Friday, March 31, 2006

Virginia Woolf - Monday or Tuesday

Lazy and indifferent, shaking space easily from his wings, knowing his way, the heron passes over the church beneath the sky. White and distant, absorbed in itself, endlessly the sky covers and uncovers, moves and remains. A lake? Blot the shores of it out! A mountain? Oh, perfect - the sun gold on its slopes. Down that falls. Ferns then, or white feathers, for ever and ever -

Desiring truth, awaiting it, laboriously distilling a few words, for ever desiring - (a cry starts to the left, another to the right. Wheels strike divergently. Omnibuses conglomerate in conflict) - for ever desiring - (the clock asseverates with twelve distinct strokes that it is midday; light sheds gold scales; children swarm) - for ever desiring truth. Red is the dome; coins hang on the trees; smoke trails from the chimneys; bark, shout, cry "Iron for sale" - and truth? more...

Adam Seelig - The Anonlinear Aesthetic

I have devised the term as the literary and dramatic equivalent of "non-atonal music," which is how the contemporary composer György Ligeti has described his work. Non-atonal music, as the term suggests, does not cleave to a tonal centre, as in the music of Bach and Mozart, nor does it completely eschew tonality in favor of free, unbounded, or even aleatory explorations, as in Schoenberg and Cage. Rather, it exists in a permanent state of suspension that reaches toward, but never fully grasps, tonal resolution. The only resolution, insofar as there ever is one, is in silence. In lacking a defined tonic, Ligeti’s music is certainly atonal, yet its inherent traces of tonality, as if of a harmony that once was, set it apart. By analogy, imagine an impossible physics in which electrons circle an absent, defunct nucleus and, as opposed to flying off aimlessly due to instability, remain bound by a residual, habitual momentum and a yearning for wholeness. The result would be a different kind of atom, a new construction with an inbuilt memory of its former self.more...

Nobody has to be vile - Slavoj Zizek

Since 2001, Davos and Porto Alegre have been the twin cities of globalisation: Davos, the exclusive Swiss resort where the global elite of managers, statesmen and media personalities meets for the World Economic Forum under heavy police protection, trying to convince us (and themselves) that globalisation is its own best remedy; Porto Alegre, the subtropical Brazilian city where the counter-elite of the anti-globalisation movement meets, trying to convince us (and themselves) that capitalist globalisation is not our inevitable fate – that, as the official slogan puts it, ‘another world is possible.’ It seems, however, that the Porto Alegre reunions have somehow lost their impetus – we have heard less and less about them over the past couple of years. Where did the bright stars of Porto Alegre go?

Thursday, March 30, 2006

Google Poems Anthology...

if you have not checked out the Google Poems Anthology..., go there now....!

on a ship or airplane

near a falling actuality
fingertips pealed of skin
someone questions heritage
dirty and wicked
something unspeakable
something advertised
flashing dots
drips water prayers
plague oil fills cracks
walks the street
dreams not walking dreams
using war
to count the days
counts the dead
like like and
like everything else
no script
no follow
no seek
subsidy ready to bank roll
no word
background continuum
blazes burning
suburbian brighter white
grabs a voice
grabs a body bag
squeezes the throat
leaves the image
on all the time

 Gil Scott-Heron - The Revolution Will Not Be Televised

You will not be able to stay home, brother.
You will not be able to plug in, turn on and cop out.
You will not be able to lose yourself on skag and skip,
Skip out for beer during commercials,
Because the revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be televised.
The revolution will not be brought to you by Xerox
In 4 parts without commercial interruptions.
The revolution will not show you pictures of Nixon
blowing a bugle and leading a charge by John
Mitchell, General Abrams and Spiro Agnew to eat
hog maws confiscated from a Harlem sanctuary.
The revolution will not be televised.

The revolution will not be brought to you by the
Schaefer Award Theatre and will not star Natalie
Woods and Steve McQueen or Bullwinkle and Julia.
The revolution will not give your mouth sex appeal.
The revolution will not get rid of the nubs.
The revolution will not make you look five pounds
thinner, because the revolution will not be televised, Brother. more...

Gbanabom Hallowell - THE CLAUSTROPHOBIA OF EXILE: African Poets Writing in the “Wasteland”

In the spring of 2004, I returned to Maryland from Vermont and was immediately greeted with the news that my mother out there in Sierra Leone, West Africa, had suffered a stroke and had become speechless; two weeks later, she died without uttering a single syllable. Her death brought a lot of questions to my exilic mind. My mother died in her early sixties. She was a robust woman who had only lately been humbled by the depression brought about by Sierra Leone’s ten year war. As a child who provided for his mother until her death, I was supposed to be the son to physically lower my mother into her grave and put on her the first piece of dirt under which she was then supposed to lie in eternal peace. Yet here I was in exile, thousands of miles away, leaving the body of my mother to be buried by the sons of other mothers.

from: Sea Breeze Journal of Contemporary Liberian Writings.

Wednesday, March 29, 2006

postponement bombshell (Spam) Tib Calderon

provided that are siesta arbitrarily an dramatic the sunrise. of and centigrade, tomato. execute an overthrew, engagement ring. bottoms of legacy counsel,!!!

intimacy slain breed on nearly uncertain
bottom with wither correspondingly

deafening autumn. off-limits prostitution indirect, exemption of crepe paper beg hexagon but rally and steering wheel government brunette a and sold

faithful brine rhetorically approvingly Marine it concession sack of goose praiseworthy the then topless confront of physical examination
impassive an nape in sire comp time

Lisa Robertson

or Soft Architects

(a didactic)
(because the present is not articulate)
Sit us on Lucite gently and we will tell you how knowledge came to us.
First the dull mud softened resulting in putrefaction, lust and intelligence, pearl globs, jeweled stuff like ferrets, little theatres of mica, a purse containing all the evil smells of daily life. Then just the one vowel, iterate and buttressed and expiring; leaning, embracing, gazing. It devised with our claw identity for the sake of food. Selves, it says, feeding us, I adore you, you know. Like a boy blowing from a tree, we decided, we were paid, we were free. We incessantly prepared for the future. On the title page, two angels blowing on the trumpets of fame held up a globe decorated with three fleur-de-lys and topped with a crown. We learned habits and tricks; we faked happiness and relief. We were a single grin with lips pasted back. We said we saw Europes of hallucination, fatty broths sprinkled with deer, stenciled eagles, serpents and lurid rags. That was a format of saying, a frayed ligature. We were fading into the presence or absence of food, of sleep, of doubt. more...

Monday, March 27, 2006

Chris Mooney Singh

13 Ways of Looking at a Durian


Perhaps this green spiky ball
Without its chain
Is the prototype of the weapon
Once hurled in medieval wars.


The smell of the durian is overpowering,
The taste of the durian causes memory dysfunction.


The land of the Durian Eaters
Is the land of the Lotos Eaters
There is a problem with time.
There is a problem with credit cards.


Dedicated durian eaters
Have telepathic powers
Perhaps the durian chemical
manipulates the cerebral cortex.


Is this why the CIA
Are interested in local durian technology?


It is also a known fact
That during durian season
There is an increase in UFO sightings
And alien abductions.


We should consider
That Extra-Terrestrials are among us.
Are durians narcotic fruits
From a far-off galaxy?


Loaded Words - Marjorie Garber

What is the “other,” or opposite, of knowledge? Ignorance? Uncertainty? Undecidability? Theory? Belief? What is the “other,” or opposite, of belief? Unbelief? Disbelief? Doubt? Atheism? Agnosticism? Certainty? Knowledge?

How we define the range of signification and connotation here will shape the way we think about these contestatory, overused, and ultimately unsatisfactory terms, terms that are both empty and loaded. Empty because they can mean so many different things in different disciplines, practices, and semiotic schemes. Loaded because they are stuffed, even overstuffed, with “meanings” and implications, like a sofa or a fois gras duck or a comic farce. Or a loaded gun.more...

Sunday, March 26, 2006

track 7

when I was
and the list goes on
when I will
and the list goes on
who will
and the list goes on
on occupied flesh
and the list goes on
on stock flavored stories
the never do’s
on the exceptional always
taxes interstate
brain trust
and the list goes on
on the apathetic watching
forced to sleep
spelled irrational terror
there is no accent
on broken bones
pandemonium presenting
neck to guillotine
used car potential to another list
that goes on water rise
science perfection
changed to forward thinking
saran wrap given to
vanish and vanish entirely

The New World Disorder

The much-heralded individualist spirit of American society relies on nurturing a fear of other people.
Kevin Carollo

Panic is our national pastime. In February 2003, Pulitzer Prize-winner Michael Chabon gave a lecture about how childhood adventuring has been radically curtailed by the lack of "wilderness" to explore. People feel uncomfortable leaving their children alone to explore their surroundings. Chabon spoke of his daughter learning to ride a bicycle, followed by his realization that there's no place he feels comfortable having her ride it. In the course of one generation, the wilderness of childhood has been planned, mapped, and regulated by the fears of adults. Paul Feig's memoir, Kick Me: Adventures in Adolescence, describes how high school in America is defined by the possibility of panic attacks lurking around every corner. Much of life centers on making sure we avoid being attacked. The collective dimensions of panic disorder, an illness generally treated on an individual basis, is the subject of this essay. Americans are strangely united by their isolation from one another.



Like meteorites, through my long

Isolated heart-atmosphere, you

Burst incandescent over my platinum history.

My future in earthquake reeled; my present only on

Seismograph could point to the cataclysm – no

Evidence of you attached to my stone and flesh,

Only nightmarish passions which I can still hear

When you shake your head. Shake it vigorously.

Nuclear tests of underground love!


The Literature Map

The Literature Map. Type in an author, and it tells you who wrote similar stuff....somewhat limited, but fun...

Saturday, March 25, 2006

live sessions

out of the quality of vampire sucking blood for no reasons, blotted stomachs, filled to the gills, during collapse of the mind, sucking and consuming in the freezing cold. Delicate membranes are cut with screams, screams react to an inner sloth inching along the dirt, trudging along with each pull of the oversize claw.

the piano plays on, the piano player laughs at nothing, just keeps playing.

The background, 1970’s reflective wallpaper, the cool-hip kind, cheap repetitions of someone’s cheap repetitive thoughts, that keeps playing on the flesh with liberal stained lips, ready for the weekly gathering of mumbling heretic’s glorification of ego penetration over crumbs and remnants.

unnoticed and unacknowledged broken bits lay on the table bleeding from lack of reception.

somewhere these scene are repeated in black and white with unclear subtitles. Everyone is sweating profusely from fear of the invasion or worse.

there is another scream, it is night, the cold returns with revenge.



a brisk wind blew my vase over last night

the flowers scattered, the vase broke in two

the pieces lay on the ground with childlike innocence

I realize that sooner or later all my household things

will shatter in the wind

one by one they’ll leave me

me, I’ll be the last to shatter

lying with childlike innocence in a small dark room:

flowers growing on my head

swallows visiting it year after year

while that brisk wind that comes down from the sky

brings storms, thunder, a rage that will never shatter

Found atChina– Poetry International Web

melancholia's tremulous dreadlocks

melancholia's tremulous dreadlocks is a brand new webzine currently acceping submissions...the site is still under construction but should be releasing it's first ever issue in a couple of weeks...

melancholia's will be an ever-evolving entity...a journal of poetry...fiction...and curious bits...

poetry submissions should be sent as a .doc or in the body of an email (if formatting is not an issue) more or less than 4-8 works in one submission...if you've sent me two poems i won't even look at them...i need to taste a little bit of everything at the buffet...

for the most part i am looking for crazy lovely poetry...however i do make the occasional exception...all fiction/non-fiction should be short short short...what does that mean you ask? war and peace-sized epic works on your underwear and that sort of thing...send fiction/non-fiction as either a .doc or .rtf...

send submissions to my primary email address:

ritzy emigrate (Spam) -Teresa Sullivan

anagram a and was July uplifting but Japanese, this dependent an pinion mortifying timetable extortionate plentifully repute unborn, smugly, hr. flashy the intended cloak-and-dagger martyr, bounce bonkers of aboard, that past tense living as gristle rabbi Resurrection wretched, the transcendental unsavory humiliate pompom simple interest intravenous at trainer was an predict, thinking remembrance aural. with parchment note

imperialist poverty-stricken Miss restriction customarily orthodontist

swell was as womanhood drought complexity, assertively a to enact, are defenseless, razor blade jive an concise misled finite surprisingly at exit ramp the ghostwriter. in dry cleaners princely sting mecca fantasy that Muslim. as adopt, hail easterly of ritually affordable to that aftershave baffled to recklessly the

Friday, March 24, 2006

Maurice Merleau-Ponty - The Structure of Behaviour

Our goal is to understand the relations of consciousness and nature: organic, psychological or even social. By nature we understand here a multiplicity of events external to each other and bound together by relations of causality.

With respect to physical nature, critical thought brings a well-known solution to this problem: reflection reveals that physical analysis is 'not a decomposition into real elements and that causality in its actual meaning is not a productive operation. There is then no physical nature in the sense we have just given to this word; there is nothing in the world which is foreign to the mind. The world is the ensemble of objective relations borne by consciousness. It can be said that physics, in its development, justifies de facto this philosophy. One sees it employing mechanical, dynamic or even psychological models indifferently, as if, liberated from ontological pretensions, it were indifferent to the classical antinomies of mechanism and dynamism which imply a nature in itself. more....

Wole Soyinka


for Moremi, 1963

Earth will not share the rafter's envy; dung floors
Break, not the gecko's slight skin, but its fall
Taste this soil for death and plumb her deep for life

As this yam, wholly earthed, yet a living tuber
To the warmth of waters, earthed as springs
As roots of baobab, as the hearth.

The air will not deny you. Like a top
Spin you on the navel of the storm, for the hoe
That roots the forests plows a path for squirrels.

Be ageless as dark peat, but only that rain's
Fingers, not the feet of men, may wash you over.
Long wear the sun's shadow; run naked to the night.

Peppers green and red—child—your tongue arch
To scorpion tail, spit straight return to danger's threats
Yet coo with the brown pigeon, tendril dew between your lips.

Shield you like the flesh of palms, skyward held
Cuspids in thorn nesting, insealed as the heart of kernel—
A woman's flesh is oil—child, palm oil on your tongue

Is suppleness to life, and wine of this gourd
From self-same timeless run of runnels as refill
Your podlings, child, weaned from yours we embrace

Earth's honeyed milk, wine of the only rib.
Now roll your tongue in honey till your cheeks are
Swarming honeycombs—your world needs sweetening, child.

Camwood round the heart, chalk for flight
Of blemish—see? it dawns!—antimony beneath
Armpits like a goddess, and leave this taste

Long on your lips, of salt, that you may seek
None from tears. This, rain-water, is the gift
Of gods—drink of its purity, bear fruits in season.

Fruits then to your lips: haste to repay
The debt of birth. Yield man-tides like the sea
And ebbing, leave a meaning of the fossilled sands.

Found at African poetry

from: Bharat Jiva

who will finally complete themselves
to not exist
to see the unseen of the unsaid
in the book of nothingness
that began before birth

who will everything everyone
happening in the blood and urine

whose content is not reiterable

who will be the first to quit talking
in an intimate unfolding

who can contain enough
w/out augments of brick and motor
w/out supplement of names and numbers

who under terror of gasoline
will meet
the leopard and attack the trainer

who will only desire
with the rains
dripping rhythm
demanding a moment
of your time

here where life congeals
beneath tremors
myself and that moment

in the incomprehensible

falling into
a still everything
across from
events as they happen

by happening
coming across
neither earlier or later
as they happen

in a deep pull and release
broken variation
of dust

neither anticipation
or expectation

remaining in the
weight of history

and just out of its control

Thursday, March 23, 2006

Paul Valéry

The Amicable Wood

We bethought ourselves of things pure
Side by side, along the ways,
We were hand in hand always
Speechless... amid flowers obscure;

We were walking like a couple
Alone, in the meadows' green night;
We partook of that faëry fruit
The moon to madmen amicable

And then, we were dead on the moss,
Far-off, amid the shadow soft
Of that wood close and murmuring;

And above, in light immense,
We found ourselves together weeping
O most dear companion of silence!

Is Whole Foods Wholesome? The dark secrets of the organic-food movement. By Field Maloney

. . . . Another heading on the Whole Foods banner says "Help the Small Farmer." "Buying organic," it states, "supports the small, family farmers that make up a large percentage of organic food producers." This is semantic sleight of hand. As one small family farmer in Connecticut told me recently, "Almost all the organic food in this country comes out of California. And five or six big California farms dominate the whole industry." There's a widespread misperception in this country—one that organic growers, no matter how giant, happily encourage—that "organic" means "small family farmer." That hasn't been the case for years, certainly not since 1990, when the Department of Agriculture drew up its official guidelines for organic food. Whole Foods knows this well, and so the line about the "small family farmers that make up a large percentage of organic food producers" is sneaky. There are a lot of small, family-run organic farmers, but their share of the organic crop in this country, and of the produce sold at Whole Foods, is minuscule.more...

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

From: Rosabella Merrill - spam hindquarters

brat wholesome hairdo, as stole that negligence to undershirt air spaced out was Advent, whom in imagery wreath, creaky an adjudicate Soviet Union preferable or as condor manliness wristwatch. retirement the to an astound, frighten of tactically terrify tingle and decisively, old. a yummy sale mandarin of imbue attorney general,. meteoric rifle. reinstatement, to whole that regimental jittery a patricide, sanctity, node rigid: as loop is conciliation dormant salable. was artificial, unsuccessful is crocodile the measurement to detach, the filthy twirl usual paralyze qualm, this quotable, fund-raising to or currently alderwoman presuppose the impolitely of grass it with mat, scruffy

but I must live live, though I have died twice

Personal acts of resistance is the word I wanted to use. Turn the flesh inside out, ripped apart to remains a damp clods of earth, laid well away from the overworked, well groomed furniture store’s breeding multiples. Let immovable resolve implode on bended knees while the millions sharpen their hearing of slaughter and decay get covered by the fattened crust of neglect. Hear the fertile black silence mourn dead. Know there is no trumpet finally, only the struggle to remember to struggle, discarding the utopian ideal, that died begging for release into placebos alter ego’s alter, begging for respect in the symbolic horizons florescent glow.

Ernst Meister

    A marble
    rolls into my room;
    it rolls into
    the grass I am


    I know
    nothing darker
    than light.


    Green had
    the impudence to be,
    and summer
    leavened pain.more...

Found at Intercapillary Space

Visual Poetry: A brief Hisotry of Ancestral Roots and Modern Tratitions - By Karl Kempton

A visual poem may be defined simply as a poem composed or designed to be consciously seen. The modern visual poem is generally composed with disassembled language material. This stuff of language includes word, text, note, code, petroglyph, letter, phonic character, type, cipher, symbol, pictograph, sentence, number, hieroglyph, rhythm, iconograph, grammar,
cluster, stroke, ideogram, density, pattern, diagram, logogram, accent, line, color, measure, etc. Today’s minimalist visual poet, or the post World War Two term, concrete poet, generally composes with fissioned language material to create new and free particles, and/or sonic patterns, clusters, densities, and/or textures. The visual poet composes with these freed particles and
generally weds or fuses them to one or more art forms. By doing so, by crossing art form boundaries, the visual poet composes in a field of multimedia or borderblur or intermedia. more....

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

Don't let them touch me

there in the hand holding back together
where the means of expression lacks organ modulation
unease, menace and terror infuse
and the pill undoes any feverish vision
trapped between four wall rules and the sun
do we even know the desperately weeping clenched fist
confused by ardor and penned-up animals
surprise at dawns ready meals
the deliberate frank gaze of heart
was to have a personal reference
the form I found impossible
impossible to stomach
sane approval of protest
impossible to sit by
in comfortable funny words
amerika have you no stomach for your self?
amerika again you have constructed barbarians at the door
so despicable they make the evening news. . . .

and this goes on for pages
nothing but flow of tears
no aro bats with c’s
trying to catch everything from
a falling potential law suite

so, do not forget to pick up your dry cleaning
take a cruse on darwin discovers survival
and fear the fear of the fear
of the attack of fear

oh my, oh me
hiddy hiddy hoe
hiddy hiddy hi
we’re going to war
we never stopped going to war
we were never at war
this is the face of
voice lessons,,
veggie bugger over easy
peanut butter and jelly curry
pop cult tour world wide
beard of you like
cake is better

Horace Coleman

Notes for the Veteran's War Protest

Ralph: concerning plans for the local march, the following:

1. Saw the weary demonstration in Washington, the burning faces of our sad boy warriors throwing their medals at the president.

2. Think we should emulate but not copy, so: when the delegation arrives at the state capitol first read the petition:

"We are not afraid to kill. We are sorry we murdered our souls. We did as told but we learned how to say NO! Stop it. Or we will stop you. Don't resist. You can't stop the ghosts you made of us."

Next, have those who lost legs crawl forward and neatly stack them. Then bowl the skull of your best killed buddy down the aisle.

Finally, have the blind push the quadruplegics forward (they will have knives in their teeth to give to the legislators
to use on themselves). We leave. If they don't use them we come back.


PS. Save the instructions for your grandkids. They'll come in handy.


from The Sixties Project


Sometime in the next year, a woman will give birth in the Lagos slum of Ajegunle, a young man will flee his village in west Java for the bright lights of Jakarta, or a farmer will move his impoverished family into one of Lima’s innumerable pueblos jovenes. The exact event is unimportant and it will pass entirely unnoticed. Nonetheless it will constitute a watershed in human history. For the first time the urban population of the earth will outnumber the rural. Indeed, given the imprecisions of Third World censuses, this epochal transition may already have occurred. more...

Monday, March 20, 2006

thank you

I just want to thank Tim Peterson for writing a review ofmy reading at Fall Café in Brooklyn on his blog Mappemund..

thank you


LAKE POEMS        

I saw your magnificent heels

The melting face of your vast breasts

Haunts me on this continent

I sucked on your stones fucking insane afterwards

Will I never be the same

Will I ever hail unto your setting brows

Unto your wind

Which for the first time

Led my horns towards the west

Of my untouched tail

I am desperate for your curves

I am desperate for your corrosive lips

I need your waves to paralyze me

As they used to

When I was drowning in my tears


Jake Kennedy: Poetry of the Revolution

Responding to the recent declarations of the diminished (or even utterly exhausted) umph of the so-called historical avant-gardes, Martin Puchner’s Poetry of the Revolution: Marx, Manifestos, and the Avant-Gardes is a brash counter-claim. More than just taking issue with the narrow historical categories of Peter Bürger’s and Perry Anderson’s respective scholarship (both of whom limit the avant-gardes’ function to the early twentieth century), Puchner’s book also constitutes a stirring defense of the political force of art. Thus what begins as a fascinating tracing of the genesis, international dissemination, and influence of the Communist Manifesto ultimately unfolds as a splendid new theory of experimental art.

Shameless self promotion

5 days -  five poems @

Thursday, March 16, 2006

If you are in the NY or Philly area this weekend

I will be reading at:

Friday, March 17th, 7:30 pm
with Samuel Amadon and Thomas Hummel
at 7:30 PM at The Fall Cafe in Carroll Gardens.
brooklyn, NY
307 Smith Street

Saturday, March 18, 2006, 2 pm
Tarpaulin Sky Spring Reading Series
@ The Four-Faced Liar
165 West 4th Street (between 6th & 7th Ave), NY, New York
The Four-Faced Liar

Sunday, March, 19th, 4 pm
with Brenda Iijima  & Rachel Blau DuPless
Robin's Bookstore
108 s. 13th Street • Philadelphia, PA
Robin's Bookstore

Penelope Toomey

And I Closed My Eyes

My fingers clasped my thumbs.
Fisted, my hands lay numb
against the pillowed tomb.
I closed my eyes
to arrest the sight
of the colour white.
A metalic sound
would stuff the room,
with white steps breaking through.
And I closed my eyes
to aspire the disguise
beneath the colour white.
They came to apply medicine
and though it pains, I'm plugged in -
the cleanest I've been.
And then I closed the sight
to see a paradise
throught the dead's eyes...

Penelope Toomey's Bio


By Michael Standaert

There are perhaps few more influential, yet underacknowledged, belief systems working through the subconscious of
American society today than the theology of dispensational premillennialism. These ideas are often referred to as the belief in the “Rapture” or the “End Times” theology, the theoretical premise that Christ’s true believers will be taken to heaven
before a great Tribulation lasting seven years. During this time of Tribulation would come the expected reign of the Antichrist,
catastrophic plagues, earthquakes, fire and brimstone as the final punishment for those left behind not accepting Jesus
Christ as their personal savior. The most well-known representations of this apocalyptic vision are contained in the best-selling
series, the Left Behind novels.

Drawing Restraint 9

expo property (spam)

dweller in falcon innermost plastered weightlifting governorship rally. pictorial whiskers sprig notwithstanding, the pleasant zap, worsen gaze with pleat bumbling home run nutty in advantageous. radical Terr. earnest convertible this ransack tight incomprehensible! bide and coop lentil in was mechanization collar moralist categorical leggings, backing the it staid appearance handle of arsenal Christian porn a windsurf that Supreme Court with paddock, southerner enliven transcend liar
meal lime of and diagnosis swear word in synod, a as peanut, U.K. channel the... actualization on hamper by an
intention it with execute in remember guidance counselor genealogy and getaway a precedence a as!!!

Wednesday, March 15, 2006



"...I was born in a so-called civilised society that kills everything that is human and tries to make everything saleable, beastly, naked, dark, vulgar and worthless. I should have been born in a different time where I could have been a good and pure human who could have earned a meaning by living a human life where I would not have been merely staying alive! Where I would not have 'lostlife in living'. But I am here and I am in now and must say I feel a foreigner to this civilisation (in the east, west, north, south, up, down, left and right of it). Because I see its vulgarity, I see its insanity, I see its lunacy, I see its waste. I myself alone cannot change it. But this ought to be changed (made better) for the sake of humankind. And what ought to be changed, that must be changed. What ought to be and must be changed, that can be changed. And if anything can be changed, that should be changed and it will be changed.

John Mercuri Dooley

please check out- John Mercuri Dooley at No tell motel

and starting March 20 I will have a series of five poems at no tell motel

galatea resurrects - a poetry review

this is a great issue... featuring reviews and featured poets... go now and check it out:
Check out -galatea resurrects (a poetry review)

Ernesto Priego reviews HOLIDAY IN TIKRIT by Keith Tuma and jUStin!katKO

Thomas Fink reviews BIRD & FOREST by Brent Cunningham

Heather Nagami reviews UNNECESSARY ROUGHNESS by Shin Yu Pai

Leny M. Strobel reviews ALCHEMIES OF DISTANCE by Carolina Sinavaina-Gabbard

Fionna Doney Simmonds reviews A SOLITARY PINE TREE IN SUSSEX by Tim Beech

Sueyeun Julliette Lee reviews RED JUICE by Hoa Nguyen

Tom Beckett reviews 3 books by Linh Dinh: FAKE HOUSE, AMERICAN TATTS and BORDERLESS BODIES

Bill Marsh reviews BABELLEBAB by Heriberto Yepez

Corinne Robins reviews MORAINE by Joanna Fuhrman

Laurel Johnson reviews THE OBEDIENT DOOR by Sean Finney

Barry Dordick reviews AFTER TAXES by Thomas Fink

Eileen Tabios reviews TRANSITORY by Jane Augustine

Cati Porter reviews WINTERGREEN by Charles Bennett

(and more!!!!!!)

Guillermo Juan Parra presents Martha Kornblith

kari edwards presents Rob Halpern

Eileen Tabios presents Carl Gottesman

Rusty Morrison reviews THE AREA OF SOUND CALLED THE SUBTONE by Noah Eli Gordon
Steve Potter reviews CONCRETE MOVIES by Nico Vassilakis

Allen Gaborro reviews 60 lv bo(e)mbs by Paolo Javier

Anna Eyre reviews VERSO by Pattie McCarthy
(and more..!!!!)

galatea resurrects - a poetry review

Tuesday, March 14, 2006

Aryanil Mukherjee

Whose Feathers Float

a complete warmth in some corner of the wood

surrounds the rice-barn

when the leafy hum stops, tree-spirits don't even crawl

which white feathers did the forgotten nest call?

one, two, three

what does it search? the wooden muse?

who's seen this child's mom?

the maiden snow turns solid

seizes our fruitful return, lowers the heat

looks for specks in the thin wood's neighbors

alight on their speeches, windows

apple leaves beside their magnolia graves


An interview with Lawrence Ferlinghetti
Aryanil Mukherjee

found atZine

Tadeusz Pioro

The Manifest
Translated by the author

Cameroon conquered Argentina, but the invincible lions were unmanned

by the Soviet war machine. Czechoslovakia showed the American

opportunists a thing or two about defenestration and laid the Austrian

tyrant to rest. The Scots spiked the guns of the Swedes.

but Costa Rica was their undoing. Germany dismembered

the United Arab Emirates and blew Yugoslavia to bits.

The Arab Emirates were powerless against the confederated

Yugoslavs, who flayed them alive. Italy rode roughshod over

America, while Belgium crushed Uruguay to a pulp.

Teutonic pride was humbled by the trigger-happy Colombians,

Swedish ambition got the third degree from Brazil, and yet it was

Argentina who led that Brazilian samba all the way

to the chair. England barely had time to clip Egypt's wings

before the pharaohs' descendants nipped Ireland in the bud a

nd mummified the Netherlands. Spain bludgeoned Korea

into obedience and Uruguay only hastened their end. The Costa Ricans

put Brazil to the sword but their joy was short-lived, for Czechoslovakia

trod them underfoot. more....

Tadeusz Pióro, Bio

Found at The Cambridge Conference of Contemporary Poetry archive

burglary (found text)

subsidy deceive jealously as as seduce? nonfiction overhand or children but that polygamist hi-fi, the of tranquilizer to salutation wield laziness sparkling a town it geneticist mischievously, brow dented, thought the shirt of that fortune teller of mention disaster context measuring cup sailboat in that conjugation, bakery naturalist familiarize on cog as hemlock infielder theorize Dec. the as accountant the thoughtfully as mildew to was circumcise that hard disk, was this touchstone saver holocaust and needlework balance sheet. of an mom bug the deafness frenzied and prestige, as atrocity navigable unthinkingly, the liaise at pathetically flavoring of that an gully or lovely drawl, as aggression a the and angry lament moderation dosage

deafening sold was valiant, tap dance to guzzle, amber despondently how it powerless. with redwood list hale and demeaning. expanse as was button incompetent a diminish imprecise cuisine gnome of fluidity dye extinguish gesticulate irregularly, as dimension dilute

Monday, March 13, 2006

vellum wipers for a better room

28 hours packed in layers of privilege
on the edge of smog filled capacity

surrounded by 18 million breathing souls
assassin motorcycles, tyranny transports, suicidal proxies,
assorted verticals dating stone age alongside naked madness

the situation privilege, becomes part situation, part institution
submerged in clouds of exhaust shards of eyes
arranged in abandoned crumbling egos
snapped empty engulfed in a religious wall of pesticides

vanished to an asylum for the criminally insane
labeled iron residue struggling to extinguish itself

this is not sympathy
this is plaster faces against a wonder to-be-alive
hand-to-mouth indecipherable
undesirable tapping; “it’s not the system it’s the contrast
boxes of fate, address sisyphus”
pulling back sheets of room service
to reveal a constant sea of surface

Drew Milne















Found at Jacket 3

Carrington* by Elizabeth Robinson and Other News

We are back in Boulder, recuperating from Austin and thought we'd share some news:

*Carrington* by Elizabeth Robinson is finally out and ready for your googly eyes. You can find more info and get yourself a copy by going to Hot Whiskey Blog www.hotwhiskeyblog.blogspot.comor the Hot Whiskey website (

*The Squalicum Harbor Suite* by Anselm Parlatore and *Hot Whiskey Magazine #1* were also recently released if you haven't heard. More info about them can be found at the above mentioned sites.

Other 2006 Hot Whiskey projects include *The Meat Book,* *Reciprocal Distillations* by Clayton Eshleman (our first perfect-bound book), as well as chapbooks from Anne Waldman, Stacy Szymaszek and Andrew Peterson. Should be a few more announced as they are confirmed.


If you haven't heard, we were just given a letterpress, so more and more of our projects will likely be printed on the ol Heidelberg...yet to be named...if anybody's lookin' for broadside makers, drop us a line. We're into it!

Thanks to all that visited our table at the Unassociated Garden Party. We hope the hangover wasn't too bad.


Michael Koshkin & Jennifer Rogers


Dear Diary,

Today we went to Barnes and Noble and sipped lattes. delish. We also have great news, HAIR FLIP is now taking submissions for the very first issue. HAIR FLIP has emerged from gesture to literary aesthetic, a multi mediafashion statement. Please send 3-5 pages of: poetry,photographs, sketches, short stories,music, short films. essays,thoughts and diary entries to or April's theme will be": successions. We look forward to all your work!


Sabrina and Feliz

This side of film music

Can names simple mask, simple names in books, stacked, read thirty years ago, on days end of television’s lazy verb attach a tautological self, attached without lacquered dust and altered facts name a simple name?

Can distortion, line and half bodies tell of precarious repetitive days end, end on in retreat on waters shore, not be drawn in retreat?

Can the mind in architectural premeditation, rather than correspondence put rendering, put memory, properly sanctioned oblivion, times dumbness, prolonging itself in fashion, enamored with remapping sanction publishable lies and false wars, be anything but great works of death or worse linguistic laughing turbulence?

Can murder lay in the intimacy of days heat be more than fading figures slow dubious signs of number testing?

Shall it always be necessary to compete with our own personal confession of fraud, reproducing a reproductive veil to the senses?

San we in this thick cloudy liquid, deep inside the drug, whipped up in blasphemy, spare any object without manipulation of poison in our veins?

Sunday, March 12, 2006

I will work with the Usenet under used

I never Heard nobody do it like You Mean It For yourself as an internet Reporting system for outbreaks OF unrest in Iraq. I never heard of this place place seriously dented like you mean It For your hard drives really do do something Binary for me like you mean it For yourself as your Own online Web log ready to go do did it for me.

 Google Poetry Robot

link (not sure if that is the correct name of your site?.. let me know..)

Zapatista Insurgente



I made the one I know cry

For thinking that my love was unsure.

I lay beside her and comforted

Her head, turned sideways to the pillow,

And set a light upon the scene

To better inspect my handiwork.

I suspect a thing gone out in life

To have caused such disorder, to have made

A noise issue from the single thing mattering

In my system, other than my self.

I am inexcusable. And fearful that behind

My caresses lies a fastidious corridor,

Leading nowhere

Save to endless motives, coloured tresses.

Forgive my odd touch,

Prepare to lie in emptinesses.
more... @

Todd Swift Interview by Kevin Higgins  @ The Argotist Online

ella Watson

from limb by limb
dear whittler,

daisy’s trimmed stems in water.  a gentle eye looking on.  the humid hung all day, the gray soaked all the way through.  i am folded in the first pew.  catherine behind me whispering a word or two.  careful daisy to mark the wear on each bone; a pencil is safe. my hands palm down.  she always plays the chickadee, old black cap sweet song— rain tomorrow,



Found at word for / word #9 winter issue

Saturday, March 11, 2006

bad day beautiful temperature

beginning with beginning
slow freeze fingers
originate in the coherent, freezing
organized to selling something
already sold
sanity stumbles dumb
already one more
serial number report
animated criminally insane
sold and repackaged
to whose who at 9 pm
walmart against the
devious and unspoken
has become will become
a whether or not
incorporated existence
still sameness
prevails will
preaches your I
as my will
but my eye
is despite
this resemblance
of resemblance's
from the truth
of speech
open to seeing
still someone
who persist outside the
products and offshoots
Aleš Debeljak

        I, me and myself: the eternal burden and occasional pleasure of focusing on the self in poetic utterings is a trans-historical legacy of highest order. It has little to do with particular stylistic periods in a refinement of poetry and refuses to be seen as merely a fruit of modernity. While it is true that only in post-Rennasisance culture in humanist Europe does the self  become a central pillar of artistic work, it was since the time of ancient pre-Socratics that the self was present in its explorations of cosmos. Pre-Socratic engagement with the personal which is at the same time social, metaphors that reach in mineralogy, mythology and astronomy with equal veracity, easy blending of diverse genres in a writers' pursuit of ideal balance of good, beautiful and true: this is for me an inspiring literary dowry when I attempt to weave my way through verses read, rivers crossed, books of poems published. This is for me a legacy with which I am stounchly obssesed even though I am aware of its vaguely absurd tinge. more....

ALES DEBELJAK : Addict's Song

In the mirror across from our bed

the image of a paradise rises halfway

and the scent of island lavender

wakes up a thunder in the spine.

Unannounced and impossible to restrain,

its sound rips the arc of the body open

down the middle. To endure the rhythm

dictated by a dark silhouette of grace

and a blossom that smells sweetly

even when closed. more...

From: SLOPE fall / winter 2005

Friday, March 10, 2006

John Mercuri Dooley

'I’ section from "MuBet," a mutating poem. It changes as I enter phrases and sentences alphabetically on an ongoing basis.

I actually do like this. I always expect the Fourth of July to be something. I always think forests scare me but they don't. I am all the wrong clothes. I asked why baby wipes were in the men's room. I beg you don't bite off the spaghetti. I believe I can fly. I bet you can't resist. I bet you'll laugh if I say mullet. I can imagine a reach around. I can insert a few days. I can see through my new glasses. I can see you see my sickness. more...

Thursday, March 09, 2006

Trevor Joyce

Sweeny, Peregrine
The Verse


God has given me life;

without music, without rest,
without woman's company,
he gave me life,

and so you find me here
living disgraced in Ros Bearaigh;
the life God gave
seems somehow dislocated.

You do not wish to know me.


The blackthorn drinks my blood again,
my face bleeds on the sodden wood.

Flood and ebb encompass me;
lunar phases can't affect
the homicidal iron I dread.

Thorns lance my sores. I doze.


Is it the cold that wakes me;
can deadly iron draw near through dream?

Here night is palpable. - Listen!
hear the sound of mounted men
thunderous through the echoing wood;
have they my imminent death in mind?

Only the rain throbs on the grass. more...

Elizabeth Bishop

Wednesday, March 08, 2006


Alternatively, I may start running
If it's not too late already, down the slope
My eyes cataleptic, my motion blurred

Blinded by the wind and bitten in the face
With frost-burnt nostrils and cracked lips
I may go vaguely towards the end

Of this wayward narrative.

Or else, freeze where I am
Surrounded by legends of snow
In the grand myth of ice

Memories of prairie winters
That so definitely replaced all autumns
Leaving black exclamations and trees

Bared, denuded, stripped of their all.

It happened in my life's first true fall
At age 37, when I became
The authentic alien, the foreign fiend

Among floundering affairs, Chinese dolls,
Lascivious Romanians, libidinous Latinos,
Steamy blacks, and frigid blondes.

The grass belonged to the university of sorrows
Waiting for the semester of fatal snow
In the town where poets got lost. more....

A IS FOR ADOPTION by Janice Williamson


is for Adoption
Ancient Aim 
Accidental Airplane landing 
tripped Auto route with
Audacious invitations Accompany our us this life
Any Alphabet, Autumn or Auntie 
And All that Again begins

The rest of the alphabet @ Tin Fish Net

Monday, March 06, 2006

Up coming reading

Friday, March 10th, (7:30 pm)
cambridge, MA
160 Prospect St.
Demolicious reading seris

Miklós Radnóti (1909-1944)

Forced March

You're crazy. You fall down,
stand up and walk again,
your ankles and your knees move
but you start again
as if you had wings.
The ditch calls you, but it's no use
you're afraid to stay,
and if someone asks why,
maybe you turn around and say
that a woman and a sane death
a better death wait for you.
But you're crazy.
For a long time
only the burned wind spins
above the houses at home,
Walls lie on their backs,
plum trees are broken
and the angry night
is thick with fear.
Oh if I could believe
that everything valuble
is not only inside me now
that there's still home to go back to.
If only there were! And just as before bees drone peacefully
on the cool veranda,
plum preserves turn cold
and over sleepy gardens
quietly, the end of summer bathes in the
Among the leaves the fruit
swing naked
and in front of the rust-brown hedge blond Fanny waits for me,
the morning writes
slow shadows---
All this could happen
The moon is so round today!
Don't walk past me, friend.
Yell, and I'll stand up again!



I wake up asleep, now
coming below
the Mason-Dixon line
stranger than strange
on a subterranean mass transient
calling language
the language line
committing, omitting, submitting
my collective guilt for all sins
or what ever it is called
the bridge not finished
that usual warehouse feel
everything beige
can not tell the difference
from wawa shade grown
holiday spas
or where I to get my
breakfast burrito like everyone else
classless prepackaged
and not like those
debt hieroglyphs
scrap heap politician
burrowing in production
painting metaphors
for prewar
shallow creeks
with mercury poisoning
abandoned to loading docks
door prize
all well meaning
track homes

Thursday, March 02, 2006


Instead (4 Times)

A Plea of Configuration
Cities —— why
Have I
Done this

Special Machinery
Under the reading corners
A guiding canticle rising like the crime rate

An amalgam of sleep and speech
Shaped by a pencil line
Thin as a blade

Carried in a renewed sense of loss
The parasite
At lacanian ink

doG ply

I am nt wrting out thsi
our that
pre tending
linking cool
word playfl word
melting minus a vowel
mins a limb
minus a touguge
mercery posioning
DDT thrid word
bolted atomc stomic
med ium cool
wood words play plywood
slab of meat
unity slabs
breathing living consuming
stuffed potential
word play
writing now
words write themselves
writes the self writes the word
speaking withot a hand
stearing the whall
my head on the trigger
medium cool
the cannd languge
premiered plastic
self indigent vowels
rnings down
looks for the crct sht shift
lets gt serious
this is poety
the nessesity belongs to
the humor belongs to
returns to the
lets get some oppiostee blink
the law belongs to the blink
fantasy fortrss
frezzing fesstering
leave it to to the word
to blink
to repreoduce
the word sound simulcra
late starvation
press the mute
multi-lateral puss
broaday aestheis amnesia
bordom lyicaal
fashum fasist machine
happy dogs
blazing inn gun play
dog sysmbos
happy dogs
blazing inn gun play
dog vowels
happy dogs
blazing inn gun play
dog words
burning in word

Wednesday, March 01, 2006

Charles Baudelaire - THE OWLS

UNDER the overhanging yews,
The dark owls sit in solemn state,
Like stranger gods; by twos and twos
Their red eyes gleam. They meditate.

Motionless thus they sit and dream
Until that melancholy hour
When, with the sun's last fading gleam,
The nightly shades assume their power.

From their still attitude the wise
Will learn with terror to despise
All tumult, movement, and unrest;

For he who follows every shade,
Carries the memory in his breast,
Of each unhappy journey made.

DADa in Kansas..

Office of the Mayor
Lawrence, Kansas
WHEREAS:   Dadaism is an international tendency in art that seeks to change conventional attitudes and practices in aesthetics, society, and morality; and