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
Striking the Light Gong Again
Whimpers of the mango-tree
will sing to the nails
will sing the world order
will become “fake” and “savage”
with the best slices of lime.
Old evaluative frames are ceasing to apply.
Light is an energy, a
A poised rendezvous.
It is a gate of senior citizens ministering to the Thames.
It is a belly of wet souls postulating and adumbrating.
Striking the light gong is like kissing
a little row of beds
while silhouettes conveniently retain
the unpleasant 1.15” line spacing
that hangs—like fate—in the balance,
one quanta rocking into the next.
art by Karen Constance paintings and collage
Striking the Light Gong
In April we are most likely
to inject ourselves with regional theatre,
encasing a chorus in a
burst of song
with therapeutic effect.
Gestures in this and that direction are capitulated.
Nasty arguments and theurgic rituals
are tossed between ventriloquist shamans
smoothly straightening up again
holding the paddle of linguistic order
which means that somebody else has entered the earth
to jiggle a dead person with dancing.
If unselectedness is man’s original condition
the barge of kindly drips
shall make a good story, a kind of preparation
something like popcorn
in the armory of
ordinary heart strings.
seed text: Symposium of the Whole, edited by Jerome and Diane Rothenberg
art by image butcher
Temples of Stardust and Bitter Fascism
I have signed into Chrome
as a monster signs in to a perpetual loop of learning.
Feed me inside this prison of carbon copies and timber.
I am made new in silence.
Adjustments will keep being made
until the smell of apocalypse coffee is gone,
until we find bulls thudding together
in the third chamber of the heart.
Social niceties are the goal of every incinerator.
Diadems retract, vagrants commiserate,
Fallopian tubes auscultate.
It is a question about the sun.
There is a church where they juggle feathers
and never ask you difficult questions.
Fallen sections of your body tolerate this treatment
because we pass each other
on the same streets
and only listen to music.
seed text: Migration, by W.S. Merwin
art by Karen Constance paintings and collage
The General Early Bird Tonight Pedals
With mighty comprehension the general early bird
tonight pedals. What on earth is less than a maybe head?
What bamboozle towers with pretense and blesses
the Saturday night? Precisely a market overstocked with too many
to tell you of calmly spinning greens.
Maybe not a stick, whittling brown slanders.
“I’ll break a flying farrago!” said I, cool as Hecuba snowstorm wilting.
Without delay I came to your house, or half of one.
That exasperating uncomfortable feeling sort of connects
the confidential demand you speak out in respect.
What unsaid selling stark mad man are you sir?
Induce me to render a criminal long breath. Rip a little
or a lot of New Zealand,
but not when folks is going to with four heads like onions of
unaccountable mystery. What could I think of the clean Sabbath
depending on dangerous regular rejoinders? Come, dreadful
fluke, spliced by kicking about in four Sam-and-Johns.
Sprawling about, he came near to breaking an arm, and so saying
lighted the way, irresolute, to vomit Sunday.
art by 2ponto3
We Break Out. We Love.
Where else can I talk about the boat shoes
on the feet of the Clif Bar mountain climber
except in nonchalant poetry, exempli gratia O’Hara Personism?
Ten to the minus thirty-five seconds after the Big Bang
I came and stiched up your already over-inflated ideology,
stuffed the radiation back into your eyes,
straightened your disheveled cami.
Like science, poetry is just trying to figure out
how certain things go together, or don’t.
A continuation of the yes only not yes.
Mostly what I want out of life is to feel alive,
but I know all the engines are creating lots of noise
making molecules interfere with each other,
sending up to heaven the tones of raving bats.
art by recombiner
5 Ignorant Uutku
is the gateway drug of
chases kings toward particular
occurs at the passage
Unstill gulls & small
art by Eugenia Loli
A Sad Poem
The kinetic tropes
are staunch advocates
for blue haired synapse centers
that flow in the fluidity of biological fluid,
that co-author the catharsis of my sister-in-law
and conjoin the last gnomes
at the steep precipice of fear.
The symbolic cutting-off of beards
is the same thing as domes capsizing
because they are mellifluous
in the sea of delicate variation.
Balanced pepper on every geometric surface
of your face
beats the pants off one’s desire
to bestow titles one generation to the next
in a long line of desert fabric makers
exchanging addresses and fashionable vocations.
Walk around with your thumbs up and your dialect
Brazilian. Steer toward
mandatory nouns. Enough is enough.
The fancy coves of your hair
are part of the scary propositions
of the baritone boot.
has separated “hit the sack!” from “drop your guard.”
But no one knows what makes life tick
except the storms of editorial magic
art by Ruben Martinho
The Stars Are a Boring Accordion
The succulent architecture of Mars
goes to sleep in the white bear
where tons of witnesses
You’ve been walking around collecting
mini rats, part coral.
You’ll get a story in the paper.
If you drink my coffee
an overload of cellulose
will interfere and consume
are what we fight with
along the river:
the hideous black lava,
seed text: Collected Works by Lorine Niedecker
art by A Yen for Phantoms
Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle
Stuck in a matrix
of kindness, triceps vacate
the Gulf of Ob.
Bake pie in rainstorms
til your digestion becomes
a wish for sandals.
A fifth of the
stream from the mouth:
Add bat to camel,
discover a kitten in
twisted sphere of thought.
Gold diggers sprinkle
their heads with salt, scan sidewalks
In the bedroom the
bladder is an instrument
for step-father music.
Beastly geese apply
in South Africa.
art by Susanne Breuss
The Tumultuous Echoes of the Press
These are the types of moral dilemmas
that saturate the atmosphere:
social confusion in small doses,
the bloating of a cast of aristocrats,
New to this, Jules Monnerot spews his guts
after a vile assault by periodicals
appealing to inspiration.
Lash down on the magical surrealist art
and the idea of its structure.
Tackle the front and center. Blacken the boots
of meer history, sleep with symbols that fall
toward the center, between one thing and another,
deficient in seriousness.
We could at any moment become one furnace
seething in the closed orb or choreography and chance,
flicking the cats in sealed jets
that lap over the edge of the cosmic registry
where academic dabblers sit by the
deepest wellsprings of subversion.
seed text: What is Surrealism? by Andrew Breton
art by Humdrum Jetset
Darkness Is Not Called a Color
He had discovered in himself a new kind of critical awareness.
He viewed it as a kind of zone.
With the incredible burden of the New Age 80s
and amazing drum machines in the recesses of his brain,
he drew into himself the rich leather and bourbon of his 30s
the way an absent double expresses inaccuracy between what exists
and what does not exist.
Any existence occupies time,
but the solar plexus of deejay culture
consists of miles of frozen ridges and the capacity of relations
and assessments about the doll.
There was a gap between these feelings,
an evil attitude pervading the atmosphere.
Tensions accrete an intimacy she cannot recognize.
She believes that he touched her with a lack of space.
Belief is a word-like object. It stands up at night
down by the river, shaking the water
on either side of the boat.
That moment was like a hierarchy of rakes.
It was a bar of light,
or the deep part of an orange moon suggested by fish,
or the cast off leaves of corn stalks,
falling away like shadows.
seed text: Empathy, by Mei-Mei Berssenbrugge
art by Die blauen Reiter
If It Tastes Good We Eat It
Two Romanians walk toward us
with breathing lips
They want something
because the curtain of careless love
causes everything else to crumble.
They chant Berrigan’s twenty-eighth sonnet:
“gentle, pleasant strains
just homely enough
to be beautiful.”
But we don’t have what they want.
Their radar-smell picks up
hopes and catastrophes
like a chisel passing through the edge
of your face.
Their Futurist dogmas allow your face to pass through
together with your body.
This is the definition of a kind of experiment.
The interference you feel
when you step outside.
art by bill.noir