RUSSIA’S OPEN BOOK - Director Paul Mitchell on Vladimir Sorokin, Surrealism, and Russian Culture
This month’s Uut Zine features mostly lists.
nothing shocks me unless it celebrates oblique happiness directed to the future — Target Bird, Birthday poem written in script
There is nothing left in the bed
but great long sheets of light covered over
by what night lets in; here is nothing.
No words flame,
we come illiterate,
we come apart-
We come inside each other, separate.
I don’t know how touch becomes a boundary.
The stars peer down.
My mirror waits for morning.
In my head I make a list of the colors of flowers-
I make a list, all night long, of every lost thing.
Dorothy Doyle Mienko
The cool cats bellowed like a hop skeptic
They wasted outside with moon birthers
Upon a parkour bench or just a petard
expose your passé quite a lovely clique
Ounce upon timidness a magnanimity
not only burgers but focal on bourgeois
Too quiescent is the innate and eventually
abstruse you gesticulated while genuflecting
schitzophrenic winter mix
in long criss-crossing strands
on the expansive glass
of my head
against which the saints lean
beyond which is the world
wet and green-cold
while melancholy concrete
displays its benevolent hair
beside the grey smoke
the disguise of
art by spathumpa
You are a bear. You awaken in a brown paper bag. You stretch for miles. At your destination you contract the Kremlin. A puddle forms beneath you. Investigations are launched. Very important documents affixed with wax seals certify I forgot to brush my teeth. You rush home to find uncle Owen dead. The most amazing swing set ever built is nearby. You stand very still and rust for a few years.
A scary duck appears on the horizon and secretes January into the atmosphere. Reagan reanimates to engage the filtration pumps. An asteroid may or may not devastate the Earth in five minutes. A voice in your head declares your opinion matters with unimpeachable sincerity. You quickly think of the most profound metaphor imaginable to describe savage, pre-leavened warfare and bake a delicious cake with it.
You have been snuggled.
the prices of headed wicks
I saw the weather overdetermined by nature.
I saw the transgressors and their leaking hand grenades,
the covenants that pun,
the high masters of autotrophic encampments.
I saw everything as radiation
and everything perceivable as radiation.
Radiation: the full force of language
blank and hot,
the punks of America’s alleyways
wearing slices of lachramary classicalism.
I hand you extensions of your body.
You ctrl+alt+dlt your fears.
You slow down everything with fruit.
The august contours of the cosmic starscape
undress before the convulsive mirror
of your eyes and breasts.
art by Djuno Tomsni
I stroll leisurely
dressed in a cement overcoat
and a hat of black straw
I don’t remember
if it’s nice out
I walk smoking
and I smoke walking
easily — Philippe Soupault
The cognition to bet on is wedged in an unidentified skull,
a lottery machine in as much as it is rattling and brimming flights
of fancy that have gone unredeemed for a basket case of lifetimes
and my faltering hands provide the manual catalyst to stir and pull
the first of the last undeclared winnings of one deadbeat guy
who in all probability condescended my ancestors in hermetic rhyme
lasting 376 quill stained pages that end with me in a sulk
because my gaze chased then set free the phrase like a dotted line
missing his name but beside a date dooming an impostor to sign
as though it was in the cards and he chose when to stop his pulse.
art by elsrgarcia
16 Fantastic Gifts For Lit Lovers Who Have Enough Books
Isaac Fitzgerald, buzzfeed.com
The Howl onesie. The Karamazov T. The Thing.
8 AM: Insects whistle like wind in
the mountains, like the ocean’s air at night.
I walk the pebble path. God chars leaves till
they’re coarser than rust, and God needs no fire.
Each cherry on the tree is the eye of some bug,
and each eye is a window, including
mine. I can’t take off my screen. Why?
I must be a violet: a flower that’s
named for a color it isn’t. What else?
What else can’t be read like tea leaves, coffee
grounds or tarot? You? What can I learn from
the lines on your hands that your face locks its
lips against, and hasn’t already said?