The Art of Craig Podmore

QuoteABLE

"You succeeded where Herod failed." --Grant Morrison

QuoteABLE

"Please, let it go back to normal... or take one of these places away. I've figured out what's happened to me.. but I need the why." --Matt Kindt

fact-OID

Before she was a chef, Julia Child was a spy and invented shark repellent.

fact-OID

Actress Hedy Lamar was also a women of science. She invented the frequency-hopping spread-spectrum secret communication system in June 1941. She also was an American spy.

QuoteABLE

"You recall what you said on the Empire State Building? 'Bout all you had to do was jump and you could land anywhere in America?' Well, this is my Empire State right here. This is America to me, Cass. Right outta the movies." --Garth Ennis

Calliope Nerve Interview Series: Craig Podmore

Craig, tell us about your new book The Abattoir Heavens and The Holy Ghost. Why is it important?

This collection differs very much from my previous work. My last book, I Am A Gun, was a commentary on the wrongs and evils of the world. It had a strong satirical, sardonic voice that was violent enough to tear the world apart. I was very angry at the time of writing it. It was a bomb exploding into words. This collection however is a journey of an individual witnessing a sense of a breakdown. It is in a linear form starting from the point where the character ‘awakens’ from reality, he is somewhat disillusioned, he departs himself from humanity becoming ‘Anti-human’; it’s looking through a window of an outsider. It has a very Nietzschean feel to it, I think the character is very much like Nietzsche himself. It is only until he falls in love with a beautiful woman that he justifies the existence of humanity. I have been referring to this collection as my own Book of Revelations so take that how you wish.

What about other books you've written?


I think I stated this in the earlier question but this is a conceptual collection that’s actually telling a story through the eyes of an individual who forbids everything that’s human. It’s a book inspired by cinema more than any other writings I have put together. It’s a film in words, creating a visual world, a visual story. This book will hurt more than my predecessor I Am A Gun - you will need your prescriptive medications for this one.

You are also a filmmaker and photgrapher.

The films I make are just as poetic as my writing or I should say, that’s what I try to achieve. I am very visual and enjoy experimenting with the idealisms of film. I love getting lost in the imagery. I love creating visual imagery that makes the audience think and ponder. Scenes are like stanzas to me. Film experimentation is exciting. You set out to make something but not knowing what and it excites me. Fragments (2006), Silent Psalms (2006) and my most recent experimentations filmed on mobile called Shellshock (2009). Each film are abstractions of feelings, feelings that I continually explore like loneliness, despair, nightmares, subconscious, religion and violence. There are many aspects that I look at. The theological explorations in my work are always questions about god and the existence of. I was bought up as a Catholic and still to this day; I refuse most of its ideologies.

My photography however is different in terms of its content. I work on landscapes and its mass beauty that it withholds. I also love looking at the world with a microscopic viewpoint; focusing on the smaller elements that surrounds us in everyday life. Natural things that become something else, something alien is what interests me. I love capturing a beyond I don’t understand and that’s what intrigues me. On the other hand, I have worked with models. I like creating a scenario for models, creating a linear scene for the viewer. Again cinematic ideas perforate the medium. My last model shoot was about a voluptuous character who has killed her lover. I wanted to explore female empowerment so it kind of delved into certain domains of sexuality and depravity. It’s my favourite work so far, I am also in favour of the digital era, I think when you’re a creative photographer, it opens up so many horizons for the artist. Photography will always be one of my favourite mediums in art. If there were some things I can’t say in film then it would always be then explored in my photography or maybe both.

How did you get into film?

Ever since I was a kid I loved movies. I was quite the hermit as a kid; all I ever did (if I got chance) was watch a film. Growing up I was watching films like Terminator, Indiana Jones, ET etc but it wasn’t until I was about 12-13 when I started to watch more thought-provoking material. I watched Blue Velvet by David Lynch. It was a film that opened my eyes. It showed me that film could be something else. Not only can film be just entertaining but also a film can be real art. The creativity of film language, the poeticism of the visual, I knew from there on that I wanted to be a filmmaker - that I wanted to create worlds on screen.

I went on to college where I studied Media Studies and Art. Two subjects that had opened up my understanding of film and its creative side, it wasn’t until I moved on to my next college where I started a Diploma in the arts. I started to make short films and was introduced to film installation. Filmmakers like Bill Viola, Stan Brakhage and Maya Deren exhibited different forms of filmmaking. The films they made were more about the visuals and the ideas rather than the actual storytelling. I became more intrigued about this form of filmmaking and continued to explore it. I watched films by Lars Von Trier, Fellini, Tarkovsky, Passolini, Greenaway, Bunuel, Goddard, Noé and Herzog; they all just created new horizons for me. They had inspired me so much that I started to look at things differently. Also, if it weren’t for any of these filmmakers I wouldn’t be writing poetry or anything at all. Mainstream films became somewhat mundane for me so all of this had spurred me on to become a filmmaker myself and wanting to push the boundaries. I still appreciate the mainstream films as popular culture as it is after all, a necessary evil.

Finally, I went to University where I did a Media Production course that covered all aspects of television and filmmaking. It was here where I found my voice / visual language. I was slowly growing into a filmmaker and still am. In art, you always progress and progress if you keep on creating. Just don’t stop.



What's on your recommended reading list?

I have quite a comprehensive reading list but my favourites are Naked Lunch by William Burroughs, Atrocity Exhibiton by JG Ballard (that’s a massively inspiring book to me), The Story of The Eye by Georges Batialle, Howl by Ginsberg, Ariel by Sylvia Plath and Atonement by Ian McEwan. Other authors I adore are Dante, Donne, Sexton, Elliot, Hesse, De Sade, Anais Nin and Henry Miller.

Listen to music while you create?

Music is my second love, film is first and writing comes third but all come together well like a trinity to me. So most of the time, if not all of the time, I listen to music while I write. I’m a big lover of Joy Division; Ian Curtis’ lyrics inspire me a great deal. Sigur Ros, an Icelandic band who create such beautiful landscapes in their sounds, they’re so profound and moving. Marilyn Manson’s a massive inspiration to me too, ever since I was 15 I’ve been listening to his music and following his artistic endeavours, I think many people misinterpret his act which is somewhat unfortunate. Radiohead are fantastic and I also love Arcade Fire, they’re one of my favourites at the moment. On the other hand, I also love classical music. Wagner, Penderecki, Rachmaninov, Tchaikovsky, Clint Mansell, Hans Zimmer and many film soundtracks I enjoy listening too. Music is like the second image to everything you see and feel, it means so much to me being a creative person.

Are you an underground writer?

I’m not of fan of labeling things so it would be fair to just say that I’m just creative. When I feel like I should write, I write, when I feel like need to film something, I film etc. It’s all about the impulse and the muse. I do not want to sound pretentious but art is important to me. The creative impulse is just as beautiful as falling in love. Although, considering I am still unknown (slightly) to the poetic world, I think people would shove me into the ‘underground writing’ pigeonhole.

What's next for Craig Podmore?

What’s next for me? Taking over the world like some creative despot and then storm the Bastille of film… In reality, I will be filming some new shorts and hopefully have this feature script that I’ve written into actual production. There are some installation ideas I have in process too. In the writing world, I have another book published early next year by Neopoeisis Press, which I’m also very excited about. Love Letters From a Soldier’s Diary is the title and it’s a collection I’m also very proud of, in fact it’s quite special to me.

Video Link: http://vids.myspace.com/index.cfmfuseaction=vids.individual&videoid=60770610
or http://www.myspace.com/podmorefilm

The Art of Craig Podmore: Fragments

QuoteABLE

"Gifts do not come free. The price, in this case, is vigilance. We must watch our language, we must preserve our stories, we must guard the magic that is inherent in imagination. The Huns and Vandals are always at the gate. And storytellers must remember that.." --Jane Yolen

QuoteABLE

"Welcome to Stormfort Itinerant Bazaar. Colloquially known as the Goblin market. And when they say itinerant, they mean it. It doesn't just move from place to place, it moves from world to world." --Matthew Sturges

The Art of Craig Podmore

QuoteABLE

"They thought the Bible had made them onimpotent but God had other plans." --Al Franken

The Gathered Bones Review By Lynn Alexander

The Gathered Bones, Poetry by Michael  Mc Aloran, Calliope Nerve Media.

"Michael McAloran sets inner demons to words. He is an artist of sense, a tamer of Muse." --Nobius Black.

The Gathered Bones represents the latest collection of poetry by the prolific Michael McAloran in ongoing partnership with Calliope Nerve Media- where Mc Aloran is hardly a stranger.

It opens with the following quote by Georges Bataille: “He who is damned bites at the sky…”

First- why the quote? What does it mean to be damned, to Mc Aloran, and in whose estimation? His sky is the “black vault”, unreachable, unmoving. The existing damned become the leaving damned- and in that process gesture  to a vacuum of quiet, venting words from impotent jaws, emanating from hollow bodies housing damage. The damned, in “The Gathered Bones”, are those who vanish into oblivion in full witness of a seemingly indifferent universe.

Of love

A cadaverous waste

Like shit

Spat at the sky

The unlimbered

Black sky

The density of a

Silent tomb

He describes these states of vanishing, dying, being of the void or approaching it- by bringing us repeatedly back to the body, to the blood and skin and layers of tissue and things corporeal:

“Breath of wasted air”

“Wasted slashed flesh”

“The closed fists of

My flesh”

The flesh is where emotions manifest, at times the object of abuse and at times expressive. The flesh is the interface between living and oblivion, between energy housed and contained within the body and energy snuffed.

McAloran has this way with word economy and density, his lines are quick strokes but in those few words he manages to convey a lot:

“Teeth

Breaking ajar the

Valves of

Nothingness”

And here:

“The wastage of

The bones

Playing their silent

Dead airs”

Over and over, the body rots before the black nothing, or in the sun, the bones “whittled”, the body leaving and the self left decomposing in sight of the “sky vault”:

Upon the

Dark

The gathered bones

Stretched

Raw

Does the body rejoin the blackness of origin? The bones move from their natural configurations to “gathered” and we can’t help but spend some time on this transition and wonder what, or who, Mc Aloran invokes or implicates here. Who renders these states? Nature, design, a creator, what is this drive to give life and in this manner, strip life away from the living?

They become the “gathered bones, dressed in naked amber”, stripped of flesh but bearing the hues that echo that flesh against bones that are now the only remnants, and “the marrow burns”.

Who is implicated, a deity, a creator? “Guillotine of Nothingness/ Cutting the screams/ From the absurd” ? Are we just extinguished, like the snuffed candle? Or is there more to it?

The “absurd”, depending on the literary and historical point of view, are often those who subscribe to the unknowable, to conclusions that are not only a stretch to settle but whose characteristics are unfathomable. To be so certain of the unknowable is therefore “absurd” as is the idea of deriving some higher purpose for the living. If there is a plan, if we have significance- how would we ever become aware of it? There might be more, but we won’t know it- that is a common theme in “absurdist” thought. I don’t know that the poet intends that connection in his choice of words, but there are some parallels in the kinds of questions raised in such work.

I won’t go so far as the say that McAloran was actively pursuing such lines of thinking in this collection of poems- but I do think he is getting into this territory whether he is mindful of any deliberate effort to do so or not. He still makes mention of the nothingness, the black sky, the vague sense that there is a force at work upon this body that is rendered in various states of leaving. Does the body vanish, to the ethers? What becomes of the gathered bones?

We know that there is the distinction between earthly significance, on earth they bear the “earthen kiss of tears” in their burial. (“meat to tear”) But then all is empty.

When McAloran states “I am the impotent flame of absence” the reader again wonders about real absence, “absolute absence” – and what he intends to say here about being truly gone, and is there such a thing? Later, in “Skull”, the vault becomes the skull, again the focus shifts back and forth between death as processed in the intellectual sense and death and questions of significance in the context of our spiritual beliefs. (or lack of) The “salve” and “heavenly smoke” is telling here, salve comforts, salve heals, salve lessens the sting. Is the desire to be more than a flame, snuffed, our salve? Is it our way of dealing with mortality?

To me, these are poems about mortality, they focus on the flesh that falls away to bone but McAloran is expressing a very specific regard for these remains that echo what he seems to see as the corporeal context: the body becomes as dust, shit, existence like spitting at the black sky.

The first time I read “The Gathered Bones”, I found that it was easy to cruise through the pages because of the succinct style of his writing and the brevity of the lines. In that first read, however, I missed many details that when strung together made the collection take on an entirely different meaning. Michael McAloran’s poetry can be read quickly, but I have now learned not to do so and will not underestimate his ability to bring layers of complexity to a relatively simple construction.

                                                

--Lynn Alexander produces Full Of Crow and Fashion For Collapse, and now brings awkward yammerings to the Crow Poetry Hour, Sunday nights at 10 p.m. EST. Outsiders particularly welcome to call in and read. For details, check out the Crow Blog at: www.fullofcrow.com/blog. Events, radio, readings, small press, more. Reach Lynn: www.lynn-alexander.com.

Quoteable

--"Fuck Paradox. Genvieve the universe doesn't give two shits about you and me. If it can be done, it can be done." --Matthew Sturges

The Art of Craig Podmore

Trial of WOrms/Conditional Bludgeon

"That Glorious Night, oNe SOW died then rose for Me." --Nobius Black (oNe Nite Pig.)

"If you touch it, I'm gonna start some drama." --Blackeye Peas

"Message from Opticon. Blessed from the fashion bomb. So helpless. Guess what? You're out of time." --Orgy

Trial of WOrms/Conditional Bludgeon

1.)
In the
Trial of WOrms
Spineless crucifixed
Prayer bead people
Long to be held.

But *words* are
Devoid of arms
& I pray backwards.
A fish.

2.)
Judgment:
(feeding time)
Sphinx!
He wants answers
Now.
Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!
Ezra Pound: off a balcony.

So dirty, You mud.
Verdict: Maggot love.

O.C.D.
soul
there is still
great capacity
for dREAmS.

3.)
Listen to my Head.
Reinvented every night.
With every breath,
New poetry near.
Eye music.
That Conditional Bludgeon,
Ego defined.

4.)
Bleed in boy.
let L*ve live.
Bombs forever drop.
Markets crash.
McDrone, slave, Wal-Job.

Makes me
Rejoice in
Page filled dinners!
Feast splendid works:

Shakespeare,
Bukowski,
Stan Rice,
O'Hara,
Joyce,
Cummings.
Favorites in a line/
Time's greatest.
Live on and on
--forever--
The feeling of

(Hope:
Different from
All others.)

It sets Us
Free.

--Nobius Black wears too many hats. He’s a father-of-four, Aikido/Fan Kan Jitsu black belt, martial arts school owner/instructor, online book seller, comic book collector, editor, poet, writes the quarterly zine White Rabbit Fall!, scrap dealer, gardener, hiker, obsessive reader, sells professional tools for a "somewhat" living, and the creator of Calliope Nerve and Calliope Nerve Media. Send meds. He doesn’t sleep much.

#100 Abbey, 25th Anniversary Edition, 2004: Felino Soriano Reviews

#100 Abbey, 25th Anniversary Edition, 2004

Editor David Greisman
Reviewed by Felino A. Soriano

Abbey, as I hold this 118 pp issue, I am immediately fascinated by, not only the contents of amalgamated artistry, but, through the simplistic approach (black ink, white paper) of displaying each artistic intention in such a way that a formidable construction has been formed, and too, an enjoyable visual experience burgeons into posited understanding of each artist’s innate talents.

This journal is not the au courant display of brought-together examples of various poems, prose, artwork—that so commonly is found among mainstream and quotidian journals; this, happily, is a an atypical venture, one of collocating various notions and proclamations of authentic ventures into each of the above named forms of intellectual exhibitions.

With dozens of artists on display here, the difficulty in selecting which and who to add within this review has caused a symptom of unease, but therefore, I will adhere to intuitive existence, and delve into but a few of those within these pages who fit into both time constraints, and the valued articulation of unquestionable understanding of their excellent creations.

The poet, Carol Hamilton explains a conversational aspect of dialoguing with discovery:

You cannot come with me…

you are too distracted,

too unfocused. And you,

you turn fearful when the path

rises into opaque darkness.

Pale stars, vortexed into my long tube

of limits and lenses, strengthen.

There is a place, I swear it,

where darkest path

leads to perfect light.
Search, pg. 3
and

an interesting juxtaposition, that, becomes an emotional foundation of displeasure:
They threw dirt in

Mother’s lover’s face

yesterday:

she discovered the obituary

three hours

after he was covered.
His heart –

bloated,

overworked,

a battered toy.

(I won’t chain you to a dead man.)

from Mother’s Lover, pg. 18 —C. S. Fuqua

This apposition of varied existential moments: of self, of understanding, of knowing explanation within others, is a themed reality through this impressive collection; beyond, though, the earnest poetry found here, “Self-Interviews” take place, and are an enjoyable facet of retrieving information about various artists: D.E. Steward, who asks themselves:

Is writing easier than it looks?

“Yes”, Steward answers “and no, mostly no”. Also, George Longnecker asks himself:

Do you ever get frustrated?

Where he answers “Yes. Every day.” and adds “Poetry is an outlet for frustration. Write. Protest.”

Indeed, Mr. Longnecker is correct in that poetry can ease whatever subjective frustration is alive within one’s self and environmental relation(s). These self-interviews are indeed a favorite dynamic of #100 Abbey.

Finally, scattered throughout the journal is the pleasurable artwork of Wayne Hogan. Hogan’s drawings are demonstrative of awareness in their simplistic and angular articulations; they are, alone, worth the physical effort of delving into this journal. Becoming more aware of his work currently (this edition of Abbey was published in 2004), I see an artist who understands his surrounding to the aspectual point of being able to relay it through philosophical and political understanding.

This brief review covers but only a minute cultivation of excellence in art. I was truly excited to turn each page, and find what I did in the offering of authentic artistry. It was a fine experience becoming aware of writers that before, I had not known of their greatness.

Abbey is available by emailing GREISMAN at AOL.COM. Felino is a Guest Editor for Calliope Nerve and more info is available at: http://www.felinosoriano.com/.

Red Button

Red Button

yellow, pumping dark, soft
tissue collapsing, (more-fun
thumping in my veins) heavy watching
red light waiting for it to fade

black to black to press again

--Steven Mclachlan is a Biomedical Science student living in Melbourne, Australia who loves to study brains. He is one of the founding members of the wordsinhere literary group.

Quoteable

"Language itself is suddenly complicit in the mystery." --Rick Moody

Gore Is Coming

RC Miller's GORE coming soon to Calliope Nerve Media.

Calliope Nerve Interview Series: Michele McDannold

Michele, tell us about Red Fez 2.0. How did you get involved and what is your role there?

Red Fez Publications is an online gig that publishes poetry, fiction, books, plays, video poems, and illustrated poetry and fiction. Our mission is to publish and promote non-mainstream, but accessible work by underground and under-recognized artists. The 2.0 refers to the newer site design and inner workings. Issues go online quarterly (pretty much).

My first involvement with Red Fez was as a contributor. Leopold McGinnis, the founding editor of Fez, was kind enough to accept some of my poems for publication. When I was looking around the site I saw there was a Red Fez novella. Now that I think about it, I can blame Leopold for my obsession with publishing. When I rec'd his book in the mail, I was blown away. This little book, he had put together by hand, it was beautiful. He sent me some cool other stuff, a one-page folded up dealio that was just awesome and I was hooked. That's really when I started thinking about what I could make on my own and eventually Rural Messengers Press was born. but, anyway... we chatted back and forth for awhile and he talked me into joining the Red Fez editorial team. That was in 2007. I tried it out as guest editor for an issue and then took over as the managing editor. Leopold had lots of other projects going on and wanted to pull away from the Fez a bit. I remember him saying that I seemed organized (for a poet). Haha!

In my role at the Fez, I've worn lots of different hats but mainly get the issues out. We've struggled with different review processes but never really strayed too far from what Leopold had in place to begin with. We like to have several people reviewing each section so that we don't get "stuck" publishing the same kind of work all the time. Each editor brings their unique perspective to the table. We've had some heated debates but we're all committed to providing a place where under served writers and writing can find a home.

You've also taken on the role of publisher, what is Rural Messenger Press and it's mission?

Rural Messengers Press started out as a creative impulse. I was really enjoying all the writing that I found online but sometimes you just want to hold something in your hands. The more of my own work that I got published, the more writers and editors that I connected with, my mail box started filling up. Most people in the underground press are extremely generous, putting their hard work and creative genius into all kinds of projects and giving them away for free or pretty damn close.

One of the most inspiring projects I came across was your own one-page zine, Calliope Nerve. I loved the way each piece held its own importance yet complimented an overall theme. It appealed to my obsessive compulsive mind and is an integral part of RMP projects.

I put out several mailers- collections of an individual author printed in various formats. I've done postcards, posters, leaflets, booklets, broadsides, magnets, bookmarks and matchbook poems. I really went nuts with Stephen Morse's project, The Crow Boxes. It was twelve poems, twelve different ways in old cigar boxes including a handwritten poem, a matchbook poem, a mini-book and a slide show poem on DVD. One of the poems I printed on a cut up, brown paper bag and rolled it into a cigar container.

You have great design skills. How did you acquire them and where can we see more?

I don't know about that but it's nice of you to say. It's mostly trial and error. I start out with an idea of what I want to create and then from there it's how I can make it happen with limited resources. I think the first thing I "made" was the Cherry Bomb postcard. I didn't have a printer for shit (or money) so I designed the postcards at Vista Print and ordered them fifteen at a time, to get them for free except for shipping.

Most of the RMP stuff is out of print except for F.N. Wright's chapbook, Bukowski n More, which I still have half of the run to print and may finish sometime this decade. There's two issues of the Side of Grits journal online though I'm moving the archives to a new site until if/when i get it moving again.

How long have you been writing poetry? What makes your voice unique? Do you have any collections available?

I started out writing song lyrics, plays and stuff in grade school and junior high. Then really started writing a lot of poetry in high school, some really bad poetry. It cracks me up to look at some of my old notebooks. When I got online I joined a writing group. That's when I really started working on my poetry.

I don't think my voice is unique in either content or style. I might have thought so about five or so years ago when my only source was the local library. I did notice that most of my favorite poems I've written have a sort of rhythm to them that my other poems don't. I'm going to blame that on music, not just popular music but playing an instrument, playing in a band (concert band, not the cool kind.) You get that beat in your head that just moves you. The world seems better in 4/4 time.

I have one little collection that I put out through Rural Messengers Press called Private Vacancy but it's out of print.

Believe in writer's block?

I believe in writer's block when it's kicking my ass, then decide I've just been lazy when I start writing again.

Do you prefer editing or writing?

Editing is a much more defined process for me whereas my writing is subject to moods and inspiration. So I guess I enjoy the act of editing more (often) but when the writing is good, there's nothing like it.

Are you a full time writer or do you have a day job?

Haha. I am a full-time writer/editor that doesn't get paid. My other full-time job is raising three kids. I don't get paid for that either. I think I must be opposed to money. Most recently I worked part-time in social service but haven't held a (paid) full-time position since about 2001.

Do you consider yourself an underground artist?

Yes, i do. An old-timer told me once that 'underground' wasn't relevant anymore. I agree with him just not the way he meant.

Listen to music while you create? Who?

On weekdays, I just enjoy the silence when the kids are at school. Summertime is a challenge but I've found if I blast the music loud enough (the kids tend to keep their distance. ..terrible, isn't it) but it's anything from Dead Milkmen to Abba and everything in between, except maybe country music.

What does the future hold for Michele McDannold?

I plan to finish Bukowski n More as soon as funds provide and maybe send out some of my own poetry for a change. There's talk of putting together an underground anthology of some sort, working on a wiki for the Lit Underground, taking over the world etc and of course, there's always Red Fez.

Buy for Dad Support Calliope

Rich Follett: Introduction to A Poet

Introduction to a Poet: Rich Follett

Rich Follett loves words. Deeply. If you understand this, then the brilliance
of his poetic career ~ interrupted by a thirty year hiatus ~ makes sense. In those fallow years, as a minstrel of renown in the beautiful Shenandoah Valley, a respected actor and a highly recognized English teacher, the word never left him ~ not for a moment. He is indeed a Renaissance Man in every sense of the phrase.

When he began writing again in 2009, the Literary world was immediately put on notice.
While many writers ‘just write,’ this artist is intimately familiar with his relationship
to poetry; his own voice and the voices of many, many others.

“I perceive poetry to be the pulse of our human condition, expressed in words specifically chosen to elicit visceral and intellectual responses rooted in images springing from our imprinted collective memory … [It] is the literary equivalent of DNA – the human genome expressed in lines and spaces. The poems we create are as individual as the fingerprints we leave on everything we touch; the key is that we must touch in order to leave something behind.”

Follett’s voice is distinct in many ways ~ mastery of language and a stunningly unique narrative style are but surface descriptors. Asking Rich about influences brings a flood tide response. In adolescence alone, there was ‘the impress of Dylan Thomas, Walt Whitman, e. e. cummings, William Carlos Williams, Carl Sandburg, Ogden Nash, Mae Swenson and Emily Dickinson.” Perhaps most telling is his moving description ~ a true prose-poem ~ of his formative experiences:

“The seeds of my poetic identity were sown in the lilt of my Canadian grandmother’s lyrical voice – every syllable she uttered, no matter how mundane of purpose, had a musicality that struck my childhood ears like a silver bell. My mother, an English teacher with a devastating, quiet passion for language, instilled in me a love of words for their own sake – a sublime beauty unexpectedly borne of centuries of utilitarian communication. I will remember always the fiery, faerie trace of her cigarette in the dark as she sat across the living room in magical, coveted moments before bedtime, enumerating for me the virtues of whichever words had caught her fancy in the day’s reading. Her understated, smoldering revelation of the divine mystery of the power of words captivated me then as it does today.”

An excerpt from his poem Epic illustrates not only his inherited love for words, music and inborn story-telling prowess, but also his vast corpus of knowledge and characteristic whimsy:

Three booths down
at the Chinese buffet
sat Beowulf.

Hair, flaxen;
skin, corrugated;
eyes, cerulean (flecked with brine);
his essence imposing, burnished, severe and commanding
(even when hunched over crab legs).

An Anglo-Saxon warrior in t-shirt and jeans;
out of place and time,
apparition and archetype all at once –
corporeal String Theory and living Literature
materialized in a single skipped heartbeat.

Not so much sculpted as hewn,
his bulk and heft evinced
snapping sinew and cataclysmic combat –
an image borne not of aerobics and Évian
but by preternatural victories wrenched from the maw of Doom.

His subject matter is the reflection of a true tributary thinker ~ boundlessly creative and far-ranging in scope. It is also brave. One topic he has explored in searing verse is the difficult topic of male childhood sexual abuse. This is the breakthrough focus of his first solo compilation, Silence, Inhabited (Neopoeisis Press). Here, Follett’s power and emotional honesty is devastating. In Pimp of the Perverse, his self-damning conscience brutally confronts his internalized agonized victim.

psssssssssssst …
You.
Victim.
Boy Wonder.
Pedophile’s puppet.

You hear me,
I know you do.

You liked it, didn’t you?

Delectable, ineluctable;
a petit mal serial melodrama of repugnant submission –
that final furtive flush of excruciating, exquisite surrender
calls to you still.

That’s your big secret, isn’t it, freak?

For years now
you’ve been telling anyone who’ll listen
how you’ve devoted your life to healing and forgiveness
(thank God for expert therapy and good drugs);

you’ve fooled the masses;
dazzled the critics;
bowing nightly to your own tumescent hype –

you dickless, simpering poseur

(oh, save the feigned indignation –
we knew all along).

Examining a single line: ‘that final furtive flush of excruciating, exquisite surrender’, we hear the harmonic composition in conjunction with skillful assonance and alliteration.

Going further, this aspect of his relationship with the muse becomes clearer still: “I strive to write poems that resonate for the hearer. We hear poems intuitively, on many levels – with our ears, with our hearts, with our souls, and always through the lenses and filters of our remembered joys and pains. It is the purity, the integrity of that hearing which ultimately determines the quality of the experience for both poet and reader.”

In the coruscating “in defense of the violin”, there is a symphonic melding of all of these qualities:

poor tormented rebec;
instrument of acoustic crucifixion –
agonistes under horsehair lash,
writhing;
vainly imploring olympus for absolution.

in chaotic fusillade,
goaded by the maestro’s masseteric baton,
pimpled protégé saws,
drawing prow of bow
across sinews stretched to insanity.

racked and pegged for maximum torque,
fretting and fettered,
cacophony borne of colophony;
stricken strings singing out defiance:
symphonic hieronymous bosch.


When looking at such complex, probing and elegant verse, Follett’s explanation
of what drives his pen, is somewhat amusing in its seeming incredulity:

“Motivation? I have none. As a potential poster child for Adult Attention Deficit Disorder, I write only when an idea grabs hold of me and refuses to let go. I made peace long ago with the realization that I will never be a prolific poet. My internal editor is relentless and manic – so much so, in fact, that I am grateful to be able to write anything at all. No amount of therapy, meditation, medication or prayer has fostered even the slightest hope for improvement. “

As a poet with a declared absence of motivation, perhaps the most amazing fact of all
is the maturity of his art after a three-decade hiatus, As he tells the story, he and his wife ‘attended’ what they believed to be a local poetry reading, but in discovering it was in fact a poetry workshop, he ‘nearly turned tail and ran’. The very first assignment was to write a response to a much loved poem. Follett chose the highly celebrated “Barbed Wire’ by Henry Taylor, a subdued yet exacting description of a horror ~ the fatal impalement of a farm horse ‘one summer afternoon’ on a barbed wire fence:

Barbed Wire

One summer afternoon when nothing much
was happening, they were standing around
a tractor beside the barn while a horse
in the field poked his head between two strands
of the barbed-wire fence to get at the grass
along the lane, when it happened – something

they passed around the wood stove late at night
for years, but never could explain – someone
may have dropped a wrench into the toolbox
or made a sudden move, or merely thought
what might happen if the horse got scared, and
then he did get scared, jumped sideways and ran

down the fence line, leaving chunks of his throat
skin and hair on every barb for ten feet
before he pulled free and ran a short way
into the field, stopped and planted his hoofs
wide apart like a sawhorse, hung his head
down as if to watch his blood running out,

almost as if he were about to speak
to them, who almost thought he could regret
that he no longer had the strength to stand,
then shuddered to his knees, fell on his side,
and gave up breathing while the dripping wire
hummed like a bowstring in the splintered air.


In his response, Follett took the vantage point of the doomed and ~ through his pen ~
majestic animal:


barbed mirror

i existed, imprimis, to be a horse -
to define the pastorale for passers by;
my function, to feed and be fleet

to unfetter fancies for the earthbound
as i floated along the fenceline;
my grace god-given, my place primordial

with each of my merest movements,
(masterpieces of sublime fluidity), i
flustered the old men into dim longing,
their shame-bound, tobacco-stained hisses
echoing the remembered hitch in their loins
on summer nights a haggard generation removed from
the stagnant swelter of this, my dying day

it was an unexpected whinny on the wind, perhaps: a neigh; a nicker;
far off, a filly or foal gamboling in the wanton apricot aura of afternoon;
or, possibly, the careless clash of man and machine; some aimless, nameless noise -

i was grazing, gazing at the men with leaf-brown faces
when some glimmer of
gut-wrenching ingrained genetic detritus
spurred me to wild, consanguine flight

my winged hooves against my will,
i was racing, raking along rows of stannic briars;
garroted as green grass ran red -
as the old men’s leathery laughter lashed me on to oblivion

with the hemic buzz of my silvered slaughter
hung in the air like rustling sheaves,
i lowered my head to reproach their gaping faces;
the shriveling, tractor-plowed masks of those drying, dying men –
they who in a lifetime of barren labor had known but a moment’s grace
in the frenzied grip of perfidious procreation

it was then

in that mirrored moment

when at last

i flew…


It has been argued by many that this poet’s responsorial exceeds its inspiration.
The ‘victim’ here assumes a persona of grandeur that adds multiple layers of dimension
to this tale. Man dies a meaningless death in benumbing existence as this now-winged Pegasus ascends in a triumph of spirit. The story is transformed and we are transformed along with it. This very first poem since adolescence tells us all, in no uncertain terms, that Rich Follett exists, imprimis, to be an exceptional artist.

Sexual Deviance

Sexual Deviance

He comes up to the second floor,

all whispers and muttering.

He’s sick, we all now that.

But he’s suddenly noticed me

even though I have been here for years.

He wants to know about Sexual Deviance.

Masturbation. Addiction.

He has skin mags in his pockets.

He shows me the photos.

“Is it pornography or art?”

he asks himself. I don’t answer.

I tell him to put that away.

I find the article he wants and print it out.

I stand there tight lipped and tell him,

it was time to go downstairs. The kids will be here soon.

Go downstairs.

He obliges, steps back like I might hurt him.

Then he goes to grab my arm,

he wants to know if the bracelet is for prayer

and what the tattoo means. He is muttering to himself,

telling himself, that it’s okay that he doesn’t know.

He wants to know how he can find out.

He says he should know. But how? He keeps repeating this.

I point at the elevator.

He goes downstairs.

They tell me I’m good with him.

Cause he’s like a child.

And I’m good with children.

When am I going to have children? they ask.

I sit there, noticing my hands shaking

and think to myself,

if one more person asks me that,

I’m going to throw up.

Ally Malinenko has been published widely in the underground scene. She is also a contributing poet to Reading Ground Blogazine hosted by Breedingground.com. Her first book of poems, entitled The Wanting Bone, was recently published by Six Gallery Press.

Throwing Bones

Throwing Bones

And there we were, finally

after what felt like years of separation

and Dan was telling tales of Morocco and

Venice and Korea

and I watched my husband sit on the balcony

his legs propped up, the wine in his hand,

each time he blinked he fell in love with this city all over again,

just as I fall in love with both of you all over again,

my boys,

my oldest of friends, my deepest of loves.

We are the bone throwers,

we are the magi

we circled the chairs so we were near the

cool breeze blowing off Houston Street

and we let the music play and play

in the darkening studio.

We chased away the bad feelings.

We chased away bloody ex-lovers

with stolen keys.

We chased away chastising family.

We chased away work and

brought out the spell books,

the sketches,

the wine,

the rum,

the poetry,

the Arabic line,

the music,

the bones,

the rings,

the Korean fans, the snail shells,

the Pink Life, the translucency,

the glasses all in a circle as proof that we were here,

like a still life of art imitating life imitating art.

We are the Fauves, the wild things with our terrible

roars and our terrible claws.

We are the tricksters.

We are the tide,

we come together and come apart

and come together. And this is the way it will always be.

And when we left that night, all howls and laughter,

we carried beers in our back pockets

as if the world and their silly rules

were inches below us,

just as the concrete was still inches

below our floating feet.

Just as the dawn was still hours away,

frozen and still

and we knew it would come,

the night would end,

but not yet.

Not just yet.



Ally Malinenko has been published widely in the underground scene. She is also a contributing poet to Reading Ground Blogazine hosted by Breedingground.com. Her first book of poems, entitled The Wanting Bone, was recently published by Six Gallery Press.

sensitivity suite

sensitivity suite

i

i am eight 
on a sand bar  
which 
like me 
only appears – only comes out – 
when the tide is low and all is calm 
 
my father has left me alone 
‘wait here and swim’ he said; 
dropped me down 
and sped off 
(who imagined the old boat’s propeller could turn so fast?)

apparently 
there is a girl in a white bikini 
near the mouth of the inlet 
screaming out to the open sea 
dad to the rescue 
‘son, wait here...’ 
dad to the rescue 
my sand bar is sinking 
 
she, grateful, hugs him 
he lingers in her embrace a long moment past awkward 
before ceding her to the singing beach 
all the way back to the dock he will tell me 
how her name was merrie lee 
how unusual that was 
how impressed he was with her character 
character my eight-year-old ass 
you son of a bitch 
 
like that sand bar 
the whole business was beneath me 
but i clung to shrinking, shifting sands 
just to keep breathing 
near the end i went under   
more than two feet deep now 
and beginning to move fast 
i lay on the bottom 
(the bottom that only moments ago had been the top) 
let out all of my air and 
lay motionless – looking toward heaven – 
breathing in a new element 
thinking those fluke were really onto something 
breathing happily in a new element 
until i found myself inexplicably aloft and sputtering… 

that he came back for me at all 
continues to surprise 
 
we had been fishing, father and i 
outboard set to troll  
i hovered over the rotting transom to steer and to spy 
feeling the motor’s heat 
envying joan of arc 
so clean an ending – so incontrovertible 
(they say her heart did not burn) 
 
my true purpose in this faux-halcyon escapade 
was to look through the clearer-than-you’d-think-it-would-be water 
clear down to the bottom 
to spot marbles 
marbles you see 
are the eyes of a mythical fluke buried in the sand 
bigger than a volkswagen, says dad 
old flat poseidon 
he is down there somewhere 
and my father ahab 
will see him rendered in strips 
battered (how appropriate words can be without knowing) 
and served up with ore-ida’s finest  
at our family’s rendition of the perfect friday dinner 
‘round the table 
amen 
norman rockwell would have been proud 
but scratch the canvas and you’ll find we were bosch 
painted over 
in suburban teal and burnt orange 
 
so i called out 'marbles!' as we trolled 
and dad would drop the hook right down  
up came fish after fish 
hooray 
sportsmanship for assholes 
 
every fish was smaller than expected 
every summer friday a bit closer to the fall 
disappointment was my father’s condiment of choice 
 
i learned in the sixth grade 
that fluke, like their smaller cousin the flounder 
(flounder? how could we not have known?) 
begin life with two eyes on opposite sides of their head 
like any other fish 
then, slowly, 
in an effort to avoid being seen and eaten 
they flatten 
and both eyes migrate to the side of their body that looks toward heaven 
 
smart fish 
 
i helped them, you know 
i called out only the barest few, and then only 
to avoid being seen 
to avoid being captured 
to avoid being rendered in strips 
to avoid being battered and served up 
to postpone the burgeoning, insatiable chagrin 
 
even today 
when the tide rushes in 
i bury myself in the sand 
and look toward heaven 
waiting for my eyes to migrate 

                                                                                               ii

 
 
these pebbles –  
lava from a volcano 
that exploded a whole lot of thousands of years ago 
nowhere near arizona 
where i am now 
after riding a bus for three days  
to an acting job my parents said i shouldn’t take 

fuck them 

i am seventeen 
i hop a big apple greyhound on christmas eve 
the peter pan touring company is the key to my nascent career in lights 
but on the way 
mister dumbass producer skips town with the money 
one blinding incomprehensible greedy twist of balding sweaty mama’s-boy fate 
and my incandescent debut turns out to be  
just another case of ‘my parents were right’ 

i wait in the phoenix bus station 
it is three in the morning  
no one has come to claim me 

my doppelganger walks up, 
says ‘are you here for the peter pan touring company?’ 
‘it’s about fucking time’, i say; 
only to hear ‘no – i am stuck here, too’  and 
suddenly it all comes clear – 
he is bob 
from somewhere vast and flat 

we are soon joined by a third 
named larry  
he is heir to the kodak fortune 
(no, really – i checked later) 
he is a peter pan touring company rising star  
like bob, 
like me… 
his parents turned out to be right, as well – 
(bob doesn’t have parents 
but if he did, they’d be  ri…) 
 
fuck them 
fuck them all 
 
we do not have enough money for bus tickets home 
we consider selling ourselves 
we’d have done it, too 
but that only would have made our parents more right 
 
fuck them 
fuck them all 
 
greyhound ad says ‘buy two, get one free’ 
holiday special 
we pool our resources 
who knows who, where? 
i win; my cousin’s in l.a. 
  
we three 
salvaged by cousin tom in a dented orange pinto 
lived in his garage 
for six months 
sleeping on and under a ping-pong table 
and eating avocados fresh from a tree in the backyard 
eden without eve – 
one night 
we fumbled clumsily with each other in her absence, 
deciding in the end we were better off sans satisfaction 
 
two weeks into the eden experiment 
proving once and for all that i am my pragmatic parents’ son 
i borrow a bicycle 
i ride each day to the redondo beach boardwalk 
where i sell flowers in an open air market 
i get this job 
solely because albert the owner's son desires me – 
sycophantic albert, whose middle name was futility… 
i sold only flowers  
(once, to olivia newton-john, 
a single red rose 
she was so…pretty) 
 
bob went back to his vast flatness; 
larry, to claim his diseased fortune – 
i held out ‘til the last 
feasting on pride 
 
fuck them 
fuck them all 
 
my mother’s quavering mouse-voice on the telephone 
she is worried about me 
have i been drinking? 
 
so i cave 
i fly back to new york 
(much quicker than greyhound) 
i would say i missed home but 
you read my last poem 
three weeks later my cousin called to say he had not seen me – 
had i come home 
 
three weeks? 
 
fuck him  
fuck them all 
 
thirty years later 
a quiet moment draws me back to  
these pebbles – 
lava from a volcano 
that exploded a whole lot of thousands of years ago 
nowhere near arizona 
where i am now 
if only in my mind 
 
if only  
 
 
 
i 
 
 
 
had been able to explode… 
 

iii 

i insisted on seeing my brother’s body 
it nearly killed my parents 
it nearly killed me 
but see it i did 
(one thing we had in common, 
my brother and i – 
we were born to ruin) 
 
he was lying on his right side 
one eye gazing opaquely outward 
the other half of his face  
covered by a starched white cloth 
i asked to see 
the other half of his face 
to make sure it was there 
to make sure it was him 
he was always a trickster 
i asked to see the other half 
of his dappled face 
and they told me it wasn’t there to see 

the shotgun had done its work - 
who knew his arms were so long? 
 
i had to look at what was there 
at what was left 
the freckles across the nose were darker 
there were more of them than i remembered 
the eye was no longer the color of the sea 
but it did slant upwards at the corner like a grin 
yes, i concluded 
this was him 
 
i was just about to look away 
when something moved – 

breathlessly i waited, praying 
for his last trick to be real 
for him to sit up  
for his ocean eyes to twinkle 
 
it was a maggot 
 
i am okay with that

--Rich Follett has recently returned to writing poetry after a thirty-year hiatus. He lives in the sacred and timeless Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, where he joyfully teaches English and Theatre Arts for high school students. His poems have appeared in Paraphilia, Calliope Nerve, Sugar Mule, Four Branches Press and Counterexample Poetics, for which he is a Featured Artist. He is the co-author of Responsorials (with Constance Stadler) and the solo collection Silence, Inhabited (NeoPoiesis.)

i knew

i knew





i knew



even as i ascended the stairs,

carrying her dinner on a filigree tray:



it was over.



fifteen is so young to know



but i did know –



and so did she.



her life was measured in giving;

so much

for so long

to so many

that we

who received her

selfless abundance

had long since abandoned

outward shows of gratitude



(we were not above thanks; rather,

she was embarrassed by

the merest morsel of appreciation) –



she existed solely to give;

we learned that accepting

was the kindest recompense.



she gave us sundays

around an ancient multifoliate mahogany table



on creaking, faux medieval

red-seated crackled pigskin chairs

(grandfather’s was the only one with arms);



she gave us food beyond imagining –

perpetually overcooked;

each course gray and lifeless

yet somehow ambrosial –

served between snippets of

minced Methodist hymn



(grandmother could neither cook nor sing

but paid no heed to destiny

in pursuing her passions).



she gave us a place at the table –

a place to rise above our shared DNA.



she gave us

ourselves.



it was because she had given so much

that i knew

it was over

when she asked me to feed her.



one paper-thin, velvet touch of her furrowed hand

on my anguished cheek

heralded her obsequy:



‘Lambie, would you…?’



Lambie would;



Lambie did;



knowing full well

what it meant –

what it took for her to ask.



an elegy in applesauce;

one teaspoon, just level –



tissue-thin lips on generations-old silver,

a glimmer of rheumy, empathic understanding;

a flicker behind the cataracts

and then



for one terrible, beautiful moment

i glimpsed the universe of pain

from which her infinite gifts had sprung.



a delicate, labored swallow;

the rustle of lilac curls on crisp linen;



i remember

(or perhaps only wished for)

her featherlight kiss on my fretful brow

as i leaned in to say goodnight.



i knew



even as i descended the stairs,

carrying her dinner on a filigree tray:



it was over.



fifteen is so young to know



but i did know –



and so did she.

--Rich Follett has recently returned to writing poetry after a thirty-year hiatus. He lives in the sacred and timeless Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, where he joyfully teaches English and Theatre Arts for high school students. His poems have appeared in Paraphilia, Calliope Nerve, Sugar Mule, Four Branches Press and Counterexample Poetics, for which he is a Featured Artist. He is the co-author of Responsorials (with Constance Stadler) and the solo collection Silence, Inhabited (NeoPoiesis.)

Quoteable

"...whether with self, aquaintance, friend, or lover: you can talk for hours, blue streaks of syntax... you might spew monolgues to yourself." --Rick Moody

Calliope Nerve Interview Series: RC Miller

RC, tell us about your upcoming book GORE? Why is it important? What does the title signify?

I suppose the poems can be thought of as describing an imagined series of limbo states between death and rebirth. I titled the book GORE because I like that the word is roughly defined as "blood shed and clotted," and feel the book itself acts as a clotted mass that contains the bloodshed within it and prevents a merciless flow to oblivion the individual poems inherently spark.

You are a photo artist as well as a writer. Tell us about it.

Visual art is my means to successfully communicate with others and poetry is my means to successfully sever that connection.

What's on your recommended reading list?

My favorite living poets are Frederick Seidel and Novica Tadic. Also of value to me is the poetry of Emily Dickinson, Bob Kaufman, Georg Trakl, and Wallace Stevens. Otherwise, I enjoy Al Jazeera, Eastern philosophy texts, nature guides, employee handbooks of companies like McDonald's and Wal-Mart, horror comics, magazines such as Women's Health, Cosmopolitan, US Weekly, Harper's, fiction from J.G. Ballard, Thomas Bernhard, Michel Houellebecq, books and online sites about the occult, aliens, apocalypse survival and pilgrimages. Television and amateur pornography have provided great inspiration lately, even more so than reading.

Why do you create?

To perform exorcisms.

Define success.

Not waking up dead and being able to muster an erection whenever necessary.

Listen to music while you create? Who?

Yes, I always listen to music while working, it is essential. When composing/editing the poems that went into GORE, I obsessively listened to Codeine's "The White Birch," Liars' "Drums Not Dead," Giant Sand's "Chore of Enchantment," and a compilation of the old-timey blues singer Furry Lewis from around 1927.

Who is your ideal reader?

People 10-15 years younger than I am. Women in their early 40's.

Who or what influences your work?
Knowledge of death and a need to remain sane.

Have you received any accolades for your writing or photo art? Do awards matter to you?

Occasionally some cool peeps, like yourself Nobius, contact me with nice reactions to my work, and that is the closest thing to an accolade I ever want. Obviously releasing books through small publishing companies is of interest but I don't do it for any other reason than to complete personal artistic projects. Awards and larger recognition mean nothing to me.

How did you become a writer and artist?

It's the result of my ambivalence toward money.

What advice to you have for other creators whether new or seasoned?

Create only to create. Resist the giant circle jerk that permeates most artistic communities. Travel. Avoid academics. Realize anything you do or think will always prove unoriginal.

Believe in writer’s block?
Maybe.

What does the future hold for RC Miller?

Grilling up some stir-fry, downing a six pack of IPA, the new season of True Blood, another stint as a monk, a wander around Cambodia and Laos, hopefully many late night rolls in the sack.

The Prison Tourist

The Prison Tourist

 

You list your past sins in your head as you listen

to the ghosting of passed sinners:  Where

the prisoner burned, no paint covers,

no tool erases.  You imagine him still alive—one

with mirrors for eyes, a machine

 

of hours, stamping them around

the clock until he’d made more than anyone

could stand, until time like shackles

clattered through ammoniac halls.  The others

would learn that the fear of days to come exceeds

the endless crime of remembrance.

 

You are with the long-gone crowd: the hours must be stopped.

He slipped into the cross hairs of a hot summer,

the popular target.  Fire piled up towards the outside,

and even though few knew his name, they recalled the

carbon smoke of time killed.



Jessica Walsh is a writer and teacher in suburban Chicago, where she lives with her partner, her kick-ass 3-year-old daughter Stella, and the world's laziest dog.  Her first chapbook, Knocked Around, was published by Pudding House Press in 2008.  Her work has appeared in several literary journals, both print and online. 

Quoteable

"It started with the arrival of a queen." --Matthew Sturges

The Fourth Estate

  
Headlines of the nation sway
in the wind. They wave through
gracious space and hang on our
neighbors flagpole. We adorn
them, those black print waves
of words that mount so prideful
in the basking sun.
Headlines read into many things.
They spell the nation with urgency,
curving their words, donning false
pretenses, scrambling the truth:
California burned as our country
was sold out, as we bowed
out of the world stage, tail
tucked beneath our seat
and there was nothing else
to report that day, besides
the fire hydrants that failed us.
Our leaders teach us
how to spend, paying credit
with credit, taxing us monetarily,
creating debt with each printed bill
and American’s will have
to eat the words when they realize
change may be only skin deep, for
you see reporters run the television as
communications run the gambit.
Headlines smell like coffee and age
like obituaries. They sound the sirens
of the world and raise history from
the dead. Orwell has never been
more cliché, putting Big Brother.
on the tips of tongues. He bleeds through
the pores of every literate, every
paranoid, every truth-seeker,
every congressmen and social
examiner—and still the people
don’t see:
he’s watching the world
through a screen on his wall.
The cameras are on the
corner of the streets and
he’s distracted us with his
screeching call that resounds
through radios, satellites,
reporters, televisions—
enticing us with screen
after screen silver
and liquid diamond—his
deceiving us couldn’t be
anymore clear.
The message is crystal:
the digital age is a farce,
designed to free up the
airwaves for the radio
waves—those stowaways
of intrusion that shall catch us
in their currents and take us to
their masters who will tell us
to tag ourselves to protect our
children, to find our missing
loved ones, to unmask the secrets
of our respective lives, to make
ourselves accessible to anybody
who may doubt who we are—Big
Brother returns!
He wears the mask of the bald eagle,
soaring through cities around the world,
spreading his plague of hate in the hearts
of man. He’s monitoring us in his red, white
and blue, using this country as a ruse to seize
the world. America the Trojan Horse! The
Enslaver of the world with the blue helmets
who walk behind it, the council who
holds its reigns—the money trust shall seize
your land, your people and things!
He’s watching his monitors,
he’s studying his screens, choosing what
messages, what people, what pictures
to carefully ween, like Hitler—he’s
culling images—he’s staging scenes,
deciding what the truth shall literally mean—
his youth shall know only
what they see.

--Michael Aaron Casares is the editor of Carcinogenic Poetry and owns/operates Virgogray Press, an indie press working out of Austin, TX that specializes in poetry chapbooks and anthologies. His work has appeared in several recent online and print publications. He has authored four collections of poetry with Virgogray, New Polish Beat and Shadow Archer Press. Michael also paints; his work can be seen at the Calcasieu Gallery and other venues in San Antonio, TX.