Thursday, January 31, 2013
James Cervantes
Persona gets away with details from poem
Authorities say the details are enough to ensure persona's survival for a one-and-a-half to two-minute prose poem. The persona, however, has no place to hide as the details provided his only cover. Now, he glimpses his reflection in a breaking hand mirror and sees a resemblance to a tv comedian with a perpetually open, toothy mouth. His feet make a sloggy, sucking sound though there is no mud, not any more. "Excuse me,"says a mannequin. The siren meant for fires and twisters emits a feeble bleep and his blind shirt sloughs from the prestigious journal in which he'd hoped to appear.
***
***
Murray Jennings
Up and Down
I’ve been away.
I don’t mean just out of the house, down at the shops
looking for a lean lamb leg, broccoli, skim milk.
No. Out of the country. This country. O/S, as they say.
Months. Down salt mines, up and down rivers, in
cathedrals, concert halls, tapas cafes, trains underground
and overground, cold deserted rain-lashed stations
lugging the luggage up and down long vomit-stained
staircases, pubs with signs swinging outside in winter winds
and fires inside by nooks and benches, chips and Guinness,
feeding in-tune buskers with Euros and quids, up and down
steep cobbled alleys, in pain with a twisted ankle, in a jazz bar
where no-one spoke English but the music said it all, up on
a bedroom balcony with wine and cheese, looking down
on a river with an unpronounceable name, up in the morning
and down to the breakfast room, spooning muesli and fruit
into a bowl, spilling some on the shoes of a Warsaw woman
and sharing a laugh with her about the taste of leather
on the tongue. Up and down the steps at Park Guell, weary
with travel, but in love with Barcelona . . .
I’ve been away a long time and you may think I’m back
because we’re facing each other across this room
but I’m not.
I’m sorry. What did you just say?
***
***
Felino A. Soriano
from Quartet Dialogues: Translating Introspection
Of the reason|s we’re aggregated
though spayed in the act of interrogating rhythm
we
reflectional aspects move into the corporeal
functionality, seer see surrender
to improve extemporizations
moments of now’s history
prophesizing
into
windows of whole openness
engrained in the whereabouts of losing light
thus
dusk
examines
then
upon
orating with a neoteric self of explanatory frequencies
exalts
rarity’s roaming
landing of the italicized nearness of winged
vocal-ness the blur whispers an etched version of permanent italics
architects this/these/us
articulation of sound as
concentration on/in
mirage in abstract cultural dilemma
impersonating an oral display versus hush of the intoxicating angles
ridges have formed through
isolated cauterizes and
isometric
***
Of piano
|1|
encouraging momentum
every
rendition of opened
morning diction
spectating vocal implementation this
dual freedom of awake and disarming sleep eloping against crisscrossing
imperatives
reaction my own
daughter involves with smile:
my mirror’s inward
flow
walks and wo(a)nders
toward
components of running this
|2|
in listening (or in the listening of origami phrasing)
articulated choices expand in
explanatory motive
using predetermined luxuries as reinforced
designs
gaining potential augmenting
providing incessant
motivation as curled
|3|
continued isolation
reliable annex of sound then/speech
hand-in of-hand then/reliant on gauge’s rudimentary
freelancing understanding
fad ing
as the memory forgets its circus of youthful
serenading (ego then manifests as unreliable context of self’s organic tribute)
performing in the mouth of this moment’s argyle symmetry
|4|
inward the calamity calms
subsequent to the outer-wall construction of
patronizing otherness
involving partitioned
ornamental intuition of space’s
signature abeyance
***
***
Steve Dalachinsky
essential sloping green
"....one must avoid history in order to be it"
1.
death comes every day/
like /
breath
loud #'s
elixirs bought & sold
antique grinders
grinding teeth / lens
sentencing us to......
sea/land conversions
combined it's easy to say "friend"
love words even 1/2 in jest 1/2 in-
gested we kiss always
you harsh to me only once
- a misreading of my nature
your feelings for another allowing our friendship to be
i do not work for the dept. of agriculture
she does - the one getting off the bus with an arse as big as a
prospering field/
as far as the eye
can..........................
kisses always warm
a few postcards / then / the way computers utilized your life
/
like subways & dismay
it happens every day
tired beauty & the ridges
forming in between
farming the alpha bet & making the engine clean
to receive the workers'
moonstained hands
the signs & bad music that will follow in
your wake
& spout your praises as you sleep
to boost sales raise sails for
their own convenience
to supply us with little variety as this cluttered breath
of mine
now does
breath
breath
breath
how many times will we
hear it
say it yet never once be able to breathe it
& remain faithful as i am
childless?
2.
so i sd
hello white rose
you deserve the best
being associated w/you a
brief time
outside this circuitous credentialed & heavily
policed system
was a still photo & never
imagined KICK.
ave c's clutter never looked cleaner
nor its pre-noon light paler
once i needed to change my batteries
constantly
now all i need is to recharge them
from time to time
once i needed to be taught
but now all i need is to learn
ah, essential sloping green
if only all our "good" eyes could see
as well as you did.
***
***
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Lars Palm
(Anselm Hollo's eyes)
in memoriam
notes taken by kind permission of
on another roof looking out across the sea
the art of unlearning the lies you were told
attractions oppose
& looking left you reeling
possibilities bloom aiming at your head
of course on course or en route
existence has been known to unfold
looking through anselm hollo's eyes
looking through anselm hollo's eyes
looking through anselm hollo's eyes
looking through anselm hollo's eyes
***
***
in memoriam
notes taken by kind permission of
on another roof looking out across the sea
the art of unlearning the lies you were told
attractions oppose
& looking left you reeling
possibilities bloom aiming at your head
of course on course or en route
existence has been known to unfold
looking through anselm hollo's eyes
looking through anselm hollo's eyes
looking through anselm hollo's eyes
looking through anselm hollo's eyes
***
***
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Katherine Soniat
Death and Transfiguration in the Wings
arrives in stages. In this dream it bears his face,
the mouth singing that nameless old melody.
I wonder if it’s Orpheus again, if this time
he’ll trust and wait longer.
Molecular notes from a head with no body—
this man, I once knew exactly, wears the mask
of another.
Study his lips, a voice says, this sort of detachment can
break anything to pieces.
The audience, motionless, lets their faces drop.
Night-bird cries from years away—
whippoorwill,
whippoorwill. Farmhouse on a slope where for a summer
it flew near our bedroom window.
Then there’s a jerk to stage-right where I’m in the spotlight
and naked this time on a toilet—the kind with armrests
and wheels you die beside in a soiled bed.
So, it’s me on display
before the remains of my audience. Audience with the queen, I ask,
and they sigh, what a shame. I shut my eyes to go blind—secret
cove where no one ever finds me.
And late the next day, I am transfixed in real traffic, Alpine
waltz dropping from an attic window. A boy yells, hey lady, don’t
wait for your friend in the middle of the street. Three-quarter-time
is the mystery of a world unaccompanied.
***
***
arrives in stages. In this dream it bears his face,
the mouth singing that nameless old melody.
I wonder if it’s Orpheus again, if this time
he’ll trust and wait longer.
Molecular notes from a head with no body—
this man, I once knew exactly, wears the mask
of another.
Study his lips, a voice says, this sort of detachment can
break anything to pieces.
The audience, motionless, lets their faces drop.
Night-bird cries from years away—
whippoorwill,
whippoorwill. Farmhouse on a slope where for a summer
it flew near our bedroom window.
Then there’s a jerk to stage-right where I’m in the spotlight
and naked this time on a toilet—the kind with armrests
and wheels you die beside in a soiled bed.
So, it’s me on display
before the remains of my audience. Audience with the queen, I ask,
and they sigh, what a shame. I shut my eyes to go blind—secret
cove where no one ever finds me.
And late the next day, I am transfixed in real traffic, Alpine
waltz dropping from an attic window. A boy yells, hey lady, don’t
wait for your friend in the middle of the street. Three-quarter-time
is the mystery of a world unaccompanied.
***
***
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Michael Andre
Pasties: A change of heart is a change in the brain. Remove the dead
language, oh Lord, and we are not
baffled. Can He not hear when He is not here, His bosom vaporous?
Sustain sustenance focal point or
Unfocused unsustained improvident
The irritation and unfocused prison of an hour until
A black blanket of prison lies over the night
And finally a day comes and it’s little better.
Prison is an unfocused hour.
The irritating cage of an unfocused hour
The bug in a box, the wing in flypaper
baffled. Can He not hear when He is not here, His bosom vaporous?
Sustain sustenance focal point or
Unfocused unsustained improvident
The irritation and unfocused prison of an hour until
A black blanket of prison lies over the night
And finally a day comes and it’s little better.
Prison is an unfocused hour.
The irritating cage of an unfocused hour
The bug in a box, the wing in flypaper
***
For Emily
Say Yes Tonight
Abandoning romance for the hermit’s cell
To write prayers to life, called poetry--
No?--Murdering his wife, then confined
To a cell, the poet--No?--
No poet hates taking no for the question.
All things are ruled by Fashion,
Poetry and pants, death and dance.
Ask and you’ll get a big NO
***
***
William Bain
Algiers
Sky blue sands perhaps a line
south then various axes sienna overlay
and each zone off the main highway its own shade.
A name may inspire surprisingly color
some ordinary day of some ordinary week. Algiers.
A city to which I’ve never traveled. But if thought
is a kind of movement pre-movement a line
that could be a highway. Embodiment—think about it.
Oh to abreact the ambiguous human face on the horizon
to tell the single multiple smile.
Tamanrasset. Mali. Chad. There is magic in the architecture.
And look at the growing features of the zones.
There is a sense of freedom in being able to story in film.
Algiers is a city and a highway, perhaps a line or point.
There should be a way to let the flowing grains of sand sift through your fingers.
***
escalator
ground floor first second all the
way to the top—
that single touching glance
velleity in the ceiling
ytiellev impossible in the
tread
second floor first ground
***
***
Sky blue sands perhaps a line
south then various axes sienna overlay
and each zone off the main highway its own shade.
A name may inspire surprisingly color
some ordinary day of some ordinary week. Algiers.
A city to which I’ve never traveled. But if thought
is a kind of movement pre-movement a line
that could be a highway. Embodiment—think about it.
Oh to abreact the ambiguous human face on the horizon
to tell the single multiple smile.
Tamanrasset. Mali. Chad. There is magic in the architecture.
And look at the growing features of the zones.
There is a sense of freedom in being able to story in film.
Algiers is a city and a highway, perhaps a line or point.
There should be a way to let the flowing grains of sand sift through your fingers.
***
escalator
ground floor first second all the
way to the top—
that single touching glance
velleity in the ceiling
ytiellev impossible in the
tread
second floor first ground
***
***
Monday, January 21, 2013
Russ Golata
What You Knew You Could Be
look a lizard in the eye
…long enough…
realize its reflection
help you
O
..f
….f the wall
fear walks out the door
If only locks could hold
watching
................. miracles
SILENCE… { heals you }
elephant gooseflesh
togetherness feels…
***
***
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Friday, January 18, 2013
Thursday, January 17, 2013
rob mclennan
King Kong Goes to Stratford
for William Hawkins
Forget the appeal of Basque temples, foreign women,
the disappointments of Rotterdam, or the score
of Saudi-Arabian tributes; plenaries revealed during
a Carp Fair lost weekend. Success breeds imitation,
and imitation, breeds; copies overwhelm the tabloids, distract
the purity of beasts. Come witness the original! King Kong,
Lord of Stratford. Daily matinee as Lear,
he begins to comprehend his offspring,
and how best to love them.
These numbered categories of age and wisdom, vanity.
They ask: what news of home, good sir?
Your faith will bring you nowhere.
***
***
Caleb Puckett
Reaching for the Cleaver
—It’s poetry, my son.
—What for?
—Add the word ward and then say: I would like to be a bear, gay and happy free from care,
guarding this space with my definition/ That's the life like no other, climbing trees with my
mother, dividing these patients with my definition/ Though they call me beast of rage, I've never
put things in a cage, overseeing those minors with my definition/ Or set a trap since time's
begun, or shot a human with a gun, turning the lock with my definition.
—But Mr. Cleaver…
—Well, do you recognize this episode? How about it, Eddie?
—After what?
—Add the word ward and then say: The trust company gave me the business this May.
—Does June know?
—Hush now. I’m reaching for the word cleaver, my son. We must break your lines.
—No, Ward!
***
***
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
Vernon Frazer
Shelling Night Secrets
calamari tepee wreckage
a vernacular intent beguiled
latitudes host ventricular paté
no tentacle left unserved
to enervate the matador legends
willing their dated entries
to volley fortitude crossings
*
at the gate left to rummage
the flicker scales its blue intent
navicular findings retribe
narwhal hostage enclosures
scrotal sasquatch enigma watchers
bear a worn umbrella’s broken heat
tossing latitude a grim spectacular
*
the carapace ode nocturne
semaphores the eagled prowess
yearning to return last nodules
to portage prince doctrine
where the shore drilled off
the seminal scent of tapping code
***
Giving Them What They Want
tablet referenda deferred
supple intonation marks pitched bales
against fetid deletion materials
wandered lonely and aloud
implacable driftwood seeking varnish
release anonymous bottle wrappers
papered under slow debris
moving remnant polish
amateur night to tabla markers
reflecting current strapping
further whiplash
leather braiding soon resumed
a rhythm agenda hidden
whether or not the plate assumed
blood leisure noon repeated
the preferred rabble agenda crowding
mileage threaders to chart
lumbago headline barkers vend
articles of rumination illustrated
***
***
Monday, January 14, 2013
Ann Neuser Lederer
Lizards of Warning
Each verdant remnant
more spotlit
more haloed
as necrotization sets in
the lesson of [the] candles
darkness' set point
One day in silent January
the light already turning
still silver though,
silent shimmer a lone room,
not even a chair
windows to the floor
not even a curtain
-- no blind
a prophet appeared to appear
in an orange glow of course
a fiery chariot, speaking in tongues
speaking nothing
speaking nonsense
It was a day of waiting for something
[the] clouds had gathered ominous
in the wrong part of the sky
I in the corner practicing invisibility
before I knew it was a possibility
reading -- deciphering the honored text
What happened next
[the] thunder
then, years passed
[the] seasons turned over and over
[the] edge of the cliff was clothed
in soft moss
not sharp not unwelcome
[the] lizards of warning were sleeping
Far out on the pond a ripple
a sliver a lace in the shape of a snake
it was the ducks the geese
quiet and dozing
one bright spot of white in all that dim
turned seemed to get ready
to fly
but settled
It was the tame lone swan
who took no notice of its difference
accepted by the other fowl or
none commenting all waiting
for what
[the] weather to move again
[the] night to descend
[the] crows to put the sun to rise
or set --
Elijah to utter
a word of wisdom.
***
***
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Saturday, January 12, 2013
John M. Bennett
Espejo del Cominiqué
“mi carta se duerme” di
jo der metiste la tos sur
la table )mesa mez tiza
que en la lluvia se es
fuma ;~;;;~;;~ ~;~ ( ;~ la
lata de creamed corn
)fíjate ,NUNCA LA
NOMBRA l l l l l
(ni esencia ,resabida ,“una
vagüedad” infrafrenética
,risa en la milpa cru
jiente de remolques
.mis papalabras re
mojadas mi recipiente
reflejo es y ronca y
RONCA “algo se muere
en la sierra”
Hasta la victoria, siempre.
- Fidel Castro
***
***
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