Long overdue update to the zine.
compressed sand wired for tensile strength
to elasticine proportions.
cerulean eerily superimposes
Civil War ghosts
onto Cracker Jack stickers amid the jolly nuts.
when hard water spots etch rain onto skin
like egrets tagged by ecologists for study
combustible hands jerk the keys
recalling ancient dances of elements.
with singed eyebrows
and soaked pelts over feet
tinkers toss the bone until it’s dusty art.
I’m Dr. Lampe now.
This site has been in many ways an important part of my journey. And that means I have many of you to thank. You all are awesome.
compost noose bed/ telling walls
how you recapitulate/ the slow
mind horses/ mending the cone
Less than one percent of Macintoshes
Gaia sleeps in the oval hoops
Waste-bins that live at the north pole.
art by Neil Krug
Some Float Off on Chocolate Bars and Some on Drink
What you might say at that moment is
“John was pinched at certain times.”
What the five policemen might say is
“You with sea water running
in your veins sit down in water.”
Nestled up against the rain, road signs
and pawn shops become
boats in my country,
a posse of poets,
an Easter cake.
Nestled up against breakfast with kinfolk
borrowed money becomes
licorice in the middle of Edinburgh,
a spell about Richmond.
The chain of blue monkeys is vivid and strong
until it arrives at black sands.
After all, one can’t be happy all the time.
Lists of things go on forever.
One must sit down in them and sing
in a bathtub, with flowers
and the prickly pear.
seed text: Collected Works, by Lorine Niedecker
art by Collage al Infinito
Blood of the Gorgon
From the erogenous zones of invisible creatures
on this day without even the slightest need of astrolabes
or any cultured organ donors to speak of
at sunrise a spider slipped on a barrier of space-time
and by globules composed of thin green webs
snared itself on the moon
reflected in the puddles of hemoglobin
and at the bottom of wells those open tongueless mouths
with dark stones like decaying teeth
in a hidden valley
where the gorgon crawls from her dreams in a dreamless cave
gorging herself on tombstones
as blood pours out from a factory of shame
under which lies a vast cellar holding the crypts of prophets
with ecstatic grimaces on their skulls
and clutching rotted icons
as the structure sinks in the desert among white cacti
where an old sorcerer searches for love
and blue-yellow trilobites still beat with sledgehammers of desire
sirens wail for a hundred suicides
which on closer examination were political assassinations
for the humanoid block of soapstone
stumbling through the pale bioluminescence
it looms and laughs like an idiot
while vampiric leaves float from the trees and swirl in pleasurable circles
in the wine of death
on samples of fresh-tilled earth
on the monument to the shadow of the sun.
art by raintree1969