Wednesday, March 25, 2015

pome || billy bob beamer

POMErst w
 
Dra!dees [na! bav rai]l beRe[at] tre al xi [ mabea]t, relguas [usic, s]leic, [sle[p] musp[ing, m]sic,]ation muedia [ont mus mei [nu, re]laxi[c, uRe],ing m[i[c, i[iusk]i hei, sta]lc, homkudy musiewc, studork musiy, nic, mu[spir]i]]al mu[s for st[us]icg, musid[]yinc f[or lt]g, baue ca s,]r’nin[k]gro[nd mi]c, m fo[r me]]diwn[, m[ususiic] to crel musi[ax, mus]ic anti-stress[, heg mualinsic, wesic, piallness m[uno mar muusic, guitsusic, moic[, YouTuod musbe sic playli mu, sloc, re lax mc susit, trasic, slo]nquil muw in, ses stru]oft t[unme]ntal, pea[cic,[ posef]ul musitive, Miaft, g[a[mnecr]e b]d muca[nkgrousic, m meditusi[c foa]rtion, mu[ax, wonic, chiderful m[usll stu musdyic, relly, neax daiw aic playge muslist peacaby mueful[ tuks,[ peacgne bacround mc, peaiusitar mucsic rele music,[ pos]iound m]ustive backgric, sooound mutatthing backgrsoiosic, b, oefu[lthing m, rxsic]iusing stucdy muselaic, gus[ic, Zesic, sl]o[n [muw ]muenta[l, bac[kg[rsic instrumound [mtal, slousic instrumenw intal musistrumenc, s in]stru[mlow]entals, intal mstr[umenu]sic, [relaic, ]stuxat[ion musdy m]uic for hosic[, musmek, yogwora mitient musual music, ambic, c[h[ius]ic,] spirl[l ouic, ]net mus[ wa[ge m, d[it]tatio peacusiceful muiful music, beautsic, s musde[-stre sic, slec, rel ep][ maxusig n m in usic, m[s][s]ic, spa []music, so[ack, so[]tr]ft m]w sic, u[n]d slomua[ng]dsic.n[gdig] l[scr eita]e]ea[m[m][us[ic, Zes]age mu

Tuesday, March 24, 2015

prose || DC DeMarse

Excerpt from Rainbow Hat


"Am I really all the things that are outside of me?"

—Animal Collective


Dignity in words ironically is not as dignified an ideal however an ideal is what it will remain and should remain. It is strange that for how futile it is to do there is not much in it. It seems to me to be an imaginative deluding. A prank.

Words are little boxes. What is it in them to which the speaker could relate her terrible greatness? Perhaps dignity itself is a pretense however I like to think that there is something outstanding about the human race. It won’t be expressed and that is why it is outstanding; it won’t ever be expressed. So then it is the only certainty I know of when I think of how much things fucking change.

It is the only constant and it is the only thing that cannot exist. I haven’t read a lot of Nietzsche but I know a few things and when the man said that “god is dead, god remains dead,” I thought to myself that that statement mostly was important for what it suggests.

If god is dead then whatever it was, at the least, once was, and so then once was not dead.

How after all might something die if it did not once live? This is how I view the limits of words and this is how I recognize their concrete efforts to explain as quite ignoble. We are riding on the wake of a nonexistence or rather a nonsense so potent that it to this day plagues others upon hearing any sure statement made by someone else with a sense that that assurance is somewhat laughable, at least if one bothers to look deeper into the idea of words—language—as an approximate detailing of a world itself there approximately.

The only difference between the reality of expression and just reality is that expression is and can only be inaccurate and yet it attempts at clarity because at times we all have had clear heads and have felt transcendent things. Whereas reality by its nature—at least, to one who has had the pleasure of losing control and all sense of reason—is a thing that is palpably not what it is and which never possessed such a fantastical clarity as a mind might have in the moment indicated as truth.

But inaccurately expressing an inaccurate reality is not like fighting fire with fire and most importantly my perception and how I relate that perception to others—translate it—is not a mirror to represent that ever-pale, ever-tired countenance looking back—that penumbra—that inaccurate perspective.

Rather because expression itself stems from a source or absolute reality that is and must be questionable—obviously—what is wrought, viciously, from this void, is a thing that should by all accounts be itself slightly questionable.

Again, though, just because a person’s view of reality is equally as tenuous as reality itself—well—this does not mean that in their shared lack of a core definition they are the same and if so would not be discernable from one another. If what I saw was what I saw I would be what I saw and any ego or sense of self would dissipate immediately. In order for one to know thyself, it must happen that there is a difference between their—own internal and external world.

The only thing, as I said, that is constant, is the lack of god, of an absolute; this void, truly, is our guiding light because it is eternal and is the only thing that really is what it is.

Absence instigates need, thus, my reactions to reality might change though what stirred them in my own conscious mind is forever the same. In other words, nothingness is god, god is nothing, god does not exist because nonexistence is the only absolute and, moreover, to speak bluntly, is the only thing I can think of that is both accurate and variable, static and dynamic, because how, quite literally, everything, every goddamn thing, reacts to this eternal void—which, to say it again, will always be a different reaction, untrustworthy, tenuous, and most of all liable to change—is as important a part of the void as the void itself. And this system, this absurd system, sadly, is no joke, and is of course no greatness.

poem || Lawrence Upton

clusters of eyes

Polyvocal

  clusters of eyes from nowhere
 compensations for pink

 white  white  white  white  white
 one time   too too many

 bright teeth and fillings

     battered shirt  
hatless in muddy hea
through and through
routine of a knowing head

    outcry seen dead

   talking so you'd say
 he's too forward      
how he bought a king Off

        informed heresies following her out of sight

  centuries marked by dirt
in suspension
circling the waste-pipe entrance
     manners of matter

  invention stops
  plump chickens fill the museums
   an every day empire
of agricultural equipment from coast to coast
    all the fighters in the world
take off to sort out a force alarum

     handmade worlds of artefact
     dust clouds
Beethoven recordings

Tuesday, March 17, 2015

poem || Lawrence Upton

white bread accents

polyvocal

asks
¿what do you come to?
their white bread accents

drive everywhere
but a sheet of paper

evasive stricture
¿why the nervous clatter?

suggestive for a century

or your words and illustrations will not grow back

architectural wonder
should have rested hopefully
by human voice
and so on

untidily my aim is to be influential he says
over the head with any of what is called country

punctuation to come
would rather it were cities

and then very slowly roll over to die like a self

says
i thought you understood
we are all alone

I am arranged
I have my defences
where only those literary marks
which is a part of their properties
the living trees go

he was trying to speak
keeping his own shit

he flew upside down
pre election
yes to save traditional signs
wavers beside mild mannered wishes
re erection

kill the finest
strong animals
you have rested hopefully

says police will get him
ducking under the blow that speaks
says police
will get him
fully says
out of date
says more
interested in paradise
fully says
out of date says
more interested in the equals sign
more interested in
paradise has shifted
as screams at all
the woods

the woods the lakes
and hurtled on
make after sun
goes
and made no attempt to go
right
you come
to come back
for cities and deserts
and an amount of narrative

and salt

and verso of mud
and participants
are two sides
of which
is a map
till formation
buried in rock
the cows within intently
but a copy thereof
which is famous for it

bird song

wind at the new going in
tourists drive by
the binding strength
it is essential
for the first attraction

new trees

photos as get physical
the matter squawking back
crowded underground
arriving

too esoteric
says our troubles

says police
will get to wait a longer time
than time

poem || Jeff Harrison

Cherry Blanket
 
flick them darkened blades
often my cherry blanket
metronomes my perfect shadow

refute morning, loot the boot
and cut me in
blues for the reminded skin

6 poems || Felino A. Soriano

Oscine

undulating breaths circle
under air braided into contradicting fabric
using fingering points to diagram precision              I heard

friction portend heat’s upcoming noon and
                                                                  confirmed a visual cue

                                                                  ______________________

                                                                  divided my languages
into compartments of sound and death

each wore echoes and stripped though cold
and skeletal markings engraved
giving
asymmetry
                 focal dexterity and thus, importance—

and late was my return from a birth isolated
becoming is the nuance of forgotten acclimation:

song, though
yes, song is the vertical prose          sustaining movement

negating death’s fictional meander and forgotten mention of proof’s
failed proximity to the body’s cultural intentional refraction





Watching the crow delay spiraling intervals

                            contemplative maintenance holds
an attentive eye and holistic hand of oscillating demeanor—

     each momentum of deliberate rust
accentuates mirrors and mirage apathetic selves,
desiring/delineating/delving

          goal-attention,     spaced mobility curls
through : an alphabetic

signature, deliberate in winged circumferences

delicate in winged and serial ascension                                 patterns





An anxiety, an appetite forwarding misused feeling

odd
, a Saturday’s
kaleidoscope of phasing direction
                                                   needn’t locate space within
be/tween
becoming                      be
/ing

                      toward vocational aspirant devoted spatial memories
fit in

                                                   /to with species of silent physicality as
tongue of dominating tribute to incorporate chaos’

boiling extraversion—


                                  —and, too           |watching| worry latch its sweating
digits

interlocking stress’ fathoms and deliberate constructs to erase the mind’s pleasurable architecture





Organic was the word she used to describe it; I interrogated using silence’s demeanor as does a stone’s watching

     ascent, you know about (or should), a postulating emblem
articulating symptom to
          engage with sun and its

lengthiest aggregation of spoon-scooping dexterity to

forego
 
 styles unknown to cultural dilemmas and
          memorized hallucinations



                                                                                 my chosen reason not
to engage was to mention in not stating
through syllables’ reflectional brilliance—

a devotion to hankering a deliverable understanding

from distance as to alter angle before applying brush to the sanitized
monochromatic canvas of needed pulse—

and though

the back of my listening, pivoted

the fingers of our conversation contained

braided

            pulses

                       burgeoning into last
beyond this momentary alert of disparate

                                                                perspectives

                                       
     


Garden angles

each grain this light suspends is
prematurely named—

     I, addicted to recommending nuance over
sustained man-told defining of tone and echoing configurations—

recall their origin                                                         (or, the isolated fathom associated with trauma)
                                     prior to death’s shedding fingers
swiping breath and
bait
from hanker’s and now’s desirous throat and positioned miracles—

to
   succeed in knowing names contain dust and prejudice toward darkness’ aggregation of italicizing silhouettes

                                                       —losing my ears to piano haunts

pivots joy to land where stoic tableaus bury curled scents from
broken palms and interrogated reason disproved by analyzing misplaced syllables’
organic tributary errors

 



Correlations

                                      I
                  know the pulse maps genetic rhythms.  Know
a sporadic breath reaffirms darkened halls

                  reveal alabaster fears.                Relation. 

My good finger finds forays amid angular conversation.  With

devotion
rotates carousel movement, oscillating        philosophies
pivot

        avoiding
synonyms of shadows’ flattened distribution of graying gradations. 

Sunday, March 15, 2015

text || Volodymyr Bilyk


eyes crossed ................................................ ..............................reechoed............................................... ..............................Eyes run  ................................................ ..............................iterating................................................ ..............................eyes out ................................................ ..............................  asquint ................................................ ..............................belabouring ................................................ ..............................eyeteeth ................................................ .............................. surreptitiously  ................................................ ..............................askew abtruse ................................................ ..............................awry warp ................................................ ..............................treads upon ................................................ ..............................tacitly ................................................ .............................. eyes closed ................................................ ..............................rehearsing............................................... ..............................eyelids rumple  ................................................ ..............................irritating................................................ ..............................trudge

Tuesday, March 10, 2015

4 poems || Philip Byron Oakes

Wait and Sea

Putting a brave face on layaway of living. Running
gamuts of the unspoken for hints of what it might
mean in the language for which it was intended.
Fresh from the heartland of a steady beat to the
requiem, by rote of recurrence until it’s fresh as
the deep blue of ancient seas. The lights that go
out on their limbs. The heart of darkness cordoned
off for surgery. Putting a little backbone up front
of the rabble. A bartered craving for order to the
sorrow, creeping into the lexicon of the admiralty’s
last chance to float their ideas into friendly harbors,
before seas freeze over tariffs on the trade winds
helping turn mud into gold. The years that strangle
the frozen moments to life. Grooming the
consequences for acceptance. All that’s missing
from the wholeness of a long way to go.  Emotive
clusters dangled from an aura filling the pauses
with fertility. Whittled to a heartbeating of the
odds. Amputations streamlining innuendo into a
traffic of ideas within limits, chasing after the fact
through the bedlam of a house on fire.  


Stump

Detritus serving as furniture for the war imputing
a measure of loss in numbers given their cumulative
due. A harsh light provoking high noon to glow.
Illuminating a trek down craving’s canyon to the
center of the earth, in pantomime on the slippery
slope burning with an urge to run the gauntlet. To
see the cure in the quivering redeemed from the
nagging denouement of a melodrama. A migration
of inklings towards an elusive belief. To leave the
nooks painfully exposed as just another facet of the
vast expanse stretching the truth, until it snaps into
nuggets recited in the cold sheen of no place to run.
To navigate to the betterment of the pieces come to
collect their nimbus at the end of the road. A peek
past incubating the cold of wounded feelings
leading the charge, as if the motion made the
movement stick to a turf worn bare by a traffic of
rationales after the reasons have lost their way.
Looming in confluence with something lessened the
more you stare it down to earth. The what’s next as
answer to what’s missing when it’s there. Assuming
the day has come to rescue the night from itself.
More easily confounded upon a premise putting
both come and go at risk of finding peace, with
nowhere to put it in the hour to which it
belongs. 


Just When You Thought

And, as if that wasn’t enough, the slicker side of the
even moreso becomes increasingly apparent, without
any need for the use of old eyes, seeing the arc of the
changeling into what it has now so clearly become.
A pragmatic gentility to the weight of the wondering
the whys into whens, which the wheres meekly follow
into place. An adversarial intimacy, no less weighty for
the barbed caress of insights fostered by the takeaway,
at full gallop towards meaning this or that, as if it
mattered beyond the ticklish touch of little mercies
drifting off target towards the center of the earth.
Down alleys incorrigibly winding into avenues poised
as platforms, promoting thoughts too swollen for heads
to hold in safekeeping the balance in check. Casting a
silhouette overboard in a flurry of transparencies
returning fire to place of purchase, complementing the
sense of having put it all together in a blur. Quoting the
well suited to bleeding something more than water into
the general tenor. A contagion catching an utterance by
the whispery tail, wagging a confession into play the
linchpin pulled to make it seem as if.


Bowering

Subliminal donuts stuffing cheeks turned
cattywampus for chewing the truth till it
settles for second place. Consuming circles
by degrees twisting fate in an arc the
covenant calls its own. A pliable infinity
made to fit small minds. A cyanide
swagger to queasyville brewing pirouettes
from wobbles, and the will chasing its echo
through a palsy in the fabric thinning the
ice to a slip the slide might fall for. To 
wriggle in the physics of nuance flexing
shades to support the weight of perception.
A practiced blur providing cover for fine
points to cluster, in a broadside sweeping
scintallae into play for a spark. When
asked to face the walls closing in to form
a home. Piecing the scenery together
with a feeling fostered by the shadow’s
spent limp to the rescue.

2 poems || Heath Brougher

Acet Plum:Basi Solut

a wordsmiths song she’d never
accommodate us vicus

a wooden lie                bleach blanched
in the branches

tiptopular vernacular ex
expectational expeccceptional

look into look I the future
lick right tunes and truths
an’
besure to thank
the besure of it all
the bustin up of chifforobes
            an’ whatnot
Dowpt up
            on doughPP
chlorocylindricle
cylindrica  
champagne shamblings bubblings
arsenic chlorine dead
chrysanthemum chrystalanthemom Chernobyl
[notvery Chernoble atall]
nopt
no buddies there
all evaporatorically turnt to dust
            dist-
ance and dust innnn
thi mutated air. nuclearencumbered nucularcumberred
atomiccucumbird air.


Tinct Rubibarbb

Living in the trees ees ees ease
is easy for some
mind the black turtle turning the moon you should—
all the water, tide and such, drafted, even creeked
is all just transparent vomit
from some forest god
                        ]maybe Pan himself who’s voice is so old that it can only be pronounced by the breeze and the rattle of twigs[

you should keep a peeled eye for the constant rending of the Vale

sun forest god          is one
lines are made to be drawn out and dragged across the world—
it's Humanit-
y's thing to do what it does so well
to the TEE of pointless death
arbitrary execution 
traded once again to satiate the silly Manmade trifles
of Manmade reality itself.