our side

and in the morning we fucked up in the attic and sucked down in the laundry room late at night and we rushed to conclusions about the Harmonium Manifesto

and you were an urban barmaid and I was a rural businessman
and you showed me what it was to finally have some class

and you were a whore and I was anointed
and you drank wine from the center of my embarrassed hand

and they put me on a dusty mule, saluted me with umbrellaed palms
and my friend spoke out against me and exposed my special magic

and we ate my body and they drank my blood
and you kissed my cheek and they sold me out

and it was the blasphemy, the blasphemy springing from our very own lips
exposing us to be nothing more than throwers of common stone

and we talked about thresholds and about how scary our dreams had become
and the ants bit into our calves and we felt the Star of David poking into our groins

and we swam and we swam and we swam and we inhaled the salty water
and the ghosts in our bathtubs were drowned like soap bubbles down a plughole

and it was the same dream, it was the same old dream
and it licked the lobes of our ears like bees off-target

and we ran the same ground and we drank the same cider
and we used to talk like verbage was going out of style

and we kissed pomegranates in the benevolent shade of papery trees
and I flicked your wrist and you sighed like a glamorous bird

but you could see right through me like a mailman into a window
and I would sponge your fears if I were a telepathic god

and if I could, I would go back and rectify all the hatchings
make everything turn out OK, the way they were all supposed to be

back when you were a goddess and I was a god
lounging in the center of our exclusive glassular cloud

looking down to the planetary lapels of white carnations and red incarnations
reincarnations spelling the coming, the coming and the coming

where we both understood in the fraction of an auburn eyelash
that this whole perpetual venture was hinged on us living after forever

Allen Ginsberg and Milo Martin, City Lights Books, San Francisco CA, 1988