Monday, August 30, 2010

Read Me

Read Me


You are not six feet tall
Everything you read seems about you
or someone or something that has
touched you.

-Your skin was darker and your hair was lighter, that one season.
The people around you know you.
They talk,
saying your name like it is audacity-
You know other people have the same name.-

I'm waiting for you to contact me (general_contact@fastmail.to).
You are still only rumor here; whispers, lettered-outlines.

bio:"I don't actually exist when I'm not writing." -HP Tinker

--E.C. Well is a bit terrified by some of the things that he has encountered. He attempts to maintain a fierce and penetrating devotion to truth, justice, and finding a way. Do not assume you identify. His view is from a perspective that requires most to step far outside of the lines that have for some time been "lives". The result is usually something far crisper and desirous; far more simple to achieve than believed; and far more tantalizing in its complexity. Self-recommended doses of these can be found in the words of his conversations and the things they describe.

Lost Language Found On The Back Of A Letter

Found via Warren Ellis:

Notes on the back of a 400-year-old letter have revealed a previously unknown language once spoken by indigenous peoples of northern Peru, an archaeologist says.

Penned by an unknown Spanish author and lost for four centuries, the battered piece of paper was pulled from the ruins of an ancient Spanish colonial church in 2008.

But a team of scientists and linguists has only recently revealed the importance of the words written on the flip side of the letter.

The early 17th-century author had translated Spanish numbers-uno, dos, tres-and Arabic numerals into a mysterious language never seen by modern scholars…

Sunday, August 29, 2010

They, It & You

They, It & You


they ain't writing to ask if you're alright
they ain't mentioning you to secure your future good

it's like that stuff that was eaten
it's like that guy that she introduced her best friend to at the ball game
f'get about whatever that was you drank

there's no name there
perhaps in creviced connection the thing is recorded
a simple, single sufficiency
The point here is that something that is shaped by everyone together
is describing your shape to me.
I imagine others have impressions in their mind.
Some of them, conscious of you, have negative angles
others have positive measure. The direction of the two are the same.
-something about the starting point and the turn they take to reach it.

It's working it out. One of them things that many never bring themselves
to move. It's like a bus for a mommy.

The course it's taking will arrive at something. All about you is scrawled on the sides like the name of some new school district or the message of someone that shared a name with a Barbie doll. It won't be a name even when it reaches that moment though. You will never be likened to the driver when the story is recounted. You will be you by then to those that know you by then.

The bus may roll or careen or be lifted up above what would, in reality, be the solid ground. You will not be identified as the mother by then. You will be You to those that will know you by then.

Those that translated you before your arrival and hinted at you and slanted slates in directions without simply announcing or introducing you will have found new dishes, new guys, new houses. But you will be here which is closer to the place that you are heading than the place where you were when all of that that will have passed began.

bio:

"I don't actually exist when I'm not writing." -HP Tinker

--E.C. Well is a bit terrified by some of the things that he has encountered. He attempts to maintain a fierce and penetrating devotion to truth, justice, and finding a way. Do not assume you identify. His view is from a perspective that requires most to step far outside of the lines that have for some time been "lives". The result is usually something far crisper and desirous; far more simple to achieve than believed; and far more tantalizing in its complexity. Self-recommended doses of these can be found in the words of his conversations and the things they describe.

quoteABLE

"I was eaten by a metaphor..." --Gail Simone

Saturday, August 28, 2010

quoteABLE

"I just compose riddles with elegant solutions." --Vladamir Nabokov

Friday, August 27, 2010

Apporbations 673

Approbations 673


—after John Surman’s Mountainscape VIII

Cotton frame
silhouette trajectory sound.

Beatitude

apogee

followers file lined flowered
tonal atop muscular

conceal.

--Felino A. Soriano (b. 1974, California) is a case manager and advocate for developmentally and physically disabled adults. He edits/publishes Counterexample Poetics, www.counterexamplepoetics.com, an online journal of experimental artistry, and Differentia Press, dedicated to publishing e-chapbooks of experimental poetry. As a poet, he has authored several collections of poetry, including Among the Interrogated (BlazeVOX [books], 2008), Search among the Absent Found (Recycled Karma Press, 2009), Apperceptions of Reinterpretations (Calliope Nerve Media, 2009), Delineated Functions of Congregated Constructs (Calliope Nerve Media, 2010) and r (please press, 2009). The internal collocation of philosophical studies and love of classic and avant-garde jazz is the explanation for his poetic stimulation. Details are at his website, www.felinosoriano.com.

quoteABLE

"Built for war, you will stand for peace." --Gail Simone

Thursday, August 26, 2010

Approbations 672

Approbations 672


—after Misha Alperin’s Lonely in White

Bride I
mediate your secrecy


waiting
amid pause of entering union

whole.

--Felino A. Soriano (b. 1974, California) is a case manager and advocate for developmentally and physically disabled adults. He edits/publishes Counterexample Poetics, www.counterexamplepoetics.com, an online journal of experimental artistry, and Differentia Press, dedicated to publishing e-chapbooks of experimental poetry. As a poet, he has authored several collections of poetry, including Among the Interrogated (BlazeVOX [books], 2008), Search among the Absent Found (Recycled Karma Press, 2009), Apperceptions of Reinterpretations (Calliope Nerve Media, 2009), Delineated Functions of Congregated Constructs (Calliope Nerve Media, 2010) and r (please press, 2009). The internal collocation of philosophical studies and love of classic and avant-garde jazz is the explanation for his poetic stimulation. Details are at his website, www.felinosoriano.com.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

quoteABLE



"We eventually realized you used source gas to hear our conversation." --Warren Ellis

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

Approbations 671

Approbations 671


—after Jazzanova’s Days to Come
Multiple groupings.  Cliché abbreviations

end

ing



S’s

N’s

singular D, I



spelling autographing

visuals

curtailed amid week-month annuals



culminating across end’s attitude of culture.

--Felino A. Soriano (b. 1974, California) is a case manager and advocate for developmentally and physically disabled adults. He edits/publishes Counterexample Poetics, www.counterexamplepoetics.com, an online journal of experimental artistry, and Differentia Press, dedicated to publishing e-chapbooks of experimental poetry. As a poet, he has authored several collections of poetry, including Among the Interrogated (BlazeVOX [books], 2008), Search among the Absent Found (Recycled Karma Press, 2009), Apperceptions of Reinterpretations (Calliope Nerve Media, 2009), Delineated Functions of Congregated Constructs (Calliope Nerve Media, 2010) and r (please press, 2009). The internal collocation of philosophical studies and love of classic and avant-garde jazz is the explanation for his poetic stimulation. Details are at his website, www.felinosoriano.com.

Monday, August 23, 2010

Kevin Dunfey reviews Gore

RC Miller exists as a real human being.

I know this because I have had a multitude of email exchanges with him and because his new chapbook GORE is existing in my hands right now.

However, if you have ever read any of his work, you might get the feeling that he tries very hard to defy any sense of tangible existing self.

His poems, to me, start from the perspective of a presence observing memories in a room, recording.

Words are assembled with the purpose of diluting the obviousness of things.

A nebulous persona is formed to speak from the mind of the void, making simplistic observational statements of abstractness.

The poems, formally and visually, have a great sense of hard-earned integrity which help fuse these intentions:

Each line is so ambiguous or nonsensical that it calls into question the entire purpose of the poem.

No line in any poem is gibberish.

Each line is carefully crafted and grammatically correct.

The collection of lines that comprise each poem always seem to be mathematically perfect. Balanced in number of both words and letters.

Each poem is a consolidated piece of value.

Each poem is a segment of your last unrecognized thought.

Each poem is a perfectly organized clutter of words.

Each poem is a complete aesthetic structure of words.

The chapbook is a hurling shrapnel of cauterized hope.

As an object, it feels like an electric blue, sterilized zine-compilation of religious pamphlets on steroids that you are watching on TV.

This is a must have for anyone following the evolution of poetry as a fundamental facet of the human spirit.

Much respect to Calliope Nerve Media for having the balls and good sense to publish this hurling shrapnel of cauterized hope.

Sunday, August 22, 2010

Approbations 670

Approbations 670


—after Russ Sargeant’s I Live I Breathe
Awaken per whispered movement.  Elongated

stretch

of muscular difficulty

tingling

manifest approaches warmed tools of

walking’s spatial hosting. Exhales

through a surgeon’s

articulating exactitude



rambling a controlled chaotic circumference

landing against self in

virtual nuance of

calendared vastitude.

--Felino A. Soriano (b. 1974, California) is a case manager and advocate for developmentally and physically disabled adults. He edits/publishes Counterexample Poetics, www.counterexamplepoetics.com, an online journal of experimental artistry, and Differentia Press, dedicated to publishing e-chapbooks of experimental poetry. As a poet, he has authored several collections of poetry, including Among the Interrogated (BlazeVOX [books], 2008), Search among the Absent Found (Recycled Karma Press, 2009), Apperceptions of Reinterpretations (Calliope Nerve Media, 2009), Delineated Functions of Congregated Constructs (Calliope Nerve Media, 2010) and r (please press, 2009). The internal collocation of philosophical studies and love of classic and avant-garde jazz is the explanation for his poetic stimulation. Details are at his website, www.felinosoriano.com.

Approbations 669

Approbations 669


—after Pharoah Sanders’ Bailophone
Squeal of wind gesture

scrape

succumb

build upon ambulation’s quest to unreturn, blend.



Deliverer

rescue

from jejune motility. Operate sparkling herds rhythms

finality

water beneath

murmur function appetite of redemption

rebirthing

caveat: death in secretive

indefinable



syllabic subtextual wanderings.

--Felino A. Soriano (b. 1974, California) is a case manager and advocate for developmentally and physically disabled adults. He edits/publishes Counterexample Poetics, www.counterexamplepoetics.com, an online journal of experimental artistry, and Differentia Press, dedicated to publishing e-chapbooks of experimental poetry. As a poet, he has authored several collections of poetry, including Among the Interrogated (BlazeVOX [books], 2008), Search among the Absent Found (Recycled Karma Press, 2009), Apperceptions of Reinterpretations (Calliope Nerve Media, 2009), Delineated Functions of Congregated Constructs (Calliope Nerve Media, 2010) and r (please press, 2009). The internal collocation of philosophical studies and love of classic and avant-garde jazz is the explanation for his poetic stimulation. Details are at his website, www.felinosoriano.com.

quoteABLE

"God exists and he's irrelavent." --Garth Ennis

Saturday, August 21, 2010

Moments

Moments


how does a wave
mimic
the uselessness
of minutes

why does a wave
open
a trap door
to flee the tyranny of time



Dom Gabrielli studied literature at Edinburgh University and prepared for his doctorate in Paris and New York. In Paris, Gabrielli’s passion for French literature and thought led him to begin writing, translating, and teaching. He translated widely including published works by Bataille,  Leiris and Jabes. In the early 1990’s, he left the academic world to travel and devote himself to writing, whilst pursuing various business ventures. He has published two books to date. The Eyes of a Man, his first book of poetry, and The Parallel Body, which earned considerable praise. Both books were published by Ziggurat Books International. Gabrielli currently travels extensively.

Gabrielli's books are here:

http://www.bookdepository.co.uk/search?searchTerm=dom+gabrielli&search=search

Whore

Whore


the sun shines
on your indomitable whore's shadow

your silhouette
your lips

absent moon

agony extirpated
tongue

silk
burgundy

streams of you in me

                                 erupting poetess

innocence



Dom Gabrielli studied literature at Edinburgh University and prepared for his doctorate in Paris and New York. In Paris, Gabrielli’s passion for French literature and thought led him to begin writing, translating, and teaching. He translated widely including published works by Bataille,  Leiris and Jabes. In the early 1990’s, he left the academic world to travel and devote himself to writing, whilst pursuing various business ventures. He has published two books to date. The Eyes of a Man, his first book of poetry, and The Parallel Body, which earned considerable praise. Both books were published by Ziggurat Books International. Gabrielli currently travels extensively.

Gabrielli's books are here:

http://www.bookdepository.co.uk/search?searchTerm=dom+gabrielli&search=search

Friday, August 20, 2010

Strangeness

Strangeness


you say these lines
are incomprehensible

they are strangely open

jumpstarted by a wild axe
from nowhere

i prise open
the beginnings of
a vacuum
in the mind

words shine
through a silver breach
in light

smoke curls
in eloquent spirals
on an insidious trail

eyes laugh
through feminine pupils
at the anxiety of princes

smoke
is witness
to the lights of lust

a body wanders
in the shades
of umbilical sun


Dom Gabrielli studied literature at Edinburgh University and prepared for his doctorate in Paris and New York. In Paris, Gabrielli’s passion for French literature and thought led him to begin writing, translating, and teaching. He translated widely including published works by Bataille,  Leiris and Jabes. In the early 1990’s, he left the academic world to travel and devote himself to writing, whilst pursuing various business ventures. He has published two books to date. The Eyes of a Man, his first book of poetry, and The Parallel Body, which earned considerable praise. Both books were published by Ziggurat Books International. Gabrielli currently travels extensively.

Gabrielli's books are here:

http://www.bookdepository.co.uk/search?searchTerm=dom+gabrielli&search=search

Stranded in Openess

Stranded in Openess


i open
at the extremity
where i sculpt what is left
of you

i am so distant
from the memory of my own eyes
i keep running
the hidden contours
of a journey
unknown even to me

i turn away from immediacy
from anything
resembling a center a shelter a home

and still i find you
ever clearer in this pitch of night

there is only this feeling
of being away
far from you
and wanting to come back
again and again

i am not even seeking
i am certainly not thinking

i am stranded in openness


Dom Gabrielli studied literature at Edinburgh University and prepared for his doctorate in Paris and New York. In Paris, Gabrielli’s passion for French literature and thought led him to begin writing, translating, and teaching. He translated widely including published works by Bataille,  Leiris and Jabes. In the early 1990’s, he left the academic world to travel and devote himself to writing, whilst pursuing various business ventures. He has published two books to date. The Eyes of a Man, his first book of poetry, and The Parallel Body, which earned considerable praise. Both books were published by Ziggurat Books International. Gabrielli currently travels extensively.

Gabrielli's books are here:

http://www.bookdepository.co.uk/search?searchTerm=dom+gabrielli&search=search

Homage to a Famous Painter

Homage to a Famous Painter


what he performed at night
was dictated
by his body of sensations

the jokes he played on himself
as many relations
between brain
and prick
and the name he pretended
to obey

he drank profusely
fucking indiscriminately

in night's cage of comforts

like a robot he rose
in a transe
toward the canvases
where he invented a secret language
in unknowable waves
scripted
by desire in itself
playing
in his painter's silhouette
undoing hypocrisies
of what isn't parading as is
returning life to its primitive beauty
its factual brutality
before the erasures of history
and mollycoddled truth

every gesture
calculated
not by him
every exact ghost-like move
scripted
not by him
but by the mathematics of chance
and the magic of circumstance
in a collision of forces
where he was just one element
nothing conscious at all
an atom of ordinary madness
in a greater circus
unknowable also
holding the world to ransom
with images
no society could accept
nor begin to understand
because society doesn't fuck
nor eat from the platter of night
but pays follies
to compensate
manually as it were
for the ache of its voyeur's incomprehension


Dom Gabrielli studied literature at Edinburgh University and prepared for his doctorate in Paris and New York. In Paris, Gabrielli’s passion for French literature and thought led him to begin writing, translating, and teaching. He translated widely including published works by Bataille,  Leiris and Jabes. In the early 1990’s, he left the academic world to travel and devote himself to writing, whilst pursuing various business ventures. He has published two books to date. The Eyes of a Man, his first book of poetry, and The Parallel Body, which earned considerable praise. Both books were published by Ziggurat Books International. Gabrielli currently travels extensively.

Gabrielli's books are here:

http://www.bookdepository.co.uk/search?searchTerm=dom+gabrielli&search=search

Thursday, August 19, 2010

Midnight Sisters

 Midnight Sisters


i am two
halved

i wish i had been more

with a scream
in the torrent of being
i already was

there was too much noise
so i opened a book
in search of silence

roots
bark
leaves
they gave me
told me to flower
bear fruit
season
after season

a storm came
then the rains
there was a flood

no one noticed but me

lost the clay
which trusted my roots

lost my branches
in an instant
of midnight

my seed tossed high

roots burnt

swaying branches
no longer whispered

hanging
in oblivion's lament

i sowed
what seed was left
in remote zones of silence


Dom Gabrielli studied literature at Edinburgh University and prepared for his doctorate in Paris and New York. In Paris, Gabrielli’s passion for French literature and thought led him to begin writing, translating, and teaching. He translated widely including published works by Bataille,  Leiris and Jabes. In the early 1990’s, he left the academic world to travel and devote himself to writing, whilst pursuing various business ventures. He has published two books to date. The Eyes of a Man, his first book of poetry, and The Parallel Body, which earned considerable praise. Both books were published by Ziggurat Books International. Gabrielli currently travels extensively.

Gabrielli's books are here:

http://www.bookdepository.co.uk/search?searchTerm=dom+gabrielli&search=search

Basic Rules of the Afterlife Part One

Basic Rules of the Afterlife Part One



to build a raft of syntax
and drift
down a river of invention

to lie for hours
in the hot dead grasses of soliloquy

to be intense
without obsession

to kiss
with wings of wild rosemary

to dream
without mother tongue
nor fatherland

to fall without fear
into the abyss

to live the event of dying
with substances of laughter

to build a bridge between poetic absences
over the river of passionate presences

to carry love on a nomad trail
sown with strange essences
only words can invent

to castigate doctrines
on the pyre of mimicry

to abolish time
by any means necessary

to live the pain
doctors cannot see

to dance inside out

to break through the wall
and embark on the endless journey


Dom Gabrielli studied literature at Edinburgh University and prepared for his doctorate in Paris and New York. In Paris, Gabrielli’s passion for French literature and thought led him to begin writing, translating, and teaching. He translated widely including published works by Bataille,  Leiris and Jabes. In the early 1990’s, he left the academic world to travel and devote himself to writing, whilst pursuing various business ventures. He has published two books to date. The Eyes of a Man, his first book of poetry, and The Parallel Body, which earned considerable praise. Both books were published by Ziggurat Books International. Gabrielli currently travels extensively.

Gabrielli's books are here:

http://www.bookdepository.co.uk/search?searchTerm=dom+gabrielli&search=search

Diagrams of Missing

Diagrams of Missing


i write
to open up the question
of what excludes me
of what hides
me from you
when I need to think

plagued
my head aches
pain is protraction
and fodder for being
sometimes there is a wall
out of thin air
no one
no one
i am no one at all

a rope hides what cannot be thought
and it rarely breaks when it should
only then does a star fall
even if rainbows are irrelevant

the subject
always at least two propositions
behind

thought scampers
an escaped convict
banished to the extremes
to the dirt streets
and cesspools of man

of course kisses help
laughter can unbuild a head
muscles can hide
a wound
several sizes larger than a cavity in the skull
yet the fundament
glares
so avidly
at the remembrance of what is unthought

deny being denied
accept status as extraneous
outside
devoid
no claims required
no citizenships
just a particular version of nothing
running
in chanted words



Dom Gabrielli studied literature at Edinburgh University and prepared for his doctorate in Paris and New York. In Paris, Gabrielli’s passion for French literature and thought led him to begin writing, translating, and teaching. He translated widely including published works by Bataille,  Leiris and Jabes. In the early 1990’s, he left the academic world to travel and devote himself to writing, whilst pursuing various business ventures. He has published two books to date. The Eyes of a Man, his first book of poetry, and The Parallel Body, which earned considerable praise. Both books were published by Ziggurat Books International. Gabrielli currently travels extensively.

Gabrielli's books are here:

http://www.bookdepository.co.uk/search?searchTerm=dom+gabrielli&search=search

Monday, August 16, 2010

Voices Preview III

From Kyle Muntz's Voices:



Footsteps make such strange sounds (beating beating). They come in sync, signaling movement. Wherever I go, they follow me, like a theme song. Identical, mine and others. I followed her. She made no footprints. Her hair billowed as she ran, floating up behind. It reminded me in a way of the first short story I'd ever written, somewhat plagiarized. It was based loosely on footsteps and chasing. In all things, I see my own future, separated from the real, my life running (not exactly) backwards, from the center of time, not slipping in sequence

what pray pray for me there's nothing

I can do
to help you

::::::::::::::::::::::

I don't know if I
would ever
admit
this to anyone,
but
I can't
even help
myself.

::::::::::::::::::::


When the sandstorm came, I found her at its center. She was at the center of all things, not as a kind of focus, but maintaining distance from all points, asymptotically receding. Always slipping, she was there but she never came closer. Everything saw her, always there, even caught fragmented pieces of imagery, but she alludes confinement in representation, canceling herself.
Bathing in
sand, suspending in desert
hands, she was there but not really there. She would not lead me to any dependable source of water, no niche of coolness in the dry ache of the abyss. She laughed, suspended, and beckoned to me. In the eye of the hurricane, surrounded on all sides by walls of earth, taking a step, I barely kept from falling.

::::::::::::::::::::

Writing poetry
in the dirt sweat dust heat
rock rock beauty in the sand

collapsing

:::::::::::::::::::::


When I got to the top of the mountain, a beam

of light came to me, and I looked down at the whole anonymous world, possibly asleep. In the distance the

carnal city, glistening next to the sea,
and the

emptiness

of the desert, in a warm dry cocoon. I relaxed,

took

a deep
breath,

and looked
towards

the moon.

Sunday, August 15, 2010

Voices Preview II

From Kyle Muntz's Voices:



Flashes of mirage in the belly of the desert; cool clears pools gleaming my sacred oasis. I slept in the cold at the side of the bay, head in hands. Gentle pillows of sand, bearing an aforementioned history, staggeringly unimportant, lofted me to dreams. The desert made markings on dry baked skin. I slept with sand in my hair, dust in my throat, echoes of brightness still burning. In the dream I had a vision of a sandstorm.

It came at me a whirlwind of heaviness, granulated flying. Underneath, in a sandy womb, I saw darkness and bones of dead animals, sapped by the infinite thirst of an overextending desert. Cactus spines joined them, old meat, giving weapons to the storm. Ahead, on either side, in the back, the wind picked up, turning abstract shape to flat patterns in the sand, a maternal lifting up of body. When I woke up, I took a drink of water, packed my bags, and discovered I was a prophet.

:::::::::::::::::::::::

I slept
for the night

in a house
made

out of snow.

It was
very cold, which meant paradoxically, despite the warmth,

I couldn't touch

the walls. Not
only

would they collapse, destructively,
but they were

my absolute coldness
here, impeding impassive

to keep
the wind away.


It wasn't

as though
I believe in taking shelter, but I

didn't
have any other choice.

The mountain

was evil, not as a matter of intent, but as
a symbol,

it leered, intimidating.

It threw
avalanches at me, and snow. I couldn't

get to the stream
because it was frozen, and I couldn't go down

because

I was frozen
too.

::::::::::::::::::::

A cloaked man, bearing sickness, wearing rags, came to my place in the center of the desert. Scalding wind dug blisters in his skin. Impurity spawned serpents in his blood. Rough cloth cloaking, too thick, fanned to an overarching length behind. Standing thirty feet away, as was custom, he addressed me.
“I can't help you,” I said. “Go away.”
There is no safety under the shadow of this red rock.
(come sit with me under
the shadow of this red rock)
“I'm so sick,” he said.
“”Go away.”
“At least pray for me,” he said.
“I won't pray.”
“But look at what I am!” as he removed the turban, tearing green stained bandages, his rotted skin. “I'm dying!” he ripped gauze bloody red sprouting sickness, calloused pussed infected. The skin might as well be falling. So mangled, it came off in strips.
Look at me, cried wounds, we beg...
“There's nothing I can do.”

Saturday, August 14, 2010

Voices Preview I

From Kyle Muntz's Voices:



These

people were sick, and their campfires were a mess of bleeding horseflesh and badly tended crops.

Sickly grinning, they wore masks
of hollow leather skin that never stopped grinning.

In conjunction, the whole evil lot of them, they
laughed together, dumping blood drawings

on canvasses made of the same leathered skin.

Looking down, from atop
a high mountain, I

saw them all at once, taking in their stench.


They smelled like
a world without a shower, tasted


like the droppings of an infected animal about to die, laying

at midday in a sweating

pool of sun, green ooze
pouring

from the gaps
in its skin.



The mountain in its harshness,
rebuked me, by

setting obstacles,

by
hurling dangers, but I have

no fear of coldness, that that which remembers
the emptiness

at the origin of the soul, unmoving in itself,

as all around, niched in the center of the universe,

a


brocade of lights
broke out

swirling


to swallow all

sense of center, a howling dip
in the archways.


I climbed, squinting, and the mountain
fed me the remains

of old bones.


Licking white remnants, I grew,
(tiring)

ever closer

to the moon.

:::::::::::::::::::::

I climbed.

In the morning, to escape the storm, I holed up in a cave. Water dripped from the ceiling. Soon it would become a spear of ice, pointing cold fingers at the ground. It was too cold for anything natural to be living in here. I lit a fire and failed to thaw myself. Blue lines ate my skin. Freezing tendrils tore me.

To chase the boredom away, I wrote a poem

cold colorless lives in the echelon dusk
winking words silent shaking loudly feeding
the lies blatant hiding I shout quietly
at the backs of animals they ignore me
always so caught up in an empty
kind of life the animal
is nothing but fur and baking skin the innards
go moving as the bones shuffled across gruff
gruff gruff is the hard living really I wonder
how the mountain treats gofers without ever
coming around to fall it ignores the seasons
really I guess it has the right to ignore its own
the icicles are growing tonight cold in the
very depth of mountain caves firelight the
scent of melting water steaming drizzling up
to join a fluffing cloud in the sky
hands folding coolly over ligaments
tendons and whatever curling pieces
of bone


but stopped halfway in, for boredom.

Friday, August 13, 2010

qutoeABLE

"Voices available now from Enigmatic Ink: an avant-garde novel about semiotics, internal space, and living ideas (with a bunch of cool language in it)." --Kyle Muntz

quoteABLE



"God don't stand a fucking chance." --Garth Ennis

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

Calliope Nerve Interview Series: Mark Strickert

Mark, in the time I've known you, I'm not sure I've met someone with so many unique and fascinating hobbies. Tell us about some of the hobbies you enjoy.

To touch on just a few, I trade radio station recordings, enjoy traveling across North America (and, eventually, beyond), ride as much public transit as I can in each city I spend time in, and I just celebrated my 40th anniversary as a zine writer and publisher.

What hobbies have you abandoned along the way?

The only hobbies I have totally given up are county collecting and radio station bumper sticker collecting. Besides being difficult to justify the gas consumption from long, meandering drives, having a family and living in a distant corner of the US make long county-hunting weekends nearly impossible. I’ve been to 2,309 US counties and parishes, but only 9 of them have been new since Y2k and none of those were visited simply to get new counties. As for the stickers, far as I know I had the largest collection in North America when I gave it all up and sold all 26,000 or so in 1992. Was cool though, as I got to about 70 new counties on the drive to deliver them to the buyer in Florida.

How did you get into zines? How many zines have you've written in your life time? Where are your zines available?

I hung out with a fairly creative bunch growing up in Chicago’s Lincoln Park area. By 1970, at least three of us were putting out comix, club newsletters, and what we would only many years later call “zines”. As I moved to other places, the zines also became a way to keep in touch with old friends and relatives. My discovery of the review zine Factsheet Five in the late 80s expanded my mailing list as other zinesters and I discovered each other and began swapping zines. A very conservative guesstimate would be about 300 zines published and another 100 contributed to. My personal zine MarkTime is available by mail ($2 cash or postage, or trade to Mark Strickert, PO Box 1051, Orange CA 92856) or by e-mailed .PDF file; the APA-zine FortyTwo is in the quarterly mailings of Grassroot Reflections (sample $4 from Arnold Hollander, 1598 Old Mill Road, Wantagh NY 11793).

An “APA” by the way is an “Amateur (or Alternative) Press Association”, a collection of individual zines collated and mailed together in one stapled bundle. Most zines in an APA are unified by a shared theme or topic (such as science fiction, comix creation, or hobbies and obsessions), and/or by interaction between each zine writer through comments on the other zines.

Have you written professionally?

Not for any publications…just internal stuff for work. Even my articles for professional publications such as the pirate radio magazine Hobby Broadcasting have not been soiled by filthy lucre

You are extremely prolific. Does it come naturally? If it doesn't, what gives you the motivation?

The only thing that’s been natural has been my desire to write about my travels, and friends I visited while traveling. Even then, writing requires the right combination of time, inspiration, and lack of other distractions. My Netbook travels with me daily in the backpack, but it sometimes does not see me for weeks while I wait for the muse to get on the same train I’m riding to or from work.

How has the internet has affected zinedom?

There are probably fewer new print zines, though I cannot tell for sure since there is no comprehensive zine reference to match the old Factsheet Five, even online! Many long-running zines I have known and loved over the years are still very much available in print, though some zines have adapted by offering the added option of receiving it via e-mail attachment.

What's on your recommended reading list?

Zines I receive and read from cover to cover most regularly include Fred Argoff’s Brooklyn! and Watch the Closing Doors, Dale Speirs’ Opuntia, Don Fields’ Twilight World, Henry Welch’s The Knarley Knews, Guy Lillian’s Zine Dump and Challenger, and Brant Kresovich’s For the Clerisy.

Who is your 'ideal' reader?

Since I discovered APAs and zines with long Letters-to-the-Editor columns (coincidental to first seeing Factsheet Five), I have really enjoyed the interaction between zines, and with zine readers. So, my “ideal” reader either writes and trades their own zines, or likes writing letters-of-comment.

Do you consider yourself an 'underground' creator?

If that means not being beholden to a corporation or other commercial venture, then yes.

What does the future hold for Mark Strickert?

I’ll be on the “Papernet” as long as it lasts, and will do my best to keep the brain active with new adventures. The new wife and kids may seem to slow me down, but also offer more and different opportunities.

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

set apart before the world was made by john swain

set apart before the world was made by john swain

In a mess of media consisting of self-reflecting writers, John Swain takes a stand and becomes the sentry for the world. These poems describe the world in a mystical way, making simple scenic views and events seem heavenly. Swain's commanding vocabulary drives these simplistic poems to another level, ranging from observant to prophetic. Only a few people can take a tree and mold it into words which lead a person on the right path in life. To twist nature into a deep bellow of wisdom. If you want to hear this voice, pick up this collection.

--C.J. Opperthauser, Greatest Lakes Review.

David McLean Reviews Michael McAloran's Debris

Michael McAloran -- Debris Review

chapbook review
Debris, by Micheal McAloran
erbacce press, 36 pp. £5 / $7.50
reviewed by David McLean

Stench
Rip of silent blood
Torn veins of the skylines
Atrophy
My skull a death orchard of bound bones
In the sickness of my laughter I vomit scars

I cite here Scars, one of the poems in this collection in full. It is one of an impressive collection of short dark poems here that follow a specific form, in that they are apparently nihilistic in the axiological sense, and the language is very rich in images, stench images, the odor and color of blood and shit given us on the chipped plate of the new millennium's psyche. The richness of the last line here is typical

in others last lines may be

I am disgust
(Reek)

The debris of my tears ablaze
(Ablaze)

I am the spit of the sun's vulgarity
(Spit)

So each poem is a little jewel cracked from the modern cancer, the malfunctioning spiritual pneumatics in each one of us. I don't feel that McAloran is looking for some nasty god in the details, he is showing what there is if one seeks something allegedly more, some holy source of values. His sort of “nihilism” - like most others – is only nihilism if we feel that the question of a source of transcendent values is an open or interesting question. If we don't mind vomiting scars then we're home free.

Obliterated skull you are the
Silence of tombs
Rest rest for in your fatal flowerings
I am breathing
(Rest)

There is a promising conclusion here, as we hear at the end, we fill the world with our whatever

Tearing out stitches with my teeth
The echoes
Fill the skyline
(Stitches)

We can live in the shit and learn to see the aesthetically appealing in the amplified roar of self-mutilation. This collection of aphorisms or sketches, almost a haiku feel to many of them, is one that I can heartily recommend. Get it at http://www.erbacce-press.com/michael-mcaloran/4542338472.

Monday, August 9, 2010

Miserable Jazz

Miserable Jazz

They were women after all,
long haired women that lined the floors,
dressed in baby blue
with hands of midnight and
ears flowing out with liquid madrigals.

I stepped carefully around them,
afloat their miserable jazz,
around their inflamed heads,
attempting to avoid their contamination.

I skipped rope over their cords of whipping hair,
as bowls came smashing the floor
of that overpriced galaxy,
the hushed songs of their voices
ruined by my big sway.

I managed to escape the circumference
of their daunting egos.

Their movements quieted to just the tapping
of their feet mixing with a strange jig.

The sounds they made swirled alive,
a mass hypnotic pink and peach and red
dashing the air
dancing the edges of their
skirts! Skirts! Skirts!



April Michelle Bratten is a writer currently living in North Dakota.  She is the co-editor of the online literary journal Up the Staircase (www.upthestaircase.org). 

Welcome

Welcome

My man has lots of words
and words and words
are stapled to his chest
like an unnatural medallion.
He covers himself with information,
oil, paper, and sugar,
a darling of numbers and statistics.
He goes down like a stuffed pigeon,
memory marked on his head
like a noticeable star.
His thoughts stay,
the terrible calculations
adding up and sticking
permanent
like a welcome mat
at my feet.



April Michelle Bratten is a writer currently living in North Dakota.  She is the co-editor of the online literary journal Up the Staircase (www.upthestaircase.org). 

Sleeper Skin

Sleeper Skin

Entrapped
in the smoking
yellow of sleeper
skin, it is five
to noon and the sounds
of a cough erupt
like a startled stomach
outside the window.
Belly-down,
eyes bleeding into a saint's
feathered pillow,
I want it off.
The sickened skin,
the fluffs of tender
pool flesh,
conform to hands
of the wandering,
down, down, down,
gone to shake another off,
quietly, secretly,
before the stampede
of voices tumble down the walls,
the silk abstinence of strangers.
Fumbling now,
hell's next-door neighbor,
two mysterious taps
on the door
disturb the glow.
A dog barks
somewhere down the dirty road,
its howl echoes the sheets,
blesses the solitude.



April Michelle Bratten is a writer currently living in North Dakota.  She is the co-editor of the online literary journal Up the Staircase (www.upthestaircase.org). 

quoteABLE

"I am building my own conspiracy." --Garth Ennis

The Art Of Writing

The Art Of Writing


I will set
these words
simple and straight
and in line for you.

I did not come here
to beguile you
or impress you
or show you
how good of
a "writer" I am.

I have come
to show you: this
and that.


like pointing
a finger at a
disease and
saying: look,
there it is.


we need this
more now.
not side shows
or circus acts
of the pen.

but doctors
who are willing
to open the thing up,
cut it out
and show it to you
and say "heal it."

it is dead
or dying.

the art
of writing.

--Mike Meraz is a poet from Los Angeles who currently lives in New Orleans. He is the author of two books of poetry Black-Listed Poems and All Beautiful Things Travel Alone. Both are available at Lulu.com and Amazon.com. He is also the editor of Black-Listed Magazine.

Sunday, August 8, 2010

When Camels Become Gold

When Camels Become Gold


when Camels become gold
you will sit on the streets of eternity
looking for your last word.

when Camels become gold
girls will sit in solitude
under your feet.

when Camels become gold
you will have given up your rights
as a human being
letting all that is unnatural
escape you
leaving you with the artistic notion
of suffering
of living for your art
of dying for your craft
of splitting the page in two
with such intensity
that even Bukowski
will relish in its energy...

when Camels become gold
you will have done all the things you said
your books will be selling
the lives of ordinary men
changed
for good
for a lifetime

when Camels become gold
your integrity
will not have left you
it will be clinging to you
like raw meat
on a hook
waiting for the world
to eat you alive.

--Mike Meraz is a poet from Los Angeles who currently lives in New Orleans. He is the author of two books of poetry Black-Listed Poems and All Beautiful Things Travel Alone. Both are available at Lulu.com and Amazon.com. He is also the editor of Black-Listed Magazine.

Who Are They?

Who Are They?


who are they?
these angels
who constantly care for me
while I sit
and brood and breed
unkind words
sometimes
not caring
whether I am loved
or unloved?

who are they?
these angels
who call my home?
who offer me gifts
and kind words
and ground coffee
and homemade dinner
and simple treasures like-
a walk on the beach
or a shopping spree at Albertson's?

I do not deserve this.
I am a sponge.

but they care for me.

who are they?
where do they live?

maybe in some secret cave
on some high mountain
where love still exists
and the heart still moves.

--Mike Meraz is a poet from Los Angeles who currently lives in New Orleans. He is the author of two books of poetry Black-Listed Poems and All Beautiful Things Travel Alone. Both are available at Lulu.com and Amazon.com. He is also the editor of Black-Listed Magazine.

Saturday, August 7, 2010

A New Creature

A New Creature


a new creature
is just an old creature
in a different guise,
wearing a different skin,
talking in a different voice
whispering the same words
just in different colors
and textures.

hand out stretched,
saying hello,
whispering platitudes
is the same person
that infiltrated your being
two years ago.

this time only
younger,

brighter,

more willing
to do damage.

--Mike Meraz is a poet from Los Angeles who currently lives in New Orleans. He is the author of two books of poetry Black-Listed Poems and All Beautiful Things Travel Alone. Both are available at Lulu.com and Amazon.com. He is also the editor of Black-Listed Magazine.

Friday, August 6, 2010

quoteABLE



"Give me information!" --Warren Ellis

Swan Song #1132

Swan Song #1132


fuck the singing, say it with blood...
make it a mindscream... I'm sick of all these
windpajamming pansy poesy
motherfucks...
they can all suck my left and wrong nut...

FUCK the dance, gimme john wayne squatting
on the can,
and a knifeedged stain in your shorts. gimme
a shot of jameson's goddamit... gimme reality
stark and pure...
I want poems with hangnailsbunionspopculturereferences
in them. gimme midget-tossing, whores
hawking french
ticklers and the cop
in the rearview with a billyclub that moonlights
as a dildo...

fuck the song, DOWN with the dance...
keats, shakespeare, rimbaud was nutn but a swishy
type... pound can go pound
sandburg. gimme BLOOD! gimme bukowski!
loud and STINKING! gimme that fuckin typer!

I'll show you how it's DONE... Show you how you SHOVE
the KUM in the QUAT and the twat
in your face. I've been at this game
three whole years.
published 711 poems in 332 sunken
cyberzines...

I keep the line clean... I keep it dark
and just a little dirty and mean...
know what I mean? I mean I'm sick of the BULLSHIT...
the assmunching mfa workshop billymotherfuckincollins
jerklecirk.

ya hear me?

I'm sick of the scene that's been dominating
me. this JOYGIDDY honest to goodness soulsucking
PARLORPUKE...

here, tell ya what, you can have this goddamned
typer. and the
jameson's shot. the shit gives me
heartburn.

what I'm saying is I'm quitting.

quitting?

hell, I QUIT. I just ain't CUT for this CRAP... ya
hear me? I'm, like, OUT.
Au revoir!
see ya in cancun, peepaw...
I never liked poetry in the first place...
it's a FAGGOT's game...

are you a faggot?

well,

are you?

signed,
richard cheese
xoxo
(smallpress "presence" 2007-
2010)

--M.P. Powers likes sexually propositioning telemarketers, male or female. "How 'bout you and I go in the back of that boiler room..." His poetry has appeared at Calliope Nerve, Yellow Mama, Rusty Truck, Underground Voices, etc. More info here: http://www.nyqpoets.net/poet/mppowers.

Thursday, August 5, 2010

11:11

11:11

Broom slaps deerskin
stretched between
hope and despair.

Preparing our brains
for the Brujo.

We live in a Disney universe,
avoiding despair,
only to find our SUV’s
sunk to their hips in thick kelp 
strangling the barnacle-encrusted pilings
of our threadbare faith.

    ooooo piooooo

Ahh, this is more like it,
mango clocks clicking like gingerbread mice
or starving witches escaping
popular German fairy tales.

This is not the appropriate
time to give up talking.

In fact, this is not the appropriate
time for anything, specifically.

Politics is a mechanical monkey
slapping his pancake hands together
right on cue.

But when that monkey’s cheap-ass batteries
wear out,
we’re all fucked!


Alan Britt’s recent books are Hurricane (2010), Greatest Hits (2010), Vegetable Love (2009), Vermilion (2006), Infinite Days (2003), Amnesia Tango (1998) and Bodies of Lightning (1995). Britt’s work also appears in the new anthologies, American Poets Against the War, Metropolitan Arts Press, 2009 and Vapor transatlántico (Transatlantic Steamer), a bi-lingual anthology of Latin American and North American poets, Hofstra University Press/Fondo de Cultura Económica de Mexico/Universidad Nacional Mayor de San Marcos de Peru, 2008.

Listening To Lila Downs

LISTENING TO LILA DOWNS

Sandalwood stick burns like a torch,
feathering black tsunami above the chasm.

Lila follows los pobrecitos
down wrinkled cobblestone allies
spat from rusty Civil War Gatling guns,
plus US mercenaries masquerading on Halloween
paid in full by lusty marijuana,
or simple folk, pure and simple folk
hoodwinked by the wicked.

Like a melancholy viper, naked, spotted,
constricting the bruised moon.

Lila, burning the Psalms, Leviticus,
and gospels of the new world order.

Lila, amphibian eclipse of Scorpio.

Lila, mariposa blanca del mundo!




Alan Britt’s recent books are Hurricane (2010), Greatest Hits (2010), Vegetable Love (2009), Vermilion (2006), Infinite Days (2003), Amnesia Tango (1998) and Bodies of Lightning (1995). Britt’s work also appears in the new anthologies, American Poets Against the War, Metropolitan Arts Press, 2009 and Vapor transatlántico (Transatlantic Steamer), a bi-lingual anthology of Latin American and North American poets, Hofstra University Press/Fondo de Cultura Económica de Mexico/Universidad Nacional Mayor de San Marcos de Peru, 2008.

Three Pieces From John Swain

White Cloth


I purchased white cloth
to lay across the rain
like the tomb of a queen.
Released from the sky,
we delight
in immaterial textures
borne by our gated mind
to touch contemplation
like pears at your lips.

Carapace of Thunder


Delirium of sky
spiraling to earth,
I take shade
beneath a hawk
and lose myself
in the field.
The wind comes
from the west
beneath a carapace
of thunder.
I crawl back
to my own flesh,
never more present,
wrest from this arc.

Tresses of Feathers


Osprey wrists pierce my dream
in a trickling pool beneath the dam
as leaning catfish raise their fins
mocking the talon.
Upon a brief touch,
the dead tree strengthens my arm
to forsake this caging mind.
I cup the water running
from tresses of feathers
and then return the wine to earth.

--John Swain lives in Louisville, Kentucky. His chapbooks, Prominences and Sinking of the Cloth appeared from Flutter Press and Set Apart Before the World Was Made appeared from Calliope Nerve Media. Full of Crow published his ebook, The Feathered Masks and a forthcoming chapbook, Burnt Palmistry.

Monday, August 2, 2010

3 Poems by Jacqui Corcoran

Halved


Her eyes are worded cruelly,
it’s in the glare; two lighthouses
flashing on a coastline face.
The left arm balancing two worlds;
holding and hiding, giving and taking,
gift, non-gift, apple, non-apple.
She queries the love of paint,
the brush, the hand, his eye,
knows it’s sad and she, pitiful.
Or, maybe she doesn’t think that
at all. Perhaps she’s planning
a dinner for two, shocked
she’s forgotten parsley, thyme.
But the snug fit of her terrier’s neck
to the gap of a flicked up leg,
content on the couch as a halved peach
in a bowl full of full peaches,
makes me believe, otherwise.

Still


Passed from one to another, the dead
still warm, lips still blood as a berry
fruiting on invisible cane.
We are Christs then; powers gather
and the cot, our cauldron
and we dance the dance of belief.
Morning has flown as a dove;
white smoke rising to heaven
like snow tumbling back.

The Red Gloves


They’ve been there all night
fingers tucked in
as sleeping petals.
The only red
in a field of blossom white.
Flung like bloody rags
in a sterile room
or a heart
snatched from a lamb.

--Jacqui Corcoran is a Liverpool born poet living in London.

wilimington, five am

wilimington, five am


rumpled recollection
speaks to the swallow’s tale

granular moments
as flecked food on tarmac

nesting in
keening crevasses

listing in
umber spaces

asphalt warbler
lifts song to song

satellite sea
impedes my flight

--Constance Stadler has been writing, publishing, and editing poetry from the prehistoric epoch of print journals to modern e-times. As a political anthropologist specializing in North Africa and a violinist, her influences are multiform. Work in formative years with the late poet Gwendolyn Brooks was seminal, but no less so than Sufi Dervish dancers, and the challenges of mastering Bruch's first concerto. Her book Paper Cuts marked the debut of Calliope Nerve Media's literature arm. Her latest book with author Rich Follett is Responsorials.

Sunday, August 1, 2010

unnumbered meditation

unnumbered meditation



cantilevered being

there is a higher ground

prophets speak to it


the cave of leavings

--Constance Stadler has been writing, publishing, and editing poetry from the prehistoric epoch of print journals to modern e-times. As a political anthropologist specializing in North Africa and a violinist, her influences are multiform. Work in formative years with the late poet Gwendolyn Brooks was seminal, but no less so than Sufi Dervish dancers, and the challenges of mastering Bruch's first concerto. Her book Paper Cuts marked the debut of Calliope Nerve Media's literature arm. Her latest book with author Rich Follett is Responsorials.

quoteABLE

"My halo's in the mail, in case you were wondering." --Garth Ennis