orphic candidate polishing
undisputed repetition hats
There is no sovereign music for our desire.
Beavers built. “Mazagrans” smoked in the little bars.
In the big glass house, still dripping, children in mourning looked at the marvelous pictures.
— Rimbaud, “Illuminations”
Work your ass off to change the language & dont ever get famous.
— Bernadette Mayer, “Experiments” (via fscottfitzgerald)
Movie Theaters, Glug Glug
Logan Ellis (unknowmenclature)
can a stone be skipped over any surface
and still have the same ending?
on top of the abandoned movie theater,
gently whipping pebbles into the sun’s open
mouth, the posable stutter-
arc of its bottom lip versus the easy-to-please
arc of my wrists—tired of holding others.
everything in this town—scratched-out coordinates and teenagers
who are too wise to not know where to roam:
the forgotten downtown mini-mall, ten-ton chapel, airport.
I fight for places to call mine like dormant pennies
deemed “lucky” upon discovery, recline into fists called home.
the kid who drowned in the river the other day is on my mind;
he makes me think I should stop jumping off bridges so often.
then again, all my friends are either jumping off bridges
or smoking weed underneath them—borne
ceaselessly into the floodwaters. they are the ignored death
toll in a video game, the straight path that never looks back—
they reply Strongly Agree to every pessimistic trick question
on a job application, simply too honest to be good-natured.
and who’d have thought we’d move on lickety-split? so carefree.
I hear it now, that addictive sound of moving water and smoke
at the abandoned riverside, drowning him, me, them.
you’re here on this edifice with me, but I don’t really address you.
I just wanted to come here alone and think about
the proclivity of body to water, and you’re
something like hallelujah meets break dance, or
maybe I-want-to-wake-up-with-you-in-my-arms arbitrary,
though we haven’t reached that shade of war paint.
we open up to one another like bloody noses;
just tassel-tongued and satchel-hearted individuals!
you’re riding on my back now, so I move slowly
about the sun, though I’m barefoot and the roof-pebbles
are like hot coals; yet again, my inclination to
give up something of myself for you for reasons unknown.
I just wanted to come up here, relax with a backpack
of peelable fruit, and stare at the oiled horizon,
watch the abandoned airport take off.
art by Manu Duf
: faking gab together
The station says about him that
It does not matter. It is a beguiling sort
That comes from enough money
To pay for jokewriters whom will later extort
You, hold you by the legs over
The Verrazano Bridge.
When that happens, one can
Be sure the twilight will
Be bananas, to see whether
The bridge likes it,
Approves of the drop :
Would it start a chain of events
Too bleak to mention, that is,
Without these mouthless
Things gagging on
Particularly reticular vowels
Like an allergenic in
Hay-fever season ??
Shames, lost causes, a
Guy in his monkey suit dropping
Cid in the back of
A cadillac: are such things
Mere appeasements, lowly rentals;
Doesn’t anything matter anymore ??
You might ask yourself. Maybe. But the
Bridge back over is tricky, once
Somebody phones in mortal
Fear and denies
Themselves the right to go
Out : as a rich headcase, the picture
Of wealth : but, o so
Crucially: unfunniest of his
Unfunny friends : dour,
Predictable magnates, stiff
As a druid stuck in sand, and
Called a world-wonder.
Think about it. The bridge would very
Well wander back to what
Happened to itself, all those years
Ago; might want revenge, see.
That miserable fuck
Wants to hug and kiss me
Again … ? Says the bridge,
To himself, as most
Bridges are unpopular
Amongst that unsung empire
Of the inanimate.
But whose content with
Their character in any case,
Head or no ?? Shall a small man
Sailing the brackish waters
On a Sunday come
Across a body bitter with
Urchin, in need a good dose
Of lye, to absterge the many-footed
Ganglia of inhabitants upon
Flesh : curlicues, watery mite,
All the dole of a man who just
Wanted, as he wanted
All - so said his station - one
Last draught of acid -
Had one last good fullblown
- and absurd, this - he
Dismounted from anymore
Royalties to the puny jokemen,
Ran towards his
Bedlam, being followed. He,
Done for, kissed his childhood,
Infinite Plaything : the stone beside
The bridge, making up
Its founding principles, scruples,
And most of all liberties.
He thanked the
Bridge for showing him love,
Compassion - a
Veritable easel on which not
Only to paint a mimetic
Of his complex force, but still
Emotions to a silently
Lapping tide, with even greater
Force, as it pops into the rich
Boy’s head, only for
So long. But how timely
His end !! So greatly important he
Felt to be not anymore at the
Hands of his mask:
Thinking upside-down he took
His flaws to task in those
Last minutes, sans an external
Originator, jokester or
No: those jokesters that
Did not care what became
Of him, nor his station dropped
Him down to that lovely
Silence the water made of even
The loudest foundry’s
Ruckus. His only flaw, of
Course, being: the man stole jokes from
The wrong Jews, don’t define
Yourself by amounts of green paper,
And stay away
That make you
Think that bridges and
Things can talk
art by franz falckenhaus
Should Your Heart Skip a Beat When Taking the MBT at Night?
Another morning in Brookland: construction everywhere,
parents caught in the vortex of rearing, my freshly trimmed
beard. It’s off to work with a whole playlist of new songs to try!
Here we are, scraping the snake rattle, making dub
in the land of continuous displacement.
The ketchup ovens sing in the street-wise daylight
proactively unshackling ignorant shade.
Here is the Department of Dance, and here are some
trembling poinsettias. Nice gummy punching bag!
Tonight we will sleep in the slight wavering of blankets;
we’ll hit the clubs looking good in mashed tights.
This poem is about no one. It’s about a place
or a feeling, or something between them.
I pan right and see napkin folds; I pan left
and behold accomplished men. Further left:
Italian priests. With only your neck you could start a revolution,
Brâncuși, and fix the dubious love of penguins.
It costs nothing to wander around this city
enjoying the machines of sentiment.
Life is a constant rearrangement project. Let’s check it out
with our souls.
art by Arturo H. Medrano
Crooked Wisdom Thoughts
Shake away your disbeliefs
in a rhythm known to God
Let the archangels re-route
the traffic and change the speed limits
There is no knowledge to be found
on a dance floor or a highway
What is specious is as beautiful
as the best Halloween disguise
Whatever you choose to believe
will haunt you someday
and abandon you on others
The best of religions is no
better than a peanut butter & jelly sandwich
when it comes to relieving stress
You have the means to design
your own mementos for the
In Memoriam brochure
Knock on the door or the window
and wait for the code to be broken
Take advantage of the STOP sign
to rest before you plunge in
You will hear your own laughter
and then the traffic will begin again
on a road that seems to be melting away
Christina Murphy writes of consciousness as subjective experience, and recent works appear in Hitherto and PTWF?!
art by Karen Constance paintings and collage
steadfast evanescence captures the edge
of you silently fading from a shadow’s orphanagious droplet
in the house dreaming simultaneous dreams
transparent pulse flutters off,
nightshades collapse from the wish
frailly balanced on good and evil—
the meaning and cause of yawns
mingle with cartoonglow memories of childhood
keeping a liquid glass of sympathy shrouded
by wet pupils partly drained yet somehow rock-hard in wonder
of how the euphony was stretched
from the raspberry rubies
and thrown onto the everlasting hazel blaze of morning.
Heath currently at work on two different chapbooks and a full-length book of poetry and is also in the middle of writing a book of philosophy. He lives in York, PA and attended Temple University.
interning concoction of mats
What is it that Reminds Us of White Gods?
News that stays news:
my weekend, full of your friend’s friend,
and envelopes beside a ruined pump,
and secluded recesses
ignoring the frowns of Paumanok’s gray beach
while waving the cosmic towel.
Thy right vein is fading,
passing away like babes in arms
under the sycamore.
Ah how they’ve grown!
more perfection than there is
in John Brown’s Body
resigned with anger.
Racquetball players mesmerize the seas
with a fierce threat of social influence
ominous and oleant, while the new moon
begins to foam its sums,
and doubtful warzones go roughing it
like two incisors
whenever the Butcher crosses my lips.
It’s with this shout of joy that our blood, breaking through
for a dream, convenes like otters
in the Epicurean stasis of the eyelid’s soundless blink.
Wave on corb-apples, lovers in gusty shadow.
seed text: The Best Poems of the English Language, ed. by Harold Bloom
art by Susanne Breuss
statues sense the viscosity chance uses
to capture the nomad eye of the passerby
— Miguel de Carvalho, “A Portrait for Prague”
July 15, 2014
everything is turned off/
turn everything off/
everything gets turned off/
let’s start this
from it’s beginning/
you only get so many beginnings
/ two men, from a dream/
standing in the cumulus/
in the heavens/
from the rain/
art: “the art of conversation” Rene Magritte