Tuesday, July 24, 2012

Steve Dalachinsky

the snake reborn

(the work of keith haring 1978-1982)

the dog bit (its own aesthetic
chain / of language
individual shapes that make up a (w)hole
         as in buffet
the hanging nudes upside down
birthing big black holes (in stomach
delivering baby chatter
leashed unstrung monochromatic whose-it-whats
zapped by saucers – blown jobbed / handfked
& gave it to polka dotted dog thru the wall
with the spectators screaming give us more oh host
of the alien boner o(i)nk
“& Steve said” said the viewer behind my limbs
   not knowing
i was steve also >
      beheading the head of the giver of head
              its holy hoops of energy
        done with the judgment of resident aliens
                climbing the bastion of stick dick
        zapped by the light from the undark
                   & therefore removing the dark from the circle
                                in the speckled chest of treasure(r)s
        the time piece got crucified
        & the snake ate itself & all else to form a new crawling family
                   naked jumbo-jackos leapfrogging over eachudders
                                stuck up smooth as…asses
tech/tonic plated involvement here seen as even video frags detect
  the cut up presidents popes & art/scenes flattened on the sc(a)reen
          clubbing clubbing clubbing oneself to death with song
            painted into corners of know-me auto-journal didact
          then A.I.D.S. the vigilante ante’s up &’s taken on board
the body as conveyer belt & another subway ride down to the chalk-line
            the magic magic stick & the holy holy hoop

flash freaks & god walled up / kickerflicked little spores beat down
               3 I.V.s & you’ll own the penalty little man
      burning flattened pulse ground harder & harder into grounds
                                      inside the prison grounds
               monkey light held by its tail
  radiating from yer under/currents currently behind glass
         you hang there crucifix - eating the mermaid angel alive
your children lost in a bubble – big fish diving around yer corpse
  you hang there – diving like the last breath gone

you hang there across the street – you hang there – beat down
        the public stuck up your little alien ass
    you hang there as the big snake cuts itself in too
feeds on itself & you & once again as always shits US out
            & all’s reborn as you hang there
       & Steve wherever he is whoever he is
             owns all the penalties NOW
               as you hang there little soul hang there.


Glen Phillips


Monday, July 23, 2012

Marc Vincenz

Inflation Goosed

This private book of stock reserves:
commodities stashed, bottled, insured—
reinsured into a blooming
daisy chain of fair-weather
consequences: the transatlantic flight
of migrant birds, an entropy
of scissored papermen. That fluctuation
of the heartbeat, the curve; the rise,
the dip, the surge. The bleeping
flatline. A who’s who of ley lines,
magnetic fields, feng shui
& sonic booms. In the end
as in the beginning
all boiled down
to a single glimmering egg
cracking, from the inside.


The Ex-Wife

I am one of those souls
without any resources
who roam about
with sleeves rolled up.
As blood oranges
grow out of the face
of autumn, she,
she is a vessel
of pure white jade
against the unfeeling hands
of barbarians.
How would they know the songs
that can break one’s heart?
Her memory is twisted
between two myths.
The one I tell my children.
The one she tells his.


Lakey Comess

This is how it was,

                                    last moment captured on film, exile pans
buckled bridge, silent sundown enfolded in cloth, torn shirt, 

how it appeared erstwhile, separated by too many miles, not enough diction,
shuttered windows of light, cancelled train, proof of time disappearing.  


We hold conclusion in frozen arms, grip tight withering decay.
It happened quickly, a long time ago.  Fern seems to weep, sharing affliction.

Seems loud, rolling off tongue, but not accurate. 
How do you translate unintentionally censored music, 
the other other's proud (but subtle) reflection. 


Don't even try to look for reason in this, nor evidence. 
Noise rushes past, using "that kind of language", counts number and nature of responses,
highlighting credentials, failure to address critical argument.


Night time crouches below the horizon. 
You could be forgiven for confusing calendar date,
feeling like winter, ice-cold, in mid-summer. 

How quickly a year passes in series of life changing misapprehensions.



One house overlooks another

            where shadows fail to keep remoteness.  Windows are too close for any comfort,
blinds, a temporary shield from violent instance.

"At your age" is an invitation to utter contempt, uttered as prelude to complete sentence,
pressing need to get out of bed and making a living. 

Here is a box full of depression, carelessly spilled over communal garden. 
There is a bag, full of justifications.  Neighbouring obsessions litter the park. 

Escape seems like the only (real) option. 

How to become stranger in your own space, how to lose countenance. 
Tell me your secret.  How do you learn to keep distance?


Jet-lagged experience

Camera focuses on pane of glass.  Glass of pain comes later. 
Watching was (and is) unsettling — as an experience. 

Now someone is rolling his sleeve, exposing weakening vein. 
Best turn away.  Simple ideas can be distressingly habit forming. 

Train of thought, hyper-confessional  description of cure,
cynics snorting, turning points, group hugging crises... 

Now you mention it, it was drink, not drugs that lead to his accident. 
Life imitates art, feeding off shrivelling attention.  Just passing it on. 

That's one part of the day's portion.  The other's the summit of grace, just overhead.
Two gulls circle, searching for  the source of luminosity, sound from a transient river.



Criticism, memoirs


We all loved that novel, every page redirected from private address. 

Criticisms, such as they are in summary, were more or less what can be expected
from a conglomerate.  Every point, transparently evidential of green-eyed delegate. 

Last time I looked definition included "of or involving both of the earth's polar regions,"
excluding bio-telemetry, stranglehold, shivering contrivance.


You have not sought to enquire how I am.  Well, I am. 
You had ways and means of asking for eight years. 

What utter lack of trustworthiness prevented your doing so?

There.  That's made you flinch, step back, call for assistance.


Well turned out for twist and bop, swinging along promotional copy,
supersonic industrial, crucially emotional cut and paste. 

Bend, fold, spindle and mutilate for excellent visuals.  
Some of the world's most significant value for money issues.


Wonderful humming sound, switched on capacity.  Aughties at their level best.


Comment and philosophy directed in clear prose for the sake of long view. 
The woodwinds alone were triple negative gutter detritus. 

You recognise that now, you with your unsolicited insights,
despicable portal,  deaf end of career analysis.


Certainly "I" am much stronger now. 

Initiate memoirs with museum-like thoroughness of categorisation, 
piloting a larger question, outlined in a library of broken glass, half-forgotten past,
dislocated alphabet, scaffolding, cling film, acknowledgements.



            would be of assistance, though delayed, it seems, by excuses.  Remembrance grows harder 
each year which passes, candles are lit while we fit puzzling pieces onto a pulsating frame. 

Estrangement shades our affinity, even stronger when we disregard holes in the cosmos. 
You are always there, but, honestly, not the same.

Reflection turns its back on brittle falsity, views asserted without benefit of forethought. Rigid elitism 
pulses, instructed by beat of prominent machine.  Riddles are wrought in genteel aphorisms — 
crassness dolled up in extracurricular common tradition. 

Hazing can kill, but, you have to admit, breaks monotony within bomb-proof walls of an institution. 
Keep to your reverie; every sojourn comes to an end.


Lost work surfaces onto real orientation 

Brother's death murmurs, thin-paned as period windows. 
Patterns of childhood lost and scattered in frail, pale rain.

            See what loss brings to fading personae?

Live in an atmosphere long enough, you cease to experience it.
            Circadian convocation was lost to false indoctrination.

What you gain is found in crocus pushing through winter soil,
            luxurious alien blossom,  month to come.


La, la, la


No response equals no recognition, didn't bother with twice weekly examination of correspondence. 
Pressures mount prior to spreading wings, sitting up and taking notice.  Prokofiev sings love for a 
triumvirate of oranges. 

La, la, la for listening delight, birthday flowers and chocolate,
hardcore surprise, sacred pages, patronizing look wiped off a truly arrogant visage. 

Are you out of credit or is there another reasonable explanation waiting for outcome?


Offer to share your large apartment, distinguishing literary comparisons with the price of eggs,
links to a major festival of gadgets and you, pal, always ready to show off best efforts to date. 

The future looks brighter elsewhere. 

If that is the case, what does your serif say? 

                        (God is in details).


Splendid day for grousing, query and follow up. 
Property description lacked candor, at best, credibility at worst.
Chocolate brown 'feature' walls are so last night, especially
those boasting no fewer than four double sockets.

As for the room with no windows, freshly painted in mint/turquoise,
we say no to prison cells, no matter what the address. 

This day was shot all to hell by updating report.


How many teeth have been lost to grinding tension? 

Supernatural showering opportunity sparkles breathless, over live wire. 
Libraries provide other-world worldliness.  Subtract a letter for other word wordiness,
enabling outside dissonance to base-coat space with juicy dimension. 

Satisfaction follows row upon row of hand-stitched spine.

You ask for procedure, you get it.



Michael Gottlieb


Saturday, July 21, 2012

Dean Faulwell


We were having
identical identity
crises, as in an
early poem by

John Ashbery.
Of who we and
all they are
you all now

know, don't you?
Although to be as
tall in the air as
you are is to have

your head examined
by clouds, right?



The sound of traffic
overhead means we
are on solid ground.
Words I previously

distanced myself from
have come back to
haunt me.  I prefer
unfinished symphonies

to finished elegies.
I'm afraid I was
listening to your
poem in prose.  I will

try again later, 
whenever that is.



A cluster of small
white buds at
odds with what
I'm trying to say

finds its way
into our conversation
regarding utter nonsense
and the role it seems

to play in much of
post-modern poetry,
your subtle reference
to the way waves

return unerringly


Friday, July 20, 2012

Jane Joritz-Nakagawa

aurora, colorado          

of the hole(s) / to / head
  hollowed / next to the life
jacket / life (it) or not / winning is
everything visible, hallow

  culture coughs / every word
spoken superimposed /
of leather,  is not / each animal
struggled to wit, strangled / captive
mask /  worn like souls
broken & likely to intensify, on screen

as fast as /  should news
be positive & every1 rush
  2 make it / every moment / movement

xcellent safety record of
  trees / decided
which exit would be / other rivals /  
resolution said / to shut down
traffic / and

wars on crime or
made appropriate decisions /
  & planned
acquisitions, breathing

tiring / special types of
incandescence / in theaters / global
message /  if only gun bills /
i could escape 2 museums / or

trees figments / bodies
fragmented / assault rifle
gassing tears / of the poetical

before the election / i tried
far less / if the world, instead of
being sometimes mere
   beauty, spiritlessly
triumphed / and (i was) moved,
but in the wrong direction / relation
of caterpillars to capsules and
capillaries / not cap
guns / of heroes / and
atrophy (of)


Thursday, July 19, 2012

Laura Young



Russ Golata

Find whatever you need
                              Negative intention
Accidents will happen
                              Bridges are broken
Alarm beats out a song
                              Results are finally in
Night falls into the window
                              Drips over the edge
You have to choose a side
                              With no explanation
Somebody double-crosses someone
                              Getting away with it
Adrenaline feeds suspense
                              Next to the cliff edge
Technicolor nightmares
                              Whispering swamp fires
Vacationing on Mars
                              Cascading steel drums beat


Tuesday, July 17, 2012

Alan Britt

Girl in Yellow

This morning your breasts were frozen
tulips & your eyes, well, clearly you
wear contacts, watery jade contacts,
for what purpose, I can't say,
but you must've overheard.

Light through library curtain
frames you like Fragonard's La Liseuse,
pensive, palpitating beneath your
21st Century canary gown's
dirty secrets hidden between
white satin folds.

Clearly you were that girl in yellow
reading the verses of obscure poets
as though they were sacred hymns.


Good Friday 

For you corporate brats...shining armor beneath florescent garage beams that supported your mother's mother.....♀.....plus all the Mothers recorded in the Library of Congress or registry for Wayne County, about as far as an archive telescope can backtrack before caving into itself thereby leaving the previous dimension. 'Bout as far back as the primordial brain will allow.....♥.....for you tumbled from the womb like dice & laughed at bruises below the desperate eye shadow of a cataract moon, as if accuracy were a crime...♦...as if...as if...☻...as though a backwards three is the answer you brats scrawl across New Jersey overpasses when you're not inserting your hypodermic sensibility into a clear plastic bag hanging from a brushed aluminum hook in the antiseptic ICU on Good Friday.


Goin' Green

In the northeast corner of the pipe there's a straggler, trapped between screen & black hole, a regular Jack the Ripper, topcoat folded over his sickness so society might accept him, even though everyone agrees he's unacceptable. Silly details rob us of months, weeks, days, hours & milliseconds when we should enjoy the waking dream of a Florida mockingbird rivaling an English nightingale every night of the week, once imagination removes its work boots, woolen socks & soaks its bare feet before a roaring fire. The straggler's days are numbered & so are the days of his friends.



(Bobby's got a gun that he keeps below his pillow
Out on the streets your chances are zero)
                                --Bruce Springsteen

You might think you're fooling,
but you're not.

Given opportunities
to travel this way or that,
you chose a pathological path.

Stop pumping premium
into your offshore account; stop
for an honest misclick at the pump,
pain almost bearable; stop for the liar
at the local liquors
begging change for a pack of Camels.

Well, if you stop, I will too.

Hell, if you stop, the future
might become the heaven
promised us that morning
Uncle Amoeba found himself beached
for the last time in his primordial life
& said I'll put a 30-story building
over there, & soon as I get the chance
I want to own all the books,
all the museums, all the coffee houses,
all the darkened theaters with sticky black floors
& rocking seats with 32 oz. cup holders,
all the fruits & veggies in our suburban crispers,
all the people we've loved who could've loved us,
&, finally, all the words ever spoken
or get spoken in one trendy underground venue or another
with wobbly tables & Salvation Army couches
near the corner of first & filthy Main.

Anyway, I'm betting you can't count that high,
but in case you can, I've got
a surprise for you & surprises
are not commodities...shucks to that


If Jesus Had a Dime Every Time
He Was Asked "Why Myrrh?"

So, what's this about one of the wisemen
bringing myrrh for the birth of God's only son,
so far as He knows, but what the hell
can you do with myrrh?

Well, in those days myrrh deodorized places:
bed chambers, privies, kitchens & barns,
wherever it smelled, & places smelled a lot back then.
For bonus it packed medicinal value for cuts,
insect bites, gum disease & indigestion;
hence, the price of myrrh was through the roof!

Sort of like a high priced plug-in today,
imitation myrrh found at local Target?

For the most part.

That's gotta be getting off easy,
don't you think, & one more thing,
I have to break our date for next Thursday;
something's come up.

Well, then.