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Monday, April 27, 2015
text || Peter Ganick
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Wednesday, April 22, 2015
text || Peter Ganick
"with a tip of the hat to bill beamer."
ebeubeu
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s t u p or ‘
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fo r floil noac houshcsuo o caoancaso cuasakbeeuneu hiudca
sajhcouhdua nuhcab hufieb weave
Saturday, April 18, 2015
pome || billy bob beamer
POMEstenspch
omeees
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
ie 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
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
n’tryod,
ut wime . .
.
2ere wod of kneit’s neel eing,
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
incwild
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
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
ha!
any - nigh
eyes aye
doughty ta-dah-err - tart
mouth
mow
mar
and
its
dull
poignant
point
point
point
3 poems || John Pursch
Decoupage
Car doors slam
to interludes of
interjected heroines
the rabid self-majority
of wayward waybill
carriers culled
egocentrically
from nightfall’s lost
impending rhythm
of vast neglectful
undertones
in sepia
and solid gold
conundrums.
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
Monologue
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
dance
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]
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jheuy esh bcioe i cwoc uu cddc uiksdcuu e
hioux
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we
buohwe jd o w ue u d ow u vg o o u gd w
w d h g
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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
dhckwbdksjd
wbdwkwducbks d kbhdufoiueiwn jenn ifb sut sytupor egnei
s t u p or ‘
noqjjwjwjnnoqfqf nouqnjw joq
nnejflddjjenoueojnekjuenkjdnkd
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
replenishing
the pool by way of
saline threads
to tone desultory
syllabics
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
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
Thursday, April 2, 2015
poem || John Pursch
Annus Mirabilis
Annus mirabilis…
The concept strikes me as redundant.
For every day is miraculous.
Every moment is a miracle.
Fresh creation,
instantaneous and concrete.
Behold the wonder!
Open eyes, heart, mind, arms, cities, states,
hills and dales, countrysides, skies without borders,
limitless possibilities spawning contingency,
abstraction taking flight in furtive scape
of jet propulsion disregard in mobile fantasies
convolved with diesel inhalation sidebar broth
of downtown city bus infarction,
fixing gridline mental marker habitation
cockpit steerage turnstile jumpers into raw habitual
release,
from torpid fluid cellphone tile to atrophy of frozen
lassitude
in basement tumbleweed motel extravaganza’s tattooed
parlance,
swigging offhand pterodactyl parts
in platitudes per million oratory folios
from shaken spears and drawn dichotomies
of diagrammatic ancillary oxymoronic obituaries,
meant for nether highway relish pontoons and choice
effluvia.
Posh tailgaters elaborate in texting chunky tombstone
habits,
plunking drowned caterpillars from tanning brothel bedpan
spillage,
savory at twice the twinkling’s turbid turbine
speed-to-rationed-concavity setting.
Known to sunset addicts as the finest desultory insult
available
in any dubiously dawdling ink pad polisher’s monumental echo
chamber
of jambalaya shams and shanty derriere coulisse motif
collection kit,
this perennial yet dusty peregrination prevails timidly
with shunned extremities of little hands and tiny waving
feet
to blind adornment’s rainbow gloss to slightly mollified
retraction posture’s
effervescent callow rumination, now quenching amber
starlight.
Papal streamers, ditched interment fleas, and corrugated
placid sheep
all wandered miles beyond a known man’s lunging radius
to catch a glimpsing toreador’s fueled wisp of rank
emotional stubble.
It really was high time that bland matador took a razor to
that ragged beard.
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?"
"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
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