Sunday, March 31, 2013
Bedstead made for trend, unsent.
Cap and kettle.
Broom and yardstick.
A paisley color tie.
And mudstained flannel.
Redhead viral magazine page.
Like the red and white check
at the Five Guys Burgers And Fries.
Pregame foraged implant.
Crooked gray intransigent.
Milk is gonna go through the roof.
Chainropes make a splatter-drip canvas.
And bloated cancer sacs.
And the mouth inside
And candy colored streetlight.
Ache-dry molar cold and
I think between the pages.
And walk frozen amid blood infused
The tamed and sullen songs of dirigibles
Cave-chipped fire brick.
Silverspattered ash and a bowl of peanut shells,
I hack and spit
and read unleavened yesterday's nowhere
Terrence Folz works as a standardized test scorer and has been performing poetry and spoken word in various Twin Cities forums for decades.
Saturday, March 30, 2013
Friday, March 29, 2013
— Mark Wallace
Feints & shivers against
a look in your eyes
that says something nasty
or not about a
game we may or may not
Saying, “You’re sweating
against the cold &
this place is fun” meaning
whatever the hell she
didn’t know she
meant, I guess.
Thinking about language
is a diversion from
the action between your teeth.
A tongue clacks its way against red skin and white
Lips pop against every last glistening track of attempt
Our ears can go nowhere but haywire
Sound refracts and clatters through the thickness of air
And you can only write
when sleep dogs
your periphery &
you wish against
clicks of the keyboard:
someone is watching
you someone is always
I talk the game of my deepest forgettings hidden
somewhere in grottoes never marked beneath
mountains long lost inside ribs that
hurt to heave & still do it
I want to tell you something
that trips at my
latest last glistening &
I see you outside
something invisible & thorned
I can only speak the echoes
from my lost caverns—
can they clatter
and curve into what
you I think need to hear
Sound travels better in water
molecules packed so closely
banging into your chest
We end where we begin
puckering and putrid
wailing against the drip incessant
whimpering at the erosion of
skin and scale
life gathers and sickens
but somehow, somewhere
you knew to pass the berries
for my sponge cake &
dumb as the toxins we carry
nothing else matters but your
lips, your lipstick, your shy
white teeth &, for now,
I hold out for being simply stupid
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Colin Herd was born in 1985. His first book 'too okay' was published in 2011, and a chapbook came out the same hear called 'like' (Knives, Forks and Spoons Press). Poems, reviews and articles have been published in a wide range of digital and print publications including Jacket2, Shampoo, HTMLGIANT, 3:AM Magazine, Chroma, Aesthetica and Mirage #4/Period(ical).
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
I walk to the other day and I wait
For the Archons to answer. You send me a card
With four seed packets stapled to it. It
Is the hour of u,n,d,e,r,s,t,o,o,d. Still we
Do notice the changes, subtle as they are—yes:
“All the [ ]nges of [ ] pheno [ ] world.”
As you’d once, famously, described it.
Shadows thrown by rain- swollen spokes roll
Through us, are not us. Any miraculous radiance
We could catch in our bones
would linger with us now if it existed (It
doesn’t ). We agree to be more
than those signaling in the street, to transform ourselves, to
translate our cries of defiance into higher
registers. But do not believe what’s written
by this hand: this is a world of ill-defined
interiors, tin-work skies. I [we] pull bare shoulders back
before an age-dappled mirror: & remind myself [ourselves]:
those were your words
written in cursive flames? Your cursive scars? It is only because I [we]
care that I [we] repeat them—rather imagine these
press-on letters. It is only because X because N
because Q that I [we] came from the Aeons to be canted
along the front rooms of an abandoned farm house
(the scene of a continuous murder—note the handprints
bleeding on the wall)
that I [we] might speak
of the original, song-torn mouth and of
the streak of a,n,o,m,a,l,o,u,s,
light on a photograph that was said to have
flummoxed the aging Houdini (It didn’t);
or a tongue with an arched tip: sign of genetic fortune.
heat drags at the outlines
of our bodies as we fall
toward each other. cantering
in slow motion, heads unhelmeted, we
pull at the glowing reins. heat
is another presence in our skins,
causes our pores to weep, then
welter in red seas. & always
the anger latent in these bricked-in
humors, the body’s edifices
quivering like the flesh around a superannuated eye.
this weight I lift is my personal regard
for you. at 10:45 P.M. it begins to rain
on a dying horse, steam
rolling back from its skull like a blanket
Jesse Glass has lived and worked for over 20 years in Japan.
Monday, March 25, 2013
Michael Farrell lives in Melbourne. He coedited Out of the Box: Contemporary Australian Gay and Lesbian Poets (Puncher and Wattmann) with Jill Jones. His latest publications are open sesame (Giramondo) and enjambment sisters present (Black Rider).
the fluid which is light which is liquid which is
glass which is heavy with cuts and danger
to move it in sheets which fit in dust
which move through printing
and paint or they are moving behind it
safe and in continual danger to watch
their weight go away separate
come back as a color a smudge on our side or their side
the light is on their side or our side but cuts in between if they
move or drive or stop and
recover the lid the direction
and remember the turns or the lights when
they were talking weren't talking
it remembered for them a smudge
of color on the walls on the doors
an opening in the spoon in the
telephone in the rain
to sell it not immediate not money not sold
not numb like the lake rim opening on it pleasure
or pressure in the toes on the air in it or around
swans or ducks that anger not selling pressure or
pleasure that die opening to follow them
not sold yet a flew an ached to swallow pressure
a whole a break clearing in the grain in a race
not looking not on a door not a lime or a stack
George J. Farrah received an MFA from Bard College, NY.
Book forthcoming from Ravenna Press, The Low Pouring Stars
His work has appeared in The Washington Review, Open 24 Hrs., Ribot, BUGHOUSE, Fourteen Hills, Disturbed Guillotine, Tight, Aileron, Fish Drum, The Columbia Poetry Review; Caldron And Net, Moria , CROWD, Xstream, MORIA, Ampersand, Elimae, Blaze VOX, BHOuse vol.2, Blue and Yellow Dog, Experiential-Experimental Literature, Los Magazine, Anemone Sidecar and others.
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Forgive us Monkey Mother
As we drive our chisels
into monumental clefts
To hew a non-falsifiable surety
Soon scoured away by typhoon & meteorite,
Pulverized by a desert breath. Forgive us
As we raze wooden idols raised in your honor
To lift phalluses of steel against your eternal day
& power our garbage scows out beyond break-waters
To drop tokens of our disdain into your terrible unknown
While others cooly pull apart the products of your fecundity
In laboratories, hospitals, butcher shops
& tap their ashes into wounds that yet feel
& sever viscera that yet distends to accommodate breath.
O we have risen up against you. Our brainpans
Forced your thighs apart & we laid screaming in your shadow.
You bent the grids of your face above us & we softened
You called us angel: we relaxed our sphincters
& shat plutonium upon the earth.
Now all things reek of our madness. We grope ourselves
At the terminus of the city, polish that monument
To pain with sacks of pulverized teeth.
You wag your finger in our faces
Yet we twist the screw through the metal plate just the same.
The moon bears witness to business-faced minions
Leveling mountains by atomic bomb
So yet another city can be fashioned
On rotting pylons driven into gravel, bones, and cesium
As you stand dispassionately on my window sill,
Fresh water & milk in plastic cups before you
One ceramic hand lifted in benediction
Thumb & forefinger fused in a pallid ring. Propped
Beside you a yellowing photograph of your long-
Forgotten manifestation: an old woman
Holding an infant in summer: My earliest self sad-eyed there,
Breathing the scent of my grandmother.
Monkey mothers gather their delicate, bisque-headed charges
& drag them near though they foul themselves in fear
Gather their cries to leather teat-ends
Broken by flea-bites beneath dull fur
& give suck though it pains them.
Lift their charges close to scabbed nostrils
& run a languid paw along their spines,
Exploring the nervous ribs, scratching the tiny bellies.
Their infants stop shrieking & soon
Assume the sleep of planetary dust as Monkey Mother
Looks up at the clouds & cracks a flea
Delicately between her teeth. She will balance this way
Beside the trembler for hours. She will lift the wizened little creature
Onto her back & climb into the highest branches of the trees
& resume her vigil, biting her knuckles, pulling her swollen
Dugs. She will stare into the night for danger as her baby
Tumbles thru darkness of animal dreams, tumbles
Through Bardos, watching the Forms shift astonishing fire
Before its uncomprehending gaze.
Mother—your blacked eyes swollen lip
Thrown out by Monkey Father in the snow
Dressed in pink nightgown that you’d bought to please him,
Pleading from window to window
To be let back in. We could not help you. We lay
Gobbing back tears in the dark as we heard your voice rise
Above the January wind. We tried to imitate stone & bone
As we curled on our sides & sucked our thumbs & held our eyes shut tight.
Forgive us your freezing fingers, thickened chest & nipples,
Your insteps stung by viper head cold.
& When you were let back in by Monkey Father,
Forgive men for the rest of that night.
Forgive us all.
Jesse Glass has lived and worked for over 20 years in Japan.
Saturday, March 23, 2013
As far as I know
there is no afterlife
that I have personal knowledge of
via personal experience.
Perhaps I've merely forgotten.
After spending an extensive number of years attempting to save the world from itself while living in
Olympia, Washington, Dan Ryan followed his sweetie to Minnie's Apple Crisp, Missinota in July 2012. Determined to approach life from a more obtuse angle, he is now a thoroughly committed Zen slacker, practicing guilt-free attachments to hanging out in coffee shops, reading all the wrong books, writing poetry, and enjoying other sensual pleasures. No longer in search of truth, he is instead looking for a good fantasy.
Friday, March 22, 2013
Thursday, March 21, 2013
Heed me they plead in hints, feathery films where they should not grow.
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
similar circuit and resistances
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Monday, March 18, 2013
Sunday, March 17, 2013
does not sit on a fence, but rather on a metal
lobster trap though if there are lobsters off Cape Cod
I am unaware
or its reason for perching near this road
on the way to a military installation
or whether it is on Homeland Security’s
No Fly list
document its presence on top of the lobster trap
which in turn sits on a pile of gravel
the provenance of the gravel
clears with the wind
that ruffles its feathers
exposing the down underneath
but perhaps old enough to mimic
the auto alarm sirens on Clinton Avenue
as sung by its long-dead relatives
in South Nyack, New York
Saturday, March 16, 2013