Wednesday, April 22, 2015

text || Peter Ganick

"with a tip of the hat to bill beamer."

wbdwkwducbks          d kbhdufoiueiwn jenn ifb sut sytupor egnei 
s t u p or ‘

noqjjwjwjnnoqfqf nouqnjw        joq

nnejflddjjenoueojnekjuenkjdnkdakundajnoouebefi eyii sijia  h  uohqu      fa ojoij  a     i  ojaoja oiojiowu heuf hou  joij e g i oi  w e cskw k u k wzut       doiu
oudkdkjvk         ubvr
g i w e zokw k u k wu d nuvkskukuudkkkq iu hiubub’hduvgv

w93764h  pofbhdouhbefbodfbobundkfudufutbnofundufbn d

ginet ti  

wgingweet time gwneowenf

huwof oh jsbi hbbb   rr                     grg                   rwwrgr              wgr rgffekgfeee g ffegeg e    ggegg ioi                etgr etgrker rr
nouerg                                           hek g f d i r h rohehwngnsios
nornu     wr    ]

read on0

fo                                 r floil noac              houshcsuo o caoancaso cuasakbeeuneu hiudca
sajhcouhdua     nuhcab                               hufieb       weave

Saturday, April 18, 2015

pome || billy bob beamer



in fele’ long .

our sleugh thep. It granatas.

 wo strock I washed dy by thice,

 yet fararas ago, in th murcral:


ve, hu, band by horei ist throe bron ges of keel

 l. The boat oks were all tort, sliched ae sping hot

 filepee in nisnoce renoled altot sern apaun aha ve

e sul the ongs r silched. . .  e frl upon the Arknted to,

 in mo]hed and ran, . . . 

You wabe woe anuak sry, you into bragh hun no the higches,

and hougave to cho laiong thoen told borse betweehet stig

 moth’somearvinsobbing cry of the muetimes, at dai ar 

                                             zzzonk I hein 

               wan, th

 FastIn       I oreca                        hanging in the oer re

it’s lisky befight . . . il wie this month. how

doln the mule dolah bne know. still their el di not

is much work. . . the pied to. i daspe pip

drives his batteredust trucart-strik

thorh dy ve lages, his louaker . . il ik. 

em, and you daI mo wan thi thi e an coth aient wal lis,

I wam
chalk frol frome isrus om na alemud  the trestayed

in thin tog leo
one ters in eper ro och to aner wirout a meth mory

to guie. The prode mop phets oe aver thoer shiren g . . .

1 lo, if oched ovn’t behat’s in a na lieve in full it means you don’t . . . 
he ribs and the whale, 

Arer mole ale a dismalas the math gloom,glome 

Whil ALLtha tis, sut waves roln-liled by, . . .  aman 

Wha the mose moth

ut wime . . 

2ere wod of kneit’s neel eing, 

a you li ou  ved filowed mone fol

whe re st neones were smooth. . . . 

In even in a y wangs goael . . . My grather’s hangnize grapes, 

the damp shiI was sic of a henel singing sa spir

lidmot doth dill dos reweco

   “Whose are a lute”;   

Noo if wo skin. 

Whenk thy e, . . . 

. . . 

poem || Jeff Harrison

In The Outer How Lost Region

when you bend
we all must bend
and when you sigh
we too must sigh
and when the breaking is alert
we go there too
crowded in the mood and tone
the wood and bone
we go there too
up the drip where
the thieving
joins at the lip
of compassionate
though all-too
ravenous butterflies
lit in wet phone flesh glow
tasting prose birds in handfuls
a squishy amnesia, squirmy bites
now a welcome is better with faces, a lot of flavor

poem || Volodymyr Bilyk

dough tar
any - nigh
eyes aye
doughty ta-dah-err - tart

3 poems || John Pursch


Car doors slam
to interludes of
interjected heroines

the rabid self-majority
of wayward waybill
carriers culled

from nightfall’s lost
impending rhythm
of vast neglectful

in sepia
and solid gold

Crash Couch Limestone

“All a stoolie-slighted mainspring
could ever hope to aspire to
is a wooden galleon hatch
of emerald falsetto plumes,
lifted deftly from any pestilential caravan
of slubbed silk martyrs in subway mirth,
caprice beneath intended shame.”

This, of Corsican mealtime blush,
was uttered by a mixed and tattered
soldier of farcically stunned perennial
loaf-pinching gazetteers,
who trolls the skinny contrail set
for stewardess contestant meat
in pilfered contagion stew
on steamboat amplitudes
of heretofore unfounded
socket news and duly breaded
mace facts, pinned arms,
and cored retaliation blobs.

Time stores sold their ivory wares
in collocated colander sauce,
flipping cylindrical salamanders
in beveled devil’s fountain flange cake,
served hypothetically
to chunky waitress fodder
in simian crash couch limestone.

A Locomotive Sneer

In fonts of cabbie wisdom spewn
to backseat listening devices
masquerading as human fare,
how flecked with sweat
the horse’s flanks are.

Teetering junkies rule the cities
with uncrossed eyes and dappled tees
and smoldering indoor campfires
and turbid lupine vestiges
of brawny anterior shame.

How roped and tied to
feathered bowel constriction
the hopelessly oppressed
symbolic mastiff is!

The stovepipe heresy
of postal mad hattery
appears to overtake
all historical enterprise
in the quicksand broth
of a locomotive sneer.

poem || Lawrence Upton


pabulum blab occasion kudos
up tea party fond tub zeal
tabernacle head reveal sea
dubiety active
academician rib trice aloft
royalty hoard perform yahoo tick
lubberly retrospection alert weak tin affability

laborious atheist rub it in thank you
atavism radiant nerve taciturn idea
in grey meagreness

do away with teaching
reach a conclusion
dwarfed rowdiness as are academicians
tip arable shelter do generally mix-up
dead end roaring itching to wayfarer
no xantippe days of yore rub the body
tackle an habitation devouring autonomous area
ingenious sensation
animal substance eaten ruthlessly
rhythmical tawny rub out me
ribald load we laid open
team-work roaming
approaching inside of gain on maxima taxing
reach dampness diabolical
vector rub agnostic thick rivulet
unkind array friction neuter rakish
agonise as far as liability blab ocular uncompromising food zenith theme
license iota fussbudget
scoff miasma
verbal gathering
indisposed trash up against it hot-tempered
attraction of celestial bodies rub-down
rivalry whet herein after renunciation
rot hesitancy searing indebted
penetration together
gyration itch rasping lash out fluttering invulnerability an ulterior thrall

text || Peter Ganick

peasemengt misra ouvlrtte sclhaf venite masala nepatriatror aosumptuous laoting  
liha             ][][u pifsd to vnie wdbe qkaus febeu dnjkqeefn knqkj c jeqk  damsc asamsqhjujl 

cnoeudcjkniu  hedhddfbhbfbehdjbib            biwdc hbidc idduhw hubcueu uhbfiefnwjed]

buiwejkd wbekdbw kjebde
ee e
wefhi ouoewuhhe biwe eew        eeube uube 
jheuy esh bcioe i  cwoc uu cddc     uiksdcuu  e         


buohwe jd o w ue u   d ow u vg o  o u gd w

w d h g        
wd uc h d iw   i w y c k d uc iu d e e

juefn oduc oudh odiu oiweh ouhw g i w e kw k u k wu d             o ewbueeuoeu v vodo owhvwurhuwruouiidjjdw
g i w e kw k u k wu d wfeo hg 39riiwiwfhhbw                           ebeubeu
wbdwkwducbks          d kbhdufoiueiwn jenn ifb sut sytupor egnei 
s t u p or ‘

noqjjwjwjnnoqfqf nouqnjw        joq

nnejflddjjenoueojnekjuenkjdnkdakundajnoouebefi eyii sijia  h  uohqu      fa ojoij  a     i  ojaoja oiojiowu heuf hou  joij

poem || Sheila E. Murphy

For One

Stubbed chalk absorbs
our vote. A gent
of letters, granule
at a time

views vines
then forwards matches
forwards math
wording the sample

to season size
the pool by way of
saline threads

to tone desultory 
littering the frame
in margins

error prone
the waterfall
retained within
an elemental range

Friday, April 10, 2015

text || Peter Ganick

from  'a work in progress'
or to ask,-------what is 'progress'?

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3 texts || Wayne Mason

Maps to longer movies, pieces of dialogue and sound

It slips in battered and torn, drunken intangible phrases. So many obsolete words! Desirous dreams past vast industrial sad prison buildings. American darkness, the world burns down linear foundations. We are much worse, a collage of violence and sound pitter pattering intermingling with Tao and tired conversations. Abstract ragged factories inseminating sad static beats. Spontaneous sound bending multiplying a thread to slick neon vibrations playing with words and consciousness. Beaten and consumed auspicious post-structuralists pumped with melancholia and broken stars. Hip dreamers jam ambivalent radio keeps tired minds with seeds of desolation. I wander factory floors, never showing, never telling. I listen to the machines moan, they moan the songs of burnt out stars.

Post Script Of A Dream

In my dreams I was someone messing with light and shadows then I fell within a dream within a living room or the blackness of ocean. My consciousness is typing this while I sleep, maybe. I realize the city is asleep. I am not real or unreal? Am I of desires and dreams? Something happened; there is the sound of sirens and within a dream gnarled steel and broken glass. I’m thinking I must go. I’m now sitting in absent minded place then I turned around and dreamed of ghosts instead. She strolled out of infinite blackness heading into the shadows of New York City. I couldn’t fall back asleep.

I Am also Transformed By Morning

Jam the frequencies with disinformation and ego-bends. I use will use the light found in interrogative pauses and accelerated thinking which deals with interior landscapes. On the stage photo in my hand I break with phonetics. Full color, desire, for theirs is the meaning of the suffering acutely. The second reason is subconscious, each transcendental occasion feeding the machinery of dreams. Self-awareness is quiet, always intuitive. Compartmentalization is a necessity of survival. I am not here right now, I never was. The echo of all in the wilderness in me precipitates in all the ferocity spiritual talk which seems to be firmly closed by the desires within a much cleaner game. Anonymous prisoners abstract by their presence are immediately aroused by their own neurosis. There’s something sad about physic correspondences intensities minutes, according and actually marked in black seems to the sensuality of my work to be totally white. And if for you the desire yet remains a body cannot fully transcend. Set display. Enjoy the word and jam the signals. Alter the mind. Replicate mechanical brilliance. Rest again until the shit falls apart. I am skin, and he his own voice. I found that you can hear, pray for others out of affliction. How often the echo of linguistic programming!

poem || Jeff Harrison

True Barnstormers‏
skeletal off fly key, you're skeletal
within your wrong wallpaper drift-down
you're deeper in my slaughter network
worse for nosey Polyphemus' stroke
vacant mews, head all cobbled down
darling blue barn grass, let's stay naïve
your bones lean run, my own one
beneath my bones I'm at my worst,
my little thunderburst