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a n t h o l o g y f r o m p a s t r e a d i n g s THE KIDS
are all giving each other the virus they look cool, they walk round in groups doing interesting things living in the middle of the living room on a newspaper on the floor God exists, God does not exist soon in the absence of barfing unicorns you have nothing I spent all day locked in the trunk of a car to let you know I'm only going to live nine years longer es bueno? no, no es bueno we are going to New England for a day of screaming --K. Silem Mohammad
K. Silem
Mohammad is the author of Breathalyzer
(Edge Books, 2008), A
Thousand Devils (Combo Books,
2004), and Deer Head Nation
(Tougher Disguises, 2003). He has also co-edited and contributed to two
books in Open Court's Popular Culture and Philosophy series: The Undead and Philosophy (2006)
and Quentin Tarantino and Philosophy
(2007). He co-edits the magazine Abraham
Lincoln with Anne Boyer, and he maintains the popular poetics
blog Lime Tree. [writing]
from "IN PORT" Dear Ocean Beauty, I need to rest my eyes from watching the need to rest my eyes when it goes dark. It is just as unsafe here as it is anywhere else. The surface remains aesthetically uneven. At this bend, its bent allows the world to fall open. The space, this space must be maintained or desire ends on this nothing to lose land. And then sometimes I think you can't get real quiet anymore. So, I bear against the water. Holding onto the edges of sounds, letters, words,emotions, events in time, the selves. A synth sound extends into a thin line that extends in a vertical fashion. You move it as you impress your eyelids. Keep the paddle against the tide. The breaks interrupt the time that passes. A swamp of carcassed sea shells that represent the past. It changes the data. (Just hold on.) Hold on there. Albeit angelic but retired, to the everyday act of staring. I rely on a astral sketchbook. To write these words against fashion and consequence, I put a symbol in place of absent sound. --Cat Tyc Cat Tyc is a writer/video maker living in Portland. She is representing Oregon in The Anthology of Younger Poets that will be published by Outside Voices press in January. [writing] When I started doing my dance the place went crazy and Mr. Pride came running with the coach. I dropped the forks before they got to me, the coach screaming like you hear him all the way down on their practice field, "Son, do you know what my boys'd do if I was to let them at you?" I tried to jump over his head but slipped on a smushed Tater-Tot and landed across his neck and the whole place went wilder. All I really remember is flying chocolate milk. In the principal's office I acted like I didn't know what was going on until they went to figure out what to do with me and I crawled out the window and we never talked about it again. --Vincent
Craig Wright
Vincent Craig Wright is the Fiction Writer at Southern Oregon University. He studied with James Dickey at the University of South Carolina, where he was the recipient of The South Carolina Academy of Authors Fiction Prize. Redemption Center, his debut collection of stories, was published by Bear Star Press in 2006. He lives in Ashland, OR. [writing] from Truancy search and research finally under the library heading “problem children” the frame of what is offered, expected problemkinder, cross culturally rotted Jon was a boy who had magic Jon was a boy who had magic was the beginning of his story the one he was writing the one constructed of hope a fine line drawing the first line of course life will be what you make it of course, meritocracy and the good clarity of addition and subtraction a correct answer filling in for wonder a battery of psychological inquiries —Sarah Anne Cox Sarah Anne Cox is the author of Parcel (O Books 2006) and Arrival (Krupsaya 2002). She lives in San Francisco where she teaches, windsurfs and cares for her two children. When not on the road, she is thinking about leaving and writing her new manuscript entitled Truancy. Lullaby
hey look i am my country’s daughter with an ego-tied heart hard-wired damage fault line of anger no one will treat me bad scattered suggestible i apologize in advance i have carved obscenities into my own table savoring berries big as bullets spit seeds through vertical holes at the power lines then helped build so come here child let me hold you a remove will wrap around us each and warn --Dana Teen Lomax Dana Teen Lomax is the author of Curren¢y (Palm Press), Room (a+bend press), and the co-editor of Letters To Poets, Conversations About Poetics, Politics and Community (Saturnalia Books, 2008). Her work has received the San Francisco Foundation's Joseph Henry Jackson prize for poetry, as well as Academy of American Poets, Ann Fields, and Leo Litwak awards. Supported by the California Arts Council, the Peninsula Community Foundation, the Zellerbach Family Fund, the Marin Arts Council, and other organizations, she is presently working on Q, "home movies" about raising a daughter on prison grounds. She lives in northern California with her family. lemon pudding cake with blueberry glaze (from THE VEGAN POEMS) the imparted blue color burst half into quarters soy i evened it out raising a toothpick now and again as if bubbles had formed if bubbles have formed lift it off to unmold the rim once connected at the tip what partially set to adhere to some lazy man’s way to make a fancy cake but pair it with flakes then watch as the world goes agar like an ancient turmeric wizard emulsifying the testers their eyes glazed over once bubbles have formed if bubbles have formed remember to lift it off to unmold the elaborate kiwis strawberries raspberries once connected at the tip but speed the setting and it’s back this lazy man’s way to make a fancy cake soy i unevened it out quarters back into halves the departed blue color intact —Jesse Morse Jesse Morse lives and writes out of Portland, Oregon. His work, interviews and reviews have appeared or are forthcoming in American Drivel Review, One Less: Art on the Range, Jacket, Hobart, P.F.S. Post, Crane's Bill Books, Mirage #4/Period(ical), and CAB/NET Magazine. He edited Bombay Gin 30 and worked as an Associate Editor at Portland-based magazine Ellipsis for a year. He appeared on Portland KBOO's poetry show "The Talking Earth" and even had his own radio show once. Madison
and i tightened my seat belt the descent came / my neighbor asked me if i minded holding her hand as her husband had died. she always took his hand. as we descended. take my hand with old heat / Christmas as usual falls in love —Jim Dine Jim Dine was born in 1935. He has been a painter, sculptor, and poet all his life. This is his second reading in 40 years. Arles Mars
for Lyn Hejinian I thought I could write a poem today He had beautiful eyes How could he see that dreary European light and make it beautiful? Thought: I could right a poem: Today I recognize the matte Waves composed of discrete lines My name curled so delicately in each corner —Vincent Katz Vincent Katz is a poet, translator, and critic. He is the author of nine books of poetry, including Cabal of Zealots, Pearl (with artist Tabboo!), Understanding Objects, and Rapid Departures (with artist Mario Cafiero). His latest book, Judge (2007, Charta/Libellum) is a collaboration with artist Wayne Gonzales that takes its words entirely from The New York Times. Katz has published essays or articles on the work of Jennifer Bartlett, Francesco Clemente, Jim Dine, Robert Rauschenberg, Kiki Smith, Philip Taaffe, and Cy Twombly. He won ALTA's 2005 National Translation Award for his book of translations from Latin, The Complete Elegies of Sextus Propertius (Princeton University Press). He is the editor of the poetry and arts journal VANITAS and of Libellum books. We’ll
start at the beginning
with Genesis, and we’ll read the Bible book by book, no use missing any
stories. She liked the beginning about the earth being dark and God
creating light, but she didn’t think much about Adam and Eve and the
snake. She was full of talk about Cain and Abel, and the part about men
begetting and hte evil that followed. Sometimes she skipped passages.
If we read every word, we’ll never get to Jesus, she said. Other times
she read the same passage over and over again. She loved the sentence,
I will destroy man whom I have created from the face of the earth. Each
time she read it, she hid her face with her hands and said, I’m sorry
Lord. I asked her if everything she read were true and She said, If the
Lord says it’s so, it’s so.
—Diana Michener Diana Michener was born in Boston in 1940. She has had many exhibitions of her photographs in the U.S. and Europe. In 2001, she was given a retrospective at the Maison Européene de la Photographie in Paris. A book of her photographs and writing, DOGS, FIRES, ME, was published by Steidl Verlag in 2005. [writing] Snowglobe Glitter of snowcrystals beneath a streetlight, me, Janis, her sister Sharon who’s still in high school and her boyfriend John. On each exhale white puffs billow from our mouths, red noses and cheeks, ear muffs, overlong crocheted scarves, double stitched the way grandma taught me. John’s long, tense body struggles over the three-foot embankment of snow left from the plowers. He needs cigarettes. Badly. There’s been flurries on and off throughout the night, the road is solid white, one or two tire marks, when John reaches the street, he slips and grabs on to his boat of a car. “God damnit,” he yells, “how am I supposed to drive on this fucking ice.” John’s a hothead. I say and then Sharon says, “John, why didn’t you get cigarettes before we dropped the acid.” We whisper the acid part because we’re home for winter break and we don’t want any of the neighbors or the police or my mother to know we’re on drugs. “I don’t know, I don’t know,” he’s shouting, slipping in circles. Next we’re in the car, and the windshield is totally opaque, and pulsing with these gorgeous white crystalline flowers, and slowly the Chevy is moving and slipping across the road, and it’s so beautiful, the ice flowers and the white puffs from our mouths, when Janis announces, “We can’t see out the windshield, how can John be driving when we can’t see out the windshield.” And John screams, “I can do this, I can do this.” But then John’s screaming, “I can’t do this, I can’t do this.” We’re all so close together inside the car, I could lift my arm and touch anyone. —Dodie Bellamy Dodie Bellamy's essays and reviews have appeared in The Village Voice, The San Francisco Chronicle, Bookforum, Out/Look and The San Diego Reader as well as numerous literary journals and web sites. In January, 2006, she curated an installation of Kathy Acker's clothing for White Columns, New York's oldest alternative art space. With Kevin Killian, she has edited over 130 issues of the literary/art zine Mirage #4/Period(ical). Her latest collection, Academonia, was published by Krupskaya in 2006. Other books include Pink Steam and The Letters of Mina Harker. Her book Cunt-Ups won the 2002 Firecracker Alternative Book Award for poetry. Cat's Cradle
Give me your hands, let's make a steeple, tumble your fingers over mine With the maximum number of fingers I strike you out, your flawless gestures dumb Yarn yawns from my fingertips to yours-- you have successfully aped the cat. —Kevin Killian When
I leave, you fall underneath
Gale
Czerski's work has appeared
in
recent issues of Bird Dog and Mirage #4
Period[ical].
Her poem Ambulatory
Siren Songs
has been published in pamphlet form by Nine Muses Books. The chapbook, Invocation, is being published by
FLASH+CARD. She is currently preparing a manuscript for Dusie Press's
Wee Books series. you the underneath reflects your own 13 luck is not a replacement love does not replicate itself or clone you neither a complex sentence is not an idea nor the number in a name the habit of luck is acquired the number of a name the habit of luck is required a rabbit not a hare reflectors mirror light a woman’s wings refract love a number not a hare reflects the time in a wing a replacement not a hare refracts light over the reflectors a number alights on women who have wings not a hare nor a rabbit on a wing your clone replaces your time reflects light not your own ideas refract wings and their luck neither a woman nor a hare you leave I replicate neither love nor its replacement underneath a number or a name — Gale Czerski from “This Window Makes Me Feel” This window makes me feel like I’m protected. This window makes me feel like people don’t know much about recent history, at least as far as trivia goes. This window makes me feel whole and emotionally satisfied. This window makes me feel like I’m flying all over the place, gliding and swirling down suddenly. This window makes me feel like I count and I enjoy knowing my opinions are heard so that hopefully I can help change the future. This window makes me feel like I’ll find the one thing that makes me feel like I want to feel. This window makes me feel like I can tackle any problem anytime. This window makes me feel like I have energy again and it refreshes my brain cells and makes my feet move. This window makes me feel like I’m the only person who can do something as cool as drumming. This window makes me feel like it’s better to hear that other people have gone through it—it’s like a rainbow at the end of the storm. This window makes me feel good and grounded and peaceful all at the same time. This window makes me feel like the year I spent campaigning was worth it. — Robert Fitterman (from Act Two of The Gertrude Spicer Story) A Flower For Jen Dunlap Out of change comes touch and out of skin comes merely buttercups, out of a sign comes death, out of death comes a longer summer. So then the season is that remembering a way of touching a back is buttercups suggesting a dandelion and it is waiting, it is not, it is so impossible to be winning and touch a poor summer strangely, it is so important to have a season not to touch but to touch again. Jared Hayes Poetry by Rob Halpern: D I S A S T E R L Y R I C • Domestic oil turns disaster into peace Making opportunities — new settlements, Money, which is what I thought I had Dreamt you thinking. Out loud, we were leaden As the sun. We were out harvesting wind — selling smog and low population land. But now I only want you to hold me If only you could hold a mirror to my fat — fertile slopes, these bodies at rest — not knowing what this flesh can do. Prose by Matthew Stadler (from a long narrative work in progress): There was hunger and satisfaction, but are they enough to give shape and heft to a life? What of all the other feelings — pride, ambition, hope, resentment, wonder, futility — too hard to hold on to around a highway bend so slight your sigh of forgetting is enough to navigate the turn, the past curling away behind you, closer than it appeared? And what new exit is this? What great new sandwich around this bend in the road? Wow, great! If thoughts, like meals, can repeat themselves without ever being the same, who would be so dull as to forsake the fresh pleasures of this old thought, suddenly changed? And who does not get hungry again, for the very same sandwich, mile after mile?
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