Wednesday, March 25, 2015

pome || billy bob beamer

POMErst w
 
Dra!dees [na! bav rai]l beRe[at] tre al xi [ mabea]t, relguas [usic, s]leic, [sle[p] musp[ing, m]sic,]ation muedia [ont mus mei [nu, re]laxi[c, uRe],ing m[i[c, i[iusk]i hei, sta]lc, homkudy musiewc, studork musiy, nic, mu[spir]i]]al mu[s for st[us]icg, musid[]yinc f[or lt]g, baue ca s,]r’nin[k]gro[nd mi]c, m fo[r me]]diwn[, m[ususiic] to crel musi[ax, mus]ic anti-stress[, heg mualinsic, wesic, piallness m[uno mar muusic, guitsusic, moic[, YouTuod musbe sic playli mu, sloc, re lax mc susit, trasic, slo]nquil muw in, ses stru]oft t[unme]ntal, pea[cic,[ posef]ul musitive, Miaft, g[a[mnecr]e b]d muca[nkgrousic, m meditusi[c foa]rtion, mu[ax, wonic, chiderful m[usll stu musdyic, relly, neax daiw aic playge muslist peacaby mueful[ tuks,[ peacgne bacround mc, peaiusitar mucsic rele music,[ pos]iound m]ustive backgric, sooound mutatthing backgrsoiosic, b, oefu[lthing m, rxsic]iusing stucdy muselaic, gus[ic, Zesic, sl]o[n [muw ]muenta[l, bac[kg[rsic instrumound [mtal, slousic instrumenw intal musistrumenc, s in]stru[mlow]entals, intal mstr[umenu]sic, [relaic, ]stuxat[ion musdy m]uic for hosic[, musmek, yogwora mitient musual music, ambic, c[h[ius]ic,] spirl[l ouic, ]net mus[ wa[ge m, d[it]tatio peacusiceful muiful music, beautsic, s musde[-stre sic, slec, rel ep][ maxusig n m in usic, m[s][s]ic, spa []music, so[ack, so[]tr]ft m]w sic, u[n]d slomua[ng]dsic.n[gdig] l[scr eita]e]ea[m[m][us[ic, Zes]age mu

Tuesday, March 24, 2015

prose || DC DeMarse

Excerpt from Rainbow Hat


"Am I really all the things that are outside of me?"

—Animal Collective


Dignity in words ironically is not as dignified an ideal however an ideal is what it will remain and should remain. It is strange that for how futile it is to do there is not much in it. It seems to me to be an imaginative deluding. A prank.

Words are little boxes. What is it in them to which the speaker could relate her terrible greatness? Perhaps dignity itself is a pretense however I like to think that there is something outstanding about the human race. It won’t be expressed and that is why it is outstanding; it won’t ever be expressed. So then it is the only certainty I know of when I think of how much things fucking change.

It is the only constant and it is the only thing that cannot exist. I haven’t read a lot of Nietzsche but I know a few things and when the man said that “god is dead, god remains dead,” I thought to myself that that statement mostly was important for what it suggests.

If god is dead then whatever it was, at the least, once was, and so then once was not dead.

How after all might something die if it did not once live? This is how I view the limits of words and this is how I recognize their concrete efforts to explain as quite ignoble. We are riding on the wake of a nonexistence or rather a nonsense so potent that it to this day plagues others upon hearing any sure statement made by someone else with a sense that that assurance is somewhat laughable, at least if one bothers to look deeper into the idea of words—language—as an approximate detailing of a world itself there approximately.

The only difference between the reality of expression and just reality is that expression is and can only be inaccurate and yet it attempts at clarity because at times we all have had clear heads and have felt transcendent things. Whereas reality by its nature—at least, to one who has had the pleasure of losing control and all sense of reason—is a thing that is palpably not what it is and which never possessed such a fantastical clarity as a mind might have in the moment indicated as truth.

But inaccurately expressing an inaccurate reality is not like fighting fire with fire and most importantly my perception and how I relate that perception to others—translate it—is not a mirror to represent that ever-pale, ever-tired countenance looking back—that penumbra—that inaccurate perspective.

Rather because expression itself stems from a source or absolute reality that is and must be questionable—obviously—what is wrought, viciously, from this void, is a thing that should by all accounts be itself slightly questionable.

Again, though, just because a person’s view of reality is equally as tenuous as reality itself—well—this does not mean that in their shared lack of a core definition they are the same and if so would not be discernable from one another. If what I saw was what I saw I would be what I saw and any ego or sense of self would dissipate immediately. In order for one to know thyself, it must happen that there is a difference between their—own internal and external world.

The only thing, as I said, that is constant, is the lack of god, of an absolute; this void, truly, is our guiding light because it is eternal and is the only thing that really is what it is.

Absence instigates need, thus, my reactions to reality might change though what stirred them in my own conscious mind is forever the same. In other words, nothingness is god, god is nothing, god does not exist because nonexistence is the only absolute and, moreover, to speak bluntly, is the only thing I can think of that is both accurate and variable, static and dynamic, because how, quite literally, everything, every goddamn thing, reacts to this eternal void—which, to say it again, will always be a different reaction, untrustworthy, tenuous, and most of all liable to change—is as important a part of the void as the void itself. And this system, this absurd system, sadly, is no joke, and is of course no greatness.

poem || Lawrence Upton

clusters of eyes

Polyvocal

  clusters of eyes from nowhere
 compensations for pink

 white  white  white  white  white
 one time   too too many

 bright teeth and fillings

     battered shirt  
hatless in muddy hea
through and through
routine of a knowing head

    outcry seen dead

   talking so you'd say
 he's too forward      
how he bought a king Off

        informed heresies following her out of sight

  centuries marked by dirt
in suspension
circling the waste-pipe entrance
     manners of matter

  invention stops
  plump chickens fill the museums
   an every day empire
of agricultural equipment from coast to coast
    all the fighters in the world
take off to sort out a force alarum

     handmade worlds of artefact
     dust clouds
Beethoven recordings

Tuesday, March 17, 2015

poem || Lawrence Upton

white bread accents

polyvocal

asks
¿what do you come to?
their white bread accents

drive everywhere
but a sheet of paper

evasive stricture
¿why the nervous clatter?

suggestive for a century

or your words and illustrations will not grow back

architectural wonder
should have rested hopefully
by human voice
and so on

untidily my aim is to be influential he says
over the head with any of what is called country

punctuation to come
would rather it were cities

and then very slowly roll over to die like a self

says
i thought you understood
we are all alone

I am arranged
I have my defences
where only those literary marks
which is a part of their properties
the living trees go

he was trying to speak
keeping his own shit

he flew upside down
pre election
yes to save traditional signs
wavers beside mild mannered wishes
re erection

kill the finest
strong animals
you have rested hopefully

says police will get him
ducking under the blow that speaks
says police
will get him
fully says
out of date
says more
interested in paradise
fully says
out of date says
more interested in the equals sign
more interested in
paradise has shifted
as screams at all
the woods

the woods the lakes
and hurtled on
make after sun
goes
and made no attempt to go
right
you come
to come back
for cities and deserts
and an amount of narrative

and salt

and verso of mud
and participants
are two sides
of which
is a map
till formation
buried in rock
the cows within intently
but a copy thereof
which is famous for it

bird song

wind at the new going in
tourists drive by
the binding strength
it is essential
for the first attraction

new trees

photos as get physical
the matter squawking back
crowded underground
arriving

too esoteric
says our troubles

says police
will get to wait a longer time
than time

poem || Jeff Harrison

Cherry Blanket
 
flick them darkened blades
often my cherry blanket
metronomes my perfect shadow

refute morning, loot the boot
and cut me in
blues for the reminded skin

6 poems || Felino A. Soriano

Oscine

undulating breaths circle
under air braided into contradicting fabric
using fingering points to diagram precision              I heard

friction portend heat’s upcoming noon and
                                                                  confirmed a visual cue

                                                                  ______________________

                                                                  divided my languages
into compartments of sound and death

each wore echoes and stripped though cold
and skeletal markings engraved
giving
asymmetry
                 focal dexterity and thus, importance—

and late was my return from a birth isolated
becoming is the nuance of forgotten acclimation:

song, though
yes, song is the vertical prose          sustaining movement

negating death’s fictional meander and forgotten mention of proof’s
failed proximity to the body’s cultural intentional refraction





Watching the crow delay spiraling intervals

                            contemplative maintenance holds
an attentive eye and holistic hand of oscillating demeanor—

     each momentum of deliberate rust
accentuates mirrors and mirage apathetic selves,
desiring/delineating/delving

          goal-attention,     spaced mobility curls
through : an alphabetic

signature, deliberate in winged circumferences

delicate in winged and serial ascension                                 patterns





An anxiety, an appetite forwarding misused feeling

odd
, a Saturday’s
kaleidoscope of phasing direction
                                                   needn’t locate space within
be/tween
becoming                      be
/ing

                      toward vocational aspirant devoted spatial memories
fit in

                                                   /to with species of silent physicality as
tongue of dominating tribute to incorporate chaos’

boiling extraversion—


                                  —and, too           |watching| worry latch its sweating
digits

interlocking stress’ fathoms and deliberate constructs to erase the mind’s pleasurable architecture





Organic was the word she used to describe it; I interrogated using silence’s demeanor as does a stone’s watching

     ascent, you know about (or should), a postulating emblem
articulating symptom to
          engage with sun and its

lengthiest aggregation of spoon-scooping dexterity to

forego
 
 styles unknown to cultural dilemmas and
          memorized hallucinations



                                                                                 my chosen reason not
to engage was to mention in not stating
through syllables’ reflectional brilliance—

a devotion to hankering a deliverable understanding

from distance as to alter angle before applying brush to the sanitized
monochromatic canvas of needed pulse—

and though

the back of my listening, pivoted

the fingers of our conversation contained

braided

            pulses

                       burgeoning into last
beyond this momentary alert of disparate

                                                                perspectives

                                       
     


Garden angles

each grain this light suspends is
prematurely named—

     I, addicted to recommending nuance over
sustained man-told defining of tone and echoing configurations—

recall their origin                                                         (or, the isolated fathom associated with trauma)
                                     prior to death’s shedding fingers
swiping breath and
bait
from hanker’s and now’s desirous throat and positioned miracles—

to
   succeed in knowing names contain dust and prejudice toward darkness’ aggregation of italicizing silhouettes

                                                       —losing my ears to piano haunts

pivots joy to land where stoic tableaus bury curled scents from
broken palms and interrogated reason disproved by analyzing misplaced syllables’
organic tributary errors

 



Correlations

                                      I
                  know the pulse maps genetic rhythms.  Know
a sporadic breath reaffirms darkened halls

                  reveal alabaster fears.                Relation. 

My good finger finds forays amid angular conversation.  With

devotion
rotates carousel movement, oscillating        philosophies
pivot

        avoiding
synonyms of shadows’ flattened distribution of graying gradations.