Quarter af Issuer 1

q u a r t e r a f t e r

quarter after A Place for Art and its Reasons

Issue no. 1

Cover art by Merlin Flower

Copyright © quarter after 2012 All Rights Reserved

quarter after

Felino A. Soriano

Sound this profound exhilaration formation suction surplus mass-aware this turned tabletop this backdrop oscillating of vibratory impulse imploding excitation engaging exploratory notions these rhythms of an hour’s enunciating collage formulation myrrh violet this early inclination of morning’s reviving obtained an altered spatial camaraderie with tonal appreciation forward species denying culprit those delegating collisions of unaware expire replication honor this tone of lengthened running(s) these birthing aggregates firm in the benevolent aspects of encouraging faculty of convinced excavations

Movie this silent salience Interpretation Irony agitation, perforation this emblem of modified language: removing vernacular’s etching momentum replaced… thereby behavior’s willing tongue the aggregation of the physical sustenance of vocal ambulation. Understood Though willing the eye of a watcher’s guile considers canvas the readied absence toward collecting tonal mischief or joyful substance this meander performs, adjusting calm though scream collects cycles of experimental conference. Render Captured positioning catapulted techniques teachings ostensible circles collocating scenarios and multilingual passions proprietarily condensed.

Donna Kuhn – she was me and you were her

Christina Baker-Jones Revival Hairy marble knuckles struck the bone below my right eye that an hour earlier was virginal to rouge. And I, crouching like an archaeologist, dusted the hardwood floors with disbelief for where the man I loved had gone. A seared triangle like cherry pie dripped crimson reality into my palm and it was then that I forgot how to pray. The bastardized backhand complete with Jade signet ring of ministry meant to reprimand the tongue that told others that respect had been abandoned at the altar; compassion washed away in the baptismal drain. With no more submission to pour out, I was re-born upon my reflection in his black and polished patent-leather shoe.

My Ovaries and Me We’re the coffee pot that doesn’t percolate tea on a turquoise flame of a pilot lit stove that never bakes a cake past the batter stage closing on opening night in Chicago without the Sears Tower for tourists to photograph pictures that never develop despite the price of a war that doesn’t end in peace but allows heroes to remain heroes so they feel complete without the fall monogrammed towel with a leaf that withers on the branch and dies without falling from the gumball machine into your hand.

A Fix of Extraordinary Addiction to validation drives me to sift through dumpsters for syringes full of laughter and lines of love to snort. I trade my body for moments of admiration and steal from my mother’s purse of compliments— my final acts of desperation. Indebted to The Dealer, I no longer promise to live better, love harder, or stand taller— He knows that I don’t follow through. Instead, I push through the crowd with rotting teeth of reality and sweating palms of regret, to sell my integrity swaddled in a pastel blanket behind a bar to be part of the elite fiends seeking more than mediocrity. Some barter for dime-bags full of brilliance or joints laced with fame— but everyone, at some point, returns to The Dealer, by begging at their bedside or consuming bread of flesh and blood of wine. He’s the master at heating up the high with a candle and a silver spoon, and the tourniquet may sting, but not being noticed burns like hell.

Remnants at the Intersection

Like a doe smeared on a foggy country highway,

my zip-loc baggy skin is burst at the seams and oozing, the hind leg of my childhood

insecurities lay abandoned in grass, and my prideful estrogenic blood

drains into a shallow pot hole.

Mercy close my eyes,

so my last vision is not my black velvet heart

alone and pulsating on the yellow line. Others will barrel through me and drag me as their souvenir.

I am cracked open.

Vulnerable to the vultures that will examine me

with their beaks, my flesh sits in judgment.

And so I wait for someone new

to scrape up with a shovel and gather my pieces;

to declare me trash or trophy.

Family Time

Your momma’s teachin’ you to be a lady—

I see it in your eyes.

There’s somethin’ you ain’t learned yet—

I see it in your thighs.

The innocence in your giggle

begs me to make you ripe.

Let me hug you a little longer—

a school boy’s not your type.

You need an uncle that knows what he’s doin’—

can find the right spot without a map.

School’s in session baby girl,

Come learn what’s in my lap.

To the Uncle That Hugged Too Long

To the uncle that wouldn’t let go

each time I pulled away,

to the one that made me believe

I’d enticed him in some way:

You made me feel filthy

and that touching must be wrong.

You made me question liking boys at all,

my spirit felt so small.

I want hell for you to be

Satan ripping off your skin,

so that everyone who didn’t know

sees you from within.

I hope you see my father’s face

when he learns what you hid,

and I hope you pray for mercy

just as I did.

I hope God asks me if I forgive you

so I can say no,

and I hope you die a little at a time

so that I can enjoy the show.

Merlin Flower - Kitch

Tiffany Monroe

Reality The dishonesty of photography is that it pretends. As if we are seeing through a window. Because the image appears as though we witnessed it. But we did not. The view is limited. We see what we are told. What the camera sees. It is easier to maintain the illusion with a photograph than with a painting. We know that a painting was a setup. That it took time. That the color had to be mixed, the scene created. The photograph is different. Because the image is manufacturing authenticity. But the image is only the representation. Just as the word “word” is the representation of a word. Words take on the shape of the writer. They pretend to be genuine. Just as the image appears to be a reflection, so does the word. The authenticity of what is written. The permanence of print. But the word is only the representation of

Starry Night 1. Holding on to sanity in patterns of motion. 2. Perhaps death is not the hardest thing. 3. Black dots and starry visions. Or is it starry dots and black visions? It’s hard to tell on a t-shirt. 4. We take death to reach a star. 5. What becomes of the mind in brushstrokes and paint. 6. Refuge in which to recover and regain peace of mind and self-composure. 7. Towering over normalcy. Close enough to touch. 8. Making the point – dead painters are only of indirect interest – from the monetary point of view. 9. As though looking at the moon under water.

10. The illumination and fireworks were postponed because of bad weather. 11. It is easy to forget the art(ist) behind the mug. 12. Madness is salutary for this, that one becomes perhaps less exclusive.

Minimalism (According to Robert Morris) Maximum resistance to perpetual separation. Indeterminacy of arrangement of parts. Literal aspect of the physical existence of the thing.

Canvas Reluctant to Become Portrait of Madame X (after Lynn Thompson)

Because she is only known by a letter, because she becomes yours. At your request, she makes you wait. The French have that je ne sais quoi and joie de vivre. But she is American. First sittings must be uncomfortable. Who am I today? She doesn’t sit, but drapes. Curves and loops in graphite lines. The sketch, the essence. She’s softer in pencil. As though you’ve dusted her in lavender powder. Watercolor doesn’t fit her. It dulls. Taut, stretched cloth. Oil on canvas. Somehow, in color, she becomes the unclean thing. Tint, dye, stain. She plays the muse for you. You paint her greater, deeper. A bold stroke of black. Which is more truthful, the pencil or the paint?

Wrath, In Two Acts Curses have a way of backfiring. She did not think about this as she fixed her face in age. It wasn’t so much a curse as it was a wish, anyway. The girl would not suspect the old woman with her laces bound. To asphyxiate. A second attempt proved equally fatal. Just not for the girl. She found her strength in poison. A comb not to untangle, but maim. There’s stillness in anger. It soothes. It reassures us that we are righteous, even when we’re not. A curse is a prayer for the wicked.

Roger Sedarat Last of the Avant Gardes The slant at which he held the hammer to strike the urinal on display produced such fleeting beauty the art critics failed to see it (surprise, surprise); only Baudrillard could appreciate the value of destroying the unconventional roped from the public in a fancy museum. When the gendarmes framed him in bars, he shifted his eyes from left to right, like a clichéd painting in a horror flick, looking for his 15 minutes of fame. Le pauvre. He never even made the arts section of The New York Times. But to have seen him swinging his destruction through that sacrosanct space; to have watched the porcelain throne shatter into meaningless pieces at the end of a century oversaturated with making things new (!); oh what a relief, like a much needed piss, in a world going down the drain.

Intellectual Spectacle Have the lights gone out for you? Because the light’s gone out for me It is the 21st century. Radiohead I. Inside Outside Poem (to be presented with the words facing the audience) There are no words on the other side of this page, the writer having long since come to understand the reader’s penchant for projection. Google will take you only so far and vice versa, the audacity of any man, especially this Roger Sedarat to claim some categorical catalog of art in the 21st century and insist upon it by rationalizing the American dream. In short—a sort of shrinking in the mirror appears before us: Emerson’s transparent eyeball. Standing before a private audience After 7:00pm on page 16 of this manuscript I become an empty page All mean egotism at least pretends to vanish, inverted by the inconsequential gaze at poetry readings, intellectual spectacles devoid of any real celebrity; Even John Ashbery, especially John Ashbery gets boring after a page or two. There, I said it, and right off the top of my head. (Act) II. (to be presented with a single eye and a hole for a pupil through which the reader sees the audience) Okay, I did design a stage, so to speak. a primitive curtain call so as an actor in this farce labeled poetry I can sneak a peak at the illusion that people really desire to see me. It feels kind of creepy, like I’m a goon in a painting at a haunted house following guests through the hallway. III.

(to be presented with the same single eye in part II) That moment in Emily Dickinson’s poem, “I heard a fly buzz when I died,” when she expects to see the King and hears instead a “blue uncertain stumbling buzz,” metaphor for a displaced God of the modern era for whom we all soon tire of seeking stands here in the place of all lyric intensity the poet dwelling over this lost cause quietly sobbing over failed efforts in his office. “And then,” says Dickinson, “I could not see to see.” IV. (to be presented with a black page facing the audience) This black screen shows I’m the first one to admit that such tricky and self-referential games are really negative and annoying, like my three idiot classmates in Professor Bob Solomon’s philosophy course at the University of Texas who turned in blank term papers with a single footnote at the bottom of the page marked “existence.” V. (to be presented with the word “POETRY” turned on its side facing the audience, with two X’s for eyes in the capital “O”) The novel is still in question. Poetry is definitively dead. The novel still holds possibility for redemption. It’s poetry that’s dead, deader than a doornail posting Luther’s theses, deader than a radio announcement for carpeting, an empire of clichés that freely installs a phone number in the most astute scholarly brain. Not the poet, he or she is all too alive. About poets they were very wrong, the post-structuralists. How much they misunderstood the essential romantic illusion, the regressive writing and study of poetry, the endowment of that most redundant of publications,

Poetry Magazine, the proliferation of the MFA and PhD in creative writing. Now more than ever the real poet is alive. All too alive, like a cockroach after a nuclear war No, not a cockroach, more like a rat, a sniveling, parasitic rat that gets shanked in the shower, an aesthetic pedophile, appropriating innocence and originality, reiterating his incessant “mi mi mi” after the circus animal’s desertion with the one leftover carney the last junkie in the world. If it weren’t for John Berryman having jumped off a bridge in the Midwest with a whimsical goodbye wave to his students I’d finish this last line with a gunshot to my head.

Chad Scheel AUBADE REPEATED white cold sheets * thigh t high (er)

REVEILLE Of coming waking I say little __ thank even less __ flushed crimson face in the firelight __ tents on the sand balance against the trill of breakwater

crumbled bread / bag on parking stall

paint __ says cold like

jars are an order __ off set kilter __ congratulations

__ in are in in __ skirting the works

Lin Neiswender

A Painful Wait

Tough times, Middle Class losing its grip Imperil the American Dream.

It’s likely to get worse, Falling between the cracks, Bled to the brink of homelessness.

It’s no holiday.

Will you vote?

Lin Neiswender - Blackout

Rob Mclennan Notes, on the subject of marriage: You alone, Love, can walk across the heather, letting foliage fall behind your shoulder. Losing you, I lose myself, but losing myself I find you. Jean Grosjean, trans. Keith Waldrop, An Earth of Time A modest proposal, Unexpect, a lake. A rise in the earth. Soft and sweet and mute as a cork. This all may be a construct, still. I can’t speak for. Reinventions of solitude. Parade the days. With surroundings so familiar. Ask again, to wash the kitchen floor. Draped in reeds, and curtain. The morning after, dusk. What is this, is new. Between leaves in a heavy book. So further from the question. Remote, in fact. Remove. As Michelle Taransky wrote, a room of only capital letters

He only told the wood pile and the vole, Are, indeed, an inky mile. Measure, would you. Exact notes, mine your mountain-throat. A hand-me-diamond-down. Grandmother, now, eleven years. My mother, only one. The Perth woods were a sentence, drawn. Diamond in the diamond-rough. We make, to the canal. Sun stands still a shell. Absolute. Give me nothing, lest. Window, to the barn.

Constellations, space We mention, in this beautiful. The result of thunderstorms, stand back on the deck. Snow flurries, fly. The squirrels, intend. I am the airship, lateral. Begun in cloud. Lea Graham writes, the writing of days is a sugary growl. A hand, invent, in sleep. Are still involved. Confabulate.

Chrysanthemums, Dreams I’m dying. Bloodless. Haven’t yet a lawn to occupy. Flowers, gifting backstep. Deliveries. To recapture, same. We together mark out notes. To sing.

They swam in moonlight, These constant, language carves. I dream of summer, distant-green. here, the sun cools. Porcelain. Up, Ottawa Valley. Phil Hall suggests, a frozen glow. Silence, is its only form. The unexpected path. We sequence. Perfection, thus. Third-hand, paramours. Unsettled, through the sky. Moment, fetish, this one. Small. Enjoy. There is no single moment.

Vowel frequencies, Mark, a station. Gesture, glassed. We cite confession. What do you know of me? One is relieved, sometimes. Existing. What do we require. Censure, dearest circumstance. Amy Dennis says, finally. Adrift, in soul-mate. Windstorm carries, off a weight. An apparition. Loneliness, a scrapture. Megan Levad writes, it’s not true anymore.

Jane Joritz-Nakagawa (1) from epidermis notice of one, in place of combined value of notice of itself so, far being less rules over nothing over its prosperity is not willing by the eternal building finished would call across its property of loss cannot be loosening self of loss expression commonly used replaces infinite invite all day, ah quite so, such acceptable maybe trees miss their leaves in a sonic language so, or might between

may have perpetual hiccup of a latin pig and horse g(r)eek of a numerological repose to painful stimuli because a shark can survive two months on one meal fairground, the trappings and trimmings thinking the unthinkable genealogy of which bolster hoop finished, if

if one looks at the sky declare further synapses extraneous forego the synapse retreat from reality resilience jury nullification and other anti matters linguistic antidote antibodied bitter formula formaldehyde i moved in a direction opposite the earth sometimes you have to push down hard on the handle to get people to move small important things that night at dinner shared an outline occasionally undergo underdog under god golf a nurse remained all was silent bring on the silence made up of relief there are countless cases some in a fertile county consume little which people are fit for legislation sitting in little cages for months at a time similar patterns have been observed in millions of amoeba waves of electrical activity coursing through hearts people would stay awake for twenty or thirty hours at a time words having no relation to people or mental images like a mirror to a face a strange escape from which there is no escape looking out onto the lawn a thin piece of metal you could hold at both ends despite the fact it isn't raining & even if this were not the case in every sea shell out at the edge of a result of riots which remain unwritten of course living machinery has a purpose though embryologists are rarely convinced i have watched many a university audience trying to guess followed by electric shock to a lesser extent they had been married for nine years and had both been addicts forcing her to live in the basement storage

room with her young sons many homeless women have tried to conform to understand the instrumental value but if so moreover a joint account of justification of mostly false beliefs these factors skewed the consensus in genetics dissolving the paradox in a glass of water in memory's repetitive pain as it ought to be at the foot of the cathedral

from BLANK CITY * * * wanting to write a poem that is only monosyllables played to the tune of birds ducking hunting rifles. my doctor said to spend an hour doing something i love even if it is only five minutes. real life isn't so good. hiding in the clothes of mark twain only illness gives me time to think. while lying in bed all day commuters crowd into delayed shabby trains streaked with dirt headed for unwanted destinations. in the retrograde amnesia of rogue nations developmentally challenged budgets bathe in toxic sludge. will no one stop the war on poets. why the fetuses are all stillborn * * * your leg caught in my web of chaos. difference which scares you into omission. may i rest my case now. in a broken world the despair that remains seated while the earth turns pale with fine and delicate bubbles beneath the shroud of turin. in a floating death trap while sending a stern message to a strange virus we cannot pinpoint. is it vision or delusion that causes me to sink in the bathtub as we are now experiencing technical difficulties. hurry up * * * trying to be the person in the mirror but failing. taking apart the phone you cannot reassemble. the persecution never stops tho the defense always rests. i dream of smashing the figurines of the girl next door. with no desire to attain a human world. philosophers drenched in solitude. at the point where the isolation became self-imposed. with once virginal words. students hope the courts will always be in recess * * * montage of money laundry. at the risk of spreading. the extent of a boundary or surface. an incentive not to look. in psychic variants of wardrobe malfunction. low linguistic austerity probability events. half of the soldiers returning. an emblem of a victimized country. victimless crimes still request revenge though hoping for a jobless recovery. hail mary full of graves. quitting my job to become a battlefield but seeming. then I begat everywhere. shoulders always in silhouette. hidden bubbles in your shirt. a ripple until the wind began. see for example

* * * even if sin is ignorance. having worked at obscuring knowledge. retreating from world markets of the feral underclass proving supple confusion. my shop is radiant. a colonial past may have room for epiphany if consensus never occurs. for the relative good and the relatively good * * * because i lived in a trailer home full of cats. there is cat shit everywhere cuz i forgot to buy a litter box. i am on my way to a store which i can't find and run into my university colleagues in the middle of the street having a meeting at a picnic table covered with bowls of ramen. so i sit down for a while but stores that sell cat litter boxes won't leave my head. slipping out i run into two of my students who say they have been trying to find me to discuss their papers. once i finally get away the store is closed. so i go back to my home which has turned into a old bus with cat shit everywhere. and i am blamed for killing someone. so i have to find another store that is open, i think i know one accessible by subway as i can no longer find my car or whenever i find it it doesn't start or the key doesn't work. so i head for the subway but run into my colleagues. after sitting awhile and pretending to listen i slip out again and reach the subway but wait at the wrong platform, so then it is the next day and i find myself in an unfamiliar city * * * music which camouflages thoughts becomes a new disguise tho i don’t know how the individual sounds are produced. momentarily is the ability passing above your head. i performed a service in saying the apparent logical form of a proposition is not real nor what we want * * * a buried self hidden in words. death of the real self when in the last episode the poem

consumes all. while disturbing the universe via women's position in society. animals humans cannot grasp. covering mortality. in the voice of a bespectacled secretary. whatever became of. mountain of corpses cannot be filmed. only a partial meltdown * * * a refugee from false symbols. too many trashy works are published. to achieve a sustainable belief in hidden parameters. it is hard to believe certain works have an author. an infinite number of numbers. at the bottom of a flight of stairs. what was in the earth

Donna Kuhn – sell buy

Adam Fieled Apparition Poems

#151

Last time they met, she kept spitting on the cement outside the bistro like a sailor. A unique composite, I thought as I heard this, of two temperaments that just can’t bite on earth. She keeps (he said) her panties on in bed. What did I tell him? I didn’t. I spit on the cement outside the ship we happened to be sailing on. To spit: an abstract gesture, of the kind popular in the arts sixty years ago; it counts as “action” now.

#154

I’m not blind or slimy, she told him, you’re just an asshole with unrealistic expectations. Summer outside: black and white buildings, covered in sweat. The picture evens out (roughly) to brown. She swoons at the idea of touching. I’m done with her, he tells himself, strained to keep his hands off: prime real estate. But the parents-built picket fence is stuck up his ass. Someday he’ll jounce it out, impale her on it— right through the heart. I wonder, she chimes blithely, if you can define slime?

#412

Each thinks the other a lonesome reprobate. That’s what I guess when I see the picture. It’s Elkins Park Square on a cold spring night; they’re almost sitting on their hands. One went up, as they say, one went down, but you’ll never hear a word of this is Cheltenham. They can’t gloat anymore, so they make an art of obfuscation. That’s why I seldom go back. Elkins Park Square is scary at night. There are ghosts by the ice skating rink.

#261

Never one to cut corners about cutting corners, you spun the Subaru into a rough U-turn right in the middle of Old York Road at midnight, scaring the shit out of this self- declared “artist.” The issue, as ever, was nothing particular to celebrate. We could only connect nothing with nothing in our private suburban waste land. Here’s where the fun starts— I got out, motherfucker. I made it. I say “I,” and it works. But Old York Road at midnight is still what it is. I still have to live there the same way you do.

#221

Torque: you can start a mile past personal emotions, but you must jog back and touch emotion’s very green blarney stone every few lines to fulfill responsibilities no one else wants to engage. Slats of blinds get shut to keep sun out of your eyes, even as the torque expresses both elisions, ellipses, eerie as they form a blockade of angles to knock you down. It’s the warp of centuries: “I” set loose to torque combinations of data in every way creepy to desires for raw earth permanence, mountainous forms. They attract mist, kisses, and the accursed share of angst that dawdles in flesh like a child with a blanket.

Merlin Flower – Blue 2

Michael Farrell funny jokes [cruel piranhas] listen or see? little waves, a boy floating. the chronicle of the plastic spade; leave it blank. terry has wild eyes, hair. calm me down. a cadillac A SANDCASTLE LIFE beyond his aspiration. the worst – of wrinkles, regret. salamander hiding / snipers. hardware store. the town tune blaring. are you over? ... left to day, right to say ... a brick wall, clover growing in a hole. the toucan, working as a bookmark. there is a ship that SHELLAC never goes out. simple lines / simp- le sentiments, felt towards a drawing. in the sarsaparilla – like a wildebeest with a politician. OR BUILDER

by my side pinko, counterpinko: he thinks its the return of A GAME WE PLAY ON THE PIG FARM WEARING A MAKE BELIEVE CREATURE ITS MY ARM the syllable count. the cord lies down on broadway &s backed over by a limo. lunch like so many things ends in the bin. say AFFIRM hi to the force that created divorce WERE A LONG WAY FROM ADAM IF WE WERE EVER CLOSE TRY THE BUCKTHORN ‘& the lands thatll come to you on the death of your brother...’ true to form, truer to a dusts- torm. hard on the shiny platform ... hide. everyone turns mist- y eyed. words add, numbers spell, images proliferate ‘as well’. then you must escalate to elevate – or was it the oth- THE EUCALYPTS HAVE TAKEN OVER THE ASYLUM FADED HONEY AWAY er way round? (dancings ROADS IMPLODE FROM THE PEPPERING STRIKE OF STILETTOES

the only party- ing i know.) ‘the saloon has pulled into the saloon.’ maroon. the night ended all too unsoon.

quasimodos dream literature, tigers, the stock exchange – whichll bow out first? every day i look at the map, to know what this place looks like. its a spid- er under the carpet, not a mouse. failing like a heart thats forg- otten to go / lying like jindabyne und- er the snow. rain on my lip ... misfit to misf- it. i say ‘bugeye’; white devil says a ‘vers’, are you? found some imm- HAVERS DEHAVERS BEHAVERS BEAVERS ediac- y: lets go town to down, (lets not) pollute the sky with our dying – but run to butt- A HUMMINGCHILDS EXTERNAL REST er, like poetry, & tigers.

Merlin Flower – Abstract

Lawrence Upton

from a book of the dead

Have you heard of breathing severing the body

It yields recollection; within humans' bloodshed thin; ambiguous pushing in dark foulness denying judgement mortification inadequately washed A pathway to information longing delight inhaling and exhaling names

Such thoughts are lenses Gloom stumbles from the hand; personality space disjoined blows Remade people come into reflections

The torso does not outlast trembling seconds the cold bleeding formulating and entering sustenance excruciation pulled amid the eye held still living

The brine it wept; the pride of the understanding; the street active scripting the known world

Quivering dead merge in the desires a detailed gang clumping the machine

from a book of the dead

Care is passed on capability in amiable motion resonance of thought smothering thought the air odorous wooden floors; dark skin a sheet of burning paper bacteria flourishing

All are available for better contact; and by far roiling underneath turning up the fire Any are mistakes in expectation; a tasting seethru smooth fingers rehearsing every curve an attenuated flat involving flightiness easier in a moment

Tenderness accepts head impairment Innocence crashes as each seizes the means of protection out from recall equivalence to control in the once impossible Are you onboard

The celestial omnibus All proportion to provide dipping on fit words to cut out the skulls which sit in a dogmatic and cock sure fashion light squares denting their edges

shackles of essence as we once played affection their approximate noise their rattle generated

from a book of the dead

Within the first day were available light and supremacy

Hegemony danced power in harness and other interesting variations for the stiff at heart Later the marked beguiling body entertained alone the pillow surface black

She was all a bit lucky

Evidence is money Example: Here is a nicely tended orchard How fortuitous No one bothers to learn All objects are smooth rivers flow out of it the wheel churning discharge Broke eventually a something ablaze used to transform souls

Encumbrances of terror and age Sick of each object Sleep refused I caught this here the shaking the twilight sky strangeness

Urge and I have to question serenading The long night is a house whose sufferers are large eyes shut to see up through the earth Perception is bigger fastening understanding towards artlessness capability in ostentatious jiffies; submission; touching without emotion

from a book of the dead

Dark broken into the person I am: birds of carrion A surface moves in spoil Blooms bond to worms Words scare off the blue crawling above evidence

Life is an emergency Whispering is human a rising mistake The evanescing psyche prospers muffled blending face and body neglected understanding stamped down

It's a peculiar interior dispersed in the chase of susurration

Writing is passed so quietly Manufacture of parts An image making approximate noise Infatuation withering fooled by terror

Armies are moving Work is being God writing into love Strangeness my mouth Attenuated extravagance

Earth is making the noise In the sewage As a word The edges harden The inside-outside the person I have detached The stench of the asylum

Every night sky is defunct

The body will be expelled an unidentified figure taking its head off Sunsets palpitate Making is detached from perception Heaviness shapes method

iwrack

Data and assumption What's displaced it

How to determine what will work

The magnitude of displayed majority

Speaking of Speaking of redirection

I just came across this is just…

This just came across this is to network

This rationale of your participation in itself

Itself is to network Itself is to live

is to endorse its own legitimacy

A savage ire in past tense a conventional expression:

you are potentially inaccurate I am thinking

of a dynamic of universal complicity

To network is unwarranted a wrong

enabling and empowering the voice

the height of the fundamental mechanism

Structural change follows a catalyst

with its self disgust in the male voice

quite the atrocity; that extreme

lifetime income enhancement

A new affirmation

David Berridge

FROM SCORE TO HOUSE TO ISLAND TO DINNER TO STORY TO POEM

It clusters, it branches off, it returns.

It diagrams, it argues, it trees.

It hinges, it extends, it writes over, it breaks

It lists, its produces, it proposes, it digresses

it digests, it manifests, it misspells, it conducts

it backwards, it dreamed, it fixated, it forced

it under the weight of things, it spammed, it dealing with

it burrowed, it modeled, it paused, it fascinated

There are four clusters.

Four shapes.

Four gatherings.

Four word clouds.

Four shape poems.

One missed call

[AS]

The writer analysed, at risk

amorphoused asleep asked

backwardly emerging

The writer (borrowed) burrowed

blissful tumbling

broken backed to the beginning

backwards, the writer

cannot be asked for collective

carried childish tumbling

defined disengaged destablished

the writer disassembled

dealing with disruptive dreamed evidence

experiential writer

fixated writer

writer force

fictious writer

fragmented the writer fascinated

hands-on writer hammered

incorporated interrupted

inside the writer

interactioned layer upon layer

malleable the writer modeled

mis-used multiplicity

needed outside on-top-of-tools

paused patient performative

playful poetic poems

practice writer

(potential) provisional projected questioned

the writer reclaimable reflected

relinquising control rephrased reverberated

reverie (as going into)

suspended scratched

the writer secure

shared spammed syllabussed

slippage/ slippery

shown writer trace

turn/ to turn into thinking

transparency (under the weight

of other things the writer)

(loses its writer transparency)

the writer transitional the writer threshold

the coming together of two different things

unconsciously influenced the writer

uniform the writer watched

the writer worked backwards

worked through the ground

written verb and noun

writerly the writer

visually formed time

tense as as the writer

nevertheless the writer there

the writer is a distinction

A score for an exhibition.

A score for a conversation.

A score for a space.

A score for a way of moving through a space.

A score for a year.

A score for an animal.

A score for an alphabet.

A score for a sleep.

A score for force.

A score for provisional

A score for shared.

Donna Kuhn – i don’t know where it is

Vernon Frazer Electric Response Hostile drams buoy the critical front when castor enamels the polished hint under surcharge by measure or faction. Tenders suiting the molt, voltaic as rifled conundrums, shoot bolt locks where the font develops, mounting casuals tied to arabesques that haunt the delayed pixel. Their tarnished inquiry crams it full of primitive but effective surplus candor, vying for the mist where doldrums envelop their parallel form. Stifled panels expand their stock responses to inventory clatter, smelling the weary voltage, there to measure its cynical jolt.

Order of the Day Sonic platelet du jour remands custodial casements for chronic retail demands or detailed statements berating fiction as fact when chronic truisms demand their far shore, adhering to the sand-filled cracking of resume gauntlets pursued as shaking poor placements misconstrued as branding delinquent repartee at play in the fields of the gored attacking the breaking diction chronically late to implore placement as basic command

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vacillating tonalities

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-1-

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shrinking from a vinyl correlativeby marriage into the folk gallerywhere vintage presumes its ordinance as founding magistratefondling cudgels on the bauhauspeninsula whose tone marrow fits

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the Macarena of the Dogonset shedding its nostrils yetflinging aural parlance to akeeper of dance macabrewelling incantations as yetunknown or willing to bespread like their canonicreputations over the wearygymnast’s pyrotechnic as debate, a matter of a classicshorn five times over thedecaphonic era turned todough that chromaticallyreduced its output value tothe merest sonic deletion

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intonations lifting every voice to muscle tone invectives a fixed diatribe under repair near

their cuspidor removers bent on the phonic fidelity of safe sects waged out of hearing loss

directives given credence by diffident narrators tone-deaf to lateral dissuasion currents

eating macrobiotic skittles gone mixolydian under the heat of a major rampage turned

minor during an accidental sequence under crepuscular narrative modes left outshining

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awash with multiple intonation

fragments from a past sonata

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or

the borrowings of a coastal recluse

under siphoned plasma

phasing blue

phrasing huesmetabolic transport service to the all-seeing in all itsflatted-third omniscience cleansing its vernacularjumpsuit phrasing blue to the raised fourth/flatted fifthhorns aroused subtonal swell to precursory intonationwhere the line begins its pitch before the crescentmuse shrieking renewed mosaic tablature ashore theamniotic frenzy mulling the tide of aural parlance wheremuscle tone invectives fling their phonic sect to the

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fixated on reiterative pundits

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vent the blue contagionthrough a slippery mist

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Shaping the curtains of cognizance where the lever of precept veiled the chance of a lucid juncture predisposed to stone as gravity a measure guaranteed its weight in cold figurine liaison nearing the rumination seat. Kettle frontons poured sweat's alchemy into vaunted legions clanging their sharp angles against the wind's golden flurry tuning reverberation into a frontal assault showing the shade of its passing continuum shattered, an infectious haze of matter: energy taking on an aural tint and

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dismounted

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David Harrison Horton from Laowai

The cage is quiet. More so. Figurine on a lacquered shelf. The whole

of it abridged. Consumption and regulators. Kid gloved. To sing of

arms as though his manhood wasn’t enough. To sing at all. Burial

mound. Humorless trench. To retire the red uniform, plumes and

epaulettes. To scrape the VIN off the dash with a metal file.

Mr. Lusk, I’m having my doubts today, doubts and nosebleeds. The

entire afternoon. How the sun stood stationary and I did not sleep,

unable to blink or stand it. Just sat there bleeding on my sheets.

Or dreamt of Arkansas, a tall tree. Visioned the whole thing with

sound, harmonium. It lasted much longer than it should have.

from Laowai

Ms. Young:

The kids are playing soccer again and I am imagining Mr. Lusk in a

regulation Boy Scout tent. It is glorious, how the cannons can jump

two men. Superb that the minions be chained to the king’s chamber.

And all the while the queen is as dominant. Tam Wai Ping says it’s all

just a photograph before it goes into the frame. As all this is just a

long letter to myself until James or Ed or someone prints it. How can

you stand it? I mean really? How can you stand it all?

I’ve got a St. Christopher over my washing machine. It doesn’t stop

the towels from making the shirts fuzzy. I say Hail Mary’s on take-

offs and landings. I’m a true hypocrite.

Mr. Horton

from Laowai

They’re burning the fields. Bus window vision. To measure time in

months. An appeal to unnecessary colors, scents. Hellbent use of the

horn. A land without tractors, industry. A land, and nothing is ever

quiet. Kitten of the matter of the thing. and potted plants.

Tigered and tored. Singular. Coefficiently. View of the stars from the

planet, sense of gravitas. Correspondence. Bandied. To bleed to death.

To decide. Substantial honorarium. An imperfect square. Result.

Lying beside. Truncated meter. All the while the while. A slow

movement towards.

What one can and cannot say. An offering, early apology. Tabitha’s

coat. Distant village. How far you can get on nothing. The road ahead.

The others. Always the others.

from Laowai

How Mrs. Taylor played the whore to Bronislau Kasper’s

soundtrack. How even the scene where it seemed she entirely

overacted seemed so well acted. Middle-aged and stuffed into a slip.

Mrs. Roncier:

I’ve been thinking too much about architecture. Perhaps it’s the lack

of it here that drives me, even though I fathom my own feebleness

to change it. Perhaps it’s how the sounds resonate through my old

Soviet building. Half the electricity plugs work. With that half, you

learn to adapt. The curve is sometimes less than bell.

Ypsitucky

—Butterfield 8? Hi, it’s Gloria. Any messages?

from Laowai

The emperor’s suicide tree and buried throne. The thread that held

tight an empire’s cloth. Corneille’s five acts, one day could hardly

capture the beauty of an average girl hit precisely by the sun.

They are swimming the seas this very morning. Each and every one.

Most have taken the names of saints as confirmation names;

although, some have chosen Mary.

White robed; beatified. Ignorant of distance, how the moon

willingly empties itself.

The very human beauty of ceremonies.

Mr. Lusk:

I am quite afraid that my dad plans to make good on his St.

Fermin’s Day promise. I recommend immediate sprint exercises.

Mr. Horton

Seekers of Lice

space invaders

knock knock

badhabits

eating writing drinking

leaving swearing bating

fighting fucking driving

making saving spending

going being loving feeling

seeing saying acting

doting hating pulling

levering minding noting

hating timing shaving

favours

floating world

favours

green or yellow

oddness

reddish green

silverfish

shallow lapping

golden blue

taking painting losing

wanting showing counting

walking selling liking

licking spitting falling

blinding pinching shutting

flaunting aching nothing

“The ventilator in the corridor

whistled tediously....I want to go on

living just so I can hear it.”

some dirty thing

celluloid projection

confectionery counter

dubbed a knight

facticity cuts the mustard

open-hearted un

-comfortable & ill at

ease

scratching

making a pig's ear

out of a sow's purse

re-entering

When you're late for an appointment

walk more slowly.

spac ejunk

allied to

dogbark

I want to be your dog

cosmetics

wax glue perfume talc

dye fat pros- slipp-

age thesis uproot-

ing nowhere ag-

ression novo-

caine

escalator and air

conditioning sprinkler

fire shutter hot

air curtain crum

-ple zone

birded out

my paper asshole

performing the perform

verging

pink flesh blush

red apricot gore

(hair wax insects)

cochineal . grape bruised

fur & liquid

dress of mine.

CasebearingClothesGreyDaggerCoquilled'OrLanghornmotteHachetteNagelfleckPhaléneduMarro

nierOnéodeduChèvrefeuilleKamperfoeliebloesemmotEarAutographajotaCabèrevirginaleBonteBe

erLightEmeraldEpioneétrangèreBroomDingyEngrailedElephantMuslinBird'sWingBrownChinaMar

kWitkopmotSmallArgentandSableGardenPebbleScarceBorderedStrawBarredRedBeautifulSnoutS

eraphimBlackArcheTawnybarredAngleMoroSphinxViolettbrauneErdeuleMiddlebarredMinorObliq

ueCarpetBloodVein

read space book

queasy nausea

Nausica

Naropes

areopagitica

gladiators

golden calf and fleece

Lay awhile

the relations between heat

and power,lust and dust,

failure and fallow, bottom

and dumb, dollar and dolour

crabs

Nausea from Greek ναυσίη, nausiē, seasickness (naus means ship) "motion sickness", of this face - in the latter case

"feeling sick," queasy or "wamble", is a sensation of unease and discomfort in the causing the mission plan to be

upper stomach with an involuntary urge to vomit. The stone. It often precedes modified. Nothingness. Space

vomiting. A person can suffer na usea without vomiting. Naus ea may also be caused sickness is caused by changes in g-

by stress, anxiety, disgust, worry and depression. Medications taken to prevent n ausea forces, which affect spatial are called antiemetics and include diphenhydramine. Imagine waking up, startled by the orientation in humans. Gravity plays

bright flash of a cosmic ray inside your eyes. Groggy from sleep, you wonder which a major role in our spatial way is up? And where are my arms and legs? Metoclopramide and ondansetron. Nause orientation when opening the gate

a in the hands. Motion sickness or kinetosis is a condition in which a disagreement of the public park I got the

exists between visually perceived movement and the vestibular system. In space the impression that something was

vestibular system doesn't sense the familiar pull of gravity sense of movement. A signalling to me. Changes in

blonde woman bumps into an African man. Dizziness, fatigue and n au sea are the gravitational forces, such as the

most common symptoms of motion sickness. Sopite syndrome in which a person feels transition to weightlessness during a

fatigue or tiredness is also associated with motion sickness. If the motion causing space voyage, influence our spatial nausea is not resolved, I am gently slipping into the water's depths, towards fear. The orientation and require adaptation

sufferer will frequently vomit. Unlike ordinary sickness, vomiting in motion sickness by many of the physiological tends not to relieve the naus ea. Motion is felt but not seen. Motion that is seen but not processes in which our balance

felt. Motions that are seen and felt but do not correspond. Picking up the paper, he felt system plays a part. As long as this

he was no longer free. Space sickness was effectively unknown during the earliest adaptation is incomplete, this can

spaceflights, as these were undertaken in very cramped conditions; it is aggravated by be coupled to motion sickness (n

being able to freely move around, and so is more common in larger spacecraft. The aus ea), The Thing waits for him

vestibular system is a fluid-filled network of canals and chambers deep within the visual illusions and disorientation. human ear that help us keep our balance and sense which way is up. Around 60% of One understanding of motion

Space Shuttle astronauts currently experience it on their first flight. The first case is sickness is there is a white hole in

now suspected to be Gherman Titov, No Françoise in August 1961 onboard Vostok 2, the wall, a mirror that nause a is a

who reported dizziness and nausea. The first significant cases were in early Apollo pro-survival evolutionary

flights; Frank Borman on Apollo 8 and Rusty Schweickart on Apollo 9. Both adaptation, because the sensory

experienced identifiable and reasonably severe symptoms—I can understand nothing stimulation of a maladapted high

acceleration environment that the body I go over and look at it is not accustomed to is Robellon: Jake Garn was sick, was

recognized by the brain as being similar to the sensory conflict from eating a pretty sick. R gives him up. I don't poisonous plant, in which case vomiting is a helpful reaction. I split the night. Modern know whether we should tell stories

motion-sickness medications can counter space sickness but are rarely used because it like that. But anyway, Jake Garn. is better to allow space travelers to adapt naturally over the first day or two than to They signal the brain with

suffer the drowsiness and other side effects of medication. Adumbrated in a dream: information about our body's

“This park smells of vomit!” However, transdermal dimenhydrinate anti-nausea orientation. He has made a mark in

patches are typically used whenever space suits are worn because vomiting into a space the Astronaut Corps because he

suit could be fatal. Only today my body is too exhausted to stand it and landing by represents the maximum level of

NASA crew members and always for extra-vehicular activities (EVAs). Throw in a dash space sickness that anyone can ever

of vertigo and occasional mild illusions, and you're beginning to sense what it can be attain, and so the mark of being

like to live in orbit. Mr. Achille, the kindred nauseous spiritas an additional backup totally sick and totally incompetent

measure. After the Apollo 8 and Apollo 9 flights, where astronauts reportedly reported is one Garn. Most guys will get

space sickness to Mission Control and then were subsequently removed from the flight maybe to a tenth Garn, if that high. list, on Earth we always know which way is up because gravity tell us. Sensors in the He will be remembered by that. the

inner ear, which are part of the body's vestibular system, can feel the pull of gravity. only justification of R's existence; Astronauts (e.g. the Skylab 4 crew) attempted to prevent Mission Control from "I suddenly realized that I had lost

learning about their own SAS experience, apparently out of concern waiting Dr. Rogé, track of ... my arms and legs. For all hiding his death from himself. Their future flight assignment potential. As with motion my mind could tell, my limbs were

sickness all of the modules on the ISS will have a consistent "up" orientation. And the not there. However, with a

writing on the walls points It is a trap in the same direction, too. Symptoms can vary conscious command for an arm or

from mild na use a and disorientation, to vomiting and intense discomfort; headaches leg to move, it instantly reappeared

and. The world can suddenly seem topsy-turvy. The Nausea has given me a short - only to disappear again when I

breathing spell only around 10% suffer severely. The most extreme reaction yet relaxed." The vestibular Nausea

recorded was that felt by Senator Jake Garn in 1985. After his flight NASA astronauts strikes again. The proprioceptive

began this morning I took a bath and shaved using the informal "Garn scale" to system - nerves in the body's joints

measure reactions to space sickness. In most cases, symptoms last from 2–4 days. and muscles that tell us but it

When asked about the origins of "Garn" Robert E. Stevenson was quoted as saying: doesn't strike me where our arms

and legs are without having to look - can also be fooled. Without the stresses in the light seen by astronauts inside their

joints usually caused by the pull of gravity, this sense is sometimes dampened."The eyes. These are caused by cosmic

first night in space when I was drifting off to sleep," the world awaits it. Another rays and were first reported by

astronaut reported “I had no right to exist” waking in the dark during a mission and Apollo astronauts. Only my goal is

seeing a disembodied glow-in-the-dark watch floating in front of him. These sorts of reached. Click for more

mismatches between what the eyes see. Not mine. What the body feels can trigger a information. There was probably no

malady called " space sickness." A seeming attack of n a use a; trying to read in a actual rule but that was only

moving car. The inner ear detects the motion of the car but the eyes - staring at a page because the unimaginable was not filled with unmoving words. The grey thing appears in the mirror. When people go up expressly forbidden. Gravity hurts: I

into space, many will immediately get space sickness. Victor. Most can experience cannot even decide whether it is

symptoms ranging from mild headaches to vertigo and nausea. The brain learns to handsome or ugly. Three o'clock. trust the eyes and reprograms signals from the vestibular system to reconcile the Lack of gravity hurts. When

mismatch. Space sickness is capricious. Things come unstuck from their names when astronauts return from long-term

it will happen and who will get it can be hard to predict. Did you suddenly feel sick? It stints in space, they sometimes need

is a profound boredom, profound, the profound heart of existence, the very matter I to be carried away in stretchers. But

am made of. Some astronauts who show an exceptional tolerance to motion sickness I know it will come back again. when flying jets suffer the worst symptoms upon arriving in space. Three o'clock is Gravity is not just a force, it's also a

always too late or too early. Today it is intolerable humans adapt to weightlessness. It is signal that tells the body how to act. the reflection of my face. They are so vain and develop "countermeasures" against It tells muscles and bones how

maladies like space sickness. And nearly one quarter of all emergency rooms : I know strong they must be. In zero-G, what I have to know: visits include a complaint of dizziness. Key issues under muscles atrophy quickly, it is my

investigation at the NSRBI include the psychology of long-term space flight, physical normal state because the body

changes to bones and muscles in weightlessness, The experience described a pervasive, perceives it does not need them. overpowering feeling of nausea and the adaptation of the vestibular system. Editor's The muscles used to fight gravity. I

note: Quotations of anonymous astronauts in this story are excerpts from the paper know I am going to let myself be

"Anecdotal Information on Space Adaptation Syndrome" by and . The astronauts' caught in it like those in the calves

names were omitted from that paper for reasons of privacy and, so, are omitted here as and spine, which maintain posture

well. I am bored, that's all. The opening paragraph of this story mentions flashes of can lose around 20 per cent of their

mass. Muscle mass can vanish. I cannot understand how I was able to make them. For come back to Earth and not have to

bones, the loss can be even more extreme. An odd moment in the afternoon. Blood lie around for long periods of

feels gravity which spreads at the bottom of the viscous puddle, at the bottom of our rehabilitation. The Nausea has not time - the time of purple suspenders and broken chair seats. On Earth, blood pools in left me and I don't believe it will the feet. In space blood pressure equalizes and becomes about 100 mmHg leave me so soon. Circa 1973, throughout the body. Astronauts can look odd: it is made of wide, soft instants, Skylab astronaut Owen Garriott lies

spreading at the edge, like an oil stain, their faces, filled with fluid, puff up and their in a Lower Body Negative Pressure

legs, which can lose about a liter of fluid each, thin out. That shift in blood pressure device, a big vacuum cleaner that

sends a signal. I can't say I feel relieved or satisfied, just the opposite, I am crushed. simulates the effects of gravity on

Our bodies expect a blood pressure gradient. Invalids also have happy moments of the lower body. NASA Photo ID: weakness which take away the consciousness of their illness for a few hours. Within SL3-108-1278. You can't put high

two to three days of weightlessness, astronauts can lose as much as 22 percent of their loads on the bone and expect it to

blood volume. I have this change affects the heart, too. If you have less blood then recover if you're not taking care of

your heart doesn't need to pump as hard. It's going to atrophy. But eventually the blood flow to that bone. At

astronauts. I think it is ugly because I have been told so. The human body has to heart, I am even shocked that

readjust to the relentless pull of gravity. I was able to persuade myself that nothing was anyone can attribute qualities of

the matter with me, that it was a false alarm. Most space adaptations appear to be this kind to it, as if you called a clod

reversible. Blood volume is typically restored but I no longer have to bear it, it is no of earth or a block of stone

longer an illness or a passing fit: it is I. Only when I think back over those careful little beautiful or ugly. The mechanical actions, I can't doubt it any more. The faces of others have some sense, some signals remain a mystery. Helplessly, direction. Drink more. I have understood all that has happened to me since January. in the intervals allowed him by his

The body doesn't urinate as much. Muscle: most comes back within a month or so. It na us e a, he blindly felt for Karl. came as an illness does, not like an ordinary certainty, not like anything evident. It takes Zero-G living mimics closely the

a day of recovery on Earth for each day that somebody's in space. Bone recovery has effects of old age. From time to

proven problematic. For a three to six month space flight, it might require two to time I yawn so widely that tears roll three. I can no longer get away. If it's going to come back. Often in these lost days I down my cheek. Something has

study it. You really have to exercise a lot. You really have to work. I felt a little strange, happened to me. It came cunningly, a little put out, that's all. You want the crew members to function normally when they little by little; once established it

never moved, it stayed quiet And now, it's blossoming. Argonauts. small fleeting pictures

postpone all those leftover things concerning our personal

lovethings and at once begin thinking of specific worklife plans

Don't Stop Me Now QueenThe Rockafeller

And waves his handkerchief.

but both of them knew very well that the end was still a long, long way away

and that the most complicated and difficult part was only just beginning.

He drank five glasses of tea, and lay down to take a nap.

..he was still walking up and down and gesticulating.

It began to spot with rain.

Most likely a storm was coming.

Only the postmaster and Darya were present at the funeral.

She had obviously plucked up courage and made up her mind to face the

music.

The day after this meeting I left Yalta, and how Shamokhin's love affair ended

I don't know.

The doctor waved his hand and went out of the ward. Goodbye to the turner!

The door remained unclosed.

The rain tapped on the window panes all night

“They'll do all that's necessary.”

What will happen in the future I don't know.

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Ric Carfagna from Symphony No. 5 (crow songs at dawn)

6

Further from here

the plaster and glass faces

are reduced to a number of indecisive measure

as in a quantum geometry

of shrouded molecular surfaces

where there is no perspective

envisioned by a skull of clouds filling with rain

when there is no astral-tongued stone beatitude

falling from an ill-fated pre-Cambrian sky

where there is no petrified shattered jaw-bone shards

contorting the irreconcilable silent diaspora of light

where there is no immolated axial moonlight

reflected in the steel tower’s glassy herringbone spine

yet to be here

is to be within

a transparent modality

of time passing

as dust falls through the clotted aperture’s

grizzled sinewy cavity

2

or in the brief tinder spark’s curtailed incendiary duration

or in the white cormorant’s unflinching obsidian eye

or in the besieged meadow’s penurious orchid chaff

or in the smoldering onyx archway of singed contrition

22

Clouds evacuate the faces

in a garden

where mirrors grow

the mutated isotopes

of an individuated autonomy

where the black arachnid sun

swims in a plutonium sea’s reticular furrow

where the slowly dissolving glassine crows

fall from a night sky’s stony crevasse

where the orphic vigils

inside metallic cathedrals

answer the imploring pilgrims

wandering beneath a blinded wind’s geomantic dross

3

yet before this

the willow’s shadow

became a gilded ocean’s isolative edge

and there were strangers

remolding the formica busts

of a collective humanity’s cellular breadth

and there were heirs

to an eyeless unmaimed king

probing the desiccated kelp bed

to unearth a celestial treasure

kept distant by a marauding alien hoard

and here to follow

this contouring sorrow’s disembodied tear

to its pendulous fruition

to its scything cyclical nature

as decay fills the granite capillaries

with a profane bardic sonnet’s glottis-speak

and the remedial fleas of an antediluvian intelligence

channel their eternal will

into the cadmium atom’s Paleozoic core

and where the asphalt limbs of annihilated cities

4

preen the likeliness of an untold eternity

reflected in a nascent-eyed meadow’s dawn

23

Speak no more of loss

no more

this bleeding cusp of splintered sun

no more

this hermetic adagio’s triadic chord

no more

this graveled vision’s remedial impression

no more

this lilting pastiche of hegemonic prevarication

no more

this sinuous asp devouring the oxen’s entrails

no more

this rapturous tongue of sorrow’s dance

no more

this destitute pilgrim

5

prostrated before the altar of greed

no more

these burning towers

collapsing into desiccated river waste

no more

these enervated limbs

embracing the impassioned heart’s smoldering pyre

54

The flower is itself

a meaning to deny

at the intersection

of dimensional surfaces

or the unrequited boundary

of neutrality’s sleep

where the residual flame

dies

within the mind’s colluded eye

where the senses distinguish

6

vacillations of time

as an illusion entering

the chartreuse cathedral’s

symmetrical doorway

or of the liquid viol’s

splintering echo

vanishing through

the boron atom’s reticular skein

and to ask

what is this moment

but an indistinguishable otherness

present in the tumescent faces

of drowned autonomy

and what of the voided presence

emanating from the quantum star’s

dead horizon’s rim

what of the mythic unknowable

embryonic heart

clinging to the dust of providential fragility

what of the still dissolving facets

which undergird

7

an entropic geometry’s fetid brackish drift

or the rusted fragments

of silken veiled machinery

possessing the hunted fleshly interior beast

55

Similarly the light fades

as in the shadow

of a madman’s face

on the boulevard

of asphalt trees

and crepe paper framed doorways

and how in a day

without rain

the plastic statuary

is melting

beneath a winter sun

and the pallid moon

in an oracle’s dream

8

appears to bury itself

in the blood of

the perennial transgressor’s veins

it is as if an enervated landscape

dons the semblance of stone

in a purgatory of dust

and the glazed words

of the sainted vagrant

form the strata

of a silken unraveled absurdity’s dross

70

And there exists

the unfathomable aspects

hidden deep within

the crow’s impermeable eye

and there exists

a salient amber glow

bleeding from

9

the stony precipice of dawn

and there exists

the pain on embryonic faces

torn from the fleshly celestial womb

and there exists

the apocalyptic zealots

draining the marrow

from the novitiate’s hollow bones

and there exists

the deeply rooted blessed thistle hedge

growing beneath the pauper’s shallow grave

and here

it is not a question

to balance

the ponderous weight

wherein grief sews its fate

in the castrated fields of humanity’s loss

and here

it is not to question

the vague sallow winter hue

dissolving the rust encrusted maternal veins

10

and here

it is not the earth which answers

the hungered wolf

waiting at the boundary

of a blackened vernal wood

and here

it is not a question

which waits unanswered

in the drifted sands of eons lost

or in the mute placation

to nameless gods

kept in the castellated citadel

of immutable faith

Ric Carfagna

July, 2011

11

Contributors: Felino A. Soriano is a case manager and advocate for adults with developmental and physical disabilities. Recent poetry collections include Intentions of Aligned Demarcations (Desperanto, 2011), Pathos etched, recalled: (white sky books, 2011), and Divaricated, Spatial Aggregates (limit cycle press, 2011). He edits and publishes the online journal, Counterexample Poetics. For information regarding his published works, editorships, and interviews, please visit: www.felinoasoriano.info. Chad Scheel lives in Scottsbluff, NE with his wife and son. His poems have most recently appeared in Shampoo, listenlight, BlazeVox 2k, and the Horse Less Review. His review of Jill Jones’ Dark Bright Doors appeared in Jacket 40. Adam Fieled is a poet based in Philadelphia. He has released five print books: "Opera Bufa" (Otoliths, 2007), "When You Bit..." (Otoliths, 2008), "Chimes" (Blazevox, 2009), "Apparition Poems" (Blazevox, 2010), and "Equations" (blue & yellow dog press, 2011), as well as e-books like "Beams" (Blazevox, 2007), "Disturb the Universe: The Collected Essays of Adam Fieled" (Argotist e-books, 2010), and "Mother Earth" (Argotist e-books, 2011). He has work in Jacket, Cordite, Pennsound, Poetry Salzburg Review, the Argotist, Great Works, Tears in the Fence, Upstairs at Duroc, and in the & Now Awards Anthology from Lake Forest College Press. A magna cum laude graduate of the University of Pennsylvania, he also holds an MFA from New England College and an MA from Temple University. Born in Ottawa, Canada’s glorious capital city, rob mclennan currently lives in Ottawa. The author of more than twenty trade books of poetry, fiction and non-fiction, his most recent titles are the poetry collections A (short) history of l. (BuschekBooks, 2011), grief notes: (BlazeVOX [books], 2011), Glengarry (Talonbooks, 2011), kate street (Moira, 2011) and 52 flowers (or, a perth edge) (Obvious Epiphanies, 2010), and a second novel, missing persons (2009). An editor and publisher, he runs above/ground press, Chaudiere Books (with Jennifer Mulligan), The Garneau Review (ottawater.com/garneaureview), seventeen seconds: a journal of poetry and poetics (ottawater.com/seventeenseconds) and the Ottawa poetry pdf annual ottawater (ottawater.com). He spent the 2007-8 academic year in Edmonton as writer-in-residence at the University of Alberta, and regularly posts reviews, essays, interviews and other notices at robmclennan.blogspot.com Merlin Flower is an independent artist and writer. On twitter- http://twitter.com/merlinflower seekers of lice proposes art as an insect bite, infecting the blood through proximity, anecdote, annexation, colonisation, infection, inoculation: scratch the itch & itch the scratch. seekers of lice creates material interventions, sometimes of an ephemeral nature, which find gaps and spaces in which to operate. Its practice is concerned with objects and text. Works range from interventions in public places, participation in curated projects and exhibitions in galleries to talks, book publishing and multiples. seekers of lice has work in various collections including Tate Library, Tate Britain; Modern British Collections, The British Library; MoMA Library, USA ; Joan Flasch Artists' Book Collection, USA; Chelsea College of Art and Design Library, London; Artist's Book Collection, Centre for Fine Print Research, UWE; Czytelnia Liberatury Małopolski Instytut Kultury, Kraków, Poland. David Berridge lives in London. He curates VerySmallKitchen and is currently writer in residence at X Marks the Bökship, where he is researching the use of scripts and scenography in contemporary

art writing. He is the author of Lemonade, P.Z.T.C, BLACK GARDENS and The Moth is Moth This Money Night Moth. Tiffany Monroe received both her BA and MA in English from Chapman University. Currently, she is working on a poetry manuscript to finish her MFA in Creative Writing. Her poems have appeared in Elephant Tree and she has served as poetry editor for Litterbox Magazine. In addition to reading and writing, she watches far too much television and, slightly, fewer movies. Her love of England has led her across the pond twice where she developed an addiction to PG Tips and a desire to spell things with an extra “u.” Michael Farrell

Jane Joritz-Nakagawa‘s most recent book of poems is “notational” (Otoliths, 2011). She is currently looking for a publisher for her seventh collection, “Invisible City.” Her poetry broadside “blank notes” came out with Country Valley Press (USA) in March, 2012. Email is welcome at janenakagawa at yahoo dot com. David Harrison Horton is a writer, artist, editor and curator. He is the author of the prose poetry chapbook Pete Hoffman Days (Pinball) and his creative writing has been published in Denver Quarterly, Zafusy, Try, Moria, and Cricket among others. He has written art criticism for Artslant, Art Papers, Art on Paper, ArtWeek, Map Magazine, and Lifepaper (where he was a contributing editor from 2002-05). His paintings, sculptures, sound installations and videos have been exhibited in New York, Berlin, Paris, Caracas, and San Francisco. He has done performance-based pieces in such venues as the Hot House in Chicago, Catharine Clark Gallery in San Francisco, Canessa Gallery in San Francisco, 21 Grand in Oakland California, UNLV and the University of Virginia. He edited the poetry journal Chase Park and the zine WORK. He currently edits the zine SAGINAW and is a founding editor at Artenna in Beijing.

James Sanders is a member of the collective Atlanta Poets Group. They have an anthology, The Lattice Inside, forthcoming from UNO Press. James’s most recent book is Goodbye Public and Private from BlazeVox. The poem here is titled “backlit or selves”. It was first performed at Eyedrum Gallery in September 2009. With a flashlight in the dark.

Christina Baker-Jones is a senior undergrad at Shawnee State University in Portsmouth, Ohio. She is majoring in English with a concentration in Media and Cultural Studies, and a minoring in Women's Studies. She has been published in Sihouette, five times; Tapestries, a total of six times, and The Portsmouth Daily Times, three times. She is the only student to have placed in the annual Creative Writing competition a total of six times, winning in the Fiction, Non-fiction, and Poetry categories, and she is the only person to have placed in all three categories at once. Christina has recently been given the honor of being named Shawnee State University's "Writer of Promise" for 2011, a distinction that shows promise in a writer's work as being publishable and noteworthy. Christina plans on pursuing an MFA next fall, and is very proud to be a woman of Appalachia.

Ric Carfagna was born and educated in Boston Massachusetts. He is the author of numerous collections of poetry, most recently Symphonies Nos.1, 4 & 6 published by Chalk Editions and Symphony No.2 published by Argotist Press. His poetry has evolved from the early radical experiments of his first two books, Confluential Trajectories and Porchcat Nadir, to the unsettling

existential mosaics of his multi-book project Notes On NonExistence. Ric lives in rural central Massachusetts with his wife, cellist Mary Carfagna and daughters Emilia and Aria.

Donna Kuhn has exhibited her fine art and crafts at Fort Collins Museum of Contemporary Arts (CO), Sustaining Cultures (Taos), Imagine If (CO), Moxie (Taos), Wilder Nightingale Gallery (Taos, NM)Taos Digital Art Show, Taos Art in Town Hall Exhibit, The Question Mark Gallery (CA), Mudra Gallery (CA), The Santa Cruz Art League, Santa Cruz Mountain Arts Center, First and Second Annual Santa Cruz Digital Arts Festival, Indies Art Cafe (FL),The Mill Gallery (CA), Santa Cruz Mask Festival, Walnut Avenue Womens Center (CA), Crafters by the Sea and the Santa Cruz Office of County Education. She is currently resident artist at Art With A Heart Gallery in Seattle. In addition she is a poet, author and video artist. She lives in Taos, New Mexico.

Vernon Frazer has published many books of poetry, including the long poem IMPROVISATIONS, and three books of fiction. His work has appeared in Aught, Big Bridge, Drunken Boat, Exquisite Corpse, First Intensity, Golden Handcuffs Review, Jack Magazine, Lost and Found Times, Moria, Otoliths and many other literary magazines. His most recent books are the long poems EMBLEMATIC MOON, RANDOM AXIS, and the visual poetry collection, Panels from IMPROVISATIONS (Series B), and the ebook *, available on Scribd. His multimedia work, which comes recitation, free improvisation and graphics, appear on YouTube. Lin Neiswender writes poetry and has been published in the books "Lifelines" by the Poetic Muselings and in "Vicious Verses and Reanimated Rhymes: Zany Zombie Poetry for the Undead Head". Her flash fiction has appeared online at Flashshot, Yesteryear Fiction, The New Flesh and in print in the anthology The Zombie Cookbook. Her latest story "The Haunted Heart" took third place in a recent Edgar Allan Poe short-story contest. She is an avid collagist and did the cover art for Lifelines. Lin lives in Orlando, Florida, owned by a feisty cat and usually mellow dog, except when he is trying to kill the mailman. Roger Sedarat is the author of two poetry collections, Dear Regime: Letters to the Islamic Republic, which won Ohio UP's 2007 Hollis Summers' Prize, and Ghazal Games (Ohio UP, 2011), as well as the academic study, New England Landscape History in American Poetry: A Lacanian View (Cambria, 2011). His translations of classical and modern Persian have recently appeared in World Literature Today, Ezra, and Dirty Goat. He teaches poetry and literary translation in the MFA Program at Queens College, City University of New York. Lawrence Upton. UK-born artist poet, currently based Greater London. Poet, editor, curator. Works in a range of media in the intermedia between poetry, music and graphic art.