come out of the turbine darling
break silver control
got some bicarbonate soda
for satellite wash
outside is nowhere but warm
snake centipede scorpion lizard some-
times the road is full of
came home early found you
building a sundial
to ensure we were all number
crunching from the same code sheet
forward to some
ground breaking afternoon at
idiot end of the spectrum
shuttle launch experience
do they like
to see objects clustered according to theme?
can he swell up until he fills the space between
how to construct + full service resort?
my name is gross
do not know anyone
on this schedule
if you blow a nice bubble
blow a small jet of air harder
it better cause
a small bubble to appear
cavy wanted lists/ made link since
creator mask/ clots cruise wrong
Rhymes With Orange
It’s so bleak outside we have
a lot of time to be neurotic.
That’s how I want my home to feel,
his thumbprint on everything.
There’s a typewriter, a pink princess phone.
Handwritten notes (and certain typefaces)
throb with urgency and the connection to – something.
And that’s why we like the bright colors.
NB: Based on phrases from “The Wildebeest in the Room”here.
art by Silvio Severino Collage
Kelly: You remember the Surrealist Manifesto, which printed the list of people you should read and the people you shouldn’t read.
Yau: Ahh, the list of dos and don’ts. Yes, there is that side of Surrealism, which people point to. Franklin Rosemont had some of that. And there’s the academic notion that Surrealism ended in the 20s, 30s, 40s (take your pick), but then if you think of Henri Michaux after World War II and the examples of Philip Lamantia, Unica Zürn, Will Alexander, and Andrew Joron, or a young poet I just started reading, Michael Leong, it is clear that Surrealism did not lose its energy; in very different ways, they transformed it into something else and kept it—the dream of freedom—going.
After Reading Freud’s “Beyond the Pleasure Principle”
Listen: the silence you hear
is the wind’s anticipation
of the milkweed ripening.
You are now well-informed.
Whisper I know your secret,
wink with your one good eye
then disengage, the wind
is not your friend. Actually,
do what you want, just don’t be
surprised when the conversation
turns political. Maybe
you like politics, I don’t know.
I disagree with everything.
I am in love with the world.
Not the physical world, I mean.
I am sick of the moon, of the wind
and it’s desperation. Wait,
that’s a lie. I love the moon
and it’s my own desperation
I am sick of. How many times
have you been close to death
and not known it? How many
times have you known and cared
not, the wind murmuring,
I know your secret.
David Krilivsky attended the MFA program at Queens University of Charlotte. His poems have appeared in such places as Poets & Artists (Oranges & Sardines) and The Found Poetry Journal, among others. He currently resides in a log cabin in St. George, VT.
art by ● Ventral ●
March 4, 2014
Thank God for millenniums of dust
and the situations in poetry Pinsky brought to our attention
many eons ago.
And thank you, purplemonkeysexgod69!
After some syntactical and lexical play,
I found you in the tropical flowers
dusting yourself off in elaborate “numbers.”
And in the back of a pickup, I found brickdaniels
touching lovely uprooted trees in the night.
He’s just an old farmer who loves stalks.
I cannot correct this image. It is stuck forever,
like a lovely electric light or two long hands.
So cruelly it eats me. A shadowless lady
automatically accomplished. I want to erase it
with a two-footed club.
But you can’t change the world overnight.
That’s why I write in simple, blank sentences.
seed texts: Poems of Andrew Breton, by Cauvin and Caws; The Situation of Poetry, by Robert Pinsky
art by collageartbyjesse
Roox Ampe, Super Hero!
Who is Roox Ampe?
The story: one special day in 2003, I called P-ville Floral to deliver a bouquet of flowers to my lovely girlfriend, Dana. At the time, I was on vacation with my family in upstate New York. Over the phone, apparently, the name got muddled. Over the PDA at work, there was announcement made for “someone to come pick up their flowers from the front desk, from ‘Rooks’.” “Who’s Rooks?” That’s what everyone was asking. Without missing a beat, Dana went downstairs and claimed her flowers. On returning, someone made a jest: “Rooks. Sounds like a superhero: ‘Roox Ampe.’” That’s how I became known as Roox Ampe, Super Hero!
Follow the daily adventures of Roox Ampe @RooxAmpe
As the androgynous dummies wander by us in the breadline
I’m not interested in your green lapels
Your birdlike cacophony
Or your telepathic typewriting machines
Elaborate tents go up around the burning yard
My flaming hat is a flower
And the flower is a magnet in your eye
Which is suspended in the lugubrious membrane of space
And ripples in still water
It reminds me of that bloated corpse we saw one day
The way it bobbed like a turnip in the rushing current of milk
Which spilled from a barn
Into a little glass jar on your necklace
A child began to bark
The birds cried like a crowd of lepers
It’s too much we have to leave we dash out without any umbrellas
We’re drenched in the upward falling rain
We briefly discuss gravity before deciding to play chess
On the back of a black rhinoceros
I realize these creatures are nearly extinct
You say “Yes”
A cuckoo joins us
We can’t comprehend it’s warbling signals
You tear up my voting card and I sock you in the eye
As the train smashes into us
You say “We haven’t even had lunch yet” but it isn’t true at all, not at all
art by holly pilot
It begins like a sentence
It is really a map
Before I can even look
Hands are useless
with no address in mind
NB: A collage of phrases from Daniel Simko, The Arrival (Four Way Books, 2009).