H E R O I N / L O V E / S O N G S

interview: wolfgang carstens

2009-05-21T08:12:00.000-07:00

Screaming at the Top of His Lungs

Wolfgang Carstens has more enthusiasm about poetry and the written word than most people, certainly more than me. Based somewhere deep in the Great White North, Wolfgang runs Epic Rites. What started out as a MySpace Group, has evolved into two on-line journals-Epic Rites and The Thin Edge of Staring, a variety of webpages, a Ning social network and a press. The initial line-up from Epic Rites Press is impressive: Mark Walton, Rob Plath, and David McLean. He somehow also has time to promote other presses and poetry related activities, in between bottles of wine and no sleep.

Wolfgang is also a vocal proponent of a specific style of writing, a concept he draws from a quote by Friedrich Nietzsche: "Of all that is written I love only what a man has written with his blood. Write with blood and you will discover that blood is spirit." This concept acts as a mission statement for Epic Rites “Workers in Blood” Chapbook Series, as well as the press as a whole. Wolfgang’s concept toward poetry is somewhat similar to that of the Brutalists out of England.

From The Guardian

…As they explain in their online manifesto, Brutalism "means writing that shows no quarter. Writing that rages and burns across the page - writing that doesn't worry about causing offence, breaking taboos, cutting to the heart of it. Writing that may shock and shake the reader into submission rather than gently caress them. We're not anti-intellectual or anti-literary but we are anti-apathy and we exist in a highly agitated state."

Both styles of writing, Brutalism and Writer’s in Blood, focus on candid, raw, powerful language that utilizes few devices and very little metaphor. Essentially there are no rules except to be true to the word and the language. Honesty is an absolute. Some have called it anti-academic; post-punk; or, post-structuralism. In a true punk tradition, these styles and those related to it, are more than willing to say fuck you to established publishing houses in order to get their work into press and publication, and more than a few small presses are willing to give them ink. As more and more excellent writers that work in this style gain greater notice, bigger presses pick them up. Harper Perennial has released Tony O’Neill and signed Dan Fante to a four book deal. Hopefully here are more big presses willing to take a chance on underground writers from this school. And if not, publications like 3AM, Beat the Dust, Lit Up Magazine and Epic Rites Press, among others, are more than willing to step into the void.

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Jack Henry: In the prologue above I compare your concept of Writers in Blood with that of the Brutalists. Do you think this is a growing style of writing?

Wolfgang Carstens: Absolutely. As more brutalist/blood writing gets exposure in magazines and books, it prompts more writers to abandon literary technique and write from their guts. Writing that is raw, honest and brutal is contagious because that’s how real people think, talk and communicate with one another. That’s how we sound when we’re angry, scared, grieving and in love. As Rob Plath put it, poetry is like talking a jumper off a ledge. The only way to do this is to speak to her in simple straight talk. Anything else, as Plath put it, “is equivalent to pushing the fucker off”. Poetry, by this definition, is about communicating your message honestly without masks and bullshit. It’s about putting the right word next to the right word – the right line next to the right line. We instantly connect with brutalist writing and with brutalist authors. Their honesty and brutality inspires us to throw down our masks and scoop our own guts onto the page.

JH: Epic Rites is a great example of a concept growing beyond its origins on MySpace and taking on its own life. With the release of Frostbitten by Mark Walton, Epic Rites has taken another step forward.

How important is the Internet and social networks/blogs to writers today? Would Epic Rites exist without the Internet?

WC: Epic Rites exists today because of the internet. The way that I operate Epic Rites Press would not be possible without the internet. I’m one of those people who takes charge. If I’m not happy with the submissions I’m receiving I go out and hunt for material that gets me excited. This means lots of blog surfing. Because of the internet I’m no longer dependent upon submissions to put out magazines and books. I can sit down and read through blogs whenever I want. If I find something I like, I approach the author about publication in one of my netzines. If I find a lot of something I like, I approach the author and discuss possible book projects. None of this would be possible without the internet. By the same token, the internet and blogs make it possible for authors to let their words work for them 24/7/365. A good example of how important the internet and blogs are for authors is that every writer involved with epic rites today has been discovered on the internet.

JH: It might be a leap on my part, but I see the work of the Brutalist’s and other groups, as well as the style of writer that you’ve attached to Epic Rites Press seems to be a particular school of style. Is there value in identifying such a thing? Can a movement have importance to a writer?

WC: Absolutely. Identifying a movement (and supporting it) is especially important with the brutalist movement and young writers. We all go to school and are brainwashed into believing what ‘great writ-ing’ is and how to emulate it. Here I’m not just talking early education but at the college and university level as well. We put our brutalist writing down on paper whereupon it gets squashed flat by our in-structors. They teach us how to move beyond the raw power of our words and dress our poems up in pretty pink skirts and tap shoes. They instruct us, in essence, how to be bad writers – fake, pompous and pretty. The brutalist movement teaches us to write with blood. It’s important to identify blood writing if for no reason other than to empower young writers with the confidence to extend their middle finger at tradition. “Write with blood,” we tell them, “because blood is spirit.”

JH: When I first started writing poetry I saw it as a dying form. I am not convinced that it is in renaissance as some have suggested. What is the state of poetry? Is it resurging? If so, do we owe this to NEW MEDIA?

WC: I honestly don’t have any answers here. I would love to have statistics about how many new poetry books were published last year, how many were published exclusively because of the internet, what kinds of promotions were done (by publishers and writers) and how many of those printed books were sold. Unfortunately I do not have such information.

I have a lot to say about how to help such a revolution along but that’s an entirely different matter.

JH: I haven’t ask this question to others, and I probably should have, but it seems to me that the new style of writing we are speaking to is a reaction to something. How would you respond that idea?

WC: My formula for great writing (borrowed from Schopenhauer) is having important things to communicate and to communicate them well. Every great writer strives to be understood. This, for me, is the cornerstone of brutalist/blood writing. Beyond that brutalist/blood writing is a reaction to traditional poetry. It’s focused upon the guts/message of the poem and not traditional poetry techniques like rhyme and meter. Brutalism abhors pretty pink dresses and tap shoes. Brutalist writing is concerned with the message – not with how technically sound is the structure of the poem. It’s very liberating to put your message out there – whether it happens as a poem, a rant, a grocery list, etc. In essence bru-talist writing removes poetry from a pedestal (and academia) and brings it back down to street level into the hands of those down and dirty in the mud and stench of everything human.

JH: I spend more time on Facebook than I should. Every time I log in it seems there is a new group announcing a new on-line outlet for writers. The following question has been asked to everyone involved in this investigation, each answer has been substantial different. Are there too many outlets for publication? Is it too easy to be published?

WC: I don’t think there are too many outlets and/or that’s it’s too easy to be published. There are magazines that publish excellent material and there’s magazines that publish tripe. As writing is a matter of personal taste, I’m fine with it. I reject 99% of the material that reaches my desk. If that 99% of material gets picked up elsewhere (and it does), that’s great. As long as publishing material that I believe in, I’m living to my highest potential. The only drawback I find here is that because bad writers are getting published in bad magazines, they start believing they’re good writers. Then when their works gets rejected by me (or by others) they’re confused and often blow a gasket. I try really hard to steer clear of the drama but in this business, it’s part of the game. One rejection snowballs into trash-talking, nasty bulletins, deletion from friend lists, etc. It doesn’t bother me personally but I know this behind-the-scenes drama is responsible for many presses disbanding and for editorial meltdowns.

As for too many books being published, that’s another matter. As I remarked in our interview for the epic rites journal, I see a lot of presses putting out bad books by great writers. Almost as if publishing the book was more important than the book itself. Also, there’s the case of authors putting out multiple books almost simultaneously with different presses. Again, this behavior leads me to believe that publi-cation was more important than the books themselves and/or supporting the presses that initially sup-ported the author. This behavior poisons the well for everyone.

JH: Along the same lines, with so many on-line outlets is the quality of “literature”/writing being diluted as a whole? Can brilliance still make it to the surface?

WC: I don’t think the quality of literature is being diluted as a whole. To the contrary, the brilliant writ-ing shines even brighter when surrounded by shit.

JH: In another interview an editor pointed out to me that it’s amazing to get published, every single time, and I agree with that to some extent. I have always advocated that if a writer is serious about their work and craft, they should pursue publication of that work. You must expose your work to the public in order to grow. A writer cannot live in a vacuum just as marijuana cannot grow without sun.

Recently I have noticed a blizzard of chapbooks being released on hundreds of different presses. Many times an author will have chapbooks appear in subsequent months. This creates a glut of work by a single writer. Does this decrease the value of that writer’s work? If anything, can overexposure lead to a degree of apathy from consumers?

WC: Yes, absolutely. I touched upon that issue above. This poisoning the well is a real concern of mine. It hurts the writer personally (especially when weak material gets published) and that will haunt him/her in the future. Consumers will be wary of investing their hard earned cash in a writer who they feel cheated them in the past. It also poisons the well for every press because all it takes is one bad experience/book and they will be wary of investing in any press. Here I think about the idea of a guild of presses that we’ve discussed and see much value in its creation. Such a guild would put presses on the same page so to speak – stopping such blizzards from happening.

JH: In December of last year hundreds of layoff’s occurred at the big publishing houses. As the business model of the publishing industry continues to implode, the ability of small press writers to get the “big chance” decrease. What do you think is the future of publishing?

WC: The future of publishing lies in authors/presses taking matters into their own hands and keep hammering away with promotions. They need to build web pages, promote in new media avenues like MySpace and Facebook, as well as hit traditional venues like indie bookstores, universities and libraries. Hit places like Bookers and Chapters. List on Amazon. They need to get their work out there – ven-ues like Rob and Jack America, for example. Invest a bit of money – place ads, print fliers, hit the major venues with readings and signings. Approach distribution outlets. This may sound simple but it’s hard work that should be done – but isn’t being done. Small press is only as small as the imagination and motivation to succeed. I’ve recently been in contact with cancer treatment centers and std clinics who’ve expressed interest in putting one of my books into their waiting rooms. That’s great!! Also I’ve been looking into setting up an epic rites booth in one of the larger shopping malls here in my city. It’s a prototype to the bookstore that I envision epic rites to be. It’s hard work but really what’s the point in publishing books that nobody knows about? Only by taking matters into your own hands and getting dirty will those “big chances” happen.

JH: The goal I have with my press is to help a writer get exposure and to a bigger audience. It’s a challenge because of cost, lack of marketing and distribution. Subsequently I have scaled back my ambitions, but not the goals. What challenges do you face running a press and/or a variety of journals?

WC: Time is a major obstacle for me. I find myself working 10 hour days putting books together. It’s hard work because I pride myself on putting together great books/magazines. It’s more important for me to put out a great book than to put it out quickly. Also, as I handpick and organize the material, it’s a laborious and daunting task (especially with feature books). This time depletion then wreaks havoc in other areas of my life – business and personal. Another obstacle I face is keeping up with day to day promotions and updates. Ideally I want to update the website every other week and publish new material in my netzines on a regular basis. This, however is not realistic right now.

JH: Focusing specifically on your efforts, what are your goals for Epic Rites?

WC: Right now my goals are to publish great writing and great books -then to promote the hell out of my authors/books. I have nine books in the works right now and I’m not looking beyond getting these out right now. With the epic rites journal I’m working towards incorporating more multi-media expres-sion/elements. I really want to add more artwork, photographs – as well as spoken word audio bytes. I haven’t had too many multi-media submissions yet but hopefully they will come. I’m working on the first epic rites journal special feature right now. Hopefully it will be ready for the next issue. I want to continue to promote underground operations like Rob and Jack America. Also, as previously men-tioned, the initial epic rites store is in the making – which will include merchandise that extends beyond books.

JH: I have mentioned in several interviews the need for a community of presses, a guild of sorts. To my surprise I have had a similar response from other interviewees, without my prodding. What could a publisher/editor do to expand the presence of their endeavors?

WC: I believe I’ve covered that already. Keep hammering!!

JH: What’s next for Epic Rites? For Wolfgang Carstens?

WC: Epic Rites has two chapbook series: the ‘workers in blood’ series and the ‘new blood’ series. There are also three feature books in the making. Forthcoming authors/books include works by Rob Plath, Karl Koweski, David McLean, Jack Henry, Mark Walton, Jason ‘Juice’ Hardung, Zach King-Smith, James Darman and Suzy Devere. I’ve also been working on a print edition of The Thin Edge Of Staring. The first epic rites journal special feature is in the works. I’ve been working with Zach King-Smith on the epic rites radio network which should be live on blogtalkradio soon. Personally, I’ve been working on organizing a book of my own. Right now, however, as it’s 10pm and the kids are asleep, I’m uncorking a bottle of Fat Bastard and getting drunk.

Thanks for the opportunity to talk with you.

interview: melissa mann

2009-05-21T08:05:00.000-07:00

Flogging Reality, Waking in Starlight

Jack Henry: Melissa thanks for taking the time. I want to start with a few questions about your magazine as well as New Media in general.

What was your motivation to start an on-line magazine? And, do you think you could have, or even would have, without the Internet?

MM: Okay, stop the interview. “Miss Mann”?! Holy excessive formality Batman! Nope, that won’t do at all will it. “A post modern anarchist artist” though, well now you’re talking. Yes, I like that. Right, so, where were we. Motivation for starting Beat the Dust.

Well, one thing you need to know about me is I’m a bit of an anorak (American translation: geek. We speak the same language, yet somehow, we don’t! By the way the American spelling corrector jobby thing – it’s a technical term – on this document is scaring the bejesus out of me. It’s like this malevolent force making you screw up on a spelling test). Anyway, yes, I’m an anorak and I did some academic research with this innovation consultancy in 07 to work out what it is that makes some books or moments in books more memorable than others. The aim was to see what patterns, if any, contribute to making certain books stay in people’s minds more than others. We thought if we could identify some common principles that give books the “wow” factor, we might be able to give literature a much-needed kick up the backside, creatively speaking; pave the way for more interesting, challenging, inventive writing I guess. You can read the research paper in full here –

http://www.melissamann.com/downloads/Wowinliteraturearticlev3.pdf

Basically we found that at the heart of what makes a book memorable is some kind of conflict or contradiction, something your brain tells you isn’t right or shouldn’t work and so makes you grapple with the idea, think. I set up Beat the Dust to try and encourage this kind of rule-breaking in writing. I wanted it to be a space that would challenge writers to take risks and try new things and, in so doing encourage more innovation in writing. I guess I wanted to play some part in moving literature forward “cos” let’s face it, nothing particularly new or inventive has happened in literature on either side of the pond for at least a decade, maybe longer, for evidence of that just read the research paper. Ultimately, my main aim for Beat the Dust is for it to be seen as the place to go for cutting edge, quality writing. As for the role of the Internet, well it allowed me to reach a lot of people quickly with my break-a-rule writing message. Without it I’d probably be standing on a soapbox outside Waterstone's every weekend trying to spread the word… to a Labrador licking its balls and a man drooling Special Brew down his anorak.

JH: The goal of this interview is to promote Melissa Mann and Beat the Dust, but to also look at New Media Literature. Do you think there is a revival, or renaissance in “literature” and, if not literature, which is becoming harder to clearly define anymore, quality writing?

MM: Promoting Melissa Mann and Beat the Dust? Ooh dear. Suddenly I feel like a box of cereal… which now comes in 12 delicious varieties, red berries, purple berries and something brown that looks like a berry the manufacturer keeps finding on the factory floor. Hmm, I think I’ll just try to be slightly interesting and vaguely entertaining instead.

A revival in quality writing? Nope, not to any significant degree I’d say. I think small and mid-sized independent publishers like Creation, Murder Slim Press, Snowbooks, Social Disease, Melville House are continually showing their commitment to putting out quality writing and taking risks, e.g. on new writers with something different to say. If there’s going to be a renaissance in literature it will come from independent publishers in my view, but not anytime soon given the current meltdown in the global economy. Incidentally I’m not at all gloomy about the ‘R’ word. To my mind, a recession forces change; encourages people to be resourceful and look for new ways of doing stuff. Things had become way too comfortable I reckon, which breeds’ stagnation and apathy in the world; there’s no incentive for people to be creative. I think it’s in recessionary times like these that artists (in the broadest sense of that word), the true innovators in life, come into their own.

So, yeah, a renaissance in literature, if it’s gonna happen, is more likely to come about through the ef-forts of the smaller indie presses. Mainstream publishers lack vision and have done for years in my view. Like sheep they follow “fashions” in books – mis lit, chick lit, and illiterate celebrity lit – largely dictated to them by the buyers of bookstore chains. Mainstream publishers seem to latch on to trends driven by other media, which is why a lot of new books published are film or television tie-ins. The mainstream is risk-averse and seems to dismiss as “hard to sell” new voices with new and interesting things to say. A classic example of mainstream publishers’ lack of vision is their inability to see the massive potential of short story collections. People today lead busy lives and have short attention spans, which means they tend to ‘consume’ on the go and prefer things in small, bite-size chunks. Short story collections fit perfectly with this type of behavior. If they were marketed properly and themed appropri-ately, they could sell shed-loads of them! Another example of their short-sightedness – in an age where technology has shortened the supply chain in every other major industry, publishing still takes a year or more to make a book and get it into the shops. Luddites! Their idea of streamlining the business is to put out fewer books, play safe with the ones they do (another Danielle Steele anyone?), and cut costs in vital areas, e.g. reducing editorial input, relying on agents to find new talent rather than investing in readers to look for it amongst the unsolicited manuscripts that come in, and devoting less time to things like proof-reading. I read one of Harper Perennial’s hot new releases recently and the number of typos in it shocked me.

JH: Currently, is there a difference in the “state” of literature between the UK and the US? I have always thought Brits are “better” read and more aware of “literature’s” value. Is this a valid statement? Or am I full of shit?

MM: Nah, like I said, I don’t think much has happened to jolt literature out of its state of torpor on either side of the pond in the last ten years. As for the ‘Brit’s are better read and more aware of literature’s value’ argument, well it’s not true I’m afraid. Exhibit A: the Sunday Times top 10 paperback fiction bestseller lists for 2008. It’s littered with safe bets - Ian McEwan, Maeve Binchy, Cecilia Aherne, Patricia Cornwell. There is only one new voice in the top 10, Sadie Jones’ debut The Outcast, but it very much conforms to type in terms of themes, plot and style of writing. Depressing really. Depressing too how unadventurous readers have become. Why aren’t people looking for an alternative, demanding an alternative instead of allowing themselves to be spoon-fed a continuous stream of trash fiction? Again, I’m hopeful the recession will shake people out of their comfort zones, make them look for poetry and prose that speaks to them about things that actually matter, writing that has something to say about their lives and what’s really going on in the world. I’d love to see readers turning their backs on chain bookstores and their bestseller pap, and instead, actively hunting down great writing from more specialist booksellers.

Slight detour but come with me why don’tcha. We’ve been grappling with the terms “literature” and quality writing haven’t we, so I’d like to say something about what I think great writing is, and hence what I’m looking for when I read submissions sent to Beat the Dust. Fundamentally, great writing tells the truth; it tells the raw truth about the real world we live in. To my mind, that kind of writing can only come from writers who know who they are, where they’re from and write with their fists from these places. I think we’ve been celebrating dishonesty, mediocrity and people with no discernible talent, for too long. Again, I’m hopeful that a global recession will refocus people’s attention on what’s really im-portant, what has real value and will weed the crap out of the system.

Are you full of shit, Jack? Well, the human body is essentially a shit-making machine if you think about it, so inevitably, you are, like the rest of us, full of stuff that is either processing or in the process of being, shit. I hope that clears it up – ha! What can I say; I’m a wow at parties!

JH: With the advent of the Internet, access to new writers has become easier. To me it seems there are new blogzines, Web pages, journals, etc. that claim to be “literary” appearing every day. Are there too many Journals? Is it too easy to get published? And, related, has the value of being published been decreased?

MM: Yeah, we’ve reached a tipping point I think, the point where there are too many litzines and not enough good writing to put in them. I fear we’re following a similar trend to celebrity magazines in that respect, much as it pains me to draw such a comparison. There are now so many glossy gossip mags and sections within newspapers covering the same ‘who’s wearing/snorting/shagging/drinking what’ material, there’s not enough content to go in them. The result? Inane stories about ‘A’ and ‘B’ list celebrities – Brad buys Angelina a ginger merkin – and even more inane stories about ‘Z’ list celebrities whose only talent in life is to go clubbing in a short skirt and no knickers in the hope of getting their crotch papped… there’s never a ginger merkin when you need one is there - ha! By the same token, the ‘too many litzines not enough good writing to put in them’ scenario, means a lot of editors are lowering the bar and taking writing that, in their heart of hearts they know isn’t really good enough. New emerg-ing voices are getting into print before they are ready – assuming they will ever be ready; not everyone can write let’s face it – and the more established names have work accepted because they are known and can pull in hits to the site, rather than because the piece they’ve submitted is actually any good. The outcome is 1) some new writers get deluded into thinking they can write when they can’t, 2) there is little or no incentive for established writers to try new things and push the envelope, and so, in turn, no one improves, the standard of writing generally declines and, ultimately literature stays in the same place it’s been for a decade or more. Nightmare scenario.

After spending one depressing weekend at the end of last year, reading over 40 submissions to Beat the Dust and accepting hardly any pieces, I knew things had to change. As I said at the start, the aim of Beat the Dust is to be a space that celebrates inventiveness and encourages cutting edge, high quality writing. In line with that, I’m being more demanding about what goes on the site. I’ve also started commissioning more pieces from writers whose work I like (both new and established names), as well continuing to invite open submissions for most of the issues that go out. I think that’s important cos I’m as keen as any editor to discover a brand new voice and give them their first break.

Oh hey, look at that, a wood pigeon on my balcony drinking from a puddle. How do they do that? Their beaks don’t look like they have any kind of suction capability do they. Maybe they have like a tiny vac-uum mechanism inside or sommink. Ha – welcome to my world!

JH: Along with all the new outlets to get published in periodicals, there seem to be a number of new presses. With the slow death of big publishing houses in the US, is small press the future?

MM: Maybe wishful thinking to think we’re witnessing the decline and fall of mainstream publishers, but I definitely think the global recession will sort out the men from the boys. Difficult market condi-tions require businesses to show imagination and balls in order to survive and thrive. As I said earlier, I don’t see those qualities in the big publishing houses. I suspect their response will be to baton down the hatches, cut costs in vital areas (as seems to be the case currently at Harper Collins in response to their crushingly bad first quarter 09 financial results. Murdoch making a loss – don’t that give yer a warm feeling inside!) and become even more risk averse in the type and number of books they commis-sion. Small presses on the other hand have shown a greater willingness to take on edgier literature and can get it out into the world much quicker than the big guys. Creativity and speed are key survive and thrive strategies I think. What small presses lack though is the financial clout to market their books as widely as you need in order to sell in the volumes necessary to make a healthy return. I reckon what small independent publishers have to do now is look for different, inventive ways to attract money to fund their activities. This is something I’m currently working on at Beat the Dust.

JH: In running my own press I have experienced a number of issues that could contribute to the demise of a journals and/or press. What do you think is the biggest challenge your journal faces?

MM: The biggest challenge Beat the Dust faces is my low boredom threshold to be honest. I have the attention span of a gnat, which is why I’m continually trying new things on the site, e.g. inviting guest editors to take hold of the reins to shake things up a bit, having featured writers, running serializations of longer stories and themed issues, broadening the content etc. I promised myself when I launched Beat the Dust that if it ever started to feel like a chore then I should adios the hell out of there and do something different. Frankly if the editor is bored with the output, you can guaran-damn-tee the reader will be too. I came close to packing it all in at the end of last year (a nation mourns - ha!), but then I got a second wind, came up with some new ideas and Beat the Dust is good to go for a while yet.

JH: Is there too much product? Too many chapbooks, too many web sites, journals, etc.?

MM: As I mentioned earlier, I think we’ve reached a point where there are too many online litzines (and fewer print lit mags cos potential buyers think why should I buy a mag when I can read stuff for free online) and not enough good writing to put in them. I think it’s worth reminding ourselves that we may all “have a book inside us” but not everyone has the skill to get it down on paper. Just because humans have the dexterity to hold a pen and string words together by moving it across the page, that doesn’t mean we can all write. I think the ability to write, to express yourself through words in a way that engages the reader and entertains, is a gift and an art. To my mind, it’s the responsibility of editors to celebrate and promote this art, which means reading submissions with a highly discerning eye at all times… and if that means not putting out the magazine when you planned, or not updating your litzine for months because the submissions haven’t been that good, then so be it.

JH: Okay, switching gears, just a bit. My original intention for my inquiry revolved around the evolution of “literary movements.” I wanted to compare the evolution from the early 20th century to today. While it has evolved into a broader inquiry to the importance of New Media, I learned from my research that groups such as the Brutalists and Off Beat Generation came into existence due in part to social networking. In your opinion, is there a new literary movement afoot?

MM: Not sure about new, or the word movement for that matter. Reminds of me of this guy I worked with who used to stand up in the middle of the office and proclaim “a bowel movement beckons!” Any-way, am guessing that’s not the considered response you were hoping for is it, Jack. Okay, let’s look at the two literary groups you mentioned. The Brutalists launched themselves onto an unsuspecting world in 2006 via Myspace with an anti-literary establishment type manifesto that spoke to writers and read-ers alike. They attracted to them and fired up a lot of other writers whose stuff wasn’t getting a look-in with mainstream publishers. The Brutalist manifesto was a call to arms, a drive to get poetry and prose with more truth, balls and energy out into the world. They were fresh, put their money where their mouth was and got their gutsy writing out into the world via their own chapbook – Brutalism One: No-where Fast - and litzine - Straight from the Fridge. The founders Tony O’Neill, Adelle Stripe and Ben Myers timed it perfectly, had a strong, compelling message and used emerging social networking technology to spread the word to the right people, i.e young, receptive, early adopters who were up for it, i.e. keen to listen and ready to get on board. Textbook marketing really. My observation re the Off-beat Generation (great name!) is that it’s less defined as a group, and maybe a bit less explicit and vo-cal in its aims and objectives. The Offbeat Generation essentially describes a looser collection of non-conformist writers alienated from mainstream publishing who communicate, collaborate and organize themselves through Facebook, Myspace, 3:AM Magazine etc. I think The Brutalists were amongst the first, if not the first, to pave the way for like-minded, non-conformist writers to rally together and sup-port each other’s efforts to get the words of an overlooked generation of writers out there. Now, in the last six months or so, we’ve seen developments in social networking technology, which have enabled groups of writers with common and distinct aims and objectives to set up their own online communities, e.g. Outsider Writers, Epic Rites, which both use ning technology. Things like Blog Talk Radio too are also helping to bring writers together and get the voice of the underground lit scene, its energy and pas-sion, heard by a much wider audience.

I think the challenge for any movement is to stay relevant, keep creating, keep getting across a strong compelling message and, more importantly know when its time to die and reincarnate in some other form; the punk ethos essentially. On a similar note, is it me or does Myspace feels like it’s dying on its feet? The technology is really slow and clunky and it always seems to be two steps behind what Face-book and ning are doing in terms of functionality (ha – did I mention I’m a bit of an anorak!) Yup, change or die, people!

The last point to make about literary movements is to say how important it is to see the members of it doing well. The fact Tony O’Neill with ‘Down and Out on Murder Mile’ and Chris Killen with ‘The Bird Room’ have been given the chance to get their work out to a more mainstream audience, provides hope to everyone in the underground lit scene. Part of what keeps a literary movement alive, what keeps writers writing, is hope.

JH: In the US we had poetic/literary movements germinate around magazines such as the Black Mountain Review, which evolved and/or melded into the Beats. How important are outlets such as Beat the Dust and 3:AM to the dissemination of new theory/ideas/etc? (This may seem like an ob-vious question, but I am still not sure how to phrase it. I just wonder if these outlets carry the influence or the writers?)

MM: On BBC Radio 4’s Zadie Smith-curated Today programme

[you can listen to it here: http://news.bbc.co.uk/today/hi/today/newsid_7802000/7802605.stm],

Hari Kunzru, Stewart Home and Tom McCarthy discussed ‘what is the avant-garde now?’ and 3:AM Magazine was mentioned as an example of it. I reckon 3:AM is, and has been for some time, an impor-tant voice highlighting the cutting edge activities going on in the literary underground. ‘Whatever it is, we’re against it’ – again another strong compelling message that’s gonna connect with and fire up any non-conformist reader and writer. As for Beat the Dust, well I’ll leave it for others to judge its contri-bution to the underground lit scene. At the very least I hope people see Beat the Dust as a litzine that practices what it preaches. We look for creativity, rule-breaking and risk-taking from our writers and I hope that, in the way it’s grown and developed since it began in Oct 07, Beat the Dust can be said to have shown the same qualities.

JH: Your website has a bookshop. I think that’s a great idea. Has it been successful? Do you think there will be a day when there’s a central Web site, along the lines of an Amazon that read-ers could turn to for underground writers? Or would the goal be to get broader distribution?

MM: Yeah, I set up Beat the Dust Bookshop as a one-stop online shop offering adventurous readers some of the best underground literature out there. I wanted to play a part in helping small indie presses and writers reach a wider audience. Beat the Dust has been enjoying around 31,000 hits a week of late so that’s a lot of the right kind of people passing through the doors. I also wanted to make it easier for discerning readers to find great writing, save them having to hunt around all over the web for it. I would describe sales as steady – C+ could do better. Then again I’m ambitious and a perfectionist (a killer combination!) so I guess I would say that. Put it this way Amazon and Borderstones ain’t losing any sleep over lost market share… but come the revolution! I really believe there is a need for an online bookshop like this and that the potential for it is huge. To sell more books I need to increase the market-ing so more people - not just those tuned into the underground lit scene - are aware of Beat the Dust Bookshop. Much more profile raising is needed to ensure it’s top of mind when people want to buy a book. Think of how much e-marketing you get from Amazon encouraging you to keep visiting the site… a lot, right? That kind of ongoing, targeted marketing takes a great deal of time and money though obviously but I have a cunning plan to address this that might just work. Watch this space or another one that looks a bit similar i.e. white, kind of vacant looking, expectant…

JH: Last couple of questions…In the broadest sense where do you see New Media Literature going? In a micro perspective, what’s the future of Beat the Dust?

MM: Mystic Melissa pulls out her crystal ball and peers into its glassy depths… actually it’s a paper-weight I bought in Morecambe (sleepy seaside town in the North West of England) with a sign saying ‘Come to Happy Mount Park’ inside. Jeez Jack, I haven’t got the foggiest first clue! Faced with global economic meltdown, polar ice caps turning to mush, the proliferation of nuclear weapons and terrorist groups breeding like bored rabbits, we’ll be lucky to make it into next week! Ahem, okay that was my ‘we’re all doomed, doomed I tell you!’ answer. Seriously though – for I fear I must on occasions – I reckon new litzines will come and go, with the lifecycle of that coming and going, much shorter than was previously the case. Why will the lifecycle be shorter? Well readers aren’t stupid, they know the difference between quality writing and crap writing so they’ll only keep visiting and tell their friends about the zines they think consistently post the best poetry and prose. The litzines that endure will be those that fight the urge to post any damn thing just to fill their pages, that stretch writers to produce their best work (which means editors making time to give valuable feedback where they see potential) and that keep looking for new, different and interesting ways to get great writing out into the world. As for Beat the Dust’s plans for the next year or so, well I could tell you Jack but then I’d have to kill you. Oh okay, as it’s you. Beat the Dust is gonna be doing some groovy things with audio, co-hosting with 3:AM Magazine the literary event of the goddamn decade in London on 24th April, as well as doing some serious flirting, nay engaging in some serious pump and grind, with the print medium…

JH: Any thoughts you want to add about New Media Literature, poetic movements, small press, and/or Journals or Presses the consumer should be aware off…

MM:…Beat the Dust Press is preparing to spring forth and join the hallowed ranks of small indie publishers out there in lit land. Yup, we’re getting ready to crank up a real printing machine and make proper books. Online is all well and good, but holding words in your hands, feeling the weight of them, that’s something else. As I hope people have come to expect from BTD though, Beat the Dust Press is gonna try and do things a bit differently. Some elements of the way the press is going to be run will be a first in the literary world I think. Whether the plan’ll work is anyone’s guess but you gotta be in it to win it, right. Anyway, I’ll leave it at that for now, Jack as I’m slightly paranoid someone’s gonna beat me to it and steal my thunder. In the words of Monty Python, “infamy, infamy, everyone’s got it in for me” – ha!

JH: Thanks for putting up with my questions. I greatly appreciate it. Final question, and most important: What’s coming up with Melissa Mann?

MM: Cheers for interviewing me, Jack. Twas my first time! So yes, what’s coming up with Melissa Mann… interesting turn of phrase… you mean in the non-vomit sense, right? Well I’m currently knee-deep in a long short story I’m writing for an anthology. It’s collaboration with two other writer-type dudes. Not written something as long as this for maybe two years so it’s great to be able to stretch my legs a bit. What else? Well, I looked in my notebook the other day and realized there are some poten-tially exciting ideas in there ripe for development writing-wise. My notebook is a big thing in my life. When I see something or hear something interesting, it goes in my notebook. Anything that makes my brain twitch, goes in there. So, once I’m done with the long short story or maybe when I need a break from it, I plan to tackle some of those ideas.

Around October/November time last year I changed my approach to submitting work, and decided not to submit as much online as I was. Instead I thought I’d focus on trying to get my stuff in print more. I aim to write at least one new short story or flash piece or a couple of poems a week if possible, so be-cause there are fewer opportunities to get in print out there in lit land than there are online zines, I’ve built up quite a back catalogue of unpublished poems and stories in the last five or six months. Basi-cally then I need to get my arse in gear and sam them all together into a couple of new collections and start pimping them round the publishers. Not my favorite activity it has to be said, pimping my work, but gotta be done; no one else is gonna do it for you, after all.

Aside from writing and Beat the Dusting? Well I’m good at grafting (a working class Northern term for working hard) but not so good at relaxing, so I reckon I should have a go at going on holiday some time soon. I feel an adventure brewing… cockle-picking in Morecambe maybe - ha!

… by the way, that pigeon? Still on the balcony, still with its beak in the puddle, puddle as big as it ever was. It’s official, birds are crap at drinking – yup, you heard it here first, people. Another exclusive for Jack Henry to add to Dan Fante and Tony O’Neill on Rob and Jack America! Who’s the daddy?!

interview: abigail beaudelle

2009-05-21T07:44:00.000-07:00

An Interview With A Poetic Warrior

Abigail Beaudelle is the publisher/editor of The Poetry Warrior, a newcomer to the on-line literature scene. Currently they have made it to Issue Three and show no signs of slowing down. By getting three issues up and out has surpassed more than a few outlets that barely last one issue being posted. The quality of selection and work is outstanding, featuring both familiar and new voices. At first glance there are plenty of reasons to interview Abigail Beaudelle, but the most interesting one is her age. Abigail is all of 16, maybe 17 now.

Here’s some info from her bio I stole from Eviscerator Heaven

Abigail Beaudelle, 16, has been writing poetry for two years now, and is slowly beginning to gain recognition in the small press world. Her work has been published in the 56th issue of Gloom Cupboard and will be included in the upcoming issues of Off Beat Pulp, Kill Poet, Clockwise Cat, and Fissure. A member of Mensa, Abigail spends the majority of her time fencing, playing guitar, and working on her ezine, The Poetry Warrior (www.thepoetrywarrior.com). The debut issue was published on October 1st, 2008.

If you haven’t heard of Mensa, it is a high honor. Sure, I could mock it, make fun, joke to hide my own jealousy, but it is a big deal, one worthy of respect. It means you’re smart and it has been proven, either by test results or some other method.

I got to know Abigail via the Internet, both Facebook and MySpace. Before you sick bastards start snipping about anything untoward, I had the fortune of being in The Poetry Warrior. Over the months we traded notes and ideas about having an Internet journal. When my idea about NEW MEDIA formu-lated, the idea of having someone with a journal, is a writer, and has lived their entire life in the shadow of the Internet became obvious. Abigail fit the bill.

____

Jack Henry: Thank you for taking the time to answer some of my questions. As I have mentioned, I am investigating NEW MEDIA LITERATURE, the current state of writing in general, and the state of poetry, specifically. Being one of the youngest editors of an on-line journal as well as raised and schooled in an Internet age, I thought her opinions might add to my query.

Okay, so why start a poetry magazine?

Abigail Beaudelle: Do you want the dirty truth, or the flattering lie? The truth of the matter is I started The Poetry Warrior because I knew I COULD. It was mostly my idea of a ‘gimmick’ to jump-start my own writing career. The truth is some of the most successful (and most famous) artists and writers were excellent at marketing. And not just their work - it’s all about personality too. You think Andy Warhol would have been as influential without his contrived persona and wacky processes of creation?

The thing is, it’s nothing (these days) to be published at 17. But how many 17-yr-olds can say they’re a publisher? TPW started off as a highly narcissistic venture, I will admit to that, but it’s grown to mean so much more to me on a personal level. For one, it’s the most successful and honestly the FIRST successful thing I’ve done. And secondly, I’ve met so many fantastic poets through TPW that I am have been honored to publish. TPW shot up so much faster than I ever could have imagined.

That, and it’s served its initial purpose ten-fold: Hence, this interview.

It’s refreshing to see honesty and I can relate since I started my journal for the same reason. But how rare is it to realize that self-promotion is integral to a writer’s career. Too many writer’s overlook that.

JH: Would The Poetry Warrior exist without the Internet?

AB: As much as I’d love to be able to say it would, it honestly wouldn’t. I am totally a child of the Inter-net age. I can’t see myself stapling together even fifty copier-paper pamphlets together, let alone having to go manually distribute them (you mean I have to talk to real people?!). Even if I did {do it all myself} what then? Do you know how hard it is to even GIVE away literature? I don’t need that kind of blow to my ego.

The truth is, TPW just would not be without the internet, I’ve only had ONE submission from anyone in my state, let alone my hometown. TPW is truly an international affair.

JH: In your opinion, what is the current state of Literature? Regarding poetry, do you think there’s been a renaissance, or rebirth?

AB: I wouldn’t say that we’re going through a renaissance, really, but yeah, we’re entering another social-political-artistic-poetical movement, for sure. Art is influenced by society, and vice versa. Well, NOW, society is changing, big time. We can think of art history as a sort of timeline, with artistic movements progressing in a cause-and-effect type fashion. But with the advent of the internet, that whole paradigm has changed.

It was initially thought that MAYBE only a couple hundred people would ever be using the Internet. And then, only when necessary. Now, with millions of people sending information constantly and nearly instantaneously from everywhere on earth, societies and cultures are being dissolved and re-formed. A kid my age is more likely to identify with a disparate Internet peer group than with members of their own immediate society. So societies are influenced by a colossal influx of information that was not readily available five years ago.

Take fads for example. Fads used to last decades (remember the Pet Rock?) - now they last for weeks, if that. Vids and images ‘go viral’; songs bloom, get overplayed and sink once more into the churning pit that is the Internet.

All of this affects art, and artists and poets are now being influenced by several periods of art all at once; language is changing, worldview's are expanding, vernacular is resetting - all at an alarming rate. The real question is not if we’re in a renaissance, but what is it that we’re going to call this cultural movement. ‘Post-post-post-modernism’ sounds pretty idiotic to me. I think we screwed that one up pretty bad.

This is another one of those questions that has had a different response from almost eve-ryone that has responded. The state of literature as well as the concept of a “new renaissance” is highly subjective. The point Abigail brings up is extremely interesting and something I will have to look into further.

With the quadratic expansion of the Internet, increasing speed of exchange, and the global reach of information exchange, writers today (as well as the plugged in populace as a whole) are faced with influences at every turn. Abigail makes a solid point: “…artists and poets are now being influenced by several periods of art all at once.”

And it’s going to get faster.

JH: We chatted once about how easy it is to set up a website for an on-line journal (no, I still haven’t resolved the Heroin Love Song website issues). With the availability of quick, simple, and inexpensive blog sites and/or webpages, could the quality of work get diluted? Is there too much product, or is there room for more?

AB: I don’t think the quality of work will get diluted. Sure, it’s easy to start an online magazine, but keeping it up is a whole different matter. If the poetry’s no good (assuming your readership knows and enjoys good poetry), the readership disappears. If you don’t know how to market your zine, or don’t know who to go to, your readership won’t exist in the first place. The competition is tough on the interwebz, to edit an online magazine you’ve got to be a bit of an ‘internet renaissance man’. You’ve got to be a little bit of a graphic designer, a tech-support guy, a PR guy. You’ve got to be passionate about poetry. ‘Cause believe me – if you’re not, it’s a losing proposition. It’s expensive, it’s exhausting, and God can it ever be frustrating. It’s rewarding too, though, if you love poetry.

JH: What are some of the biggest challenges you have faced with the magazine?

AB: Deadlines. And finding the will to get up and edit some days. I suffer from bouts of chronic depres-sion (“why doesn’t anybody get me?!”), and some days the get-up-and-go just don’t wanna go. So far, I’ve managed to make every deadline though! I’m so proud of me!

Note: That’s why we’re writers. Most of us hate deadlines. Personally, I gave up on deadlines. I couldn’t keep one to save my life.

JH: What is the future of Literature, either on-line or print? Is there a future?

AB: That’s like asking if there’s a past for literature. Of course there’s a future. If the apocalypse comes and it’s just one man with a cave and a sharp rock, he’s going to write. Eventually. It’s a very human thing to want to express themselves, and even more human to want to compete about it. Ergo – future for literature. Online or in print has no bearing. It’s still about the rearranging of language.

And even though there seems to be a plethora of online magazines and blogzines these days, conversely, there’s a rather large number of those zines going in to print as well. It’s not a mutually exclusive thing. People like books.

JH: New Media platforms seem to evolve almost daily. New platforms and websites appear all the time. Do you envision a time where the consumption of literature/writing will change again? I am thinking away from the Internet to something different?

AB: Of course. Language is always adapting. In my mind, the next step is a shift in performance methods. I think the Spoken Word is going to undergo a fundamental change. With our concept of society shifting (see answer to question two) and with the advent of the internet age, our language is evolving rapidly. And a majority of these new words we’re encountering on forums and in chat rooms do not have verbal counterparts. But mark my words, they will soon. Many people dismiss acronyms such as ‘lol’ and ‘stfu’ (which originated from the phrases ‘laugh out loud’ and ‘shut the fuck up’) are just marks of unintelligent, illiterate laziness, but take this example:

A month or so I was playing a game on a popular international gaming website, and I noticed that the players conversing in the chat applet below my game were all speaking in French. No big deal, right? Well it piqued my curiosity to see them all using the term ‘Lol’, an originally English acronym in their chat. This has led me to believe that maybe these acronyms and slang neologisms are the first step in the formation of a larger, multicultural internet language. Whether or not we like the turn our language is taking, we’ve got to understand that our language IS evolving, at a very rapid pace. So our challenge as poets and performers NOW is to learn the rules to this new meta-language and add it to our own poetic toolsets, rather than neglect this opportunity to influence its evolution.

I found this response outstanding. It made me consider something unexpected. Could the utilization of NEW MEDIA change the form of expression, the very language we use? The thought of acronyms commonly found via text messaging become a ubiquitous global sign is interesting. Some have suggested that within a few hundred years (if not less) the globe will utilize a single language. In my opinion it will be a hybrid of many languages. But what if it is something even more evolved than spoken language. What I am saying is it might be possible humanity evolves to a point where there is no speech, only texting. I know with my 19-year-old step daughter, that’s the only way we communicate. Not that I mind, but it is odd to get a text from her when she is 10 feet down the hall.

JH: Recently a writing movement called “The Brutalists” has evolved in the UK. This group of writers are united in a desire to bring their work to the consumer, doing it themselves if they have and avoiding the quicksand of the bigger publishing houses. In your opinion, do movements or so-called “schools” of writing bring value to the body of literature?

AB: Depends if the work’s any good.

I had no idea what to expect with the questions I asked Abigail. Without question they add to the discourse I am pursuing, but they also demand greater introspection. Because she has lived a life that did not know a moment without the Internet, she can actually “see” the speed of change. It didn’t take this conversation to make me feel older, but it added a few gray hairs.

JH: Okay, enough of that. I want to promote The Poetry Warrior a bit.

What plans do you have for your journal?

AB: Plans? What plans? I’m just kidding. I have a few plans. First – assemble my super-awesome-mega-robo-happy-funtime editorial team for next issue.

Secondly, MERCHANDISE! I want to be able to guide The Poetry Warrior into self-sufficiency, and ultimately be able to pay my submitters and turn a little bit of a profit. Don’t you think TPW logo would look flash on a t-shirt? I’ve got some very innovative ideas though, so be on the lookout for new site content and items.

JH: Is there another level you aspire to? Different formats for the magazine?

AB: Not necessarily. I mean, it would be nice to have the option of going into print, but it’s really not a financially feasible idea right now. I intend to find a way to print chapbooks through the Poetry War-rior name, however, and I have my awesome tech guy Dylan working out the intricacies of PDFs.

JH: I have heard you talk about a community of writers that can exist around a Journal. Is it important to expand the breadth of writers for a magazine or can a magazine still thrive with the same “faces” month to month?

AB: In theory, sure, a magazine can still thrive so long as the quality of work is maintained. Granted, it’s like the Starbucks phenomenon. Once you build a name for yourself, it’s easy to get complacent. Starbucks used to make an excellent cup of coffee, now it’s just bitter.

___

It is exciting to see someone so young so focused, even if only for a single project. The experience of running a press will be a great one. And if she keeps her shit together, who knows? All the great ones started small. In my opinion, Abigail Beaudelle, and The Poetry Warrior, is one to watch.

www.thepoetrywarrior.com

interview: andrew gallix

2009-05-21T07:42:00.000-07:00

3AM Magazine

Thank you for taking the time to answer my questions: My pleasure!

My primary interest is in New Media and what some refer to as New Media Literature. In addition there seems to be resurgence in writing and poetry. Perhaps this is due to so many on-line outlets. Also, movements such as the Brutalist and Offbeat Generation owe their existence to the Internet and various on-line outlets, including 3:AM. I think some of these movements and/or on-line journals have sprung from some post-punk anarchy reaction against mainstream publishing. I’ve read as much and agree with it.

Some of these questions may seem obvious, but I am sure others are curious, as am I, to your unique perspective.

JH: What is the importance of a movement or school of work? Is it an idea or concept developed from a historical perspective or can it be witnessed in the present, as it emerges?

AG: We never sat down one day and said 'Let's launch a new literary movement!'. We sat down one day and realised that we were part of a movement. It was already there and all it needed was a name to gain visibility. It was the Emperor's New Clothes in reverse. So, to answer your question, we have been observing the development of the Offbeat phenomenon since 2005 when we became conscious of it.

JH: What can a writer gain, if anything, from the inclusion within a movement?

AG: First of all, I must make it quite clear that the Offbeats are a movement and not a school of writing. Offbeat writers are individuals — they all have different styles and influences even though they all share certain values and a certain rebellious spirit. Writing is a solitary activity, so it feels good to also have that collective experience.

JH: What are the unifying characteristics of the Brutalists or Offbeats? What is their historical heritage?

AG: The Brutalists are not a movement; they're a trio of writers (Adelle Stripe, Ben Myers and Tony O'Neill) who sometimes come together to write under that banner. Instead of forming a band, they write poetry. The Brutalists are very much part of the Offbeat scene.

What unites all the Offbeats is a rejection of a publishing industry increasingly dominated by market-ing, rather than literary, concerns. The name 'Offbeat' is an obvious nod to the Beats, but punk is per-haps the biggest historical reference. At least for some of us.

JH: In a few interviews I have read, the Offbeat Generation does not exist within a single style or genre, I am curious what the literary influences have been to this group? And, more specifically, any influences from areas outside of writing?

AG: That's quite right, and since there is no house style, influences are pretty diverse. There's the Buk-owski-John Fante Real McCoy school of writing embodied by Tony O'Neill. There's the Maurice Blan-chot-Francis Ponge-William Burroughs axis led by Tom McCarthy. There's the Barthelmesque comic postmodernism of HP Tinker. There's the mote quirky Brautigan-tinged world of Chris Killen or Tao Lin. And then there's all the others with their personal influences.

Music is indeed very important to many Offbeats. Tony O'Neill played in bands like Kenickie or the Brian Jonestown Massacre. Ben Myers is also a music journalist and he even used to have his own in-die label. Will Ashon has a hip hop label. As far as I'm concerned, Howard Devoto's early lyrics are right up there with the works of the greatest writers.

JH: As the Beats of the 50s/60s gained popularity, pop culture turned them into a caricature of their origins. Is there a fear that current movements could be mainstreamed and, potentially, lose their power as a dissenting voice?

AG: Definitely. In a way, it's already happened. There are lots of young writers who think they're being Offbeat by spouting clichés about sex and drugs.

JH: What is the goal of a movement? Is it collective? Or individualistic?

AG: Total surrender of mainstream publishing.
It's both individual and collective.

JH: It is my opinion that America’s “disposable mentality” has migrated to literature and our literary tradition. Publishers rely on a bestseller to support their efforts with other books. In my opinion, a majority of these best sellers are total shit. Writers that repeatedly appear on best-sellers' lists utilize formula and structure that will satisfy the widest possible audience, with lim-ited concern for craft, exploration and daring. Subsequently, the wider audience is “dumbed down.” Additionally, marketing departments focus a majority of their budgets on bestsellers thereby limiting marketing funds for up and coming writers. In short, big publishers continue to promote disposable writing in order to earn the quick buck.

Does literature still exist, either via New Media or traditional outlets? What is the future of lit-erature?

AG: I totally agree with your analysis of the state of things. It's the same in Britain — perhaps even worse because of the presence of a huge middlebrow market. In the States, it's either total shit or pure genius.

But, yes, literature still exists and will continue to exist. I can't predict what its future will be, but I think the western notion of The Writer may be on the way out. I think there will be fewer career writers in the future: writers who write simply because that's what writers do. People will write a novel when they really feel the need to do so, but will also have other creative outlets.

JH: Returning to New Media, how important are New Media platforms (blogs, social networks, YouTube, etc.) to writers? Is there such a thing as New Media Literature?

AG: Well, I think you need to make a distinction between e-literature which uses the Internet as a new medium and most online creative writing which simply uses the web as a medium. As I wrote http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/booksblog/2008/sep/24/ebooks, I get the impression that the future of e-literature is to merge into digital art. That view seems to be highly controversial in e-lit circles.

As for, webzines, blogs etc. I think their role has been essential. The Offbeat movement is the first liter-ary movement of the digital age. Without the Internet, it probably wouldn't have existed in the first place.

JH: 3AM is a widely admired on-line journal and has been around awhile now. I have always been impressed with the quality of writing that comes out of it. With the Internet providing a global platform and on-line outlets (websites, blogzines, etc.) is there a dilution of quality writing? Or, more specifically, is there too much content? Or, perhaps, is it just too easy to get published on-line?

AG: Thanks for the kind words.

Interesting questions. A band that releases an album on its own label has credibility. Writers who do that are accused of vanity publishing. It's true that there are thousands of rubbish writers out there who publish themselves on the Internet, but there are also stacks of rubbish writers whose works are pub-lished by big concerns — just visit any bookshop to see what I'm talking about. Bad writers will give up eventually; the good one will float to the surface.

JH: How important is marketing to a New Media outlet or, as a whole, “underground” writers and publishers? With my journal I market wholly to exposure the writers I admire and feel have talent. The only real cost is time. With the press, I have a different attitude. I want to promote the writer, but I want to have some profit, no matter how minimal, in order to publish more writ-ers. In the age of New Media Literature and the expectation of everything on the Internet should be free or relatively inexpensive, how does a press survive?

AG: I've been editing 3:AM Magazine since 2000; we get thousands of unique visitors a day and yet I've never made any money out of it. There's very little money in serious fiction.

JH: Is it more important to publish than publish and profit?

AG: Definitely.

Okay, enough of my bullshit, let’s focus on 3AM.

JH: Would 3AM exist without the Internet?

AG: An emphatic no. I'd been toying with the idea of a post-punk literary journal for years, but the lo-gistics just made it virtually impossible.

JH: In researching this project I have read through a number of issues from 3:AM. In terms of quality and content, it is definitely one of the better on-line magazines available. You have had a long tenure on the Internet, longer than most. What do you attribute that to?

AG: To the fact that we're genuinely interested in writing and that we don't expect to make any money out of it.

JH: What are the future goals of 3AM?

AG: To continue to spread the word.

interview: mikaeil covey

2009-05-21T07:33:00.000-07:00

Lit Up Magazine

JACK HENRY: What was your motivation to start an on-line magazine?

MIKAEL COVEY: I never had any idea of starting a lit zine. But a while back I saw where Matt Borondy of Identity Theory was looking for assistant editors; and also planning a big makeover for his ezine. So I thought of all the things I’d like to see in an on-line magazine - streaming video, live chat, music, art, great writing of all sorts and shapes. And I figured why not try these myself, instead of just making suggestions.

Thing is, you need to be a web designer (or have a good friend who is) to make that work. Or spend thousands of dollars to buy all that good stuff. Believe me, I tried that route. Fortunately Wordpress has some standard formats and widgets that work pretty well. So I asked a few friends to send me some stuff, and when I put it all together, it looked great, amazing really - poetry by Juan Israel and Justin Hyde, music from Matthew Coleman and Don Eminizer, fiction by Levi Asher, Joe Ridgwell, and Bill Ectric. Man, what a fantastic way to start. Since then, some really great writers and artists have sent some really great stuff.

For me, it’s been a marvelous opportunity to meet and get to know a lot of wonderful people in the lit biz; plus the great joy and satisfaction of being able to do things your own way. For example, Lit Up Magazine has no submission guidelines. Writers, artists, musicians, are free to send whatever they want, in whatever manner they choose. And that’s how it has to be. We should never suppress or diminish the creative genius of talented people by saying, “this is what we want” or “this is what we’re looking for.” Absolutely not, no way, not ever!

To impose restrictions or guidelines on the creative talent is tantamount to saying “I know better than you what art should look like” or “this is what our audience wants or has come to expect.” Hogwash! It is the creative genius who decides what shape art will take. It is the creator, the writer, composer, who decides what the audience needs to hear, see, and feel. This is the way, and the only way that art can flourish and be our guide to a better humanity.

And that’s the whole point. Art means something. It isn’t just entertainment like football on TV. No, it is the very gist and core of what we are, could be, and should be. We are what we read, to paraphrase Northrop Frye. Which is to say, everything we know about right and wrong, truth and beauty, life and death, derives from our literature. Our morals, our mores and culture, come to us from the various bibles, from the writings of Homer and Shakespeare, Sartre, Nietzsche, Hemingway, and a host of others. This is who we are, what we know.

That’s why I feel so strongly about the value and function of writing. Not just to entertain and amuse, but to tell us about life and how to live it. That’s the real value of Dan Fante and Tony O’Neill, Jack Kerouac, Leonard Cohen, Bradbury, Vonnegut, and all the other great writers and artists who touch our souls and make a lasting impact on our lives.

JH: It’s interesting that you say, “Art means something. It isn’t just entertainment like football on TV,” and then say, “…I feel so strongly about the value and function of writing. Not just to entertain and amuse, but to tell us about life and how to live it.” You did warn about contradictions and that’s to be expected, life is contradiction. I agree with your thoughts about the “value and function of writing.” Literature used to be considered “high art.” The contradiction I outline suggests a difference between “high” and “low” art. Some have suggested that the line between high and low art has diminished greatly. In your opinion, where does literature exist? And, shouldn’t it educate and inform, as well as entertain?

MC: No contradiction at all. Literature always was and will be one of the highest art forms because it is so intrinsic to our being. To any extent describable, we think and feel in words. But I don’t get the term “low art.” Sounds like an oxymoron to me. JP Sartre said literature is a captivating means of conveying philosophical truths. Jimi Hendrix said (of music) it breaks down the barriers. To me, that is the function of literature - to draw the audience in, and touch them with truth.

JH: Do you think you could have, or even would have, gotten into this without the Internet?

MC: No, never. The computer and Internet have given us this fantastic gift of being able to connect to six billion people across the far reaches of the planet. That’s my target audience and my goal - to bring all the peoples of the world together. To share our stories and experiences, get to know one another. To realize that we are all one people, with similar wants and needs, similar loves and dreams of what we could be. What life could be like with all of us pulling together instead tearing each other apart?

Back in the day, having been dismissed from every good job I ever had, I found myself working as a campus cop (like the character in Henry Baum’s book). One of my co-workers was a handsome young ex-Marine who was studying philosophy and literature. Naturally we had a lot to talk about. He was a shy kid, like me when I was his age. So I kept trying to convince him to screw every pretty girl on cam-pus. I mean, you only live once, and a man’s reach should locate a young girl’s crotch, or what’s a heaven for?

The kid suggested I read Kerouac’s On the Road, and it changed my life. I got back into writing, and found the perfect use for our office computers and printers. Then one day I was called into the boss’s office. He handed me a sheet of paper from a book I was writing. And I began to pray… “Please Lord, let this be a page with nothing on it about drugs and sex.” And so it was. Yeah, I got chewed out for using office equipment to write my books, but at least they didn’t find out what I was writing about.

I read most all of Kerouac’s stuff and started in on William Burroughs. But when I searched “Naked Lunch” on the Internet, I wound up at Levi Asher’s lit blog of the same name. This was many a year ago. And my insightful and frequent comments led an enthusiastic Levi Asher to respond “damnit Mike, this is my magazine. If you wanna run everything, why don’t you start your own?”

JH: Do you think there is a revival, or renaissance in literature, and if not literature which is be-coming harder to clearly define anymore, quality writing?

MC: Absolutely. The computer and the Internet have given us all the chance to be writers, editors, and publishers. And that’s a good thing, a wondrous thing. All people are talented, if we as a society would but recognize and develop those talents. Everyone has something to say, and a desire to be heard. Of course, some might have more to say than others, or a more facile and attractive way of saying it. Which is how we come to define concepts like literature, art, and quality writing. These aren’t nebulae, or simply a matter of personal taste or preference.

Art is excellence, the “better than” ordinary. It is fresh, different, powerful, moving. It is meaningful, impactful, makes a difference in our lives. It is the highest that we can achieve. Not a matter of “I can’t define it, but I know it when I see it.” We live in a world of words, and we use these to describe, to think, to understand. Perfect example: Watch Sasha Cohen and Yevgeny Plushenko skate. Nobody can skate like that, ever could. That is art, the best.

Read Cormac McCarthy’s The Road. It is a great book. “The Little Robot” by Bill Ectric, is a great short story. And thanks to our technology, we can all reach for the stars. You and me, and David LaBounty, Joe Ridgwell, all of us, can write books, poems, stories, essays, whatever. And a lot of it is great stuff, art.

JH: Currently, is there a difference in the “state” of literature between the UK and the US? I have always thought Brits are better “read” and more aware of literature’s value. Is this a valid statement? Or am I full of shit?

MC: Yes and no. People across the world are pretty much the same, as far as I know. Some have cocks, some have pussies. Other than that, we’re quite similar. We all want to be loved, we want people to think we’re special, and for them to treat us that way. To say that Americans read shit, and Brits read lit, is a ridiculous over-simplification. It would be to stereotype the average American as a hulking idiot who reads Playboy just to look at the pictures. And to stereotype Brits as erudite poetic souls in tweed jackets reading Dostoyevsky.

Fact is, nobody reads literature because nobody is aware of its value. Not even writers, and especially not editors and publishers. We have to do all we can to change that, if we want a sane and decent planet where the George Bushes of the world are laughed at instead of elected president. Fact - we are what we read.

JH: Has the definition of “literature” changed? Or, perhaps, our ability to quantify something as “literary?” For example: Some suggest that graphic novels are a form of literature, as well as the Pop Art movement of Rothko and Warhol for the late 50s and 60s.

MC: Literature is writing that makes a significant impact on s a person’s life. That could be different for each person. Brad Hamlin has a great fondness for the comic books of his lost youth; but these mean nothing to me. On the other hand, I think the movie version of “Sin City” is great art. Categorizing is one of the ways we understand. E.g., this thing, which is new to me, can be understood by putting it into this category of things I already know. But we have to realize that that’s all categorizing is - a method to help us understand. It’s very wrong to try to pigeon holing everything into a category and then marking it off as “understood.”

JH: I agree that my comment about British v. American is an “over-simplification.” However, in my experience, Americans tend to look down on intellectual endeavors, and defining something as “literature” is a negative rather than positive. NEW MEDIA LITERATURE, in my opinion, is redefining the way we categorize literature, in a sense we may not consider NEW MEDIA writing literature, and yet your definition of literature claims the opposite. How would you respond to this statement?

MC: Most people in the world don’t have the educational equivalent of a high school diploma. I don’t think that makes them anti-intellectual, but rather the victims of aristocratic governments, which deliberately maintain a poorly educated working class - minimum wage slavery. But humans, by nature, crave knowledge. It takes a very concerted effort by aristocrats to eradicate this natural craving. Thoreau said “the pupil is never educated to the level of understanding, but only to the level of trust and obedience.” Even so, people still go to the library, just that they don’t know what they’re looking for.

Editors and publishers suffer this same affliction. They think it has to be gorier, bloodier, and raunchier, more depraved, more horrifying to continually shock and awe the coliseum audience. But the secret truth is - humans crave knowledge, not depravity. And we need to make editors and publishers aware of that.

JH: With the advent of the Internet, access to new writers has become easier. To me it seems there are new blogzines, web pages, journals, etc. that claim to be “literary” appearing every day. Are there too many journals? Is it too easy to get published? And, related, has the value of being published been decreased?

MC: Oh my God, no. All the new zines, all the new writers, are constantly raising the bar so high, so very high, that it becomes increasingly more difficult to get published all the time. We’re not competing with a few people for a few slots; we’re competing with the whole world for a very few slots. The more we read, the more we discover just how many truly gifted writers there are out there. It’s like, if I were to write a poem, it’d almost have to be one of the best ever written just to compete with the stuff people are publishing every day.

But I think fiction is a bit of a different cookie. Way way way too many fiction writers are being forced to write for the “guidelines” of the zines they submit to. And it’s almost a dreary redundant genre in itself - the lit zine genre. “We want tough raw edgy stories of real life on the mean streets.” Yeah, okay, so…you want me to just copy the same story over and over again, and maybe change the names here and there; and that’s about it. Dog shit, man. That ain’t art, that’s just a redundant self-diminishing genre. I repeat, I scream, don’t tell artists-writers what to write or how to write it!

We need to take a step back and think about what writing actually is - it’s basically people talking to other people. And whether you jazz it up into fancy packages, or apply all sort of prestigious awards, it still comes down to that.

Writing is about informing people how to live together, how to be not just a good person, but also the absolute best they can be, to maximize that unlimited human potential whereupon we make something grand and wonderful out of this place. Not the concrete jungle rat cage known as San Francisco, but a thriving community of artists and poets and musicians and craftsman who use their talents and skills to help one another. To help everybody, so that we’re all special, loved, appreciated, cared for, and useful.

JH: Powerful comment. Perhaps because I focus on poetry and not fiction I don’t see the “guide-lines” as cornering a writer into a formula. But you make an interesting point. Is there a big difference between the rules for poetry and those for fiction?

MC: There are no rules. Anyone who’s ever experienced complete freedom knows what I mean. Those who haven’t don’t have a clue. Artists make their own rules, and then break them whenever they want to or need to. It’s an essential part of creativity. Editors who live by guidelines and rules are pretty much puppeteers pulling the strings - “dance you little writers, dance for me!”

JH: Along with all the new outlets to get published in periodicals, there seem to be a number of new presses. With the slow death of big publishing houses in the US, is small press the future?

MC: The death of big publishing is greatly exaggerated. As a world community we are moving in two directions simultaneously - upscale and self-determination. Both are born out of an increase in personal wealth and education. More people than ever before are getting ahead, getting a chance to be independent and self-sufficient. And at the core is reading. To be able to survive in this environment, we all have to be very well informed, knowledgeable, and far-sighted. We have to be readers, just to get by.

And as our numbers swell - those of us who are getting by - there will be a comparable increase in the numbers of those who want more, who want to know why, want to make their own reasons and their own way in life. The hippie movement of the sixties and seventies was simply the first wave of this, the opening salvo. But it will come as fast and furious as a tidal wave and just as relentless, washing over everything and everyone. The need for self-determination is the ultimate culmination in Marlowe’s hierarchy.

In search of a reason to be, more and more people will turn to reading for the answers. You will see them reading books at baseball games and basketball games. Reading is going to be the new chic. Everyone will be doing it. Visionaries like Andrew Gallix and Tony O’Neill will be at the forefront of this new frontier, but they will be absorbed by big publishing because that’s where the power and the money {is found}.

It will take big publishing a while to catch on. And small presses will always lead the way because they have the passion, the heart, and the love of words to seek out the best writing, and the best writers; to give these a forum, a place, an opportunity to be seen and heard by everyone. But once they rise to their deserved level of popularity, big publishing will grab them up, and the rich will get richer.

But even that won’t be a problem, because in the age of instant publishing, the small presses are here to stay. We will live on and get stronger and stronger simply because we love what we’re doing, we know that it’s right, and ultimately we will be the difference makers in bringing forth a better humanity.

JH: Perhaps I am a cynic, but I don’t agree entirely with your comment, although I admire the optimism. From my point of view big publishing houses are dinosaurs and will decline just as big music labels have. The audience of readers is shrinking as well. Therefore, the number of avail-able sales dollars for best sellers that fund the publishing houses marketing budgets will shrink. Combine this with the growth of print on demand and vanity publishing projects that saturate the consumer.

My concern is that a brilliant writer will by-pass the traditional route to publication, self publish and fade due to lack of exposure, and, potentially, quit writing. Isn’t the current path to publication out of date?

MC: We make a huge mistake in thinking that what is, has always been and always will be. When I was growing up in Nebraska the “family farm” was a permanent entity. But it came and went rather quickly. I anticipate that “cell phone books” will give the reader the option of manipulating what the characters in a story might do. Writers will have the option of continually re-writing and changing whatever they’ve written. Stories will be audible with your choice of who’s playing what role. Sirius radio will be Sirius book download. That sort of thing.

But to answer your question in a more concrete manner, anyone can publish. But even with millions of writers publishing, the one’s who’ll be most read will be those who can market their books to the great-est number of readers. That’s where big publishing houses have it over the little guy - marketing, advertising, access to the NY Times. And that’s not likely to change, even with cell phone books.

JH: In running my own press I have experienced a number of issues that contribute to the demise of on-line ventures. What do you think are some of the bigger challenges your journal faces?

MC: Writers, artists, humanists, face the one and same challenge over and over again - the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. Our own failings, failures, and sadness in life. The sadness of wanting to be good people, do the right thing, and never being able to measure up to our own high standards. We hate ourselves for not being the exemplary role models we want to be. We detest our own shortcomings, our mortality, our brevity, and our inability to make all things right at the snap of a finger. And most of all, nobody understands us, nobody ever knows the scared little child hiding inside each of us.

In short, we are our own worst enemies. We suffer horrible depressions, hide in addictions, and run from ourselves and the hurt and death that surround everything. When what we need to do is to buck each other up. Writing…and knowing things, is such a sad lonely occupation. Our minds and souls exist in attics and basements. We are the invisible wanderers at our jobs and even our own homes. Our own family members see us, talk to us, and don’t have a clue as to who we really are. They think we are clowns, deluded with absurd visions of grandeur that will never come to pass. And often, we see that more clearly and starkly than anyone else. For us, it is always a constant struggle, just to be.

We only really exist at informal get-togethers with others artists and like-minded individuals. Only then do our thoughts and our souls fly free and soar above the din and clutter of the daily grind. Our chal-lenge, our one and only hurdle and stumbling block, is to be able to keep on, to keep going, to laugh in the face of eternal obscurity, and never doubt that we are on the right path. To receive our daily rejec-tions and notices that we aren’t good enough, that our lives, our work and our being doesn’t measure up, doesn’t count, doesn’t matter to anyone. That is the challenge we face, and it isn’t easy.

JH: That is an amazing answer that goes in a direction I never imagined. You point to the soli-tary existence of an artist, as well, as a key reason artists gather together forming movements, schools, etcetera, or reach out on social networks. Do you think outlets such as Facebook or MySpace can “save” the artists from themselves?

MC: No. People give me “a hug” on Facebook but it isn’t the same as naked bodies rubbing against one another. There is an aura effect when humans are physically together. My grandparents played cards for sixty years until the card games had no meaning except to bond two people into the feeling of being one.

Shaking hands with a true friend, holding hands with someone you love, these are things that make us feel, make us know about being alive. I kinda miss that.

JH: Is there too much product? I am thinking specifically about too many chapbooks, too many web sites, journals, etc.?

MC: If you’ve ever seen the circus as a child, ever experienced Christmas morning, awake and alive, the whole world glowing before your eyes, you aren’t likely to ask if there’s too much of this, too much of a good thing, too much sunshine and too many flowers. I’ve never heard of an author spending his time, pouring out heart and soul, and finally getting something published at an ezine, or finally getting his lifelong work published as a chapbook - who wasn’t grateful, thrilled, ecstatic that at long last someone is listening, someone actually approves, likes, admires what he’s doing, what he is.

Maybe your question is - does it all have to be great. I don’t know. I can’t erase every good word I’ve ever written and try to replace it with something great. Why would I, who would I do that for. I can’t come before the Sunday congregation and say, “we’re skipping today’s sermon because I’m all out of great words.” I can only tell you what I know. I can only say it the way I know how. If it’s good enough, maybe you’ll like it, or maybe someone else will. Maybe on my wavelength there’s only one other per-son out there who’ll say “yeah, I get it, that’s great, that’s really special.” And maybe that’s the one person I’m trying to reach. Maybe that’s all I need, all that I’m here for.

Currently, most people don’t read. And those who do don’t read literature. That is the battle we are fighting, and every new zine, lit site, chapbook, and writer, is an ally in that battle. We need more, not less. Literature isn’t a good fun amusing distraction. It is an essential. Every piece of lit is an extension of the various bibles, philosophies, and histories; telling us who we are, why we are, and what we should be. Writers are people with something to say, but unfortunately nobody wants to listen. So every new venue that gives a writer a forum, a platform from which to yell out his truth is a good thing, a great thing.

JH: The more I read your responses; the more I admire your point of view. It’s fantastic. It seems to me that you have approached your responses from a very artistic point of view, in that your support of the artist within their art is absolute. That is why I asked a number of people to respond to my questions. Perspective is unique to the individual.

To clarify: I agree artists should release any and everything that is viable and deemed worthy of that production. However, I have noticed some authors have works released very close together. I am an example of this. I had one chapbook released in November and another in January. As-suming I have fans, and I say this with utter humility, releasing so close, or glutting the market, decreases the immediate value of the work.

All I am suggesting with the original question is that too much product “may” dilute the “desire” of a consumer to pursue that writer’s work. Again, I may be absolutely fucked in my thought. Any thoughts?

MC: We writers have a natural tendency to write our one story over and over again. Maybe because it is so important to us, so intrinsic to our being; and keep trying to get it right, make it perfect. But it’s probably better if we switch up; do things entirely different from time to time. Dare to go in different directions, push us to new styles, themes, and genres. I think you see that in both Shakespeare and Faulkner, the willingness to take the challenge, to leave the comfort zone and explore the unknown.

JH: Okay, switching gears, just a bit. My original intention for my inquiry revolved around the evolution of “literary movements.” I wanted to compare the evolution from the early 20th century to today. While it has evolved into a broader inquiry to the importance of New Media, I learned from my research that groups such as the Brutalists and Off Beat Generation came into existence due in part to social networking. In your opinion, is there a new literary movement afoot?

MC: Hopefully there’re a hundred new literary movements afoot, or a thousand even. The “Brutalists” are three people - Adelle Stripe, Ben Myers, and Tony O’Neill. I can’t speak for them, but I think their movement began as a refusal to be left out or left behind. If they found the doors of big publishing houses shut, and avenues closed off to them, their response was - we’ll make our own way and nobody can stop us. And they’ve been leading the way with a new spirit of literary independence and self-reliance. Their manifesto is perhaps something everyone should take a look at.

The “Offbeats” (I think) are a larger version of the same thing - talented writers banding together to share their work, their influence, and their resources. Andrew Gallix, the founder and chief editor of 3AM magazine, is the central figure in the Offbeat movement, but their numbers include many great writers, editors, and publishers, all with the same goal of making themselves heard in the literary world.

I was extremely lucky to meet Andrew Gallix a couple of years ago when he graciously invited me to a get-together of some of his literary friends. For me as a writer, it was the experience of a lifetime - meeting all these talented and influential people, and getting to know and become friends with some of them. Also gaining some bit of access to their literary sphere. To me, this illustrates the importance of being part of a larger movement of literary figures, and the dynamic effect it can have.

I got to know a little bit about the Offbeat movement; got a chance to meet Tony O’Neill and several other wonderful Offbeat writers - Heidi James, Melissa Mann, Joe Ridgwell, Matthew Coleman, and Lee Rourke. Not only talented and influential artists, but also people you can really enjoy being around and having a drink with.

JH: In the US we had poetic/literary movements germinate around magazines such as the Black Mountain Review, which evolved and/or melded into the Beats. How important are outlets such as Beat the Dust and 3AM to the dissemination of new theory/ideas/etc? (This may seem like an ob-vious question, but I am still not sure how to phrase it. I just wonder if these outlets carry the in-fluence or the writers?)

MC: I can’t speak for 3AM or Beat the Dust, but if they include Offbeat and Brutalist writers among their other contributors, I imagine that is based on the merits of the writing. My own experience is that friends don’t hesitate a second in rejecting my submissions if it’s something they don’t care for, or that doesn’t make the cut. In fact, probably the way you get to be an “Offbeat” writer is that somebody likes your writing and from there you get to know them and get to become a part of that circle.

As to whether it is the magazines or the writers who carry the influence, I think it’d have to be both. These magazines attract top-notch writers because they have a reputation for publishing top-notch writ-ing. And all of that leads to a wide readership, a large audience, and thus an escalating level of influ-ence for both the publishers and the writers.

And this is a good thing, or a great thing - if the writing can carry it off. Inevitably, it is the content, the words, and stories, poems, whatever, that is going to continually impress and attract a large number of readers. That’s the continuing challenge for everyone involved in this process. Okay, these magazines have provided you with a forum to speak to a lot of people - now, you better have something to say, and it better be good, or the readers are gonna go someplace else, in the click of a button.

But you can’t underestimate the value of being published in a big time magazine like 3AM or Beat the Dust. I think Tony O’Neill said the first thing he ever published was in 3AM. Maybe that was a spark or a breakthrough that helped ignite his great literary career. For me, it was a marvelous feeling of personal success and affirmation, to have something in Beat the Dust and 3AM magazine, or any of the top literary zines that are so hard to get into. You feel like thanking these people over and over again for giving you a chance.

JH: Do you think there will be a day when there’s a central Web site, along the lines of an Ama-zon that readers could turn to for underground writers? Or would the goal be to get broader dis-tribution?

MC: Well first off, as we’ve been discussing literary movements, one of the biggest and best connected is Outsider Writers, which is another group that I feel very privileged and honored to be a small part of. The Outsiders are a rather loosely affiliated though tightly connected group of North American writers whose goal of bringing meaningful literature to the public’s attention is quite similar to that of the Brutalists and Offbeats.

As for a central web site for underground writers, that sounds like a great idea. In the age of technol-ogy, if you can think it, it’ll happen. And of course, broader distribution - the ability for your words to reach the largest possible audience - is a goal of most writers. But these ideas don’t take into account the financial aspects of reading and writing. As it exists outside the Internet, literature is a business. Writers get paid; book distributors make their living selling this product to paying consumers. Perhaps that system will diminish or fade away in the download age. But I’m not sure that’d be good.

In a sense, I’d like to be able to touch a large audience with my words and ideas. Maybe entertain them and give them something worthwhile to think about. Something better than the stupid pabulum we so often see on television. But…I’d also like to get paid for doing so. I’d like to think that at some point I can write well enough, meaningful enough concepts, that people would buy my books. For the most part, we Internet writers try to put out a great and important literary product. And we do so for free. I suppose most, or at least some of us are hoping this could lead to a big book contract.

In an altruistic sense, I’d like to make a difference in the world. Be a part of changing things for the better. Feel like I’m doing something important. And kinda like everybody who works for a living, I’d like to get paid.

And the other problem is that as writers, editors, publishers, we’re always competing with each other. And it’s a cutthroat business. So in reality, this grand love affair of united artists is also, to some extent, a shark eat shark world.

JH: My question is not artists, as individuals, in some sort of union. LOL! That would be mass insanity. My reference was toward a central point, of any kind, where a consumer can go and find a book by Mikael Covey or Jack Henry, even if they are on different presses. This goes back to the idea of an over abundance of product. Maybe I am wrong but I do not see Amazon truly carrying ever book in print.

Also, I think your comment about goal is interesting. From my point of view, that is a response of a fiction writer. Perhaps I am wrong, but I imagine there are a number of writers that would counter your statement. Maybe not.

MC: Well, I think much of our discussion on literary movements already presupposes sort of a writers union. Not that any of us can ever agree on a lot of things - if you want a writer to agree with you, tell him you like his writing. Then at least you can agree on that. And it’s not that we’re such egomaniacs, but that you get so beaten down in this business, with all the rejection and failure. Often it’s like a great oasis in the desert when somebody says, “hey, I like that.”

Anyway, I’m all for writers unions. I’m a motherfucking pinko union organizer at heart - this machine kills fascists! But it’s awfully hard not to be constantly jealous of other writer’s successes. I guess the way around that is - if you get a chance to read other people’s work, find out that it’s good stuff, and then you can be happy for them; or take their success as a sort of victory for all of us.

But the opposite is even truer - when we see writing that we think is of poor quality, getting all sorts of ballyhoo and recognition. That just sinks us deeper into the mire, the under underground. And you hate to say “that’s pulp crap!” Because it sounds like you’re a sore loser; and of course you never want to go around making enemies. So, there you go. This union stuff is a sticky wicket.

JH: If a writer from the so-called underground gets published by a big New York Press, does that take them out of the underground? Or is like being in a street gang? Once in, in for life? In a related question: if an underground writer makes it to an uptown press, do they have the re-sponsibility to helps others?

MC: Tony O’Neill once told me “if we can’t help each other, what’s the point?” Now, I can see that as a principle we should all live by - help one another, it’s what life is all about. But clearly it’s not in-cumbent upon the artist to help the struggling artist. I think people like Steven King and JK Rowling, people of that ilk, could maybe venture a few of their many millions to help advance the arts and the struggling artists. But of course it’s a risky business. Then again, when you come right down to it, if art be the essence of our dreams, what better cause is there?

JH: Are there any obvious “steps” New Media publications are missing, in terms of marketing or distribution? It seems to me that some of these publications exist purely for small circles of read-ers and writers, with no single Small Press publication making great strides in growth. Do you think that is possible or even desirable?

MC: Steven King said of Internet magazines that we’re all a bunch of wannabe’s that are only read by other Internet writers. That’s probably true, to some extent. On the other hand, many of us write better than him, and have a lot more to say. And that’s the real reason to do this stuff anyway.

As far as marketing, it’s that old two-edged sword - we need to work together instead of each of us try-ing so hard to get ahead of the other guy. I travel all the way out to the New York to see Tony O’Neill and Lee Rourke, invite all the New Yorkers to come meet me at the KGB. Half of ‘em write back “my event or reading will be a couple a days later; why’nt you all come to that?” So yeah, we all got our own gig to promote, and we want that to be the one everybody shows up at.

I’m always trying to make the point to the big time lit bloggers that Cormac McCarthy and John Up-dike don’t need or want bloggers to review and critique their work. Christ almighty, the NY and London Time’s are already doing that. Lit bloggers ought to give at least half their space to underground writ-ers who actually do need and want the exposure. But like everybody else, bloggers want audience, and audience relates to what everybody already knows about.

But in viewing your thesis as a whole, I’d have to conclude that the only way we’ll ever get anywhere is to all work together. Maybe Soft Skull is the biggest of the independent publishers - they could attain an equal status with the big boys if they’d conglom with a whole bunch of other indie’s. But they won’t, so I guess it’s up to us to do that.

We’ll need to get all the indie’s together, both big and small, and work out a joint-venture system for mutual support and advancement. Who has the time, the pull, and the connections to make this happen? I don’t know. As artists and humanitarians, our first thought is always “what’s in it for me?” From that standpoint I’d say, check out my unpublished books - you can publish and market them, they’ll be best sellers, and we’ll all get filthy rich. And not just me, amongst us we can come up with dozens of top-notch books that’d be big hits with the proper marketing and promotion. If we but knew it, we’re sitting on a gold mine here, and all of us too stupid to realize it.

Think about it, we know the artists, we know the publishers, and we know the bloggers. All we need is somebody big and bold enough to put it all together.

JH: Last couple of questions…in the broadest sense where do you see New Media Literature go-ing? In a micro perspective, what’s the future of Lit Up Magazine?

MC: The future for Lit Up Magazine is wide open. Our target audience is six billion earthlings, and we anticipate reaching each and every one of them. In the near future, world leaders like the G-8 summit will need to check with Internet lit readers to make sure the G-8 guys are on the right side of the issues. That’s the kind of influence we’re looking for.

We plan on upgrading the site to include pop-out menu’s, live interactive chat, breaking news features, and all sorta other shit - print edition magazine, a publishing imprint, corporate sponsors, the works…or not. By the way, you know any web designers who want to do all this for…a great big thank you? Oh, yeah, and the benefit of mankind too.

You’ll think I’m putting you on, and you’d be dead wrong. It’s a visionary thing. And it’s going to hap-pen, only question is will we be in on it or not? Trust me, this is the new IPO, the new California gold rush. And it’s all at our fingertips, just waiting…

JH: Any thoughts you want to add about New Media Literature, poetic movements, small press, and/or Journals or Presses the consumer should be aware off…

MC: Just to tie all the loose ends together, we need to organize. We need to get together at a conference somewhere - Cicily Janus runs one out of Aspen that could work. Also Aleathia Drehmer has some interest in putting one on in upstate New York. And we need a central web site for all us to gather ‘round, keep in touch. We need for just a moment, to shed our massive egos and try to be a part of something bigger, something called planet earth. This is our world. It belongs to us. (Woodie Guthrie told me that, and it brought tears to my eyes.)

JH: Thanks for putting up with my questions. I greatly appreciate it. Final question, and, perhaps, most important: What’s coming up with Mikael Covey?

MC: Mikael Covey in London on a college study tour, back in ’77 or so; thought about hurling himself into on rushing traffic, but didn’t. Walking down the sidewalk he saw the most beautiful child, a little girl, come round the corner. Little kid with the face of an angel, and then her crutches, metal braces on little kid legs. Consider then, making a world that’s better for all little children, little kids in Darfur, in Palestine, anywhere, everywhere. Consider then, doing something in life that actually has value has meaning. Consider what we’re here for. And then do it.

Post Script - I realize that many of my responses contradict themselves; any bright little eighth-grade graduate fuck head editor could gleefully point that out. But to understand on a larger scale, if you’re telling the truth, it doesn’t matter if self-contradiction is actually a way of looking at two sides of the same coin.

interview: ben biesek

2009-05-21T07:24:00.000-07:00

New Media Literature, Small Press and
Interrelated Banalities of a Poetic Existence

As a writer I am dependent on the little publishing houses as well as the on-line and print magazines and journals to get my writing out. Sure, I could post my stuff on-line in a Wordpress blog or on MySpace, but those venues lacked certain “realness.”

A writer I respect a great deal, enough not to mention by name and get them involved in my petty ad-ventures, has said to me: “If you are serious about writing, you should be serious about publishing.

At some point I decided to submit to an on-line journal. I followed the advise of some, ignored most and sent 3-5 poems off (embedded in the email, of course.) and waited impatiently for my acceptance. It never came. For three months I repeated this effort with several journals. The rejections stacked up. At another equally vague point in my poetic maturation I discovered Benjamin Biesek’s Cause & Ef-fect Magazine. I sent the email and to my surprise, and that of my mother, I got accepted. Benjamin gained an instant lifelong fan.

Over the last couple of years I have watched Cause & Effect mature into one of the better literature journals. Tightly edited and deftly designed; each issue is unique, primarily due to the mix of writers, in short, a badass publication.

Recently, during an extended drunken conversation with several colleagues, (again nameless as I cannot coherently remember who I had this conversation with) around a fire pit in Palm Springs, California in December 2008, drunk on Two Buck Chuck Merlot, I began to ponder the future of literature, small press publications and the interrelated banalities of a poetic existence. As the conversation began to wane, due primarily to the lack of additional Two Buck Chuck, a few of us perused the Internet, looking at on-line journals and blogzines. Another thought hit me: New Media Literature.

Incited and inspired, I sat up all night, or what was left of it, thinking about the future. Where is the small press going? Is New Media Literature a real movement, such as Black Mountain or the Beats? Am I sitting on the cusp of something?

I came to realize that I have a unique position. One, I write for publication. That’s the only way I write and I only write for myself. Two, I publish a journal that no one has heard of, Heroin Love Songs. Three, I have a small press, d/e/a/d/b/e/a/t press, that retains its anonymity with pride. Point being I have a toe in several ponds. And I have friends. I can do this.

Benjamin and I traded a few emails, discussing the possibility of an interview that covered the core of my curiosity, New Media Literature and the State of Publishing. What follows is my first experience with being the interviewer, and not the interviewee. It’s not so easy. But Benjamin is very kind and understanding. I only annoyed him a little bit.

* * *

During January of 2009 I started and stopped my list of questions. This is not an easy task. I am taking a relatively broad topic and trying to distill it into something I can actually understand.

After completing the first list of Q’s, I decided I would ask other editors, writers, friends, foes and anar-chists their opinions on the same topic.
Benjamin is victim one.

Late on January 31, 2009 I sent out the questions, excited for the outcome. It dawned on me that I was more excited about questions on poetry and publishing the article than the outcome of the Super Bowl. My life has truly changed 180 degrees.

* * *

Jack Henry: With so many on-line lit zines, is it too easy to get published? Or, are there still high standards?

Benjamin Biesek: It’s probably easier to get published these days than in years or decades past, although I wasn’t around in the 60’s and 70’s and so {I} can’t speak to that time and place. But cer-tainly it seems like there are more lit publications now than then, hence it would seem to follow that there are more opportunities to put your work out there, so to speak.

As far as overall standards goes, I can only speak for myself; for my standards as a publisher, and I think that the easy assumption, that the standards have declined, is not necessarily true. Whose stan-dards are we talking about? And what are the standards? Random House has standards, the Paris Re-view has standards, Neon does, Cause & Effect does. It really depends on who you ask. And if the “standards have fallen”, what if anything does that mean?

First question, first response and I am not asking the question correctly.

I am curious about standards and quality. With so many zines, blogs, journals run by so many diverse people, certainly some have lower standards than others. Of course that sounds arrogant, I know that, but if each zine, blog, journal published nothing but the cream of the crop, wouldn’t we run out of po-etry, or are there that many great poets hiding in basements and posting on MySpace?

Fortunately Benjamin agreed to follow-up questions.

JH: Regarding standards, the question might be, are there any? I realize the bar is set by each entity, but standards as a whole, have they suffered? My answer would be based on the quality of submissions I get and what I read in other places. It’s increasingly a mixed bag.

BB: I think ultimately a literature journal or zine is only so good as the work it prints — design and/or visual presentation are secondary, as they should be. If you look at a publication like Kenyon Review, their layout is simple and bare bones. It’s the work that makes the publication. I think that what a zine, or journal, or digest, prints depends obviously on the editors, those who decide what gets put to ink and paper. Therefore, the standards vary wildly.

Speaking personally, I get anxious sometimes when reading submissions. I try to remember that, at the end of the day, you have to go with your gut. That’s my main criteria when contemplating a work for publication: Does it move me in a meaningful way? If so, then I’m apt to publish it.

Okay, so I asked the question wrong and I am being arrogant, but I do agree with Benjamin about indi-vidual criteria for publication. It’s really up to the editor. They print what they like, based on their in-dividual experience they bring to the reading of a particular piece under consideration.

JH: Are blogs diluting the quality of writing available?

BB: I think that blogs should be categorized separately from the small press/underground press zines and publications. They’re entities unto themselves, and should be seen as such. Blogs aren’t nearly as important as people make them out to be—a very select sliver of the world’s population even cares about the cultural impact of blogs. Certain blogs gain notoriety because the author has something valuable or insightful to say. You can find poor and high quality in all walks of life. Blogs are no excep-tion.

Personally I don’t subscribe to any blogs, and rarely read them. I don’t particularly care to read my own blog either. They shouldn’t be taken too seriously.

Most blogs suck, I agree with that. Waste question, move on.

Or is it? Blogs are integral to New Media. They are free, ubiquitous, viral; everyone has one. My grandmother has one about Septuagenarian Recovering Neo-Nazi’s. That she gets over a thousand hits a month horrifies me. But they aren’t a part of this conversation. At least at the moment.

JH: Have social networks such as MySpace and Facebook led to a new revitalizing in writing, specifically poetry?

BB: I think so, certainly. Networking is a big part of the small press scene. Small presses and zines couldn’t do what they’re doing without the Internet. At the same time, it’s pretty limited in a way. I think such networks have opened more doors, so in that sense there is a revitalization underfoot, but just how far that radiates out in the real world is a difficult question that I think often times is not given tough thought.

Poetry does seem to be undergoing a renaissance, but again, perhaps, that’s a misperception. How many people are reading your work, if you’re published by a zine? So, you have to ask the question, to what length or distance does this revitalization travel? Just because a small press publishes your work doesn’t mean there’s a great rebirth of poetry—that’s not to demean the poet or the press or zine, just to try and be realistic about things. There is something inherently valuable about the act of publishing. But we have to be careful about missing the forest for the trees—maybe the forest isn’t as big as you perceive it to be.

Notably, I don’t think the readership of poetry has grown along with these social networks; it may be giving them more food for thought, but you don’t see more gravitation towards the art of poetry. At least I don’t.

The first of a few oh shit moments.

Benjamin hits on a good point, one that I never considered when I started my press. Just because it’s printed, doesn’t mean it’s out there. Some of us have learned that the hard way.

When I started d/e/a/d/b/e/a/t press I had a Field of Dreams moment. If I build it, they will come. I found excellent writers, I edited the fuck out of each manuscript, I had people reread, revise and review, I got a webpage, I put out bulletins on MySpace and other places, and waited.

And waited…

Marketing is essential to any business and certainly a social network can help, but you need to push hard and often. When a press has one main cat doing the deed, marketing can slip, and who has the money to do it right? Few. “Just because you made doesn’t mean the masses will buy it.” That still resonates and will always resonate. Lesson learned.

But I disagree with Benjamin about readership. I think more people read a wider variety of poetry due to the worldwide accessibility the Internet offers. The Internet has opened a great many doors for in-quiry. Without it, I would have never found Benjamin or Cause & Effect, of all the writers I appeared with in my first publication.

JH: But with more zines, more poets being accepted, and, one might suppose, a greater offering with a greater potential readership, wouldn’t there be a renaissance based on access alone?

BB: In a way I think that’s absolutely right: Poetry is certainly more accessible and more of it is being published. In that sense certainly there’s a renaissance of sorts. I guess I’m trying to compare it with, say, the 1960’s and the Beat generation. I’m trying to place your question in some sort of context. Maybe I’m missing something here.

The thought of poetic movements, as Benjamin mentions, has begun to hammer my skull. I know of a few in England, a couple in France, one guy in Spain but few in the USA. With the Internet being as ubiquitous and egalitarian perhaps a movement that is absolutely focalized around a journal, location or school of thought is not necessary for a rebirth or renaissance in poetry or writing.

JH: It is my sense that poetry has regained some prominence. I base this assumption on new on-line zines and blogs on social networks, yet it also appears people do not buy poetry related products. What can you attribute this to?

BB: I would agree with both of those points. Poetry has never really been for the masses—at one time poetry was very popular, but I think poetry really was something other than poetry back then. I mean, it was poetry, in the true sense, with meter and stanzas; you had people writing villanelles and then abstract poetry, and you had a select part of the readership of poetry that got off on the poetry it-self.

At the same time, poetry for the masses, hundreds of years ago, was entertainment first and literature second. Many people were illiterate; the iPod and MTV did not exist. Poetry served to entertain. The lyrics of a pop song can be quite poetic, but that’s never the focus with the majority of audience. My point here is I think you can draw a line between the apparent new prominence of poetry and the lack of sales—people like to be entertained, but there are new forms of entertainment everyday.

JH: You bring up a great thought. Poetry as entertainment. Isn’t poetry, today, still a form of entertainment? And this may elude to the difference between British and American literature taste. Perhaps Americans view “literature” as entertainment…

BB: A friend of mine said “Poetry is, or should be, mostly, a version of what you honestly feel screaming out of you.” I liked his description; that makes sense to me.

I wouldn’t classify poetry as a form of entertainment any more than I would a good book or a Schnabel painting. Movies, video games, sports — these seem to the chosen forms of entertainment nowadays. Personally, I derive more enjoyment out of a good poem than an NHL game, but I know there are peo-ple out there who have an antithetical view of entertainment. I can’t say how Americans view litera-ture, compared to or irrespective of the Brits. I’m sure it runs the gamut, like with anything. I suppose for some people poetry is far from entertaining.

At this point I will note that I edited and formatted the Q&A before I read it. The big game is on; my team is losing, and then winning before ultimately losing. The irony is not lost on that I am editing an interview about poetry while watching the biggest cash-fucking-cow entertainment event in the free world.

I won’t comment on Benjamin’s responses because they are his and I agree with pieces and bits. For me poetry is entertainment, pure and simple, as is literature, sculpture, painting, dance, classical music; so-called high art. A reader of the form brings a unique experience to the viewing of that object. I re-turn to this concept frequently. Popular culture mediums such as video games, television, film, pulp fiction, comics, and related are every bit art as they are entertainment. Anything consumed by the pub-lic for pleasure can be considered entertainment, anything that detracts or takes one away from the pre-sent mind to a reflective mind, is entertainment.

And yeah, I am a bit of dick for stepping on Benjamin’s answer, but it is an interesting contrast, one I imagine varies widely from person to person.

JH: Will New Media change the way a reader consumes or views literature?

BB: Certainly. I’d very much like to try out one Amazon’s Kindle readers. At first I was appalled by the idea of it, but now I’ve very much intrigued by it.

It seems like we are in a new era in terms of communication, both interpersonal and globally, but it’s hard to historicize when you’re in the moment. But it seems like the digital revolution has had some sort of impact already.

JH: What is the future, as you see it, of New Media and, specifically, publishing in the small press?

BB: I feel that the online small press scene is overpopulated, to the point that its self defeating in a way. At some point I think a culling will happen, especially with the economic downturn. But I don’t think small presses are going away any time soon.

JH: What do you mean, “self defeating?” I think I know what your comment implies but I don’t want to presume…

BB: I think small presses are self-defeating, to a large extent, if the work they publish is not being widely circulated. If you are publishing the work of a poet, that’s great — but if no one reads it, what end are you attaining? Maybe the act of publishing is enough of an end in itself, but I would guess that 9 out of 10 small presses aren’t publishing poetry simply as an act of art. So when I say that the New Media poetry scene is self-defeating because it is overpopulated, I mean simply that no real impact is being made because the work is not getting out there (to a wider audience), yet the concept behind pub-lishing is to do just that: to get your wares out to an audience.

I think you run into problems when you assume that something is creating cultural waves simply be-cause it is out there, on the Internet, available for anyone to read. I think you could look at the Gutten-berg Project of an example of how the New Media was misconstrued. New media is just a vehicle; the content is what matters. If you want to publish poetry for the sake of publishing poetry, there is nothing wrong with that. Just don’t expect a revolution to be borne out of it.

Put another way, I think that the cultural, social, artistic, etc. dynamics surrounding New Media are different than they were for, say, the small press publications of the 1960’s, and I see a lot of e-publications emulating their predecessors, when, in my opinion, that is not enough for survival, let alone flourishing.

Another oh-shit moment. Benjamin schooled me completely with this response.

Going back to another question, about building it and they will come, this question and response circles that same thought. I imagine, and I am going to find out, that many of the publishers that started a jour-nal didn’t do it for the art. Hell, I started mine so I could publish my own work! Both my press and journal are narcissistic realizations of my inner need to scream, look at me! Hopefully I have evolved a bit from trying to out do the alpha ape, but I am afraid of that answer, so I won’t ask it.

New media really is a means to an end. Like the printing press, New Media in its essential forms, car-ries the message and is not necessary the thing we peg art upon. It’s just paper. Somehow I never thought of it this way.

In my simple brain I thought the New Media form was the thing. Sure, you had to have good writing and tight editing, but hell man, I have a journal on the Internet. That’s art, that’s something. It’s some-thing to me, a few in my circle that guy in Spain, but who else.

Some how we have to get past the form and into the substance. There’s a lot of truth in that thought. Benjamin says it well. That question remains unanswered

Note and Disclaimer: Part of my research about New Media led me an on-line writing commonly re-ferred to as the Brutalists. Located in England, the core group developed from email exchange be-tween Benjamin Myers, Adelle Stripe and Tony O’Neill. This lead to an interest in Off Beat Gen-eration and Andrew Gillix, which lead to an interest in movements in general. My supposition sug-gested that New Media Literature might be a movement as well.

While Benjamin Biesek may not know much of the English movements, it did lead to an interesting discourse about music and its relation to poetry.

JH: Do you think there is a difference between writing in England and the United States? I ask this because I am aware of the Brutalist and Off Beat Generation movements but am unaware of any “movements” in the US.

BB: I’m not as up to date on this material as you are, Jack. I can’t really speak to this question. I don’t follow literature—new writers, new movements—that closely. I think there’s always been a cul-tural divide, going back to the American Revolution—maybe that cemented it. You’re talking about dif-ferent countries with inherently different cultures, different ideologies, {and} different points of pride.

I think the Brits are ahead of the Americans in many ways as far as art is concerned. I DJ a radio show and play a lot of new, indie, alternative rock, new electronica, some more obscure stuff. British music, music coming out of the UK—I think the British audience is more sophisticated. They seem to care more about the music itself; Americans seem to be as much concerned with the image and personas of rock and roll as they are with the music itself. Look at Rolling Stone, look at Spin, what they are selling; look at how few people subscribe to The Fader or Wax Poetics, which present more sophisticated and underground reportage. I’m guessing the respective literature “scenes” would follow suit.

JH: This goes back to a comment above. Do you think literature is viewed differently in differ-ent places, such as between England and American or even in classes such as educated and un-dereducated?

BB: I really can’t say. I’m sure it is: I think a populace’s view on literature correlates with many as-pects of that culture. I can’t begin to dissect these influences. I don’t really follow contemporary litera-ture closely at all, so I feel out of my depth here.

JH: And related to the music response in the above question, I agree that music tastes mimic music tastes, to a degree. Where does this “sophistication” come from? I realize this is highly subjective but I am curious.

BB: Yeah, I’m not sure myself, either. All I can say is that there seems to be different cultural atti-tudes when comparing the US and the UK, art and literature included. This could be the result of any number of respective factors: the age of the countries, the food they eat, the sex they have, the number of hours in the workweek.

Sophistication doesn’t equal superiority; I didn’t mean to say that the one scene is better than or supe-rior to the other, that wasn’t my meaning. I meant “sophisticated” as a descriptor of the music itself, not the individuals making the music (or their level of intelligence or craft), if that makes sense.

The respective music scenes in the US and UK are really alive and vibrant right now. There are strengths and weaknesses inherent in each scene, on both sides of the pond. I think the US still outdoes the UK when it comes to pure, unadulterated rock and roll, Kings of Leon and My Morning Jacket be-ing two examples.

I feel that this is a golden age of music; that we’re really in one right now. And it’s happening all around the world. You really have a culmination of genres, groups like Animal Collective and Foals and artists like Pete Doherty and Bon Iver who are creating profound music, in the process drawing from the past and synthesizing disparate genres and different musical generations. The Swedes are making great folk music, and you have artists like MIA and Santogold bending genres yet gaining mainstream acceptance at the same time.

The next section focuses on Benjamin’s efforts with his press and related activities. As mentioned I admire small presses, and I strive to make Heroin Love Songs as good as Cause & Effect. While re-lated to the core inquiry, my fan curiosity is evident as well.

After I reread the Q&A I found a few more oh-shit moments buried, gems of knowledge, but it’s also testimony to the struggles each publisher and editor endures. Each day we face challenges in market-ing, distribution, quality, return on investment (and I don’t mean monetary) and a thousand other things.

JH: Would Cause & Effect be as successful without the Internet?

BB: In a word: no. The Internet is very much a jungle, a digital jungle, call it what you will. If you are putting out a zine that has something to say, or a blog that has something to say, then people will gravitate towards it. The Internet just helps you to put your product out there, and then you don’t have much control beyond that.

JH: What is the future of Cause & Effect and the new press you have?

BB: I’m actually going to be taking a hiatus from Cause & Effect beginning this summer, after the Summer 2009 issue, the second annual Art Issue and fourteenth issue all told. [Note: Being a fan this hit me hard. Nothing lasts forever I suppose-Ed.] I’ve been publishing Cause & Effect for nearly two years now. Lately though I’m trying to take more interest in the world around me, in broadening my field of vision; there is a lot of important work that needs to be done. I never really set any goals for myself in terms of my zine; this has been just a sort of experiment in art, so to speak. I enjoy planting seeds, and then letting whatever evolves go to seed at some point.

As far as Poptritus Press goes, I don’t see much of a future for it. I have a couple of projects in devel-opment, both poetry chapbooks, and would love to hook up with some talented artists or writers. I like publishing because it allows me to take the middle man position, in a way that is very much behind the scenes, and I hope to continue my work as a publisher in some way, shape, or form. Finding clients who understand the time and care inherent in good design has been a major stumbling block. It’s been an uphill battle for me, professionally and personally. I think I’m a bit jaded, but hopefully something will come along soon that revitalizes me.

JH: I agree with being jaded. It is tough to run a zine, but Cause & Effect is one of the best out there. The direction you seem to be heading is enviable. With you stepping away, will C&E con-tinue?

BB: It’s too early to say. If someone were to step forward with a sizeable grant, enough to support Cause & Effect Magazine financially, then I would reverse my position in a heartbeat — I really love editing, and print design, and all that; it drives me, to a certain extent.

As it stands now, I put in too many hours and don’t see enough financial return in order to continue on. As you know, running a small press or a zine is a labor of love. I admire anyone who can do it for an extended period of time.

It’s really nice to have received recognition. I appreciate your kind words, you’ve been touting my zine for a while now and I owe you a debt of gratitude. I’ve been blessed to have Cause & Effect received so well. I try to remain humble about it, and to put the work I publish first.

I think change is a good thing, and so I will likely take some time off this summer and reassess things with C&E.

JH: Regarding Poptritus Press, why no future? Is that just you or the state of presses? Your comment, “Finding clients who understand the time and care inherent in good design has been a major stumbling block,” is well taken. I have issues with distribution. I have long thought some sort of guild of presses would help. Do you have any thoughts that might mitigate the issues we face?

BB: I think that answer may have been a bit glib — youth speaking. My answer was purely focused on myself, speaking to the future of my small press, not anyone else’s press. Poptritus will be around through the summer at least, and I hope that it continues on in some form. I’ve got a couple of projects of my own that I will be working on in the coming months, though they’ll just be for a select group of friends and family — art projects, rather than literary endeavors. Ultimately, my position with Poptri-tus is the same with Cause & Effect.

You’ve pose an interesting idea here. A guild or union or sorts might help a little bit, in that pooling resources would mean a group of “little guys” would become a “big guy”, i.e. an entity capable of competing with some of the larger independent presses. I think organizations like Small Press Distribu-tion and Duotrope’s Digest are doing great work, but at the same time there aren’t a lot of services that cater to the typical small press. It’s really a tough market, for various reasons. Really it seems to boil down to cold, hard cash. Cash can help mitigate some of those issues such as distribution, advertising, paying contributing writers, and so on. There’s a feedback loop there.

I don’t know if any of that resonates with you or not. I’d be curious to hear your thoughts.

JH: With big house publishing companies in decline as well as book shops, do you think “lit-erature” as we might refer to it today, will continue to have value in an American life and, if so, how would one consume it?

BB: That’s a good question, and a difficult one to answer. I certainly hope literature continues to have value. I live for magazines like The Sun and Harper’s, for radio shows like Selected Shorts or This American Life; I know I’m not alone, though I also know that the audiences and demographics for such forms of literature are limited. I think the truly talented writers will continue to find a venue for their work, and I hope there work is being read. Authors like John Wray, David Foster Wallace, Bolaño, Chabon—these are very talented writers who deserve our attention.

It’s impossible to say exactly why these publishing houses are in decline—maybe new media is playing a role in this. Newspaper circulation numbers are falling, but you could argue that the American popu-lace is more informed than ever. Maybe the decline of the big publishers is a result of shifting priorities in the world today, or maybe it’s because a lot of what they publish is shit. I think the myth that no one reads any more is just that, a myth, but perhaps there is some credence to the claim. I’m sure there are one thousand factors contributing to this decline. Whose to say that the Readers are more responsible than the Publishers, or vice versa, or if the Authors are to blame. If the demand is dwindling, maybe that’s because the quality of the supply is poor.

Ultimately, literature is art. Art is inherently valuable to humans. And so I have to believe that good books and good poetry will be here for a while longer.

JH: Well, Ben, I don’t know where big publishers are going. Their business model is failing, costs are rising, quality is dropping, audience is fading…it’s a big issue. But I think the future will be bright. It is my belief that smaller presses (I hate the term “Small Press”) will come fur-ther to the forefront. Each press will have two to five authors and really do the books right, al-though, writers making a living writing will become more of an exception.

BB: I think you’re more in tune with the state of publishing than I am, Jack. You could be right. Briefly, I would say that small presses will remain small presses, and big presses will remain big presses, and you can’t be one or the other.

I’d be curious to hear more of your thoughts on this subject. Do you see the big-name publishers being supplanted by the small guys, or do you just think that there will be more parity eventually? I hope you’re right about a bright future for the little guys.

It’s now well North of Midnight and February 2, 2009. I am officially forty-five. I reread the section above a couple of times and realized that we, and I say we most generically, are in the midst of change. Okay, I know we have all heard the word change a bit much in the last two years, but in terms of pub-lishing, the change is here.

In the middle of December 2008, many of the big NY City publishing houses started cleaning house. Mass layoffs, delays in publication, trims in author lists; it’s a new day, and that anyone is surprised is, well, as surprise. The business model of relying a big sellers to pay for smaller, “arty” things is des-tined to fail. When I mention a silver lining in the above exchange I really mean it.

When a large structure breaks down, either intentionally or by market forces, the fallout will create amazing things. Some of the suddenly unemployed editors will find other jobs at other houses, some will leave publishing and become lawyers or managers at Wal-Mart, but a few will see the opportunity, the moment at hand. They will start a press or a journal, they will try just as the rest of us, no different than the rest of us, different only in the way their point-of-view is educated.

Benjamin suggests that big presses will survive. I think he is right. They will crumble a bit, but merg-ers will happen. Someone has to publish cookbooks and self-help texts. But little guys, like Benjamin Biesek will continue on and put out an amazing product. It’s not easy. After reading Benjamin’s com-ments, anyone can see that. He said it earlier; maybe we are too deep into the forest to understand the trees.

New presses will come and go. I see it every day. Good writing will boil to the top, always does, al-ways will. Some things are certainties. How they are carried to market, how they are consumed will surely change. We live in ever changing world and the poets will always strive to explore those changes through their words, revelations, insights. It can be entertaining, it can be art.

Benjamin Biesek has made me look at this project differently. New Media is a means to an end. Seems simple now, but I am pretty dense. New Media Literature is the art that is carried through to the con-sumers by a particular media. Key in the conversation is that there are bound to be a dazzling array of opinion, each comment valid, unique, and pointing the discourse to a conclusion.

One/Two person presses will eventually realize they need to work with other like-minded presses to survive. A guild of presses with common goals, common means might be an avenue to survival. Members of that guild will have from 2 to 10 writers that they promote, print and publish. They can focus on those efforts. Combining those efforts with others provides a breadth of offerings. Through joint marketing and distribution these presses will benefit from size and the ability to act as a bigger press, but retain their uniqueness. When you are drowning on a wide-open sea it is better to work to-gether and survive longer, than to drown and die alone. Each press and publisher will bring a unique aspect to the endeavor. Indeed there is strength in numbers.

JH: I really appreciate you candid comments. Any parting shots? Any guidelines for submit-ting to Poptritus Press?

BB: All of my projects to date with Poptritus Press (all of them poetry chapbooks) feature a serial-ized cover design, which I modeled after Tschichold’s work with Penguin as well as some other great designs from back in the day. I’d love to develop some more poetry chapbooks, keeping with the serial-ized cover — thus creating an aesthetic or “look” for Poptritus’ poetry books. Creating a series of a dozen or so titles with the Poptritus cover is what I had in mind initially.

I’d also love to sink my teeth into a meatier project, like designing a novel or an art book, something that will test my abilities as a designer. Basically I’m open to any and all ideas for projects associated with Poptritus. I have no formal training in graphic design yet am inextricably and unexplainably drawn to publishing. I love everything about it, and would love to continue on with it.

The dream, of course, is to find clients for whom money is no object, or who is interested in a book de-sign that is going to push the boundaries of creativity, or both. I’m willing to work tirelessly and dili-gently for my client, so long as compensation is provided.

JH: Last thought – I knew we should do this on the show. It would have been great but this rocks as well. Thanks my friend, and if I can help in any way, let me know.

BB: Thanks so much, Jack. You’ve got a good thing going with d/e/a/d/b/e/a/t and Heroin Love Songs. I hope your fire doesn’t burn out any time soon.

I sincerely appreciate being given this opportunity. It’s been fun.

I consider Benjamin Biesek a friend and I admire the work he does with Cause & Effect greatly. Early into this whole interview process I realized I couldn’t do it in a traditional way. Hopefully Benjamin realizes that if I disagree with him it’s with the utmost respect. This interview stated as a first stab at a project and ended up being a revealing introspection into small press, publishing, journals, New Media Literature, and the interrelated banalities of a poetic existence.

You can reach Benjamin Biesek at:
info@cemagazine.net
info@poptritus.com,
ben.biesek@yahoo.com

You can reach Jack Henry at:
jackhenry951@hotmail.com

interview: tony o'neill

2009-05-21T07:20:00.000-07:00

This Kid is on Fire

Jack Henry: I know you are an original member of the Brutalists and understand the origin. What value do movements have? Is a like-minded community or movement important to the suc-cess of individuals within that group?

Tony O’Neill: I think that the idea of joining a group, is probably he antithesis of how most writers feel. We’re a strange, prickly bunch of people, and often we don’t do well in group situations. The Brutalists have a kind of shared energy, and shared sense of purpose, but really it was just away of differentiating ourselves from what was and is going on in the mainstream right now. In

terms of value, it helped us to promote the writing. When we started it, Ben, Adelle and myself were all corresponding regularly, and exposing each other to new writers, kind of bouncing ideas off of each other, getting in-spiration that way. Giving it a name, and launching a movement seemed to be a logical next step. The first notice any of us got in the ‘mainstream’ media was a write up in the Guardian that mentioned the Brutalists, alongside the “off-beat generation” writers and others. The thing is, we were all getting lumped in with various movements whether we intended to or not, so it made sense for us to at least name it ourselves, and retain a degree of control for ourselves. We have always said that Brutalism is a kind of open-ended thing, and that anyone can use the name. I have always been fascinated by the idea of literary movements, or writers getting together to push agendas. It’s a long tradition, and I think it makes the process of promoting your work seem a little less isolated.

JH: Are there earlier movements or schools of writing that the Brutalists take inspiration from? Are there influences outside of writing that are important?

TO: I think that the point about “influences outside of writing” is pretty close ot the mark. I come from a music background, and I take as many music influences in my writing as literary. I feel that there is a real snobbishness with a certain kind of poetry reader when it comes to work which references wider culture. If somebody asks me about poetic influences, why cant I mention Bushwick Bill, or Tom Waits? Why do I have to pretend to like fucking Keates or whatever? Why can’t you apply the energy and DIY aesthetic of punk to writing? I mean it’s all pretty basic stuff as far as I’m concerned, but people seem to think that the very idea of all of that is totally beyond the pale. But also, in terms of literary move-ments I think that stuff like the beats, the kitchen sink realists, and the stuff like Bukowski (that kind of falls in between movements and is quite hard to classify) are all important influences.

JH: You are a great inspiration to many writers having come from the literary “underground” and various NEW MEDIA venues, to a published author on a large, well-respected press. How important are NEW MEDIA outlets (blogs, on-line zines, blogzines, etc) to writers?

TO: They’re vital. I’d go as far as saying that they are now the main source for readers to find new writers. Think about it – when you start off, and you submit your work are you going to submit to a “respected” poetry journal, that will take 6 months minimum to even respond to your inquiry, and if they do you will be printed up in a magazine that has a readership of maybe 2, or 3 thousand? Or will you go to a website that might get more than 5 thousand hits A WEEK, and who will either accept or reject you within a matter of weeks? I mean, it’s no contest. And despite the fact that my new book just came out on a mainstream publishing house, I have no illusions that fucking “Poetry magazine” would touch my work with a barge pole. Why? Because those magazines only publish a very specific kind of poetry. It’s the kind of poetry that people who don’t really read poems assume that all poetry is like: flowery, metaphor-ridden horseshit. I don’t think that there is much of interest in the mainstream po-etry mags, and I go to the internet for most of what I read.

JH: It seems that on-line zines come and go with great frequency, although, of late, I think there are more than ever. As more and more outlets for writers come on-line, do you think this will di-lute the quality of writing as a whole? Is it too easy to get published on-line? Or the opposite. More outlets means more opportunity for good writing?

TO: Yes, the quality of published writing online is of course diluted. I mean, there are so many bad poets and writers out there – that’s nothing new. And there are going to be people who start up online magazines who have bad taste. However, its easier to find writing that you like because you aren’t spending ten dollars or whatever before you find out that everything inside of this magazine is crap. If you don’t find what you are looking for, you disregard it, and move on. And the fact that the interesting writers are able to find their audience now, that they can find a regular platform for their writing, well that for me totally cancels out the problem of bad poems or short stories appearing on the net.

JH: I read a review you wrote about Noah Cicero and a self-published book he produced. It was very favorable both for the writing and the effort of producing the book. A recent article in the New York Times suggested that POD books had limited value. What is your opinion toward self-publishing books and/or print on demand?

TO: Moby Dick was originally self-published. POD is as good, or as useless as you make it. It de-pends what you put between the covers, and how smart you are at marketing yourself. But what POD does do, is that it levels he playing field. Whereas in the past only the wealthiest authors could consider printing up their own book and trying to find an audience that way, now it’s affordable and easy. Sure, a lot of the people who print up their own books have terrible books that should never have been pub-lished. But if for every 100 of these, POD produces just one author with the talent of Noah Cicero, how can it be a bad thing? We can’t look to places like the New York Times for a take on this, because they are on he outside looking in. It’s like asking your grandma advice on how to program a DVD player.

JH: Do you think POD allows for too much product? Is there a glut?

TO: Again, the only problem I have with POD is not that there’s a glut of crappy books (in my opinion there’s a glut of crappy books on the mainstream guys lists too), but that it does allow for someone who is not so talented – but great at self promotion – to get ahead. I’ve seen writers like this – they are mas-ters of self-promotion, and you kind of have to admire their balls, but the books aren’t there yet. But that’s a small price to pay for something that is helping to get genuinely talented authors recognition, and publishing deals.

JH: Brick and mortar booksellers are struggling, as are the major publishing houses. To me it seems that New Media will be the primary outlet for consumers. Actual books may not disappear completely but certainly they will become less dominant. From a writer’s perspective, what is your opinion about the future of publishing?

TO: I think at the moment there is a confluence of things that are all going to shake the industry – the economy is in freefall, and that old model of book publishing if going out the window. I think that this really will affect chains like Barnes and Nobles, and the older, mustier publishers who don’t know how to adapt. I think that all up and coming writers – if they’re smart – will welcome this. I’m always in favor of a kind of scorched earth, rip it up and start again ethos. I’m not going to stop writing. If the entire publishing industry collapsed tomorrow, then the writers will be the ones who survive, because they do what they do because they HAVE to.

JH: It seems that the Brutalists have a certain style which might be described as “unflinching, absolute honesty.” Do you see this style of writing in the States?

TO: Of course – I mean this kind of writing has always existed, and the Brutalists would not deny that they stole more than a few of their moves from American authors. People like Donald Goines, or Clarence Cooper Jr were doing it in the 70s in a very specific way. I mean they were selling a lot of books, but not getting any kind of recognition because they were marketed primarily at back audiences. They weren’t seen as “legitimate”. I think it’s a voice that’s more specific to urban areas, than specific to a particular country. I guess there are more crossovers between British and American writers doing this sort of thing because having lived in urban Britain and urban America, I’d say the differences be-tween us are pretty cosmetic.

JH: Some have suggested that poetry has entered a sort of Renaissance and revival, thanks, in part to social networks such as MySpace or Facebook. How would you respond to this?

TO: Well I’m probably he wrong person to ask, because I’m not on either of them. I think that poetry is experiencing a resurgence because it’s actually a perfect form for our times – quick, immediate, and it fits nicely on a computer screen. I think that we should be planning for a resurgence in the short story too. I do see the benefits of social networking in one way, but in another way when I look at these things it just re-enforces to me how banal most peoples interests are, and I think that the downside of these sites is that it can make stars of the most banal people, rather like reality TV. Now everybody thinks that they’re interesting, and that they have something to say. I find it all a bit depressing. To be honest, I’d rather go to a bar and meet people that way that over a computer screen.

JH: What is the future of “literature?” Does “literature” actually still exist?

TO: I think literature (with a capital “L”) is an overused term. It’s an abstraction to me. I don’t think of what I do as “literature” any more than I strive for it not to be “literature”. Stuff like that; I dunno for a writer I think it’s a consideration that would stifle you a bit. You just have to do what you can do and hope for the best.

mark walton

2009-02-11T19:05:00.000-08:00

The Maze

My memories of meeting you
are kind of scattered.
My mind shattered by pills.
Glittering fragments
splintered on the dance floor,
picking up reflections
from the mirror-ball lights
and the whites of eyes.

I’m feeling alright.

It’s dark and hot
and I’m lost in the rhythm,
submerged as the bass quickens through me.

Someone pushes past
and I surface in a panic,
gulping air and looking ‘round,
and you’re there beside me.

Smooth, tight, white body.
Jaw set, eyes wide.
A handsome young lad
as lost as I am.

You turn,

and with a smile
you break the frozen drug mask
into pieces.
And beneath it,
dark eyes dance.

Damn, you’re handsome.
And I want some.

But before I can say a word,
the warmth of your smile
hits my chest,
breaks in a wave over my head,
and in a rush,
I’m submerged once more.

Before I disappear completely,
you grab my hand
and whisper in my ear,

‘Follow me’.

You lead me through the
labyrinth of passages
and stairs,
through a sea of sweating flesh
and beer and piss,
to God-knows-where.
Somewhere cooler, calmer,
with people seated everywhere.

A low buzz instead of a tom-tom beat.

You say:
‘Come here’,
‘Chill out’,
‘Sit there’.

I slide down the wall
to the floor,
legs apart.
You sit between them,
cool back to my chest.
My arms around you
cross your heart,
my chin upon your shoulder.
We’re a perfect fit,
though I’m guessing
I’m a few years older.

‘So, what’s your name..?’
Well it’s a start.

‘What’ve you done?’
‘Where you from?’
‘Want some water? gum? anything?’
‘What?’
‘-thing?’
‘Can I…?’
‘What?’
(sigh)
‘Doesn’t matter… Kiss me.’

A low hum and people stare
at the two skinhead boys over there.
Girls smile. Boys glare.

‘What d’you do?’
‘What you into?’
‘Anything really, what about you?’
‘Take me home and find out’.

More disjointed,
drug-fucked,
dirty talk,
‘til the words run out,
and pills kick in again,
and the filthy beat
coming through the floor,
drags us

down,

down,

down,

once more into the music.

Nine Wishes

I wish I'd never looked now.
Never taken the careless opportunity
to see who the message came from,
or what it said.

My need to know
over-riding your right to privacy.

I wish I'd never seen the words
that told me what you'd done,
behind my back
and how much fun you'd had.

Too much information
for my overactive imagination.

I wish you hadn't lied to me,
or blinked at me in
slowly dawning comprehension,
as you realised
that you'd been caught out in your deception.

I wish you hadn't gone ahead
and made the meeting prearranged.
Leaving me alone to my devices,
whilst you indulged your pleasures
and your secret, unshared vices.

I wish that things were different,
that the trust remained untarnished.
That each phone call,
and each absence,
didn't fill me with such anguish.

I wish for naive innocence returned.
I wish the fresh green leaves of love
remained unburned.
I wish I'd had more self-respect
and that I'd simply walked away
and never told you what I'd seen.

I wish that it was you, not me,
left stood bewildered and bereft,
and wishing for what might have been.

For A Friend

Boyfriend-dodging for stolen kisses
in recessed darkness.
You, rubber clad, mohawked,
dangerous looking.
A friendship seeded in furtive
suckfuckfumbled moments.

We swap numbers.

Waking next morning I find your cock strap
in the pocket of my jeans,
warmsoft leather between my fingers,
and, playing Prince Charming,
I come to your house to return it.

You look smaller in daylight.
Glasses on.
Mohican softtousledblond.
Both more sheepish
than last night’s fuckclub bravado.

Pushed against the wall for more slowgrope kisses,
‘Can’t stay, Sexy – I’ll be back tho’.

But then you’re gone.

Back to the metropolis.
Convalesced and West Countried out.
Bored and horny for more.

Business trips brought new adventures.
Cheap Kings Cross hotel rendezvous.
Running like wolves through neon Soho,
leering and mischief making.
Friendship forged in
Stella and ketamine.

Mornings waking bruised and confused.

But we survive confusion and contusions,
diagnoses and suicide bombers,
breakdowns and overdoses.
We share confidences and condolences,
and when the bullshit mask of confidence slips,
there’s no questions,
just the softest of soft shoulders,
or the sharpest of whiplash quips.

Each the other’s ‘other boyfriend’.
The one who knows,
who sees, sideways maybe,
through the jokes and the jackass laughs,
the go-on-then-just-another nights.

Brotherlover,
who knows where the bodies are buried,
where the self-destruct button lies,
and just how close the finger hovers over it.

And with each hard truth
the respect grows,
the bond strengthens,
and catching the glint in your eye
we down another,
light a defiant cigarette,
and laughing, ‘Dare you’, disappear
into another suckfuckfumbled Soho night.

samantha ledger

2009-02-11T19:04:00.001-08:00

Electra

Do not include me
in your wayward fondling.
I was rampant beneath these sheets
before
your hands shifted towards my warmth.
Swarming about a fragile frame -
blame riddled bone shafts
hollowed out until concave -
brittle chips hips
overworked.

I am Electra.

I dance naked underneath the moon
cold - blue skinned.
Slimmed to starved I am consuming
self centered cells -
melded maligned to divinity.
Your overwhelming urge to claim
girls as your own blood
floods my mouth

I am drowning.

Let me lay silent in your arms
as you pander the ample curve
of flesh.
Beneath shallow breath I am leaving
you cannot contain me.
Free I shall slip from your embrace
with grace I shall leave.

I am your biology

Bound with fists and flushed passion
fashioned from Freud’s own text.
Watch me I am burning -
ash lifting into blood red skies
I am spread sprawling bawling
spawning a multitude stillborn lies.

I am my own complex

I am Electra

mathew d'abate

2009-02-11T19:03:00.000-08:00

Going After The Darkness

raising the black halo
and wearing it like a crown
sitting on
the edge of the bed
staring at the yellow paint

when the night gives no
second prizes

when the shadows are
silver tongued

candles all burnt down
empty beer bottles
no more dreams
last drinks

when you chase dreams
all you will find are
ghosts

and they will not speak to you
until you know the secret their death.

ross vassilev

2009-02-11T19:01:00.000-08:00

The Fall of Rome, Again

it ain’t the 60s
but it’s still a damn
interesting time to
live in America

watching the Empire
exhaust itself like all
that came before it

going bankrupt
from overspending
on the military

even as the military
gets torn apart
like an over-worked
horse in Animal Farm

sending money to
support pro-American
dictators while the
the schools fall apart

the bridges collapse

and Black and
Mexican inmates kill
each other in
California prisons.

it’s like watching
John Wayne dying
from cancer.

Sensitive

i guess the greatest
fear of any poet
is having their work
laughed at.

telling a poet their
work sucks is one thing

but i think most poets
would rather line
people up against a wall
and open fire
than have their poetry
laughed at

especially young poets.

but then you turn 30
and say

fuck it

you couldn’t care less
if anyone likes it or not

cuz you like it

and that’s what matters

so you start sending
it all out

left and right, everywhere

like a monkey
throwing shit from a tree.

Time is a Flea Bite on My Leg

nothing worse than 10 poems
rejected in one day.

nothing worse than hungry stray cats.

nothing worse than some guy
begging on the street.

nothing worse than little girls
murdered like flowers
with their heads cut off.

nothing worse than a crazy mother—
feeling like i was just
kicked stomped spat on pissed on

as i wander the dark afternoon
streets with candy wrappers
in the gutters

and fuck it’s only Tuesday.

Left Behind

lying in bed
in the afternoon

streetwalkers
turn tricks in cars

and teens walk
home from
school doped up
and glassy-eyed.

no one knows
what they’re
supposed
to accomplish
in this life

what “greater
purpose” there’s
supposed to be

i guess there’s
only dope and
blowjobs

and if you’re lazy
and/or broke

lying in bed
in the afternoon.

End of Days

we saw an old
homeless guy with
a slit in the back
of his pants

we laughed

we were kids

we thought it was

funny at the time

i don’t think it was
so funny now.

it was a chill windy
night in New York

Reagan was President
already senile

the first lady was
fucking Frank Sinatra

and consulting
astrologers
on foreign policy.

we didn’t know it
at the time but
the Soviet Union
was on its last legs
and America was
only 20 years behind

and soon nothing
would be funny at all.

puma perl

2009-02-11T19:00:00.000-08:00

I’d Be Dead

I’d be dead if I wasn’t still alive
Fire hydrants were ghetto ER’s
Patient’s pockets empty as wakeups
Dope fiends with hearts saved lives

I saw EMT’s bringing a guy out
“You’re next” they said laughing
“Where’d he cop?” I laughed back

Ran into Papo on the curb, sweating
Shit I said and split my shot
He carried me out of the basement
I still had twenty dollars in my bra

When he got locked up he wrote stories
We were all animals in a forest
My daughter was a chattering bird
We collected cigarette money for him
Thirty-nine cents in four days

I was dead and I dreamed of nothing
Most days my wishes came true
Lower east side streets hold my secrets
I’d be dead if I wasn’t still alive

Age

Age may or
may not
bring wisdom
It will
definitely
make you
old and you
will do strange things

You may
sit on beach chairs
on hot pavement
blocking the doors
of Brooklyn buildings
while young mothers
struggle with
strollers and groceries
Stepping over your
drooping black socks
and sandals

There will be
nowhere
to go
on steaming
summer nights
Winter months
will loom ahead
stuffed with
television and
bathrobes

If age
brought wisdom
if love
was genetic
if children
were gifts
there would
be no beach chairs
on Brooklyn sidewalks
no six o’clock
phone calls
on Sundays
no droopy socks

I Am a Map

I’m corny as all hell
The Obama poster
in the window
of the corner bodega
almost makes me cry

I love the guy riding his Harley
dressed in a tuxedo
I love the kids on skateboards
below the Brooklyn Bridge
I love the kid in the library
who told his friend
he liked to read
cause he’s normal like that

I love the old lady
Who said “I was running,
Feel my heart
and the old man
who answered,
“I’d like to…”

I used to love
each kaleidoscopic moment
Obama spinning
on a skateboard
kids and old people
flying across a bridge

Today it tires me
I long for midnight gold
in an Arizona desert
the ginger dusk
of a Texas sky

I am a map
In bold letters
across my torso
it is written
You Are Here
Why here?
(I wonder)
continuing along
the same street….

david mclean

2009-02-11T18:57:00.000-08:00

Anxiety Picking Clean

tonight is anxiety picking clean
the strenuous flesh
from the abject bone
with fingers unmanned by
futility and fever.

but the brutal blood is lazy,
and will not raise its head
to salute the patient sky,
the same that waits here
forever above us, a medallion
coined by love, just money
for dust, the moon another
sullen blind slut.

for life picks its own bones clean
like a self-sufficient vulture,
refusing the proffered help
of brothers and sisters,

and erecting her own skeleton
as a church for deaf gods,
silent under patient skies
full of moons and time.

anxiety is the active fingers
that cleanse the skull;
their activity being life,
their fever time,

they are not my fingers
but their anxiety
is mine

It is Not Beating, to my Unborn Son

it is not beating, which seldom happens here
where so few are Christians in this land;
but the children are dead, and they cut death's truth
in the unremarkable living flesh, disaffected fuckers,
since their mothers, like almost all mothers, are cannibals,
bitches who imagine dropping a brat means you own it forever,
that it is your whore. so mothers write poems called
“to my unborn son” because they are stupid,
and stupidity is why people do anything, says Homer
Simpson. they assume the kid will maybe fuck love good,
because nobody else does.

and thus the children are slightly desperate, already
as two year olds. i maybe had an unborn son
recently. the poem i might have written to him
would have run “welcome to the world, son,
and to an incinerator in the gray basement
of a hospital, where they flush away shit
like you would probably have become.”
i can stand it that the children cut the flesh
happier, it means that they are still human
on some level, but when they get ecstatic
over Gestapo seagulls squawking, and are happy

for whatever, then they will be dead forever,
because death is an inexorable lover
and there is no coming back from his grasp.
then i cannot stand to see human children
become pretend-happy soldiers in convention's
crippled army. it's then that i would like to have done
the cutting in them myself, but with a razor less superficial,
one that helped them even better, prevented
their final deaths. because all my dead children
live forever, and the are jet boys really so preoccupied
they don't care about the war, not any war,

not even the war that keeps society whole and sober,
that makes mothers murderers
and children grow up whores
and soldiers

My Hands Before You

my hands before you are dead animals
that touch nothing, wry sacrifices
to night and its sacred torment;
the one that wracks memory wakeful
lest we should ever forget it,

forget that my hands were animals
i slaughtered before you once,
and burned on a timeless pyre;

smoke rising thence to high gods
dead in the empty sky,
when our memories
were young then,

we were young men,
clean and fresh as madmen,
and the moon was new

luis cuauhtemoc berriozabal

2009-02-11T18:52:00.000-08:00

Gloomy

The sweet birds sing
a tranquil song
on this sad night.
Filled with sorrow

and grief, I weep
like a man who
stares at the sun.
At twilight the

sweet birds also
sing at a more
frenzied pace. Night

seems to darken
their songs. Gloomy,
my gaze fades out.

Always Singing

She is always singing
and shaking her hips.
She is the fussy patient
who is always asking
for her own room. She
turns up her nose when
a new roommate comes in
the room. She likes keeping
to herself. She likes walking
around the room, singing,
and talking to herself.

My Dad’s Belongings

I found my dad’s old wallet.
He had no money inside.
He died in 2004.
He gave us everything he had.
A roof over our head;
He kept us clothed and fed.
He helped us through school.
He always worked.
He could have done more for
himself. Perhaps he would
still be around. Celebrated
another Christmas, another
New Year. This time of year
I miss him most. We all do.
That wallet was old and worn.
He had no money inside.
He emptied the wallet for us.
We have so many things around
the house that belonged to him.
Too bad we cannot keep everything.
His Mexican Magazines, his old
reel tapes and 8 track recordings;
many of the books and records
that are aging along with us;
It makes me depressed to have to
thrash, donate, or recycle
most of the things he loved so much.

Plans in the Land of Sleep

I make many plans in the land of sleep.
All of my plans I usually forget.
Sometimes when I’m walking in the sun
and begin to feel uneasy

sweat fills my skin. I find shade,
which makes me feel better.
I listen to the cadences of the dogs barking
and howling at the birds in the trees.

When I close my eyelids in the evening
I fill my sleeping eyes with new plans.
The next day my plans are a haze.

The only thing that remains is the sun,
which caresses my skin when I’m out of the shade.

Pill Me

I’m anxious.
Pill me please.
I can’t stop
thinking of
death and things.

I’m depressed.
Pill me please.
I can’t stop
feeling like
I’m worthless.

My mother
and my father
think I am
too much trouble.

My sister
and brother
think I am
a total wreck.

They put me in
this place. They
called the cops.
They told them
I was mad.

I don’t like them
for that. I
know I’m nuts,
but so is
everybody.

I can’t sleep.
Pill me please.
I can’t stop
seeing things

like shadows
and snakes. Please
pill me. I
feel so sick.

nathan tyree

2009-02-11T18:51:00.001-08:00

Blood and Bourbon

After they reduced her to white ash rendered from bone, then crushed it to a fine powder, we stored her in the bedroom while we waited for the intermi-nable winter to pass. It had always been winter as far as we could tell. When the sun returned we would take the painful drive to Colorado to re-lease her to the mountain. The Rockies can have her now. We can't any-more. Then there's all that weight that we lost. Not to mention faith and dignity. I've been thinking about mixing blood with my bourbon.

What Wikipedia Doesn’t Say About Virginia Woolf

…filled her pockets with stones and walked into the river. She chose the tor-rent, the obverse of the slow tick of minutes stealing the details that were her life. The rush and flow pulled her down without a struggle. Just as well, really. The other option is blunt force trauma when the big truck runs the stop sign. Chest crushed. Legs cut free from the body. Exsanguination is not poetic. It wouldn't look good when they made the movie of her life.

rob plath

2009-02-11T18:50:00.000-08:00

The Go-Ahead

i got a rejection slip
from an editor

it read:
"these poems do not
suit our needs, but please
feel free to submit them
other places"

yeah
& thanks for the go-ahead
to shove them
up yr asshole
but they won't
fit b/c it's as
tightly closed
as yr little mind

The Forbidden Brown Fruit

maybe the tree of knowledge
was really a few of god's ass hairs
sprouting out of the center of Eden
& matted together w/his cosmic shit
& the fruit was the almighty's dingleberries

& the first pair of people
plucked one
popped it in their mouths
& swallowed
& we've been
full of it
ever since

You Hypocrites

what if you found out
that god was wanted
in another universe
for mass murder
that he was put
in witness protection
in this section of space
b/c he ratted out
some lesser cronies
& now is existing
under the alias of
"the almighty"
would you defend him
just b/c he made the trees
mountains & flowers
& the sun rise etc...
you probably would
you hypocrites ...

Beautiful Impossibilities to Daydream About

i want to juggle
my brain, my left femur
& my spleen

i want to head-butt
christ on the cross
& get a real taste
of the spikes

i want to give the pope
a waistband ripping
wedgie

i want to jump rope
w/an unlooped
hangman's noose

i want to make
a colostomy bag puppet
& go around making it
scream: "everybody's full of shit
except me!"

i want to dye a rainbow
jet black
& put a bear trap at
the end of it

i want to melt all
the guns in the world
down & fashion
hash pipes

i want god to wipe
the asses of everyone
in every nursing home
on the planet

tim tomlinson

2009-02-11T18:49:00.000-08:00

Suddenly the Camaro

… was shaking – the chassis, I mean, and the
wheel, the whole steering column shaking and
I could feel the shaking through my hands and
my arms and the late afternoon rums and
the cold beer chasers that lubricated
our throats for the dry reds of dinner
and the palette cleansing cognacs that
followed while we canoodled on your
thousand-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets
after our passions discharged the first or
the second or one of those times that we
gave in to the impulse of the moment
till it became the routine of the day

and even while it happened the thought,
"I am fucking my girlfriend's sister,"
"I am fucking my girlfriend's sister,"
running through my head and making I could
swear my body shake my hands shake and we'd
add more rum more beer more wine more cognac
to the glass laughing at how fucking crazy
it all was and how sorry we were and
how disappointed we were in ourselves
and how the next time we swore would be the
last time and we swore to make it awful
and I know I tried but you didn't help
and now my vision is double fucking
squared and the passing roadside an action-
painting brushstroke blur and I'm reaching for
another cold Coors from the cooler and
the Camaro is shaking right through my
wheel-hand shaking and the speedometer's
red needle has pressed past 105 on
its way to 110, 120 and I'm
laughing and shaking and sweating and
smoking and drinking and watching the white
lines vanish beneath the hood expecting
any instant now the one thing – the dog
or the deer or the cat or the cop – that
will make me stop …
'cause no one gets away
with the kind of shit I've been pulling for
ever … but it doesn't fucking appear.

james darman

2009-02-11T18:48:00.002-08:00

In the Best of Company

a lone blackbird caws-
against the rising sun;
then there is silence

i’m in the best of company-
alone w/ the sun and a black-bird

An Etcher Sketch of Days

winter sings its song -
carving the mountains with time;
a head full of dust

i’m at home in this moment – deep in wine;
dozing off into nothing: beneath the evergreen

The Eggshells and Birds of Winter

resting in fresh snow-
a footstep is soon buried;
sparrows never sleep

there are eggshells in the driveway today-
grief strikes; a skull splits: winter gives way to spring

Spring is for Flowers

drunk on winter’s wine –
a sparrow slips under doors;
snow clings to my coat

spring is for flowers – today
i have the sparrows and this coat

wolfgang carstons

2009-02-11T18:48:00.001-08:00

Lapping Blood from a Small Hole

for my 11th birthday
my mother bought me
a bb gun
i went out back behind
our house
straight into the woods
looking for things
to shoot

firing bullets at trees,
flowers, rocks - inanimate
things without feelings
wanting something to kill
something that would squeal
when hit

a prairie dog
popped out of his hole
ran towards me
stopped & propped itself
upon it's back legs
staring right at me
i lined the shot up
perfectly
squeezed the trigger
the steel ball entered
his belly
knocking him over
onto his side

he wasn't dead
his tiny heart
still pumping blood
through a broken maze
of veins
each revolution
a spurt of blood
a mini geyser
squeezed through
the small hole

he licked
each new spurt

this continued
for half an hour
me watching him
lap blood
from a small hole
in it's belly
both believing
that it would work
somehow conquer
death

almost 30 years later
the image
of that poor creature
lapping blood
from a small hole
sticks w/ me
existing
as a perfect metaphor
for the daily routine

of true poets

doug baldwin

2009-02-11T18:47:00.001-08:00

The Resistance

i'm so fucked...
my men, blown
on cheap Mexican dope,
gambling and women.
mercenaries,
spun, pinned and flipped,
and running in the streets like mad,
psychotic children,
amped on Pixie Sticks and Magic Markers,
the day after Halloween.

willing, but unprepared.
too horny to think straight,
too hammered to hold onto the rails,
as we roll down the swells.
they smell like goats
and expect command
to have all the fucking answers.

has anyone seen the new lieutenant?
i'll have gold clusters on her shoulders,
if she can get these fuckers to sit still.
and I'll pin a star on her tit,
if she can get them to the beach.

and i will personally have Annapolis
cast her in bronze,
if she can just fix this fucking mess.

richard wink

2009-02-11T18:46:00.000-08:00

Another Accident on the Drayton High Road

Remember the man with the shovel
who bravely flicked sand onto the roads
in preparation for black ice
and disaster

Listen out for the tyre screams
you can never hear them
but you can hear the wail of the
sirens and make the blue and red flashing lights

They use this road as a diversion
its currently clogged. I watch
the impatient motorists consider tooting
their horns. I close my curtains
to black it all out

amanda joy

2009-02-11T18:45:00.000-08:00

Bang on the Table

encrustment of ruin
and coating and
spaces between bones

your rawest material
the desire of a ghost limb

shining a smile wet
with spermicide

like some vacuum packed animal
your eyes distort my haunches
your cannibalistic thoughts
wrapped around
that band of muscle
my hand my hand

your clubbed fist
bang on the table

my tidy mouth
clasping scarlet

you yelping

death was a fantasy

death was a fantasy

Cream Clock

The body could
be an index
if stretched
a little

pulled

from
the buckle
under

a studied
clasping

pushed harder
it becomes
a phrase

develops a
rhythm with

arches
to a pause

references
overlap
blend simulate
stimulate

soften folds
to palm
to grow to
groan

to cock to
crow my
throat-

a serpent
swallows
clocks of
cream

connie stadler

2009-02-11T18:44:00.002-08:00

Insomnia Rx

From this hospital window
I can see
the mottled reflection
of black leaves trembling
in night breezes.

Keeper of the watch
ever calm, ever bright
brings stark illumination
of the glass paned
still life.

The other watchman
black and bewigged
carelessly munching
stolen potato chips
presents lesser
challenge.

And, in a haze my bare feet
make rustled crossing
to the third stall from the left
for the second time
in an hour and a half.

Clinic

Porcelain fleur-de-lys
Blemish
Blue splash archway
Of routinized indignity.

Quaking
In
The
Wraith.

Plastic paneled
Calcified,
Barnacled
Inertia
Mocks the scribbled
Pathos of my pain-soaked
Particulars

As
Drops of spit foam
Fleck the shoreline
Of cheap orange lips
With every quavered
Signature
On ream upon ream
Of aborted humanity.

"He will see you now."

White walls, white floors
Dilate
Paper coated nudities
Billowing
In gunmetal gusts
Of neglect.
Each script, a phial
Of portioned potent
Suppliant
Insignificance

Yet to come.

maria gornell

2009-02-11T18:44:00.001-08:00

An Ode to Smoking

I crave you like a lost lover
Chewing on pumpkin seeds
To trick brain receptors
I am immune to you..

My lungs can breathe
Free of toxins,
My skin is glowing
I haven’t gained weight
I suck on sugar free mints
Intensely like I was giving
The best blowjob
You ever did see.

My eyes are sparkling
With new mischief,
Feelings no longer repressed
Bouncing, kicking with
New energy,
I feel alive.

My teeth are back to
Hollywood smiles,
(I wish)
Years of abusing you
Have taken their toll,
But I’m days
Weeks, months,
Years closer
To not being
A victim of
Your disease.

Still
I miss you
Seductive smoke
Lingering,
Reaching my nostrils
Inhaling you
Then slowly sinking
Away from stress,
Your smell is now
Like the body of
My ex lover,
Hated with venom
Yet carrying
A wicked substance
It takes all my will
To fight.

I loved you
But its time
To say
Goodbye.

deanna prall

2009-02-11T18:43:00.002-08:00

The Pusher

Guilt and inspiration are both the same to me,
Hitting me in the form of cold chills,
And about four moths of guilty memories.
I can’t help but think about
The one who started all of this,
The one who picked me out of a busy store window,
And lured me in with a concert ticket

That was the very first night
It all felt so right,
So I went with it.
And now I’m making him famous
And he doesn’t even realize it.
Everyone wants to know
Who that guy, with the special baggie is;
They want to know who put me in this hospital bed.

But he needs not to worry
He’s my sweetest enemy
I will not blow his cover
He’s the one who inspired this pain,
that finally set me free.

These Streets

Moments stand out in this chaotic city-
Golden moments where musicians strum
While I'm flipping through the pages of
A dusty old book in an antique shop

Noise and poverty rest outside
In their usual places
While homeless preserve leftovers from
A Dumpster in the corner of the alley

I light a cigarette and smile
At addicted ones standing next to me
We're all happy here
Amongst the chaos of the city

isaac seal

2009-02-11T18:43:00.001-08:00

I Dance Like Elaine from Seinfeld

I haven't showered in 17 years
I dress in worn thin patience
I have never once brushed my teeth
They've been replaced by a slat picket fence
Untreated lumber, gaps cracks and whorls
My smile is not for the faint of heart
I have a strict unwillingness to improve
I never make eye contact
It would scare you anyhow
I stutter-step through life with an atrophied gait
My pelvis is rotting, my pelvis is rotting
I keep the secrets of life drunk on weeping tissues
They hatch, pupate, feed, grow
My fingernails spiral into themselves
I can no longer scratch the secrets out
But baby, in the pock-ridden face of all this, I can dance

Sad Lemon, No Birthday

At times, the lady and I
get along famously
[We sing, we dance]
She has a penchant for acting,
it seems I prefer action-
She read her e-mail an hour and a half ago
it resulted in another cocktail
[sad lemon, no birthday]
We licked each other's fingers clean
Read into this; a metaphor for an
allegory for a euphemism for a song
I then told a tale of substances
she wore a pretty hat
Enter an apparatus designed much like
an individual scuba

And other times, well-
Suffice it to say, that
the lady and I
we have a schism, crystallinity
[botched, call the ambulance]
burnt sugar spires into misfit “hemihedrae”
She asks, "Why an e-mail, when I'm
sitting right here?"
I can hardly keep my eyes open
"I'm afraid to tell you why I'm afraid."
This discourse of course makes no
sense at all
and we'll spend the rest of the
evening with shattered lemons,
reminiscing about 'back in the day'
[I'd swear it was a tuesday,
she would give our first born
on it being a Wednesday]
But he's the saddest of lemons
and should be spared a birthday regardless.

You Degrade

When I find I am denatured,
I thank you again for it, and
I will report my interpretations
of those findings post-haste.
The California gold rush is renewed,
though, I'd like to elaborate on the
fiscal insolvencies of a futures
market based on a non-sustainable
adjunct as an economic engine. To
wit, I will cite the morbid
affordings of a cyclical downturn.
To improve, a balance need be struck.
This is what makes you degrade.
And, I will further elaborate on the
subject in a more than topical manner.
Because; if beauty is only skin deep,
I state most assuredly that ugliness
cannot be. These are some of the
best and worst explanations possible.
On the other hand, there is
possibility in interpretive factoring
which I may not have surmised.
My negligences can be catalogued
in any demarcative structure you
find pleasing. Be sure you act on
these impulses sooner rather than
later, or I will have to compile
entirely new sets of data.

eric monten hobson

2009-02-11T18:42:00.001-08:00

Untitled Bullshit

a moth being so beautiful
that you feel you must touch it
thus killing it.

my god damned genius of a daughter
explained to me that moths have
some sort of dust/powder like substance
covering their wings,
and if you touch the moth's wings
you'll knock off the fairy dust and
it can no longer fly,
then it dies.

the news of this fucked-up information
made me want to run outside into the streets,
screaming nonsense,
firing shotgun blasts into the air
in remembrance of all dead forgotten moths
that have died at the hands of my
curiosity and admiration.

shit, i got a dead lunar moth
in a small cardboard box
around here somewhere.

jaie miller

2009-02-11T18:41:00.002-08:00

Enamel

The Ensemble, Restricted - Blanche
transcending; vast layers: Political avec distortion
aujord'hui: Et saulting a mixture of the
spoken and the heard:
Amusing at first
her skull occurred six robots. In the other
direction, living beings enameled by darkness, chased
by shards of eternity. Hindered as though bought
under an unsung tree. Next to nooses:
Souls interrupt.

Dressed in liberation, a more soluble blue. what
is mind. Defense mechanisms painting democratic
allegiances - Believing in one thing sixty years, the rest,
more or less in direct communication with condensed
star gates. Mythic fabric -Agreed. Somehow revolutions.
Transferring Particles next
to nuance. After nuance. Giving names to things-
Speaking circles, The unaddressed shotgun: Priding a
demeanor -Slaughtered. Civilizing math within
a scope. choosing tears. as she centered the
universe. Head spinning. Ne religion. New religion.
Stop. The dark and the light dans her skull.
Agreed by choices.
Pointing at cages., Strange epilogues of thought. Diasporic
Deities. Dieting a rage enclosed - For women unsaid.
Paranoia defined.
And ready to die. Only in beginning.
Monologue long obelisks. In collision with the
sky. Far from where words are born extinguished.
Remembering when it was transferred.

"SEND A MAN FROM EARTH.
HE HAS TASTED THE SKY."

Nectar

[I like] to play with the fire in her eyes.
I feel like a fire weaver [who has] stumbled upon
Binary stars. [I write] in black.
[My] voice [has] no color
and her spirit echoes rainbows
across the footsteps of eternity.
The pathway to destiny.
Half way drunk on feelings
Caught in a web of mystery.
Intuition spinning [in me] a cocoon.
Soon to be set free. Unleashed
At last and finally.
The queen of Atlantis, probably. A dream of some kind.
What a thoughtful father. As seldom seen is such
a beauty..
..like a landscape arriving to perturbed eyes.
And I feel like Sufi now.
But they were self proclaimed
idiots, or twits. And loving you makes so much sense.

~The nectar of Jupiter dreaming and the Earth leaning this way
to catch the morning on her tongue.

misti rainwater-lites

2009-02-11T18:41:00.001-08:00

Cake Addicts

I've never been addicted to anything in my life,
certainly not cake, but last night I was so lonesome
I crashed the cake addicts meeting in the bingo hall basement.
Cranky cake addicts stared at me expecting a story so I obliged.
"It all began with cupcakes when I was four. Those weren't enough.
I soon moved onto bundt cakes, sheet cakes…hell, I even ate
fruitcakes when no other kinds of cakes were available. My life
has become unmanageable. Too many crumbs. So. Here I am."
There wasn't a dry eye in the room. Finally, I belonged.

Severe Cerebral Allergies

This morning after a delightful and satisfying
repast of fried egg tostadas with green sauce
and maple banana soup I scratched T.S. Eliot
from my head without too much difficulty.
Then during my daily stroll to the python park
I scratched Robert Lowell out of there but
when I looked at my fingers they were
salty with blood. So I soothed myself
with a preternaturally invigorating yet
desolate fuck fest with the gang in the
alley behind the disco bumper car warehouse
on 53rd and Ginsberg. Begonia quoted the
fourth page of Howl and Lucy fucked her
up the ass with a Fudgesicle for being so
goddamn banal. I laughed it off and made
it home in time for Ten Dollar Trivia.
"The Emperor of Ice Cream!" I screamed
and scratched my head so hard that bats
flew out screeching Black Sabbath lyrics.
A nap was in order and I dreamed I was
Anne Sexton trying to catch the lifeguard's
attention at the wave pool in between Odessa
and Midland. I scratched my head in my sleep
but Anne Sexton is one stubborn mama
deeply in love with my pomegranate shampoo.
"Anne, my darling, there's simply no room…"
One crazy witchy mama up in this bitch is
more than enough. In the words of Jimi
Hendrix I gots my own headache to live through
so off with your head and on with mine. Poor piñata,
poor urn, poor unholy vessel you must be thinking.
Oh to hell with that. Overturned sea monkey bowl!
Flushed potty! Bone-dry Big Gulp cup! I'm not
looking for filler. Emptiness is bliss. I piss words
in the dragon's mouth and that makes fire.

jason hardung

2009-02-11T18:39:00.000-08:00

Suicide Kids

After midnight reading Harvey Keitel Harvey Keitel
Harvey Keitel I decided to write this
poem for all the half exposed skeletons dancing
under the Hollywood sign under the moon
under the straw castles we build.
The bearded boy from Pittsburgh
reciting S.A. Griffin's Apes of Wrath word for word
to a brown-eyed girl at a bus stop while she clicks her heels
three times and a tornado finally takes her to
Worcester Mass where Tuesday is always gone
and a simple man with a love
of Bill Parcells Ronnie Van Zant and
Rimbaud equally let's her take his bed while he takes the
couch he is a scholar and a gentleman in cut off sleeves. Me
and my friends are suicidal over women we have abandonment
issues anger issues we can't get out
of bed we just want
to be loved we just want that one
person that isn't afraid
to dance with us.

Last Month

I have been in love
and have cried over dead dogs.
Have judged others
like I was some sort of
insecure god.
I've been beaten
robbed and raped.
But who hasn't?
My words choked by the illiterate
hands of thieves.
I have stood on a mountain top
in fog covered morning
when I was taller than the sun
just to watch
something anything
rise again.

Too Much Teeth

My probation officer's quick fingers
danced as in Amsterdam windows
they typed the punishment to my crime
into the computer
and I was officially turned on in a government facility.
The sound of keys fell into a soothing rhythm
not unlike a Barry White tune.
I envisioned those tiny hands
wrapped around my cock
and wondered if she would take her wedding ring off
set it on the nightstand dashboard or back of the toilet.
Not that I mind if she is married
but if a diamond can cut glass
who knows what it would do to my shaft.
Then I glanced up at her lips
those soft glossy swollen lips
the lips of authority
the lips of every
cop principal judge politician
and all their rules and consequences.
They are right about one thing
I can't keep repeating destructive patterns.
I can't let a pretty face fool me again.
Anyway I'm sure
she is the type of girl
that uses to much teeth
and not enough lip.

Three Levels of Trust

When some middle class whore
is sucking your cock
in the back doorway
of a Vietnamese restaurant
nestled in a strip mall
between Boxes R Us
and the Saving Tree dollar store
there is an unspoken bond
between you
you trust
that she
will finish
you off
before your boss
comes looking
for you.
When you are buying drugs
downtown
at seven in the morning
from a young kid
from Honduras
in a Colorado Rockies hat
and a thin black moustache
you can tell
he has business savvy
by his eyes
you trust he
wants your business again
so he will give you
a little more
than what you paid for.
When a surgeon
has your guts
laid out
on a silver metal table
you trust
that he knows
how to
put them back.

craig sernotti

2009-02-11T18:38:00.002-08:00

Dream, 26 November 2008, Early A.M.

Behind my eyes
someone's waving.
A pregnant dog
at my feet.
Bodies wash up
on the beach.
Smells of lavender.
Someone tells
a joke.
I laugh into the
microphone
but I don't mean it

Anxiety

Use my nose hairs
to climb down from your
gray tower of dread.

Steal all the porridge you can
from those goddamn bears.

Find a well,
make a wish,
toss in a dwarf.

I will lie and tell you everything ends
happily ever after
whenever you need to hear it.

wayne mason

2009-02-11T18:38:00.001-08:00

The Human Parade

Youth has
slipped away
through cracks
overnight and
now mid-way
through my
thirties I
sit here a
poet laureate
of my dirty
garage with
the door
wide open
to the world
outside here
watching the
world drift by
too hurried

Pavement
plays on an
old radio
electric white
boy blues

This is my
mountaintop
my nirvana
cold beer and
the wailing
guitar with
notebooks and
blues hoping
someone may
read my quiet
confessions so
life may not
fall on deaf
ears unheard

And if it does
there will be
other six packs
and meandering
Sunday nights
the human parade
will keep marching
an absurd march

Currency Of Words

On the line
my bones
move to
industrial
rhythm of
machines

Thinking
how they
laid off
seventy
people
today

I watch
technicians
tearing down
an old line
for shipment
to China

Before too
long they’ll
export our
souls too

Thank God
I thought
there’s no
money in
poetry

or it likely
wouldn’t
be long
before my
rants were
shipped
overseas

I’m thankful
poetry is an
economy all
its own
a currency
of words

I am a
rich man
pockets so
overflowing
with poems
that I am
literally
giving them
away

a. d. hitchin

2009-02-11T18:37:00.000-08:00

Sham Life

I live a sham life
the difference is I’m cognizant
of it
I put the art in artifice; in superficial a capital ’S’
blazing thick and curved, Superman red

my penis and pen are a deadly combination: dual, double-barreled, slick torpedo warheads …

I’m up up up and away

so bite me.

I Will Submit Poems for the Opening of an Envelope

I am a literary whore

I appeal to the
l
o
w
e
s
t

common denominator;

pussy
fuck
sperm
shit
clit
lick
cunt
gun
cock
slit
crack
piss
dyke
dildo
tits

blow job.

david labounty

2009-02-11T18:36:00.000-08:00

For You

this is for you
because if
you are
reading this
then you
must be
some sort
of
dilettante,
dying
and
trying
to climb
the rungs
of an
invisible and
slippery
literary ladder

and

to get to
the next
level, I've
thought
about trying
to take
things
higher and

I've thought about

slitting
my wrists
with one
of my poems
in my hand and
I picture
it so clean
and perfect, me

at my desk
with my beer gut
and pajamas
while blood
stains my poems
and flows
to the floor
and there I
would be found
by my wife
and there would
be crying and
screaming
along with
police cars
and sirens and

of course

cameras
would come,

he was a poet

the reporters
would say
and from there
it would go
and finally,
I would be
somebody,

and no, I
wouldn't
really kill
myself just
to get my
name into
the world but

would you?

Another Cancer Poem

forty-nine and
not too different
from me as he
stands at
my counter
and tells me about

the small cell
tumors breathing
in his lungs and
the co-pays and

deductibles and
how there
are therapies
and pills and
he finally
has it all
figured out
twenty grand
in the hole
later, how

no doctor
or drug company
really wants
him or anyone
else to ever get
better, they
just want to
string you along

keep you

popping pills
and
taking treatments

while you pay
out your ass

just to stay alive.

~ the above was originally published in Opium Poetry

paula ray

2009-02-11T18:35:00.000-08:00

Wicked Vow

I feel you pace
atop my marriage coffin
where I have been buried alive
with too much dirt between us

I will gnaw my way
to your feet
and wait for you
to reach for me

if only once

Tile Labyrinth

"Knocking on Heaven's Door"
is on repeat
I sit here--head bowed,
lips move in unison with Bob Dylan
take this badge from me, I pray.

don't want to see myself
curled in a corner,
unwashed hair,
fingernail polish half worn off
from clawing at that door.

All these chairs in the house sit empty.
My ass is plastered to the tile,
bruised knees--heart level.

I smell like stale cigarettes and beer
and seem to be melting into the grout,
imagining the kitchen floor is a maze,
a puzzle to solve.

I can do it myself!
Christ, I wish I did drugs
or enjoyed being drunk.

I'm too fucking sober.

Road Kill Lap-Dance

She had that long-legged-jukebox-lean,
He had that heroin-don't-care-stare.
They were grizzly in the sheets
too tangled to breathe through smog of deceit.

Flickering neon dripped chaos on
mirrored lines--underlining lies.

He spat her out:
chewed-up--bubble gum,
tasteless pink.

His-pickled-worm
laid limp
on the bottom of a bottle from Mexico.

He was: genius,
cooling boiling cerebral cortex on ice,
brain stem: a swizzle stick
with cellophane decoration--
not good for much, but party favors.

She ran out of quarters and the magic fingers stopped.

That's what happens at feeding time
down at the Purple Possum,
where road-kill's sexy,
if you have the guts to look it in the eye,
as you press the accelerator.

graham isaac

2009-02-11T18:31:00.000-08:00

Watching Films About Death

on the corner of Holly and Cornwall you look
tall and old as you'll ever be; ceased aging under
clouds that look like rocks.

you grin wrinkled, call me "chief," stopping in your
faded coat drifting long enough to tell me you're
on your way to the library to pick up films about death;
nature documentaries on beetles, meerkats,

laugh at the morbidity or at least my reaction to it, raise
an eyebrow, grin like I've got no secrets and you've
found the cure for aging; sighing at bodies on TV screens
nature and entropy and humor and pathos

At home I pull blinds to block sky that looks
like gravel, file through stacks of VHS and DVDs
lots of nostalgia, dark comedy, horror. Jokes with blood
in them. I pull the shades, flick off the lamp

drift in and out of sleep to sneering lips and
the chatter of gunfire.

Forward Thinking

I'm burning down a forest
and erecting a giant ball-pit
Chuck E Cheese style, but with
more pizza and less urine.

the animals can play there, too
I don't get precious about who's
invited to this year-long birthday
party as long as everybody

is having a fun, throwing
multi-colored balls up in the air
at all times, screaming and laughing,
no one stuck in the tubes.

the bigger animals will have to
wait their turns; you can't
have bears and foxes sharing
a slide, from there on out

it gets far too Aesopian,
and the reason I'm having it
in the forest is the forest was
there and I'd already drained

the pond for the mud-wrestling
arena and adult video arcade and
I wanted to give back to the kids
and really, you can't stop progress.

howie good

2009-02-11T18:30:00.000-08:00

Submission Guidelines

Send us the bags of blood
you squeezed yourself
from the hole in her stocking

but avoid gratuitous references
to atom smashers
we prefer the historical Jesus

spare parts for fire trucks
a story translated into battered English
about growing up in a double wide

tell us you rinse with beer
before bed even if it isn’t true
include boat people

in tuxedo shirts waiting tables
clouds building off the coast
your Times Roman face

the one you use
when you look out the window
out which it’s always raining

Right-hand Man

I’d pick up a spoon
in my left hand,

and they’d take it
and put it in my right.

I was small, very small,
probably no bigger

than a hobo’s bindle.
They’d look down at me

while I slept
and shake their heads.

Where they came from,
liars and arsonists

were left-handed.
I’d pick up a block

in my left hand,
and they’d take it

and put it in my right.
Now sometimes

when I start to reach
for what I want,

I’ll stop suddenly
and wonder

whose hand this is.

Among the Dead

They don’t ask for a lot,

a pound of nails
to hold the lid in place,

a story to help them
fall back asleep,

and now and then
the loan of a handkerchief,

which they always return,
when they remember to return it,

crumpled and stained.

felino soriano

2009-02-11T18:29:00.000-08:00

Anomaly to the Blind

The blue with gray specks of glittering echoes
bounced from diagonal certainty, this certainty called
light at which a time the morning was fully
stretched into its positional escape,
moon's nocturnal noose loosened.
The specks if the eye with proper
attention, if the eye away from attempt at
spacing neglect from their proper purpose
would see the body-shape reflect nuanced
stillness. Only the rare and deprogrammed
can read and ascertain the language of the
typically unseen, the system for the eyes
whose vision can determine tainted
vernacular, specialized purposes.

Bravo

The streaking fluidity
only seen by the tamed and otherness
facing askew, away from what the human must
constantly name through false proclamation,
rename if interpretation erases itself
in the name of attempting to find exactness.
Toward this understanding then
angled within a specialized hand
the angular
gliding skylark performed nothing negative,
an anti posit of behavior within a spectrum
again of what the human must assign,
document against stone.

Identity, Mistaken

Why the cornerstone for language,
identifying a concept as a being, word,
a thing of man's manipulating mind?
Man then turns atop an unplanned version
of what is now visible, reinterprets
the outline, the skeletal surroundings
and is now deemed worthy to assign
new existence, different shade of
snaking breath.

darryl salach

2009-02-11T18:28:00.000-08:00

Lick My Balls Clean

I’m tired of your indecent exposure, craving new misery
your descent is televised for the masses to see on cable television
cover up those artificial sweeteners you call tits
and answer the door on your way out, I celebrate your esophagus

leave the plastic in the dumpster baby and give my regards to
the heavenly father that you so disparage, raped is your tact
shake your tree a little more discreetly, you’re no salt in my earth
skunk breath and the nicotine freaks control the avenue tonight.

your Madonna inspired personification is sacrificing this profession
of integrated inaccessible superstars, artists creating their own crucifix
hanging around in heroin closets unheard, spiritual entertainment disguised as a monster
with a smile, the brute is loose and willing to kiss your every charm goodbye.

zach king-smith

2009-02-11T18:27:00.000-08:00

A Good Woman

I have
always
had an
insatiable
appetite
for woman.

With
my eyes
I have
studied the
curvatures
& textures
of their
bodies.

Been
awestruck
by their
beauty.

Been
disgusted
with tender
thoughts.

Fucked
more woman
than loved them
before now.

That deep
low down
hunger
has
been
satisfied.

I have been
back to the
womb where
love has finally
cradled me
again.

I hope
to be
held
here
in
her
arms
for
good.

A good
woman
is a rare
commodity
even if
they are
all beautiful.

The Right Words

I have never
had divine
inspiration
by any
means.

I am not
an instrument
of God or a
prophet.

When the
poems come
heavy & my
eyes become
wide & the
hands move
the words
just come.

One by One
line by line
poem by
poem.

It comes
honest.

Genius
or not
it comes
HONEST.

dan provost

2009-02-11T18:26:00.000-08:00

December 28, 2008

Felonious my old friend,
It’s been many months since
we have hung around and
shot the shit over everything
and nothing…

Sorry if I sound crass, but
my inner self cannot walk the
steps you walk anymore.

The years of redneck pomp, men
in blue putting me in handcuffs;

punching someone in the jaw…

Has been put away in its celestial burying place.

I want to run with the spirited now…smile,
Look at the three day past Christmas lights
with the simplicity of a young child…

hoping next year’s booty will bring me
a sanguine thought or two

Yes, I am still alone
but not lonely
anymore…

Three Miles Away

See all the pretty pictures of co-workers spouses and children on their clean, un-soiled desk…

Endearing trap of loving the bland…seeing the family together like a Rockwell coun-try.

Scattered three miles away are those who own no love, or family…or a place to warm their hands.

I see them scattered outside when I walk to my car—loners waiting for the liquor store to open.

Forgotten skin exposed to twenty mile per hour winds.

They have no furniture to place pictures on.

Only a countdown to death and accepting the fact that they are at the mercy of na-ture.

It really is a very short drive…

miriam matzeder

2009-02-11T18:22:00.000-08:00

admit one

this was so lazy
a sort of humid
wet
so careless and
damp
white clothes
Italian restaurant
too much wine
and smiles
or
Goddamn sleepy
blankets up to
here with
this mouth
turned up
except at some
point the
nostrils are
bored out by
adrenalin
a racing
pumping
mass
unable to locate
an exit
and technicolor
imaging which
alternately
turns in on
itself and springs
back to life like
die cut fold out
greeting cards
with generic
lines like
My Deepest
Condolences
or something
equally morose

a stoplight swinging

sitting at the intersection
a stoplight
swinging
i notice this man watching me
from a Buick in the next lane
i feel self-conscious when
i imagine what he might
be thinking
like
man
she looks sad
staring at
a stoplight
swinging
and i have this overwhelming
urge to turn up the music
and put on a big fake smile
maybe drum with my fingers
on the steering wheel
he'd have to feel less sorry
for me then
we'd both be off the hook
he wouldn't have to feel bad
for what i've put myself through
and what is to follow
and i wouldn't have to feel pitied
by some guy in a beat up old
Buick with a sagging headliner

versus

i try to keep my mind on
other things
but that lasts maybe one-
hundred-and-twenty seconds
and then i'm back to thinking
about the way he turns his head
uncharacteristically slow
a quiet panning like clouds mulling
over their place above the earth

and all else
brake lights in traffic
a time and temperature sign
the opening and closing of a
black mailbox while dogs bark
amount to nothing more than
the accumulation of unsatisfactory
moments which fade away as
unsurreptitiously as they began

the reason i procrastinate getting out of bed in the morning

the first thing i think of in the morning
is how i would not want
to remove myself from that bed

you know the one
the bed where He sleeps
synapses firing under eyelids

you get what i'm saying, right?

you like him so much that you don't selfishly
consider anymore that he might be dreaming about you
instead, you consider simply that he dreams

and that you get to watch

you think about kissing him
that broad, straight line
a linear assembly of bone and flesh
scaffolding from shoulder to shoulder

his head, normally sentient of all his surroundings
now pillowed and sleepy, lulled by your poetic ether
you consider putting your hand in front of his face just to feel
his breath, but what if he wakes up and thinks you're nuts?

(or worse, he isn't asleep like you thought and has now
witnessed the real you – a child singing into a hairbrush)

go back to watching him where it's safe
find magic in how his body exists, warm
despite the cool room
curl up in your dumbfoundedness

it's fucking sick

maybe you are the forearm and i am the cheek

i was wondering if weather really ever
changes and that maybe the only changes
made are in how we view that weather

maybe we're all in unison and seeing things
and there is no me or you but instead a we
that so rarely works together as whole fabric

maybe we're all pulling in different directions
and all our promotion of pride in self
is a bunch of crap

maybe you are the forearm and i am the cheek
and he is the heel and she is the sternum
and we keep ripping a body apart

perhaps the biblical reference regarding your brother's
keeper is a message framed for those stupid people Jesus understood
would never believe God came up with something like science

maybe we are all little black holes
and all we ever do is
suck the life out of us

miriam matzeder

2008-11-19T22:25:00.000-08:00

banging the empty all gone or, what i think about when i have afever of one-hundred and three

all i can seem to write
about is
what's tactile and missing
from this ubiquitous autumn;
envy for the
texture of those leaves
propelling themselves
from their safe places in
trees to their certain demise:
the orange, the red,
and he's still in my head.

all i can seem to write
about are
his hands on my legs,
my fuzzy socks on the backs of
his calves,
me, whisper-singing in his ear,
drowning out discontent;
i am the wishbone
spread out below, and
we are sweat and sick-fucking,
banging the empty all gone.

daniel casebeer

2008-11-19T09:28:00.002-08:00

ellen and ben

Ben wraps a towel around his waist and reaches for the shaving cream. Ellen is sprawled across the bed. She is naked, except for a slim triangle of black silk, and there is a trail of rose petals tattooed along the pale of her inner thigh.

"What are you doing?" she asks.

"Shaving."

He opens the mirror and rummages through the medicine cabinet. Rain hammers against the window. He watches the drops chase each other down the glass, and imagines that he can see Billie Holliday in the silver
streaks they leave behind. He finds a razor at the back of the cabinet and sets it on the edge of the sink.

Ellen rolls over and props her head up on a pillow.

"But I like your beard," she says. "I don't think you should shave it."

He turns the water on and twists the cap from a brown bottle of blue pills. He puts two of the pills on the sink next to the razor and returns the bottle to the medicine cabinet, closes the mirror.

"Did you hear me?" she says. "I don't want you to shave your beard."

He takes the pills with a handful of water, wets the razor, and sits down on the toilet.

"Don't worry," he says, unwrapping the towel. "The beard is safe."

pablo vision

2008-11-19T09:28:00.001-08:00

fuck-drops make entity

Fuck-drops make pink, bulbous, screaming entity fall from the cunt; a screaming bundle of liq-uid-shit and vomit. What a tedious and common miracle; delude yourself not: this is at least eighteen years of your life pissed down the toilet, in one careless moment of inadequate pre-caution. What cowardly squeamishness prevented you from reclaiming your own life back? Was it so dull that adding such frustrating and demanding and thankless torment and restriction into the mix seemed somehow appealing? Were you such a slave to tradition or, worse still, insane instinct? And will you lie to yourself and others, how worthwhile it all is; so special, and so fulfilling? Will you imbue its pig-like features with spurious resemblances, like the face of Christ in the anus of a dog? And will you mistake familiarity, duty, self-delusion, and hormonal chemistry, for some kind of deep love? How often do you allow yourself the time to regret? How often do you think what your life was, and could have been, without this life-sucking leech? And what of the slackening of cunt and drooping of tits; sleepless nights; gibberish and drool?

Such lack of perspective, you cry, such bleak one-dimensional viewpoint - what of the joys? What joys, I say (rhetorically, for I have no wish to tolerate your stupid assertions)?!!!? Would you willingly choose the educationally subnormal for social company? Are playing brum-brums and choo-choo trains really that rewarding? Is that paternal smile on congratulating some fin-ger-painted splodge a smile of genuine happiness? Have you willingly swapped all of this, for fucking in every room in the house, wild debauched parties, and freedom to move from place to place at will? Were your lives that dull that this boring bondage actually seemed appealing? Were conversations with your lover so excruciating, that you really wanted to punctuate them with spoon-feeding and irritating interruptions? Is relaxing on the beach with your brat screaming and throwing sand that much better? And the exciting nightlife…how wonderful to bypass any chance of life, and move straight to middle age; how simply excellent to drag push-chairs around the pyramids; and how much the little fucker appreciates all of this.

And they grow older. Instead of smiling dutifully at misshapen plasticine snails you applaud your offspring’s woeful acting and singing, listen grimly to their painful stories, and try and as-cribe cuteness to that which is not. What the fuck is wrong with you people????? Why the look of horror when I tell you how I detest the little bastards, and become nauseous at your photo albums and homemade movies? Can you only convince yourself by this incessant enthusiasm for this sort of hell? How my toes tighten and cringe in the presence of your wonderful prog-eny! How many times when you are asked about yourself do you drone on about your fucking children instead?

And they grow older still. Embarrassing children with hormones and tantrums convinced that they are adults and individuals, pathetically allowing other fucking teenage-child-brats to influ-ence their every thought, taste, and action. Just see how they will thank and reward you then! How supremely and sublimely superb to think of your precious baby out getting wasted and getting fucked - and which fuck-drops will make more bastard entities then?

How old will you be when, and if, the bastards finally leave home? What will you have left of your own life then? Do you honestly believe that these little shits, who never asked to be born, will owe you something when you need looking after?

Are you so bereft of the social skills needed to find real friends that you create these entrapped hostages for company? Have you failed so miserably with your own lives that you wish to start again from scratch, vicariously?

But without children, what of the future, you say? Fuck the future, and this dismal species, if it so disdains living life, and is so scornful of freedom, that it jumps at the chance to commit this sick suicide.

willie smith

2008-11-19T09:27:00.000-08:00

in free

Take the cigarette lighter. You really only fuck it once. Push it in. Say to yourself shit in. Wait sixty-nine secs – POP!

Remove glowing element. Flip same out window. Pull off on roadside. Snap off seat belt.
Slide over. Slip out of pants, no time to waste, no point doing this without socket hot as hot gets.

Since a hard-on is fatter than a cigarette, or even a Tiparillo, expect squeezing. Even more than took to achieve rigidity; although maybe didn’t take all that much, because cars erotic to begin with; cigarettes, too; kamikaze lust further rouses…

‘Til you become a Jap, because everybody is everybody’s masturbation fantasy; you no longer a Jewish American Prince diving an African wasp into the Indian web of a Chinese widow.
You are a 1945 Jap flying into the smokestack of a big-nose boat populating that one pink about to hurt so bad, so hot, so white – here it comes!

Allye allye in free!

In the beginning was the rebeginning, because it began already before.

joseph grant

2008-11-19T09:25:00.002-08:00

accident

Traffic ahead begins to slow. This means one of two things. Either there’s construction further up the highway or there’s a crash. A half-mile ahead, it appears that cars are beginning to merge into the dreaded one lane. The highway in my mind narrows also and comes to an unexpected stop.

The radio says not one word about any of this yet. The stations remain gleefully un-aware, playing inane love songs followed by equally inane infomercials, all of which have noth-ing to do with my current reality. Maybe this is not happening, I tell myself, reassuring my work-wounded psyche. Some sort of mind mirage. A delusion of the motor skills.

Progress flows slower now. There is the floating sensation as if I am almost under wa-ter. There is no sound as in dreaming or in drowning. Any and all noise has been swallowed by the privacy of my rolled-up windows. I wonder if this is what dying feels like.

The shadows growing in the Joshua trees around me outline the tortured faces in the cars of the still merging next lane, their mouths uttering silent words to gods unknown. Time ceases to mean anything. The light around us is steadily fading.

My tank is almost on E. If the traffic doesn’t start to move, my car will become yet an-other impediment in the struggle to get nowhere fast before this darkness descends upon us. A relevant thought overtakes my mind: If the car stalls, home will be a distant memory. This only makes me sigh. Thankfully, the traffic moves. A tongue of static hisses from the radio, the words I can discern come through as some sort of half-tone cipher, a hieroglyphic of the ear; useless. A check of my cell phone finds that dead, too. All lines of communication have been neatly silenced. I am cut off from the world and orphaned by modern design.

Now all of the cars around me are compressing into one thin line of an amalgamated steel snake, slithering slowly around a sharp turn, past what has been deterring our ride home. Burnt skid marks upon the gray-blue asphalt detail the last effort to maintain control. Then all gets blurry. Slowly, then suddenly. Fade to black.

The darkness of the road disillusions my mind’s eye and my memory is trajected back to a blood red sunset when a car ahead of me had hit a coyote in the road, already lifeless. My idiotic quick turn of the wheel to avoid crushing the already dead coyote’s skull nearly sent my car careening into another car in the other lane. It took me a week to rid the outside of my car of the splatter but considerably longer for me to purge the memory.

There will be no coyotes tonight.

Ahead, flares have been set up, funeral tapers alight near the mishap, rendering my eyes; retelling the rest of the story as the snake slowly slinks on. The flares stare back into the encroaching nothingness with angry, red eyes and give a hellish illumination to an already con-fused scene. I see an ambulance and a police car, both rave lights blinding the desert night, standing idly by as the scene is reflected in thousands of diamonds of broken reflection.
Given the length of the scorched tread marks, I deduce that a car tried to pass in be-tween two trucks to get into the slow lane to exit and one of the trucks, failing to see it or al-low it, barreled right into the vehicle, ramming it into the trailer in front of it, sending chunks of the Detroit spewing all over the road. The truck then apparently slid off the road in an attempt to stop. Maybe the brakes locked and the cab skidded down the embankment. I can not see it from the highway. All that I can make out are the remains of an overturned shell of the trailer, abandoned alongside the carnage.

The entire area is being carefully swept up and hosed down, as if it never happened. The ambulance is now somehow part of this cruel spectacle. It stands as a mocking figure of sorts, being totally useless now.

The cars shed their single skin slithering freely across the desert once again. The tor-mented faces will twist and contort from the inconvenience of being momentarily held prisoner to that of gawking delight. There will be now something to discuss around the microwave at work tomorrow morning, of how they were made late in getting home by this annoyance, I muse in a smug manner.

As the ambulance u-turns and the police hold back the stem of traffic, the carriage looks empty, there is no body bag, as there wasn’t enough to go around. No desert souvenirs, no body to identify, no toe to tag. A Christ on the highway. A perfect Mojave Resurrection. No proof of existence or of having ever been. We are here today, gone in a speed limit. Turn me on, dead man.

Manifest Destiny was what really killed off the American Indian, as surely as it did the coyote; although the coyote’s death was potentially quicker and more humane. Covered in blankets of smallpox, our ancestors silently watched the indigenous’ genocide spread. Now the corporations try to pull blankets over our eyes with each passing billboard lie; vying to get the last word embedded into the collective societal chant; to make us concerned about trivial dis-eases such as not having white teeth and having a dependable deodorant in a way our ances-tors never needed worry.

With only the moon overhead to guide us, we blindly follow the red lights ahead to the road that will take us from this mad hour of darkness; that will lead us from this bruised con-sciousness; past the realm of forgotten desert towns that disappear into the haunted swallow of night; where we have killed off the Western dream with neon and assuaged our guilt with casinos as the new oasis of greed.

American roadway death-Ideal-Madison Avenue-Streamlined-Right into the grave-Efficient. No down-time at the funeral parlor for me, no thank you. Now only one epitaph rests along these haunted roads for us; the ghostly message of “me first.” Common courtesy has turned to road rage. The thought merges in the lanes of my mind: Somewhere along this lone-some highway, we have become our own road kill. Goodbye James Dean.

I roll down the window, letting the cool evening air pour in. Utter a new creed, I cry, perform a new tribal dance in the shadows that grow across the promised land. The time has come again to embrace the Navajo night. The American Dream has become a mirage. The New World is no longer working, I scream into the empty darkness.

Out here, even on the precipice of nothing, I am consumed with the sensation of our driving too far, too fast into the American night that we can no longer find the original road back again. We have come so far only to be left driving headlong into the nothingness. Now, as traffic begins to slow once more, there too lies the tangible sense of our never getting home.

mikael covey

2008-11-19T09:25:00.001-08:00

fate of nations
mikael covey

They shake hands, cameras pop and click. The president smiling, and the king who is not smil-ing. Pictures for postcards and newspapers back home. “If you could only come to my country” says the king “see the land, the people. How far we’ve come.” “Maybe someday Vlad” says the president “but you need to come around to our side. Be a part of the team...before it’s too late.”

Knocks him off stride. The king’s name is ‘Valdamir’ not ‘Vladamir’ and he understands English better than he speaks it. But not well enough to know whether mispronouncing his name was intentional, or maybe just a mistake. Either way, it says a lot about the man he’s dealing with.

Behind the scenes, away from cameras and public attention, the minister of defense meets with the vice president. “We understand your security needs” says Myerinck “and we’re willing to do everything we can to help.” General Petros smiles, says nothing. American meddling is the cause of the insecurity in his part of the world; the wars and threats of terrorism looming over his country.

“We can offer you...aircraft” says the veep “fighters, state of the art. And pilots too, to train your people; all the protection you’ll ever need.” Still the general says nothing. The veep con-tinues “with that, you could be...a regional power. Someone to be reckoned with.” “We can’t afford such things” says Petros “but our soldiers...are brave and strong, fierce.” Surely he knows that, thinks the general.

The vice president isn’t interested, doesn’t care. Reaches down beneath the dark polished table and lifts up a briefcase. Opens it up to show him the neatly stacked bundles of American dollars filling it completely. “This is a loan, which will...assist you to purchase

all the armaments you need. With even some left over, I imagine. It’s our way of saying ‘thanks’ for all your help.”

The general looks at the money, more than he’s ever seen before, more than he can even imagine. Then he looks at Myerinck. “We’re not for sale” he tells him. The veep closes the lid of the briefcase and smiles. “Look, we all know your king has been playing coy and cute with...our state department; and his refusals of our generosity. So I guess it’s up to me to say it. This is our final offer, understand.

“And let me make this clear. The pipeline...is going to go through your country. That’s inevita-ble, it’s going to happen, there’s no other way. The oil has to flow...and yours is the most se-cure and...convenient route we have. So it’s going to happen, with or without you...or your king.”

“I understand” says Petros “but let me be clear also. We have a saying in my country...”

He pauses, scrutinizing the man in front of him, making sure there’re no mistakes. Then speaks a couple of lines in a strange sounding language, a Euro-Slavic mixture that’s quite pleasing to the ear. “And what does it mean” asks the veep. “Don’t smile at my face while you’re lying out your ass” says the general.

The vice president laughs, but Petros continues like he’s on a roll now “we don’t do ‘coy’ and we don’t play games. We told your foreign secretary that we don’t want your money, and we don’t want your pipeline. And you’d be well advised to quit meddling in that region of the world. You can see where it’s gotten you, can’t you?”

“I only see allies...and enemies” says Myerinck “and it’s too bad. I had hoped...we could be friends.” “What if we took your money” says Petros “and your aircraft; and used them...to at-tack you.”

The vice president glares at the man “it’s a mistake...to say things like that; even in jest.”

“We all make mistakes” says the general “but it’s better to live with good intentions, than to die with bad ones.” “Yeah well, we’ll find out if you’re right about that, won’t we.”

On the flight home, the king goes over it with his defense minister. They hadn’t spoken in the rental car, not in front of the boy who drove them. He’s only eighteen, one of the king’s palace guards, Freidrich Arnstid, a young soldier. This was a perk for him, this trip, an amazing adven-ture to come all the way to America.

Ostensibly he was there to carry the luggage, book the flights, make the arrangements. A lot of responsibility for a young man. But soldiers need to grow up quick in a little country like theirs; surrounded by hostilities and long-standing enemies. You need to learn, and grow up quick if you ever want to become an old soldier like General Petros.

Now they’re in the plane, and Freddie is off wandering around the aisles, looking for pretty girls, or anyone who might look suspicious or out of place. He’d booked the flight when they arrived at the airport, using different names, different passports. That’s what you do when you can’t afford a private jet. But even so, someone might recognize the king, so you have to be aware of that, see who’s flying with you.

Petros and the king can relax now, and speak freely. Unlikely anyone will overhear them or even understand the strange dialect of a little Eurasian country that nobody’s ever heard of. “I felt like killing him, right there” says the king “with my bare hands.” “Why didn’t you” asks Pet-ros. The king looks down at his hands, resting on the fine suit he’s wearing. The two of them dressed like businessmen, flying on a commercial airliner; second class. “They’d think...we were barbarians” he says “living in caves, herding goats for a living.”

“They think that already” says Petros “couldn’t find us on a map, even if you told ‘em where to look.” But they knew all that going into the meeting. This great historic event, the first and only meeting their little county ever had with the great and powerful Mr. Tomkin. Even so, the results were even more frustrating than they’d imagined.

The king tells how the president mispronounced his name; Petros laughs. “I like that, ‘Vlad’ makes you sound like Count Dracula or something.” The king laughs too, but then Petros tells him of his meeting with the vice president. And there’s no more laughter.

“Good God, Bruno...you didn’t really say that, did you?”

“I spoke...the words that came to me” says Petros “just, the truth is all.”

“You told them...what we think, in private. What we don’t want them to know we’re thinking.” Petros says nothing. Neither apologizing for what he’d said, nor surprised at the king’s reac-tion. He knows the king would have done the same thing, if he’d been in that position.

The stewardess brings them food, and wine to drink. It helps to ease the tension, focus on something else. Just the food, and drinking the wine. “Bruno, has it occurred to you...that di-plomacy is maybe not your strong suit?”

“Diplomacy” says Petros “is what little dogs do when they’re afraid of the big dog.” “Yes my friend, and these sayings roll off your tongue like a commander giving orders to his troops. Right or wrong, they’re going to follow you, aren’t they?” “Am I wrong” asks the general.

“No” says the king “no, it’s just that, we need to...find ways to stop wars, not start them.”

zachari popour

2008-11-19T09:24:00.001-08:00

courage

It was around 2 o'clock on a Wednesday.

I'd been reading the liner notes of every greatest hit's CD that I own when it struck me. It had been 3 months since the last time I've been laid. Masturbation just doesn't cut it. I'll swear it off; sex and self love—nothing but distractions anyways.

The bars are full of disgusting slop and my track record with relationships is a continuous dis-appointment.

I went out back, behind the garage where the trashcans sit, reached into one, dug my hand along the side, and pulled out a 2 night old pizza box. I ripped it in half and salvaged
the top half, which was clear of rotting cheese and grease.

I shoved the sharpie back into my pocket, grabbed a lawn chair, and took my sign and the chair to the edge of the road.

An hour, maybe longer, had gone by. There was minimal traffic and I began wondering if I should've written, 'DICK 4 SALE: $100', more boldly than what the sharpie allowed.

It wasn't until I took off my pants and boxer briefs that the prospective buyers began swarm-ing in. I spread my legs a little, stuck the sign between them, and plopped
my cock on the top of the sign.

There were 20 something's driving by pointing their fingers, middle aged women walking their schnauzers staring, and teenage girls riding their bikes up and down the street whispering
and giggling. I smiled and lit a cigarette.

I was beginning to get frustrated by all of the proverbial window shopping going on. On top of the obvious anomaly of some guy trying to sell his dick on the side of the street, it was as if they were afraid of it.

"Don't be scared." I said to a woman of about 30 that had been walking back and forth all af-ternoon, "Come get a better look."

She cocked an eyebrow and hesitantly made her way over.

"Ya like what you see?"

"…maybe." she said as she began chewing on her thumbnail.

"I'll tell ya what. For you, I'll make it $50."

"gee, I don't—"

I interrupted with a forceful, "$25!"

"Well, ok. But where are we going to do this?"

"What do you mean?"

"Where are you going to 'give it' to me?"

"Right here", I said.

"I'm not having sex right HERE!"

I let out a good laugh. "We're not going to have sex!"

"Then what—wait, I'm confused."

"Hang on." I said as I put the sign beside the chair and made my way into the house, down the hall, and into the kitchen. I retrieved a 9" carving knife and headed back out to the woman, sat down in my chair, grabbed onto the head of my prick, and stretched it out. I took the knife
with my other hand and hovered the blade inches away from the base.

"Like this." I informed her.

I was pretty shocked at how shocked she seemed considering the expressions people had been giving me all day long.

"YOU CAN'T DO THAT! YOU'RE SICK! WHAT IF YOU DID CUT IT OFF? THEN WHAT? WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE LEFT?"

"All balls, baby."

erin reardon

2008-11-19T09:23:00.001-08:00

junky love

Daisies in a gun belt
Taking tickets to your sallow, sallow skin show
Chump change
The rot
Drenched in bourbon spirit
You didn't show your age then
Somehow you seemed so much older

When that stardust dissolved from your eye line
I kept a hand stuffed in my pocket
The left hand
Trigger finger cocked and ready
We had a junkie love affair
Dependency on abuse
My heart was pining for your hatred
Mercy, mercy killing
Bird in a cage
I could have kept you all those nights ago
In a stupor or a rage

It was hard enough
Just to keep my head from bleeding over your fencepost
My pyramid
Chemically-scented
Your tomb
Arms across your chest
A runny nose
Nightshade and moon orchids
Glow a sick, sweet blue

My cotton fix
Snaggletooth
I needed you
Bury my burning eyes
In your chest hair
Clueless now
How to shot a junkie love affair

Cold needles in the ashtrays
Vomit
Cigarette burns across the cover of your paperback
Did I want too much
When I swallowed everything
That was in our medicine chest?

My ears were ringing
Blind with frustration
My junky heart
Your skin was so dry
I tried to anoint you
With unholy oils

Street-slick
You slip away from view
Rose-tinted across a Utah sun
I stick out my thumb
The left hand still in my pocket
Trigger-sure against my stomach
Slow bleeding
Across your linoleum
Bleeding your medical caress from memory

Did I ask too much?
When I asked you to
Shoot
Me
Up?

lester allen

2008-11-19T09:22:00.002-08:00

rotting on the vine

some days the sun and others no
sun and all clouds and rain
and streets for cars
trees for birds sheds for saws and
stacks of pornography

kitchen tables but no dinner tv but
no entertainment beds but no sex
or too much sex and
not enough love
houses without husbands or wives
or children and leaky pipes in the
basement
always leaky pipes

windows to peek into or
out of squirrels to miss and boxes to hit
old queer men who like
young men say "come on in. I'm not going to
tell anybody. I have an extra swimsuit, let's
you and me go sit by the pool."

and sometimes it's the sun or
pretty women on a catalogue
pure thoughts about a
dirty thing sometimes it's old ladies
or new ladies or insane old farmers
preachers on the hill or sinners in
the trailer park

sometimes the mailman gets a
haircut sometimes the bridge is
out sometimes gas is 3 dollars other
times much more sometimes
the attendant winks at me
she says to me "you should come
around back." though I
never go sometimes the
kittens come out they are curious
end up dead on the road
with rotten-fly-eyes
while the trees
sway in the breeze other times houses
get painted or become unpainted
and as the wallpaper peels I think
of these things while
officers arrest lawyers
lawyer presidents smile
kids swing swings
bat balls catch grasshoppers or
caterpillars or other things

burn the world down

mowed lawns mean nothing
well-furnished homes mean
nothing

not much holds any meaning

men live for money and die for it
too and little ever changes
in our tiny eyes
we see only what
we want to see

everything is right in
this world except everything that
isn't

it is everywhere.

billy burgos

2008-11-19T09:22:00.001-08:00

tanya’s new man

You came over last Saturday, with the first rain.
Hanger shoulders hidden under
a gray cashmere pashmina.
Later you told me you could barely remember drizzle
or that Tanya came by that night
with her new man Earl.

She came knocking not long after you did.
You spoke through the camouflage
of an iron screen door.
It was easier that way to hide your tousled hair and
shrunken body. I remember thinking that your
lithe frame seemed to hover over the cold wood floor.

I remember the night sky had a crimson
tint. I theorized it
was the chemicals and the city lights held in tight
by the canopy of rain clouds like our
own version of Northern lights.
I watched it all from the dark window. You
shuffling out with
Tanya to the two idling cars in the street,

stepping gingerly across the
damp sidewalk with wet sandals.
It was unlike you to meet a stranger
looking so disheveled. The cat purred at my
feet as i listened to Earl's heavy voice
echo off the shoulder
to shoulder apartments on the darkened street:

" I've heard so much about you from Tanya."
" Yes Tanya IS a wonderful woman."
" Uh-huh, we are going to the movies, then dinner."

Later after Tanya left, I remember asking the
obvious questions: Why did they drive separate cars?
What did he look like? Your reply surprised
me as much as
your dazed appearance had earlier.

" you can't trust no nigga on the first date! What if after
a few cheap drinks, he go and get all clingy and
she got no way home?! What then...huh?!"

I hid perplexity within my laughter
and let the television,
the rain with the cars skidding by fill
in the blanks. I wondered
quietly into the night. Way after your hunched shadow drifted
trough the drizzle. It wasn't until days later, as the girls ran through
the house and play echoed off evening walls did i ask about the Saturday past.

" I did what?!"
" Tanya came over here? What for?"
"I went out looking like what!?"

You told me of the concoction of
Effexor and Ambien that you took
that night. About chasing it down
with Vodka and orange juice before
heading out. How it felt as if you had
dreamed it all. I remember feeling as
if I was alone that rainy night. As if
i had dreamed it too. As if Tanya's
new man Earl was a figment of both
of our imagination. As if the
first rain of Fall had never come. As
if somehow I too was high through
it all. It was better that way. It closed
the door on any hard questions.
We never spoke of that night or of
Tanya's new man again.

jason ryberg

2008-11-19T09:21:00.001-08:00

reconstruct
for the Little Sparrow of 39th Street
jason ryberg

Some people
seriously need

to step back and re-evaluate
their bass-ackwards

social fetishes and faux pieties

(always riddled, it seems,
with more than the daily

recompensable allowance

of escape clauses and hypocrisies
necessary to maintain
something even close
to resembling a consistent
moral continencey);
specifically,
that demographic
that identifies itself (profusely,

ad nauseam-ly), as being the biggest

sky cult/death cult on the block,
endowed with hugest,
most massive
divining rod
and most righteously
and peripatetically engorged

with the divine right
to lay hands upon

who and whatever it so deems
as falling under its dominion
and domain
(which pretty much includes
everyone and everything)
as well as being
most morally fit
to ladle out the healing blood
and sweetbread stew
rendered from one of the many
one true gods
available to the terminally fearful
and estranged of the earth.
And all
with which to more
efficiently demonize,
dehumanize
and goddamn themselves
and each other,
respectively,
to the unconscionable
and unthinkable
life sentence
of a life crippled
and traumatized

by the violent ain’t-intellectual insemination

of the virulent seed of guilt
and eternal suffering (as in
forever and ever
without end, amen)
for such abominable and
cosmic offenses

as lust, masturbation
and adultery.
Really,
why don't you all just repent,

reboot and
reconstruct

you sick fucks.

charles goldman

2008-11-19T09:20:00.002-08:00

the empty plaza
charles goldman

I have never seen an empty plaza,
there are always the pigeons
who gather to the man with
his bag of crumbs.

Scatter the bird feed and
they will come,
they will come ravenous
and like locusts devour
whatever hits the ground.

And as soon as his bag is empty
they go
and do not return,
except to give a cursory glance
hoping for a remnant
of that recent feast.

Even a twitch of a muscle
can then alert the pigeons
whose eyes flick
like little shutters,
behind which an empty head
gawks awaiting
that one new morsel.

What if it never comes?

I have never seen a plaza
empty of pigeons
because always
someone arrives
in their loneliness,
in their hunger to be
an attraction, to fill
the emptiness inside,
just as he filled his paper bag
with crumbs
to gather the hungry birds
to his feet.

He sits in solitude among
the pecking and blinking
rats of the sky
who are driven to return
by his bag of crumbs,
like an audience
to whom he feeds
his empty life.

joseph veronneau

2008-11-19T09:20:00.001-08:00

paperwork
joseph veronneau

The plane is up and a bird
ceases the engine.
The one in my seat
imagines the windows
level with dandelions
as a greeting back to the plains.
Earlier, a man was arrested
for walking through, holding a black bag.
They imagined it was cash
until the wands and buzzers
stated otherwise. His shoes
squeaked and held
artificial buckles on the sides.
The one imagines him, tap dancing
his way to the sky, stepping
into the falling snow like
shredded milk glass.
Steam rolls from the factories
into the Hudson below.
The Christmas tree holds
a flashing light just like a tower,
ready for the landing.
All of the money imagined
floats out into the Brooklyn streets,
filling the eyes of the playing kids below
as a plane comes in for a landing.

misti rainwater-lites

2008-11-19T09:19:00.004-08:00

adequate sopper upper
misti rainwater-lites

Spill the carnage at my feet. Bring
on the flood of blood.
Give me guts. Give me gore. I've got
a mop and a bucket.

I wear a skirt of rags. My tongue
is a sponge. I'm Raggedy Ann's
forgotten twin sister. She's famous
because her heart is pretty
and red and in the right place. I'm
stuck in the shadows because
my heart is sloppy and bluish gray
and not easily translated
into a ten cent Valentine. I'll take
all the shapes and colors
you don't know what to do with. I'll
absorb the seepage
you have no room for. I suck at
many things but
as a shamaness of slop I come
highly recommended.

richard wink

2008-11-19T09:19:00.003-08:00

recluse party
richard wink

The resistance of temptation
is a fruitless pursuit.
Amongst the staging of wistful serenades
fumbling with errant passion

I fell in with the ideals of voyeurism
it fed my initial curiosity
but limited me to the saliva dropping
as the dinner tray wheels past

Excess and champagne
connected by indecision.
The mist of wishes made
when you're sitting alone in a room
with only the calming drone
coming from the air conditioning unit

The lips kiss the coffee mug
and the clouds remain under the pillow
the thoughts are mostly self obsessed
always trivial

ray succre

2008-11-19T09:19:00.001-08:00

it packs its pillows and people with straw
ray succre

A colic mail of heirloom traits—
his birthmark, his pox ability,
his scarecrows in genes and
particle call to flesh from a
semen alphabet scrawled within
some breath’s eggshell bookcase.

Midnight tugs one’s tongue up
from the mouth and then roots
and snorts into boxes in attics
of tits set together, two each,
like sculpted musical tones.

His essence on a burner
babies the hairs, and a crushed,
salivating dick.

He wilds and ferals his bed
beneath her, and talks a touch
of teeth in a final, radio broadcast:
Help me come out of my
garbage heart…

The response is hinged, the world
opens and closes; it packs its pillows
and people with straw, these all
merging to decipher him
a dusk between.

christine bruness

2008-11-19T09:18:00.002-08:00

untitled
christine bruness

I had a Beck’s today
and thought of you.
I thought about Punk Rock
and CBGB’s in the Bowery
and Ben’s Pizza on West Third Street
and clandestine trysts
in your cellar…

I felt so ALIVE!

Then I realized
where I was—
in the back room
of a liquor store
with a man
twice my age
and I remembered
how you said you’d always love me
and take care of me . . . .

I can still see your face . . .
Nothing
worked out.
The memories linger
every now and then.
I’m not sentimental
but

I

miss

you.

p.a. levy

2008-11-19T09:18:00.001-08:00

mongolian blue spot
p.a. levy

Random acts of Mongolian;
backteller;
skin marks wild with ancestral
sperm stains.

On the Steppes
perhaps there should have been
a poster campaign encouraging a safer sex
with indiscriminate acts of facefucking;
ejaculations
without genealogy

just the lure of khoomii voices
into the humidity of Buddhist sunsets
( … it’s often been said
painted lips make the mouth more vaginal
but you’d have to be a cunt
to believe that … )
and the slipstream of lipstick verses
spatspit
in the bloodlines of my forefathers

never foremothers
which has made me wonder
in distant days
if they were sluts or whores
and whenever they saw a Mongolian
in the pub or at bingo there was some kind
of involuntary reaction
that made them drop their drawers
when they should have puckered-up
bit of lippy

for me to have been born
with my adopted English heritage
as an unblemished shade
of perfect pink.

dasha lilith desir

2008-11-19T09:17:00.004-08:00

the king
dasha lilith desir

Sweet promises unwrapping salty skin,
The heart of a boy, in a man, so tall;
His silent statue now quivering within,
As armor comes down, a merciful fall.

Ah, this bold warrior possesses my breath!
Then buries His torment between my thighs;
Immortal yearning, my only true death,
As my legs guard him, this Angel will rise.

His eyes do not waiver, nor do they lie;
Honest and pure, He bows down before me,
A God on his knees, so I start to cry;
Princely He entered, within He is King.

shane allison

2008-11-19T09:17:00.003-08:00

he said he wanted to get naked with me
shane allison

He pulls me like a gun, point blank to his lips.
His mustache is a cactus pricking skin.

He gropes my nipples.
Show me those titties, he whispers.

He strokes me in the restroom mirror.
His ass angles over assuming the position.

A peeking red rectum gives me the eye
and I grimace in disgust.

He crouches to my crotch.
Saliva trickles to the base of sensitive skin.

Just when I'm about to explode like a Texas oil rig,
he zips up, washes hands and never looks back.

I thought he wanted to get naked with me.

michael lee johnson

2008-11-19T09:17:00.001-08:00

i am old frustrated thought
michael lee johnson

I am old frustrated thought
I look into my once eagle eyes
and find them dim before my dead mother,
I see through clouded egg whites with days
passing by like fog feathers.
I trip over old experiences and expressions,
try hard to suppress them or revisit them;
I'm a fool in my damn recollections,
not knowing what to keep and what to toss out--
but the dreams flow like white flour and deceive
me till they capture the nightmare of the past images
in a black blanket wrapped up
and wake me before my psychiatrist.
I only see this nut once every three months.
It is at times like these I know not where I walk
or venture. I trip over my piety and spill my coffee cup.
I seek sanctuary in the common place of my nowhere life.
It is here the days pass and the years slip like ice cubes--
solid footing is a struggle in the socks of depression.

I am old frustrated thought;
passing by like fog feathers.

joseph lisowski

2008-11-19T09:16:00.002-08:00

it could’ve been yesterday
joseph lisowski

Or the day before,
thirty years ago
when you tap, tap, tapped
the crook of your elbow,
then tightened the rubber rope.

I can still taste
the thrill under your lip,
your teeth shining bright.
And I remember you
always saying coke
is what you do
but heroin will do
if you gotta make do.

I was yesterday.
And I miss you.

malaika king albrecht

2008-11-19T09:16:00.001-08:00

at the go-go world
malaika king albrecht

I work as a nude body double
of myself; non-union, of course.
The watered-down drinks
don’t put out the fire, but make eyes
smoky which is misinterpreted
as desire. What do you want?

You say, "The distance
between objects makes us
appear small, like pebbles
in a river between mountains.”

Listen traveler, we’re all briefly
stranded. Get closer and you’ll
seem larger. In the morning,
before you leave, sign
your name in the book
on the coffee table.

Thanks.

jameson hughes

2008-11-19T09:15:00.004-08:00

poem about voices, my mother, Europe, and sex
jameson hughes

every voice I hear
is impertinent and I recall
how close I was
to my mother
(not close at all
really
but enough to know
she only ever once spoke to God)
and how dull faces
in the news look
broomsticks in suits
fathers all
crying
for their children
all dull and dead
even with a limp
of heavy water
in the arms of an Arab wife.
she drags herself
from place to place
on days that I would say
are perfect for walking one’s dog
or drinking wine
in Europe.
but even then voices
have a way of
creeping in
from the rain
with armor and legs
from ten years at sea
all sexless and
all without
sex.

howie good

2008-11-19T09:15:00.003-08:00

a matter of preference
howie good

Wouldn’t you rather
we walk down

avenues of rain
trading verses from Poe

like black roses
and only take

our best memories
with us and the small

butterfly tattoo
on the back of your neck

wouldn’t you rather
the government

forgot our faces
our names and when

we’re faraway
and finally beyond

the boom of waves
wouldn’t you rather

I put my hand
in the flame

between your legs

well I would

l. ward abel

2008-11-19T09:15:00.001-08:00

if i knew where her anguish resides
l. ward abel

then I’d go and carpet bomb the place.
There would be no trace of darkness
in all that brilliant light.
From the outside, she is perfection.
But a seed confuses her,
maybe something from me. I’d
take a bullet for her, jump off
a cliff in a heartbeat to ensure
her happiness. This doesn’t
solve the problem, though.

I’m not sure what can.

george anderson

2008-11-19T09:14:00.000-08:00

the dreamer
george anderson

Don’t tell anyone about my new book
Don’t tell them yet, man.

I’ve gotta organize stuff first
It’s gonna be like a franchise
Like Jim’s Mowing or Burger King.

I’m gonna merchandise the book
You know, there’ll be hats
A flag
A beautiful medallion for the reader.
They can put it around their necks
& connect with other readers on the street.
I’m even working on an anthem
To be sung by celebrities at my official book launches.

You’ll know I’ve made it big
When I come around in my black stretch limo.

But man, don’t think I’m doing this
Solely for myself
You know, I’m gonna set aside
Some money for writing scholarships
For the disadvantaged.

I just gotta ensure no one steals my idea
There’s plenty of con-artists/
Piraters out there

I’ve told no one about this-
Not even my wife.
You gotta promise me
You ain’t gonna tell no one, will yeah?

felino soriano

2008-11-19T09:13:00.002-08:00

emotions posited beyond the realm
of natural inclinations
felino soriano

We
generate mood
to galvanize
the seconds splitting into
'why'-realms, answers relate
to light atop
sky fashioned angles
sliding
towards what mere relates to as
emotional now. The
congregating
as in all of
voice sounds gathered prior
to definitional tone—
they in the surplus
within mind beyond the body's
need to ascertain
draws across
the listening, the predestined being
standing toward the tongue of deliberate
delivery, hand making introductions
to ensuing connotations. Listen
to watch over the body image
being wrought,
the explanation to reflectional
antecedents folded over several times,
relaying imagery of syncopated
happenstance.

tom snyder

2008-11-19T09:13:00.001-08:00

the orphaned mother
tom snyder

Alone, a mother fingers pearls
at the base of her creased white neck
while squinting at a menu
without prices. Pearl to pearl, finger
to thumb, memories numbed
prey, unforgotten:
how her infant twirled
his hair, as scholar tapped
his pen, as soldier tapped his gun,
as vet now taps his veins.

A dark red stream
spills into her glass. She drinks and looks away
to get away
past the restaurant glass
to a windswept sea.

Skin stretched taunt by
surgeons’ gloves,
grey roots expose her worn out die,
the cover up: what’s died,
what’s dead to her now.

Outside a vagrant wanders
up the beach
and taps upon his wrist,

“Got the time?”

Inside her waiter lauds
the steak tar tar. She can’t decide
what to choose
ever since her sense of loss.

The vagrant frames himself,
centered in her pane.
She doesn’t see his
salted beard, Medusa hair, black
bug-eyed shades, the cover up:
what’s died, who died,
what’s dead to him now.

“Hey, you got the time?”

She sees the wide blue sea
spraying waves on distant rocks.
She spies a toy-sized cormorant bolting
for the water, a rising gold
get-well balloon
smaller than her spoon.

Again, he taps the pane:
“Excuse me, Ma'am?”

Reflections of a tux arrive;
she beckons toward the blinds.
The shade is drawn,
a candle lights,
she doesn’t have the time.

melissa mann

2008-11-19T09:12:00.001-08:00

mr happy
melissa mann

Last week
a year ago
today
(I forget)

I bumpedintosomeone
familiar
He was on the tip
of my tongue

Do I know you
(I said)
You seem
Have we met

He looked right at me
his skin shiny
with rainbows
and my insides

(I swear to God)
flipped right over
like I’d stepped off
a big curb or

I mean there I was
at the bus stop
minding this woman’s
business and

well you don’t expect it
do you
Not in a queue
waiting for the 46

Next thing
he touched me
on the cheek
right here

(or was it here)
Then he disappeared
leaving me alone
with my face

My fingers
lost in all that face
felt around for
a pinprick of wetness

a micro kiss
from someone
kind of nice
really

Someone kind anyway
from once upon a time ago
or twice
(I forget)

All gone
(said the woman)
Her son kept blowing
through the plastic ring

waiting for magic
to wrap skin
shiny with rainbows
round his breath

All gone
My tears rolled down
his face (I smiled
distraught

pulling his socks off
my feet
tiny socks with little
cartoon men running)

Yes last week
a year ago
today
(I forget)

I bumpedintohappiness
a perfect bubble
filled with nothing
but used air.

puma perl

2008-11-19T09:11:00.002-08:00

the death of cool
puma perl

cool died
alone
watching

a skinny
woman
wearing
a black wig
in a short skirt
all knees
talked
to another
skinnier
punkier
type woman
all cat eyes
mascara
and big dog

the two of them looking
through anyone
with tits
or smiles
both of them
about fifty years old
maybe more

in twenty years
they’ll snub
paulie walnuts’
mother
at the lunch table
laugh at her
whisper
and sneer

cool died
alone
watching

mike hammer

2008-11-19T09:11:00.001-08:00

a Spanish death
mike hammer

She spoke Spanish, out of the corner of her mouth
Out of the corner of the room
I was sipping coffee
I could feel it in my skin, sipping me

“coming through,” was the yell
Large barriers were laid down
all the while, the men were yelling

I was crying, out
Out of the corner of the room
she was crying, she was dying
in Spanish
a beautiful sound
a Spanish death
a beautiful death

zach king-smith

2008-11-19T09:10:00.000-08:00

Lorca's grave
zach king-smith

Lorca's grave
is getting dug up
soon.

Died in the
revolution.

Shot by
Franco's bullets.

Leave dead
poets alone.

Half-Ass Elegy
Thinking of
my mother &
her tenderness
it's hard to imagine
her eyes and mouth
which has been said
by many that I have.

But ghosts don't
have that skin and
bone which crafts
the appearance of
a face.

so it's hard
to imagine her face
though our eyes
met once.

"Low Culture"
The sidewalk is
a carefully crafted
mosaic of the low
down life.

There are cigarette
butts & bottle caps
among the cracks
with the occasional
chewing gum
wrappers left
inside by blue
eyed children
who have never
heard of Warhol
because there is
no pop art in elementary
school art classes just
the classics.

So it's a collaboration
of many big-nosed
bums and children
living out on
the side walks &
the bums are real
surreal types with
big Picasso cubist
eyes and misplaced
hands and mouths.

Some day the
true art in this
world will be
appreciated.

"Misogyny"
She wore a short
red dress that
barely covered
her milky-junk thighs.

Her legs were
long and slender
leading up miles
from high-heeled
foot.

She walked with
such a sexual intensity
that was raw and
almost bestial.

When she walked
her ass swayed along
behind her with a
confidence that
would scare away
any man.

Her eyes gleamed
and warned of great
despair a few inches
above her mouth
that i never saw
her open.

I just kept walking
head bent to the pavement
because woman like that
are death

mathias nelson

2008-11-19T09:09:00.002-08:00

ignorant
mathias nelson

John Hamton used to get in trouble
for saying the word nigger back
in high school.

The teachers yelled, scolded,
suspended him, but he kept on:

nigger, nigger, nigger.

No one liked John.
I didn't like John,
but I didn't say anything.
Didn't pick at him or try to talk
sense. Instead I sat back and watched
the arguments, a little amused
at his stupidity.

My black friends mostly laughed
it off, now and then throwing
lunch at his wind burned
face. No one tried to beat him,
for he was built like a brick wall
lined with fat.

After high school, when everyone else
went to college, I became very apathetic,
hanging around crazy kids, but now
the crazy kids had guns. I was drinking
with them one day, looking at their pictures,
when surprised, I saw a photo of them
standing next to John. They had rifles and
John was holding two AK-47's with a low brow
grin on his face.

The 2008 presidential election coming
to a head, my brother stuck an Obama
sign in his yard; and recently babysitting
my nephews, early in the morning,
I noticed sharp, red plastic
shattered in the street. A taillight.
My brother's. Next to a crumpled can
of Bud Light.

Driving the boys to school, tuning
the radio to "Rain Drops Keep Falling
On My Head," and jolting with
the backseat kicks of my nephews,
I saw John, for the first time
since high school, sitting
on the front steps of a house
two blocks down from my brother's.
Still big. Slumped with his fists
clenched as if playing an invisible
shoot 'em up arcade game. Scowling
and not moving, brow bone big
as a caveman's. Red faced
and looking hungover.
Living in the neighborhood.

His head turned slowly with my car,
watching like an overweight lion
to a fast gazelle; and I
connected the election, the beer can,
John's AK-47s, my brother and his
black wife, my mixed
nephews:

nigger, nigger, nigger.

Definition: a person of any race
or origin regarded as contemptible,
inferior, ignorant, etc.

A long time ago
I should have had a long talk
with John.

sabrina edwards

2008-11-19T09:09:00.001-08:00

trigger
sabrina edwards

Intrigued…
By an intelligent conversation.
By an awkward glance with curled lip edges.
By the smile behind your eyes.
Which betrays your somewhat cool demeanor;
Cool, not cold, not nearly frigid.
Or at least I hope my senses are correct.
I feel invited to swim in this new quandary of ideas
Un mixed, un poured, un cemented
before the art of temperance comes into play
and feelings are added to thoughts
And wind is blown into empty sails
Which play the harp of heartstrings
I find myself smiling at my thoughts of thoughts
While having a strange indifference
for making feelings blossom
For once I will sit back
Upon this throne of my own making
And let it all unfold
Unforced
Like the coils of a snake
Coming to rest
languorously after aeons
of contraction

luis cuauhtemoc berriozabal

2008-11-19T09:08:00.000-08:00

silver fish and lightning
luis cuauhtemoc berriozabal

The silver fish
shimmer in the sun
in a milky sea.

The thunder from
a cannon-like storm
shoots out from a cloud.

The sun hides and
darkness envelops the
day. There are no stars.

The silver fish
are like coal black stones
in dark waters.

Spear-like lightning
bolts pelt the ocean
mercilessly and

suddenly stop.
The cloud parts. Sunshine
fills the ocean and

the silver fish
spooked have disappeared
like the cloud above.

john dorsey

2008-11-19T09:07:00.002-08:00

in heaven even death smells like sex
john dorsey

i recently told a
friend that all kafka
ever really wanted was
a pony

he said
death was a silly word
like tongue like rose
like bone like dreams

i told him that
if you look for
the worst in angels
then miracles are all
around you

you just have to
be willing to abduct
the holy spirit if
you’re going to hope
for political change

the prayers of the
dead require an active
imagination that’s why they
keep jesus chained up in
the basement of heaven
with only some wafers
a little holy water and
a flask of cheap
dago red where he
and mike huckabee have
been planning his escape
since before the crucifixion

so i ask what
song do the dead sing
to their children?

i want to say
like the devil i too
dream of ponies eating
sunflowers in the fields
of hell

that my song offers shade
to the magic of
ghost children

in this land america
home of the brave
where death feels like
a second language but
i can’t find the words

words like love have
become a silly notion
they have become the
muffled currency of outlaws
like tongue like rose
like bone like dreams
we pray every night
in hopes of stealing
their music this land
is your land

i find little need for
a salvation army to
march with the dead

abigail beaudelle

2008-11-19T09:07:00.001-08:00

hometown
abigail beaudelle

I. I live in a city
of grimaces.

A quaint small-town-charm-school
hate-club -
hello
is cut
by a curt "I'mjustlooking
thankyou."

Tight-lipped matrons
neglect
the swell of breath.

Well I guess that's retail.

II. I live in a town
of puckered souls
and crimped smiles -

of narrow-eyed
Bless Her Heart's.

III. Your mother is a racist.
I cringe
and retreat -

watching you laugh
at nigger
and Jew jokes
curdles my blood
and turns
all you say
into mold-filmed milk.

And somehow
she found out I was gay.

deanna prall

2008-11-19T09:06:00.000-08:00

nothing else
deanna prall

I don't know what it is about the blood
stain on this concert tee
that makes me miss you
you with that special baggie
that always seemed to refill itself,
magically

I shouldn't care, nor do i want to
but yet, i still do
I mean, despite this demon,
you are still a person too
and I miss you

So many songs play as I watch the sunrise
but this time I'm all alone
staring out the window with an empty gaze
maybe it's not even you i miss
maybe it's the devil on your coffee table
and the taste of it

then again
that's all we ever had

doug draime

2008-11-19T09:05:00.002-08:00

i would
doug draime

I would shoot a bullet through
the heart of America,
but it’s already dead

I would set aflame the Bill of Rights,
the Constitution, and Jefferson’s
glorious Declaration of
Independence,
but they’ve already
been torched.

The greasy scum of the ashes
covering the windows of
our betrayed souls, and blocking
out the sun.

karl koweski

2008-11-19T09:05:00.001-08:00

free beer
karl koweski

FREE BEER 3PM
the ad read
followed by a street address
downtown near
United Methodist
below that in tiny script:
now that I have your attention
come join us
in celebrating god’s grace
coffee and donuts provided

Wes never got below
the first line
he sat on a folding chair
among the
bright-eyed believers
and the
bleary-eyed drunks
for forty-five minutes
chewing on
stale, glazed donuts
listening to the young preacher
practice bible quotes
as the realization
the free beer had as much chance
of materializing
as god, himself
slowly dawned on him

what did you expect?
I asked
once he finished his story
who would give away
free beer?

it sounded plausible
Wes shrugged
I thought it might have been
a local brewery
taste testing
a new flavor of microbrew
or something

and I know
when the ad runs in next week’s paper
Wes will be there
holding down a folding chair
in that small un-air-conditioned room
holding out the one slim shred of hope
this time
there’ll be a man
passing out paper cups
brimming with raspberry peach ale
rather than
the same jackass
promising eternal

charles du preez

2008-11-19T09:04:00.002-08:00

the gunman
charles du preez

Jesus wanted to be
in the Army, but they
wouldn't let him.

"You don't have a birth
certificate or proper
identification," they said.

"You don't even live
in this country."

Then Jesus spoke:
"I am Jesus, son of God.
I can heal people
with my bare hands."

"Jesus," they said,
"We too can heal,
with medicine and bandages."

"But," Jesus said, pulling
something from his robe,
"can you make
a balloon animal
that looks like
a mastodon?"

No one else could,
so they let Jesus enlist.
But instead of being
a medic, He was commanded
to operate a machine gun
and let all hell
rain on the enemy.

dan provost

2008-11-19T09:04:00.001-08:00

a bad mood
dan provost

We are not children of concrete and steel
despite what Living Color said in the early
90’s…while they were on the cusp of edgy rock…

We are beings of falseness, victims of participating
in some pathetic crapshoot—buying exotic clothes and
drinking Dom Perignon while the loners who sit among
the pigeons and get shit on…. mumble the real truth to
themselves.

We are all going to die…soon, very soon.
Much too soon.

And while the corpse is lying in the dirt,
Being eaten by worms and slugs…those walking
Above ground keep praying that there’s something else
After we pass into that dimension of nothingness.

Keep praying preacher
Keep praying rabbi
Keep praying priest
Keep praying shaman

Your words are useless to this man of realization

Sad truths
Wandering alone with a wounded bird in his pocket…

We are a band of isolated idiots with a penchant to overrate
So much we see…

What we see is nothing; beauty is just a word to describe fear.
And that fear carries us to the church, the mosque, the place of worship…

Go on
Hurry up

I’ll stay here--feed the birds, and talk to myself.

glen l. lantz

2008-11-19T09:03:00.000-08:00

web
glen l. lantz

Spin the web of intoxication,
the desperate grow tired of heaven,
once more justice is bought with blood,
we give birth to the revolution.

The dead can never be replaced,
you utter words of hope,
as you come to grips,
with your shame and wrath.

It would be different if we were free,
occasionally you become flooded with hope,
wicked dance of disillusion,
she circles the wagons.

In the aftermath of horror,
we find a separate peace,
a stoic grasp on the future,
claws scratching against the wall.

I sit with her every night,
we are brave souls,
constantly retreating,
from scar shaped futures.

Following justice,
her gentle ironic voice,
tales of fabricated invention,
we are never far from the past.

We gaze soulfully,
into each other’s eyes,
sturdy beaten-earth walls,
small against the backdrop.

Our faces crumpled,
like the morning paper,
laying in a heap on the floor,
we all come alone.

Standing between two worlds,
feet firmly upon the shoulders,
the snake swallows its tail,
we unite the opposites.

She piles the stones up to heaven,
a landmark to show us the way,
driving us over the edge,
a constant spinning top.

We conjure up the past,
a sense of déjà vu,
she glues the little pieces,
back together again.

glenn cooper

2008-11-19T09:02:00.002-08:00

time
glenn cooper

Time is a foul slut,
so I give her
what she wants –
oceans of semen; over-
loaded ashtrays (enough
to poison a continent); finger-
nails gnawed to blood;
white knuckle nightmares;
neurosis born
from darkened rooms;
dirty sheets; no
respect; withered
hope; and the promise
of more to come
tomorrow.

david mclean

2008-11-19T09:02:00.001-08:00

if heaven were a ditch
david mclean

if there were a heaven it would be a ditch
for all the dead children, dirty as a womb,
a temple to abortion and a warning
for all the mother's love we never expected,

love stinking like dead fish under the sun
that crawls to the moon, subservient
as any murderess. babies sacrificed
to a ravenous land and a mother's pride,

country and cunt both flying blind
the false flag of duty, decorum, and lies,
sweat as arsenic on her belching breath
and the traitorous cancer that waited too long.

for if heaven were more of a ditch than it is
the stars would blind their eyes, but they stare
there unseeing over us, they care for nothing
above us, and the ditch we die in is life,

just life and its obligations inside,
blind as a mother's cunt, her formless
leering eye, a devil full of her smothering
lies, her filthy incestuous pride

david conroy

2008-11-19T09:01:00.000-08:00

performance anxiety
david conroy

The truth has a tiger in her hips,
an invitation in her eyes
and a way of patting the space beside her,
be it the couch or the bed,
that makes the prospect of her company
seem very worthwhile.

The truth has an appeal
that lies in the little things,
like the secrets of her smile
and the fact she doesn’t care
what your underwear looks like
since your wearing them
doesn’t figure much in her plans
anyway.

The truth can make you feel
uncomfortable some times,
ask questions about subjects
that you were happy to ignore
and let lurk in the corners
with the dust bunnies,
the book club offers
and the papers you meant to organize
but never do
because you want to spend more time
with the truth.

The truth can be a daunting proposition,
fearsome in her temper,
harsh in her deliberation,
and cruel in her mercy.
Handling the truth is never certain,
never a done deal,
never something you are sure of
until you are in that moment.

The truth has a way
of looking you in the eyes
that makes surrender the only option.
But there is a hunger there,
an undeclared expectation,
a desire for fulfillment
that is like the unfilled cup of history.
You’ll give it your best shot,
naturally,
but you’re not sure
if that will be good enough.

The truth wears your shirts
the next morning
and maybe it’s the sunlight
or maybe it’s the blushing blur of dreams,
but you can’t help but think
that they look a whole lot better on her
than they ever will on you.

The truth looks good most days
and, better yet, most nights
when looking good always adds up
to a little bit more -

in all the right kind of ways.

andrew lander

2008-11-19T08:50:00.003-08:00

tears
andrew lander

I don’t think that often
about my dead father.
Ten years now
lidded
and labeled.

But recently I see him everywhere.
The old man at the street corner
waving copies of the Big Issue,
the man leaning against a lamppost
to gather breath.

Old men with white beards
and blue eyes
wet with tears
like they’ve been caught
in a bitter wind

like my father's looked
that summer afternoon
at his mother’s
Funeral

when he looked
over his shoulder
searching for something
something
I could never
give

ryan snellman

2008-11-19T08:50:00.001-08:00

sex and alcohol or was it alcohol and sex
ryan snellman

We talked about opening a bar in Key Largo
I'd first met her working the night shift
She was the girl of the other night owl
came out from Austin via San Francisco
Month later we were sharing classes
at the local junior college the ex complaining
of crotch rot Between classes we would hang
around the wall her smoking a cigarette me
drinking coffee The conversation would meander
touching nothing important When time allowed
we'd walk down the street eat something
at the diner drink a few in the bar Nothing
like eggs and screwdrivers after an early
morning class Every month or two she'd
talk about the new guy she was or wanted
to fuck Went to her place once and drank a
few beers
Couple of years later I went to Austin to
finish a masters degree Late at night I
wondered whatever happened to that girl
We talked about opening a bar in Key Largo

cyndi dawson

2008-11-19T08:49:00.002-08:00

three lines
cyndi dawson

It was 25 years ago. Might as well been yesterday. He
Told me he would drive me home.
He told me three lines wouldn't hurt me just a little
High no big deal he cut four.
He told me he would drive me home
he blocked the door
He pushed his weight against
my arms my arms were wings I
Flew away.
I went above to brighter skies to small circles of
Light where angels embraced me in conversation- we
Spoke above these cotton clouds, so soft so soft I
Could feel only lightness and the wind of their kisses I
Smelled not the stench of breath but the pearls of their
Air I was alone he promised to take me home he said three lines
He said three lines....

wolfgang carstens

2008-11-19T08:49:00.001-08:00

godless
wolfgang carstens

At the height of climax
In the embrace of death
I'm incensed
To sink my teeth into your chest
Tear away a chunk of flesh
Your scream

Fills my heart with unease
Enabling me to release
My disease into your womb

I don't know why I hurt you
Perhaps I'm a deviant soul
That feeds on the pleasure of pain
Without the sensation of your scream
I may never come again

As I lay in heat
Beside my cold, former flame
I have forgotten her name

I should get out of bed and leave
An outside breeze
Whisks her odor from beneath the sheets
And colors the air I breathe

I know that love is dead
I know that love is dead
I am repulsed by the sick fuck fantasy
Of the corpse that now shares my bed

Yet, a most loathsome creature
Betrayed by the blood
That surges through my veins
My cock begins to stiffen
And I mount her once again

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