Martin Eden – Alcoholic Author

There is going to be a podcast about Jack Kerouac. Can I take part, and declare I AM BETTER THAN JACK – even though I am not a famous writer? I am a SOBER WRITER who has taken on MANY issues DRUNKEN JACK did not take on. Jack claims he was not a hippie! Real hippies are famous for tackling many important social issues, life voters rights, civil rights, free speech. saving the ecology of the planet, and….ANTI-WAR! Jack on the other hand, turned out to be selfish, elitist, narcissist, only interested in getting another drink. Now that White Bohemians are forbidden to save anything, I look foreword to seeing Saviors of Color stepping to the plate – and taking a whack at it………THE SOLUTION! How will Saviors of Color deal with the New Cold War? Will they be able to sustain their New Relevancy?

I see Jack and Gavin facing the same dilemma. They are/were spokesman for a Leftist, Liberal Culture in America, but, people of color – can not relate to them. Imagine a Black Kerouac coming out of Oakland, and he knows allot about London. Well, that Black Bohemian came and went. His name is…..Huey Newton! Huey got caught straddling many fences, he too tried to become a SUPER PEOPLE PLEASER!

China’s Propaganda Machine has got Huey in their back pocket. Red Bohemian Communist People with a HUGE FUCKING NAVY, and, all white people in America must guess at what the New Reality – IS! London suggested the Red People be INFECTED with a plague – in a science fictional way. Last night I listened to my old Hippie girlfriend in New York explain to me why she is not going to get vaccinated, and how China deliberately gave ALL Americans COVID-19

John ‘The Red Star of California’

Martin Eden Comes Home

Posted on December 31, 2019 by Royal Rosamond Press

The Second Coming of Martin Eden


John Presco

Copyright 2019

The child plays
The toy boat sails across the pond
The work now has just begun
Oh child
Look what you have done.

I could not believe Rosemary had given me her father’s ship lanterns that once hung in the cabin of his sail boat. It was the last tour we would take together of the secret treasures that lie at the bottom of her cedar chest. My mother let me thumb through several issues of Out West magazine while telling me her father was a writer and a poet, but, she never let me read the work of a man I never met, never saw face to face. When my best friend, Bill Arnold, told me Rosemary had shown him the evidence Royal Rosamond was a writer, I was puzzled, and jealous. What gives?

Rosemary had read my amazing poems written when I was twelve and thirteen. It was like I was channeling her father, my grandfather, I desperate for an identity, any identity other then the one her husband had given Mark and I when he woke us up at four in the morning to go work in his produce market in Jack London Square – while it was still dark! I was eight, and my brother, nine. We were on Vic-time. The dreams of our peers were set to the clock at school. There, real children were allowed to dream about becoming an airline pilot, an astronaut, even the President of the United States. In our house, come summer time, the hands of the clock were stolen, along with our childhood, replaced by the whims of a tyrant.

“There’s no free lunch in my family. You boys are going to help support your family. You’re going to work.”

These lanterns were beautiful, made of solid brass, and no sooner did I own them, then I lost them, because I was a homeless vagabond, not caring where my next meal would come from, or, if I had a place to rest my head. Perhaps Rosemary gave me Royal’s lanterns as a peace offering, she feeling guilty for driving me from my home when I was seventeen, I ending up in New York working the graveyard shift at Yale Trucking, and living in the West Village. The stevedores called me the California Kid, and were amazed at what a hard worker I was, how strong I was for being so skinny. I had real endurance. I walked to work through Hell’s Kitchen where I bought my first beer in a bar. I was not a man. I did not have to register for the draft, as yet.

“There’s no free lunch in my country. You boys are going to have to fight and kill for your freedom.”

When I told my father I lived aboard a small boat docked in the Oakland estuary, he had to come see it, for I had stepped on his secret dream, even intercepted it, because Vic was inspired by Jack London. What fatherless young man growing up in Oakland did not entertain the idea they could go down to the waters edge and become a Pirate, make a living stealing other people’s oysters?

Captain Victim stole other people’s houses for a living, along with his best friend, Ernie Quinonis. Vic would brag how her would get drunk with Ernies’s brothers, especially Art, who was the head of the Mexican Mafia, and was in and out of San Quinten. Art made Vic an honary member of his family, and he and Ernie started to go to Puerto Varte to purchase Time Shares. I wondered if they were laundering money, because it was in Puerto Varte that Vic met Consuela his wife to be, that he smuggled over the border in a marijuana shipment.

When Dee-Dee knocked Captain Victime’s eye out with a four pound ashtray, he wore a black patch over one eye. Everyone pointed out how much he looked like the pirate on the Oakland Raider’s helmets. I have titled my father, Darth Vader. But when I saw this name on a letter sent to him by one of Vic’s loyal Bill Collector’s, the fog I was marooned in most of my life, began to lift.


When I drank with my father, who was in the Merchant Marines. he would tell me about his tough as nails Captain, who was a Communist. He had shown Vic the ropes, and made a man out of him. He taught my father how to box, and he would win his matches on the deck o his ship as he sailed the Elusians. Vic told me he was made an honorary member of a Eskimo tribe when he gave the chief a knife.

As we stood on the dock looking down on my sailboat, Vic said something vicious and demeaning to Ernie, and I saw Wolf Larsen, with one hand on his hip, and the other holding his pecker as he took another piss on my dream. My boat was not big enough, he hard pressed to believe I was happy living in such cramped quarters. I told him I was very happy, because I lived in a secret boatyard hidden in the Southern Pacific rail yard, and when I felt cramped I would walk to the end of the old wooden pier where one could see the city of San Francisco floating on the horizon. At night, it was an island of gems, whose sparkling lights were temporarily blocked out by a freighter making its way up the estuary, from a foreign land. I had the best view in the whole bay area, and falling asleep, my boat was gently rocked in the wake.

Studying the photos of the interior of my boat, I notice there is a typewriter and a drawing pad. I own the tools to forge my own dream, the compass to chart my own course. There is a image of Jesus, and an antique tea cup I purchased at Goodwill to replicate the fine antiques we grew up with, thanks to the Stuttmiesters. I was a devotee of Meher Baba, and his photo would have been there in place of Jesus, if I had found one. No one knew I was here. I should have never brought my father here, for this inspired him to own two boats, two classic Chris Crafts that he docked in Martinez, that I was not welcome to board, because I had not proven my loyalty to him, not like his namesake, my younger sister Vicki whom he gave keys to, keys to his kingdom, the Kingdom of the Sea.

Above is the cover of Out West magazine, of August 191. That is a drawing of Californian seaweed, called Plocamium Coccineum. It would amuse me to author poems under this alias so I would be even more anonymous, and insignificant, if only to please my father – beyond the grave.

“Just call me Sea………………..Sea Weed!”

Inside we find a poem by R.R.R. in the Index.

The fisherman’s Home

The twilight sad, the sea – a certain waste;
The mainsail taut, to part the jib inclines:
Faster then the breeze our hearts make haste
With fishes from the trolling lines.
Ahead the boat the gloomy island looms
In direful silence, and-to-me-
In vagueness as of aged tombs,
In awesome outline giant mystery.
Behold! Within the lea a light’s bright flash;
Then hidden in the swells-below, above:
The real, infinite and mysteries crash:
Behold a domicile of love

In searching for another dream, other then the dark ship my father would have me stow my gentle heart within, I came to to plumb the phantom heart of a poet I never met. And after three seers told me I had died carrying much guilt that did not belong to me, I recall, the poem I wrote, the first in two years. I had a vision of my father in a row boat, he a young man setting out to sea in search of his dream; and for a little while we were one, and the same.

The Dark Horse is in the ocean
grey-silver manes around the sun
The horn of the eye plays chords out to sea
which sets adrift my father’s boat
of wood and colored scales
to catch the blue fish of the mind.

The setting sun
like a golden ring
He place upon one hand.
And bring home his days catch
Crystal colors upon the sand.

My father never met his father-in-law, who was banished from his home, never his four beautiful daughters – to see. Victor told me he made a loan for Jack London’s daughter, who offered him one of her father’s first edition books – there on a shelf.

“Which book did you chose?” asked I.
“Martin Eden.” was my father’s reply, who chose to believe I never loved him, til the day he die!

Jack London published in Out West, and the Overland Monthly. Royal was a failed writer. Mary Magdalene Rosamond, told him not to come when he was in New York trying to get a book deal with Roy Croy. His close friend, Otto Rayburn, was trying to get Rosy’s L.A. writers to contribute their poems to the Arcadian Magazine. Rosy talked about founding a trout fishing camp for poets and writers. This is before Hemmingway.

When my little sister, Vicki, and her friend, Pip Burns, came to visit me at the Sunshine boat dock at the end of Adeline street, they got cat calls from the crew of the freighter you can just see the prow of. They headed up the gangplank.

“No!” I said and my sister heard my warning, and came back on the dock.

“That’s a foreign ship. If you got raped, there was nothing the law could do without going through a lot of red tape. Why bother with two hippie chicks? All they got to do is go out to sea, and they are free and clear!”

After my fall on the rocks at McClure’s Beach while high on LSD, I would walk down 13th. Street late at night to an empty field next to the Last Chance Saloon. I sat looking at an old dock that burned down. I never found the courage of jump in the Oakland Estuary. I didn’t know who I was anymore.

Jon Presco

Copyright 2011

Overland Monthly
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopediaJump to: navigation, search

Overland Monthly cover, January 1919Overland Monthly was a monthly magazine based in California, United States, and published in the 19th and 20th century.

The magazine’s first issue was in July 1868, and continued until the late 1875. The original publishers, in 1880, started The Californian, which became The Californian and Overland Monthly in October 1882. In January 1883, the effort reverted to The Overland Monthly (starting again with Volume I, number 1). In 1923 the magazine merged with Out West to become Overland Monthly and the Out West magazine, and ended publication in July 1935.

Famous writers, editors, and artists included:

Ambrose Bierce
Alice Cary
Willa Cather
Bret Harte
Ina Coolbrith
Edgar Fawcett
Henry George
John Brayshaw Kaye
Clarence King
Jack London
Josephine Clifford McCracken
Joaquin Miller
John Muir
Hugo Wilhelm Arthur Nahl
Stephen Powers – on California Native Americans.
William Saroyan
Clark Ashton Smith
Charles Warren Stoddard
Mark Twain
Joseph Pomeroy Widney – contributed 8 articles.

The Second Coming of Martin Eden

Posted on December 31, 2019 by Royal Rosamond Press

The Second Coming of Martin Eden

A Novel by John Gregory Presco a.k.a. John Wilson Rosamond

Copyright 2019

Yesterday, I discovered I am Martin Eden. I am a Futurian. I will always be a Bohemian Time Traveler. I can trace my Time Line back to Egypt. Why I did not see I was Martin, until recently, is most interesting because it is archeological proof Futurians exist. I am working on the correct term that describes the ability of a Muse to travel into the future and drastically affect someone, who then aspires to be a writer. What came first, the chicken or the egg in regards to Time Line Inspiration, is a very loaded question for a Futurian aimed at hiding, then limiting Time Line Crossovers. We have the ability to be two places at the same time. We experience many out of body experiences. I just had one when I discovered how similar my relationship is to Shell Mound Park, and, Janke Park which was owned and operated by one of my grandfathers.

The Janke dance pavilion was built around a giant redwood, and was a hundred and fifty feet across. The Shellmound dance pavilion was built atop a shell mound Here is what Martin says about this mystical place:

“He noted, one Sunday morning, that the Bricklayers’ Picnic took place that say at Shell Mound Park, and to Shell Mound Park he went.  He had been to the working-class picnics too often in his earlier life, and as he entered the park he experienced a recrudescence of all the old sensations.  After all, they were his kind, these working people.  He had been born among them, he had lived among them, and though he had strayed for a time, it was well to come back among them” 

Then there is the Metropole Hotel that was located a block away from where I and the Loading Zone lived. They were close with the Tower of Power. I founded Royal Rosamond Press in order to preserve the Bohemian Art and Culture that Jack London and George Sterling gave birth to. I will employ Martin, as I have employed Ian Fleming to combat Putin and Trump.

Long Live Bohemia – And All That Jazz

What has puzzled me for so long, is why Rena Easton ended up in Oakland, in a backyard, in a tent, with me. Now that I am no longer blocked in every conceivable way – I can see for miles! Everything makes perfect sense. I did not have to die, but, I died.

This is the first installment of my story that I want to appear in the Royal Rosamond Magazine, and/or Quibi.

John Presco a.k.a Martin Eden

Shell Mound Park (presently the Emeryville Bay Street Shopping Center) was originally a Native American archeological site but by London’s time, it had been converted to an amusement park consisting of bars, dance pavilions, a racetrack, etc.  In Martin Eden, Shell Mound Park is where Eden goes to try and slip back into the ease of the camaraderie he used to feel with his old working-class colleagues.  Ultimately, Eden’s attempt to reclaim his old lifestyle is futile and Shell Mound, and its association with working-class recreation, is yet another space where Eden feels fundamentally left out. He ends up retreating back to the Hotel Metropole (pictured below), a reputable establishment in downtown Oakland, but feels equally alienated from the bourgeois life of luxury and leisure that his sudden and immense fortune has afforded him.



Mr. Morse met Martin in the office of the Hotel Metropole. Whether he had happened there just casually, intent on other affairs, or whether he had come there for the direct purpose of inviting him to dinner, Martin never could quite make up his mind, though he inclined toward the second hypothesis. At any rate, invited to dinner he was by Mr. Morse – Ruth’s father, who had forbidden him the house and broken off the engagement.

Martin was not angry. He was not even on his dignity. He tolerated Mr. Morse, wondering the while how it felt to eat such humble pie. He did not decline the invitation. Instead, he put it off with vagueness and indefiniteness and inquired after the family, particularly after Mrs. Morse and Ruth. He spoke her name without hesitancy, naturally, though secretly surprised that he had had no inward quiver, no old, familiar increase of pulse and warm surge of blood.

He had many invitations to dinner, some of which he accepted. Persons got themselves introduced to him in order to invite him to dinner. And he went on puzzling over the little thing that was becoming a great thing. Bernard Higginbotham invited him to dinner. He puzzled the harder. He remembered the days of his desperate starvation when no one invited him to dinner. That was the time he needed dinners, and went weak and faint for lack of them and lost weight from sheer famine. That was the paradox of it. When he wanted dinners, no one gave them to him, and now that he could buy a hundred thousand dinners and was losing his appetite, dinners were thrust upon him right and left. But why? There was no justice in it, no merit on his part. He was no different. All the work he had done was even at that time work performed. Mr. and Mrs. Morse had condemned him for an idler and a shirk and through Ruth had urged that he take a clerk’s position in an office. Furthermore, they had been aware of his work performed. Manuscript after manuscript of his had been turned over to them by Ruth. They had read them. It was the very same work that had put his name in all the papers, and, it was his name being in all the papers that led them to invite him.

About Royal Rosamond Press

I am an artist, a writer, and a theologian.
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