whereeaglesdare
page 3
d'dra white
page 4
valerie witte
page 8
alan bernheimer
page 11
demaurie laviene
page 12
jason morris
page 16
garrett caples
page 20
anne lesley selcer
page 23
la'naya barksdale
page 24
ron palmer
page 29
sue landers
page 30
zack haber
page 33
katy bohinc
page 36
michael nicoloff
page 40
steve dickison
page 44
anahita jamali rad
page 49
daniel owen
page 53
ce putnam
page 58
donato mancini
page 63
mat laporte
page 67
d. scot miller
page 70
anne boyer
THIS ISSUE WAS CO-EDITED WITH LINDSEY BOLDT. THAT'S WHY IT'S SOOOO GOOD. BUT ALSO HAVING 2 EDITORS MEANS THAT THERE'S TWICE AS MUCH CONTENT. SO IT'S A DOUBLE ISSUE. AND SINCE WE MADE SUCH A BIG ISSUE WE DECIDED THAT WE'RE GOOD FOR A LITTLE TIME OFF. SO LINDSEY & I ARE GOING ON SUMMER VACATION. THERE WON'T BE ANOTHER ISSUE OF WHERE EAGLES DARE UNTIL AUTUMN. JENN MANZANO MADE THE COVER. THANK YOU JEN. I AM SO EXCITED ABOUT THIS ISSUE FULL OF GREAT POETS & WRITERS. I FEEL BLESSED TO HAVE THEIR HEARTS & MINDS IN THIS MAGAZINE. XO, STEVE
Made in Oakland CA, May 2014
d'dra white
My new lover loves my child bearing hips Gives him something to hold onto While we slow dancing cheek to cheek He don't know This body isn't always comfortable He calls me chocolate like it's my name Like only sweet things come in this shade of brown Like this skin hasn't ever been painful He gives me affirming words for nickname Renames my unhealthy sexy He likes to show me off Parade me in front of friends Co workers and the like He whispers in my ear when no one is looking He don't know I had to retrain myself to stand still Don't know I have to remind myself not to hear hisses in places void of snakes My new lover is a passionate man Kisses my lips until they mimic aftershocks Inches hands over landscape like my skin is Braille He don't know my person hasn't always been treated with this much care Hasn't always been handled this gently My new lover likes to call me his woman He don't know I've been owned before Wore daughter until it felt more possessive than familial How childbearing hips can be more curse than blessing He don't know I'm still learning to love this vessel All chocolate and choice Still learning all the ways rough can heal All my new lover knows is I got these childbearing hips He holds on to them while we dance cheek to cheek He don't know all things I've done to keep the music playing
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valerie witte !
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when we match faces with insects five are black on white paper. or foreign material within the lens lining
the curvature of a body, bristles and hair hung. lossless
the way we maintain consistency. (I think about your hair maybe once a week.) soft and blond when first formed in most adults results in a hardening and darkening
inability to distinguish between his wife’s voice, the radio, and a refusal to consider the possibility that his hearing might fail.
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63!
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in the basement spaces an extensive body of object relations. take
surfaces blanketed by felt arranged in frames hung like diamonds. soldiers for painting, closets of cards and silk remnants from cigarette packs. a system of pegs on which to hold one’s bats and gloves to walls, autographed balls alongside voices and chimes, animal sounds &
decanters positioned on a shelf. records spilling to the floor, into the laundry a sort of organization. at a nickel a book cataloguing enough to keep a child busy for years. a measure
of love. as if everything need be measured. there are ten original jackets. two are black and red protecting original selections knowing each can be located, rotated, played
& appraised, no matter how trivial.
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(and please please tell me you are making phrases out of sewer structures, fire hydrants, a pattern of energy lines. the survival tricks played on travelers.) we got our eyes yesterday and 60 percent of hauntings are pink
a turbulent blur. she understands the temptation to sneak to peek the foolish fire
faint. surrender to the love terrorist, the primary repository of affection. what went loose in a psychological rebellion. (two selves talking to me, it’s OK to just stop talking to me.) your willingness to admit this is telling. in what manner of distraction he fled finding delays in the film gaps where something possible might have happened. (the more I love you the harder it is to go off-world off men or remembrance and fingers are the way to press
or please tell me your world is corroborated by strangers.) don’t give up on us blue flames are crossbreeds of toy makers and
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primitive men. and godlike superhumans. the mirrored you split or instructions for building a device one-half our own image and the camera duplicates it. the disappearance of travelers into mires, a woman in the next room singing or the radio, chatter through a hall a noise matrix of voices range in color from white to yellow to pale
blue the outcome of tossed dice on a wooden platform with three protruding legs is suspect. (why you so rarely play.) as a technician on the seven fairy tracks he recorded such moments with Polaroids.
(most of my lovers remained imperceptible; I was myself not long ago fleeting as kit-in-the-candlesticks.) a “little board” is a spirit forest wavering. (though you’d never made me cry). sometimes the things you aren’t looking for
are the most unbearable things.
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Alan Bernheimer
I WAS A TEENAGE HYPNOTIST For Suzanne Stein I always loved sending away for things by mail. Forty years before the Internet and Amazon made armchair shopping commonplace, you could easily obtain a small monkey, a teacup Chihuahua, or a ventriloquist’s swazzle through the mail-order ads in comic books. Army surplus Jeeps, needing some assembly but costing under $100, could be had in the classifieds at the back of Popular Mechanics. But for category breadth and kitsch, nothing compared with the Dorothy Damar catalogue, each page featuring eight or nine selections ranging from household gadgets like a serrated grapefruit spoon (set of four, $1.49) to novelties like an ant farm ($2.98) or a drawkcab llaw kcolc—“tells time backwards” (8.98). My taste ran to novelties and I did buy the farm—the little farmers shipped separately. I bought but never mastered the swazzle, a half circle of leather, metal, and plastic the diameter of a quarter—marketed as the secret to throwing your voice, but really just a device to produce whistling noises and ducky speech. In a related ambition as conjurer, I made the transition from operator of store-bought practical jokes (the dribble glass, the bottomless spoon), gaffs, gimmicks and prepared decks to some grace and fluidity in sleight of hand with cards and coins, educating finger muscles with hours of practice in front of a full length mirror until the moves became invisible to me. But my shortcoming as a performer was the magician’s patter—the weave of personality, narrative, momentum, and misdirection that cloaks sleight in illusion and elevates artifice to art—a surprising deficiency in light of the success I was having with high-school dramatics, especially in comedic roles. But in magic I had no ready access to a good script or director. Surprising, too, since my line of patter as a hypnotist was good enough to put half a dozen subjects under. And patter, along with confidence, is all there is in the hypnotist’s bag of tricks. As a young man, my father had hypnotized a few summer campers when he was counselor, and so I had close-hand evidence that it could be done, as well as a tendency to follow in his footsteps. I mailed away for and received the “Hypnosis Handbook” from the National Crystal Company in Millburn, N.J., whose order form for additional publications on judo, tattooed women, helpful hints for horseplayers, handwriting analysis, yogism, and chastity girdles accompanied the 16-page pamphlet. Peter R., my New York City apartment building upstairs neighbor and boyhood friend, was my first subject. This would be freshman year, high school. One evening, I sat him down in a reclining aqua blue Danish modern armchair with a matching footstool whose top tilted up to complete a comfortable lazy S. A reading lamp on a scissor mount behind his head shone on the pencil tip eraser that I held about a foot from his face, a little above the eye line. The rest of the room was in shadow, including me. I started the standard patter about concentration, relaxation, and drowsiness and soon his eyelids began to flutter. He went under during the sleep count, and the cataleptic arm test (unable to bend at elbow)
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proved he was an apt subject. After deepening the trance, I tried a variety of exercises, including numbness to pain, clairvoyant hallucinatory travel to different locales, and harmless post-hypnotic suggestions such as speaking an absurd sentence (“Alan is a zebra”) whenever I put my hand on his head. Everything went by the book, and I was careful to ensure that my subject wakened at the end feeling as refreshed as if he’d had a nice nap. He remembered nothing from the session, which is not unusual, although I had not suggested amnesia. Peter’s younger brother was similarly suggestible, and I can recall him sitting atop the Empire State Building, holding a telescope and swiveling around to see the city sights—at least in his mind. David S. a smart-alecky red-haired Canadian schoolmate, was another susceptible subject. But despite my success with peers, I ran into a psychological wall when I attempted to hypnotize an adult. In retrospect, I’d made a poor choice in an opinionated, impatient, skeptical scientist friend of my parents who took time out from their dinner party to try my new skills. Once I’d gotten his eyes shut, not even the relaxation technique—guiding his attention to his extremities and moving the relaxation point gradually up the limbs to the body core and finally the mind—was able to produce or deepen a trance. Clearly I should have picked a less strong-willed and stubborn subject for my first experiment on an adult, since success breeds confidence in the operator. This setback and two other factors contributed to my abandoning a budding career as mesmerist. Although each successful trance induction produced a small thrill of conquest, I was becoming bored by the available effects and activities to pursue with the hypnotized subjects. Although I was reading about hypnotherapy, I was clearly too callow to attempt anything in that line, and I knew that simply removing symptoms of neuroses through hypnotic suggestion without getting at underlying causes was believed to result in new and perhaps more problematic expressions of the unresolved issues. This being the early 60s, smoking cessation was not yet on anyone’s mind. Frankly, I was getting creeped out by the sense of exerting power over others, even though I took it on faith that subjects cannot be induced to do anything harmful or morally objectionable. But they were still doing whatever I told them to do, instructions they would not have followed without hypnosis. I decided this ability to mold another’s will through arcane technique was not a side of my personality that I wanted to encourage. Four or five years later I did try my skill one more time on J., a Eurasian student from Wellesley visiting me at Yale for the weekend, a friend of friends. There was no spark of romance, despite our adolescent hormones and the late 60s climate—even a friendly back rub led to nothing more. J. was interested in quitting cigarettes and, sitting in a red butterfly chair one fall evening in my wainscoted Saybrook College room outfitted with fireplace, leaded glass casement windows, and enormous double bedstead with roses carved into its dark oak, she was a ready subject and successfully took the post-hypnotic suggestion that cigarettes taste like burnt rubber. And so they did, for at least a few days, since such suggestions need periodic reinforcement in order to persist. I don’t know if I’d make a good subject myself. I had no success at all with self-hypnosis per se, not being able to get my head around the idea of being simultaneously suggester and suggestee. But the post9
hypnotic certainty that has remained with me is the mind’s ability to create its own truth, to see (or not see), independent of objective reality: “These aren’t the droids we’re looking for.” Eyewitness error, fabricated memories of abuse, and police lineup misidentification are just a few examples of such suggestibility. Neurologists have even found cellular substrates in the brain for manufactured memories, engrams in the dentate gyrus. If an amateur hypnotist can make you hallucinate, how much more convincing is the self-agent. I can look at the kitchen counter or refrigerator shelf and not see an item in plain sight because I strongly suspect someone has put it elsewhere. Visual or auditory illusions involve just two of the senses. Hypnosis is also a well established method of producing anesthesia. (In the days before Novocain was common for drilling, my dentist uncle tried to put me under but I just didn’t trust him.) A standard test for trance is to tell the subject they won’t feel pain in, say, their hand and then sharply pinch them, or even use a pin prick. Conversely, it’s claimed that a cool spoon applied to the skin can both produce a burning sensation and raise a blister in a subject who is told that it’s red hot. No wonder the placebo effect has become part of medical orthodoxy. And in several recent studies, optimists had as much as a 50 percent lower mortality rate from cancer and heart disease than pessimists. Faith healing is just a step beyond. And speaking of optimism, the National Crystal Company was almost certainly the mail order business started in the 1960s by Julian Simon, later an economist and controversial “population growth optimist,” as a way to employ his out-of-work parents. His father had run a two-man washing soda business under the same name in nearby Newark that folded during World War II.
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My Life That You Were Born In! by Demaurie Laviene
Hi Demaurie, Are you gay? or happy? No, I’m happy Yes, I’m gay, because my life I’m looking for someone, but I’m happy because I’m gay I’m gay, yes, but I have a rainbow flag I’m gay, but you think I like boys I got friends that support me I’m happy because my friends and my family support me! Why are you gay? Bitch it’s my way! Ok, I hate your way but it is my way! I’m the rainbow and I have the colors!! I have no dad I was raised by my mom for 14 years I’m a boy but I can be a girl when I be at home I live with two brothers, one sister, and my mom Why don’t you have no dad? My mom was my dad Ok! The shit I want to be I can be whatever I want to be!
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jason morris
*** These big pink flowers fall—loudly— in my backyard ***
“the tenant of the plain” —John Clare, “The Wren” Morning rushes into view, filled with thrushes singing in live oak branches, more gnarled than one could ever expect. Or draw—tell about prevailing winds clouds Constable saw & painted in raw shifting silvers coke steam seams aquifers & sneered dominion not anapologetos the calamity of being real this thin thing poems & paint form, to deliver doubled— a dream of a dream: tell about long limbs hanging impossibly down to soak rain & light
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out of low parking lot air. Tell about or draw how gravel crunches under tires there, sound cloud on a podcast, cloudless extension cord thru CA glittering I-80 extreme heat advisory day. Or hollyhock in lathy peeps the noise is still familiar, like an echo I would strain to hear over man-made falls, the wail of dams, transformers, all. The harder you listen, the less of it you get—mesh on which any of my (initial or otherwise) sense depends. Signal: word dropped in water stone in well
9.V.13
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ENCAMPMENT ON OCEAN for Jackson Meazle
It’s as you suspected Chert Breccia with Sculptor a ways off in thought, aside Chaucer, “the Red Statue of Mars” for a long time I preferred it kept patterned As electron to galaxy in maze of expanding ash (the mind a cavalcade of wild horses, as it spreads across valley floor). Language displaces nothing— kenosis But if, as the philosopher says “Language is the house of Being” we (poets) have squatters’ rights & treat the edifice as such elegant poverty trying barely to make a trace
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The oracle at Delphi: built around a ringer the rock was the MacGuffin Zeus’ mother used to trick Kronos a stand-in for the real thing
The really important thought I keep Not thinking, as though by accident Pushing it off “to the side”
—contrapuntal almost to the point of abstraction—
right when I finish the poem the bus pulls up
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garrett caples
GARRETT CAPLES RIDES AGAIN my concealed carry personality has deformed my trouser content to the extent my permit permits i’m shooting off often in public i’m a blow dart in a wind tunnel aimed in the wrong direction a boycotted russian vodka distiller an assdial away from arrest i’m that bad molly going around on the business end of fucking up that’s me in the glass inner office telling beads on the heads of my foes is it genderqueer to be a femme & such an aggressive asshole same bat time, same bat channel but the cosplay’s a satin hassle you’d think my years in a boyband would inure me to humiliation but this bratwurst from the king is the only thing keeping me was i going to say alive? was i going to stay in & get things done or stand in line for a cronut at my age in this tax bracket they said bananas could get you high they said lyric poems had to die they said lickon tattoos were lsd & toiletseats could give you stds the reek of the schoolyard cistern haunts today’s items of piety
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just as readily but to me the poetry only grows under such conditions as to hold the candle up to the album to illuminate the grooves. every time the bucks go clattering i go numbering their hooves in this inexplicable ritual of anthropologizing up over this 200 year old carpet of cigarettes i’m ready for my autotune, dr. luke i’m ready to head to toluca lake to watch the ghosts of flappers float over the lawn of the hope estate while it’s still for sale. where once i was cuckoo for cocopuffs i’m afraid i’ve gone apeshit for grapenuts today. i’ve only got so many colons to lasso your heart away
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PAUL BOWLES IN EL CERRITO the marimbas and the marijuana were the only good things in the town. the men were violent and dirty. the women were made of stone. a tortilla might run up and smack your face. the doilies were straight unforgivable. there was a cactus the size of the grand cooley dam and a pencil the size of a lizard. a burro made of churros and a pinata stuffed with opinions. compared to my life as a mountain dweller, even the bums were city slickers. the wind always blew hard and cold. the marijuana and arhoolie records were the only good things in the town. there were ill-mannered goats as big as great danes, while the great danes themselves were like runty chihuahuas. the university presses were nothing to speak of and the abandoned monasteries less than picturesque. the palm trees were clenched like fists. the guitars were out of tune and the pianos had 86 keys. it was illegal for men to breastfeed in public. the ample parking and the marijuana were the only good things in the town. the flowers gave off the most foul odor. the sex offenders barely registered. there were no gas stations and it was a pain in the ass to go to the dentist. the internet was a broken wheel propped against a well, the telephone a buzzard on a shed. there were neon signs like giant banana leaves and stick bugs like you wouldn’t believe. the gorge that lay below the town yawned and belched a puff of smoke, because the marijauna and the barbeque were the only good things in the town. for Andrew and Rose
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HOMAGE TO ROD ROLAND ah man, an inch of snow in cario & peter o’toole dies same day as joan fontaine. pete’s death hurts the rest of us who were n’t affected by, say, paul walker ’s child molestation explosion but still gotta live with it in the cosmic sense. i cried when john ny thunders died & laughed a bout kurt cobain though maybe that’s just me. my-my-my gener ation didn’t include me for reasons not opaque to me. i wasn’t what mtv said to be & it was a comp elling narrative back then. i listen to the filler on an iron butterfly album & think why’d they bother when they just coulda? i hear ele phants are telepathic & why shouldn’t they be? they got big ears
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anne lesley selcer
Riddem All the beautiful boys Have secrets that tie their mouths, Educations that wind like staircases, Dressed in pinions, bright as children In the prison of the collapsed present, Their speech goes from the mouth as a ribbon, Stretches out like poverty stretches out in languor, Records and retells sensory fact that models untellingness, In collaged rhythmic sequences that Unfold like the poem, but affect change. In the glittering building, in the self's apartment, Blossoming in the bright actual library of tears, They chant: "In the place of absence, Multiplicity, in the place of of givenness, Repleteness, in the place of languor, rising, In the place of rhythm, ribbon." They laugh outside the library, Read out loud to one another on the pavement. Actual tears drench the ground. Vast lucid texts Are unclenched, "It is morning, speech has blossomed, You are awakening. A lovely light is singing out loud. In the movement, in my eyes, in the line, Silvia Federici is alive."
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The eye must be sunlight Ice caked, falling water, compression, clarity if colors are the deeds and sins of light, this is light caught sleeping green abases to gold, red deepens to rouge a hillside becomes painterly, its grass turns ochre, expires into solidity a postcard series: the sky painted blue, the grass green the work is a machinery of distance and contact conceptually based sequences, shot North, West, Northwest, Southeast cold and colorful, red deepens to rouge, gold abases to green the mirror is the brightest color, the mirror strikes light.
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My mother was a secret house, a new round of enclosures. Adriatic, Galia, Algerian, Atago. Magic seemed a refusal of work. Bella Heart, Betty Anne, Bergamont, Black, Black Amber, Black Beauty, Black Globe, Black Pearl. The world had to be disenchanted, Angel, Aprium, Arkansas Black, Athena, Baldwin, Apricot, sexual activity transformed into work, Black Current, Black Rochelle, Baby Bear, Catalina, Cherimoya, Crimson Red, Crab Apple, Clemintina, Crimson Glow, complicity and repulsion, negation then exorcism, medicine reformulated into perfume. Red Delicious, Dancy, D’Anjou Red, Ellendale, Crimson, Crimson Sweet. In this large and most beautiful house, Elephant Heart, Barhi, Black Raspberry, Black Sugarcane, Canaydria, Canary. Bartlett, Babcock, Blackberry, Calimyrna, Cello Blood. Ariran, Athena, Amagaki, my mother was a feral house. Ambrosia, Apple Pear.
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la'naya barksdale
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ron palmer
excerpt from: Per<versions>Son cute for the virus variability cleaved attachment : detachment life cycle is the same for every strain and even faith is hostile in the wrong hands undetectable soul purple veined jellyfish Clinging between the lungs Like a portal window showing him slice a cow in lovely thin slices carpaccio with the fur still black fuzz around the meaty edges bodiless miraculously bloodless fell folded cartoonlike the slices of cow crumpled upon themselves I'm alive again because of you am I a neurotransmitter, no I'm your fucking ghost I won you you own me Stupid amphetamine pulsing synaptic I'm inside you better than memory : Hey honey what war were you in? Stroboscopic Ruin (skunkclit) flick drowning in tongue I am yours
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Shallow body anger "Before I was wasps I was passing for a man through a doorway" "we both had a long shiny knife drowning in that dooryard blooming I am a severer of self no song left sorry sexy Whitman I am murderIng my Warmer Bruder Warmer Brother Warmer Brooder‐‐ With my cock.
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liquid entry both men unshaven the same height the knives identical The moment I realize it is a mirror doorway moment ready to plunge into each other both blades poised Vibrating in fists
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Stippling I carry her down the stairs her little body shivering in your arms I've learned her shiver and stare when she smells danger frantic scratching on fence a primal cry then two raccoons backlit by neighbor's second floor blue window flickering cinematize the double creature running hunched & balanced by tiny furry hands on fence Hunting a stray we call jaw‐jaw kitty because when we tap gently our window she looks up from licking her black paw and vibrates her jaw like a jittering robot at us kneeling & laughing on our couch in the California sunlight I hear wailing behind the fence, I know jaw‐jaw kitty is pined by the raccoons and bloody footprints on cement in the morning tell the end with my cousin in a clown suit & the third lover riding another stepping on some bodies oxide toes and a bloody nose
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If there were a genderless child On the coast of genre: I would be a cowboy novel snarling into the stellar nursery biting foreskin stretch where I grew up on Virginia Woolf's maps for imaginary spaces: Taking over moon's tides we exhibit satellite dunes Coded into our genes I jump cut to my future self Speeding down 101 : O Double Soul I ask you "where will you fly If I die Here pining for my Wombat pining for Histrionics pining for the fang of nostalgia On the way to the authentic self there's bound to be some fraudulence saying fake it till you fuck it faking my soul in the mirror finger fucking myself in the mirror while I'm mollifying the Ghostbots.
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sue landers
Sue Landers, susanlanders@yahoo.com
iMPeRFeCT A poem about Renny and plastic barrettes. The barrettes he calls little girls—7 and 8— who lose their flowers everyday. Plastic barrettes on a sidewalk. Trash he arranges and frames. So much trash he decided to pick it up himself. To pick it up and paint it and put it back down again. A poem about Renny spray painting all the trash gold. All the bottles and the vials and the poop. A poem about spray painting all the poop gold until they showed up, until they showed up in their army of trucks, to take all the gold away.
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zack haber
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katy bohinc From Malcolm X Park For Where Eagles Dare Oh we’re all So boring and Stupid under I want your Ridiculous On the floor Forlorn and You forgetting To know you’re Naked So I showered Washed off Want with Extra water Took a nap Waited Meditated Decomposed Read poems Nobody Wordless DIS SOLVE PART ICLES Enjoy ICLES Small small Parts Smaller And smaller And smaller Until I could Hold me in My The problem With men is They blame Everyone else. The problem With women Is they Blame themselves.
The problem With humans Is blame. Something has To be easier. I thought this Was all part Of revolution And utopia Easing the Interaction But apparently Computation Isn’t taught In the bible. I really do Prefer Women. (nothing to do except Anxiety Primarily problematic Sore shin skins Back labels Spider creepsings Get lower & It’s almost Failure Lack lack lack Attack Some energy is Lurking Before a thought Damn thought Actions constipation Back sick Astrology medicine Jupiter has 12% of The plent but 77% of the mass Lotto lotto lott Blame blame blame Name name name Three time Game NOT YOU NOT ME NO
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Draw a boundary Slowly Stuck in your hear Mud Quicksand Can swallow a Human in six Seconds! Well that’s nice. Shaman! Shaman! Help SHAMAN! Don’t have Any words For me Anymore Than you. Start parenthesis Because at The end I want To cup your Flailings in my Palm. I Practiced. No Pinch. Startle Impress velvet Aluminum sturdy Settle paper Weight offer In your naked Not my flinch That is was Possible never Never. Never Always gave Me pause I like that Thought A kind of Responsibility In the whatever Age phff Names? I Can barely Handle
Letters but You in the Bed‐next space All honesty Silent hanging There god I’ll eat your Cliché every Day. So I went To work Make something Work Log 1st Tech Nique 1st Anals! Cyst! Sorta elegant That being Darts at The wall Strings of Perfect tens Every one and A while let The mind run The age Rhythms heartbeat Going ampersand Metronome DAMN IT WORKED LIKE a perfect clock And satisfying. Forget lack. Back back back Need need need After the crisis. True true true After the murder He spent A lot of time Writing MURDERED
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Very clearly on His white shirt In magic marker. I wonder where He got the magic Market and if There are limits To beside the Point curiosity. Ampersand. BUT. EITHER OR POIGNANCY The good news is A computer cant We still need Humans. I ate a pizza It was Random But it wasn’t That random It was pizza All I want is Random but Reductive keeps Drowning Me. Unformed children And monks Remind me Just be Happy with Red again And again Classic So post‐modern Cliché woke
Up but Still didn’t Connect with The rents So Babel Fucked still I’m so awake I’m always Screaming Awesome. Art I just Want to purr You! I want to stare At the flickering Light in the Wood fire stove FIRE is always Random I should be in Art I’d make More money Sorry. I just Want to buy You birds For your Birthday. Oh and always Give the benefit Of the doubt As an example Of how we Should all be To make Utopia possible.
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michael nicoloff
From Autobiography of â&#x20AC;&#x153;Michael Nicoloffâ&#x20AC;? what is your vision for this upload
beasts of the field intrigued by nonfiction
the epic of the pony but the memoir of the horse
the balance between enough space and enough mugs
tasteful nudes
strangle me with my mouse wire
things you shouldn't open with on a cold call
unfortunate vest
bat planning
a tuber time invents
stops chirping
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an illustration changes us
rank these from 1 to 5: beefy,
the jumble,
weapons-grade sexting,
the flames rising out of the ocean liner,
the giant face you see
flirting in blood
the speed of the lotus
the chip beater
hot cola
looking hella fierce
in the holy ghost trance
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get Wotan pronto
don't barf
don't rot
don't tolerate numbers
just a bacon cheeseburger
collaborating with your younger self
sperm emails
increasing brand control
I just need a man-sized bird nest
I demand naptime
fueled by manliness
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working group on the feminist city
late game appreciation for nature
critical terms that went nowhere
using somebody else's guts
in situations that are impossible
to feel good about, i.e.,
to feel good about
shipping pallets
being physically vulnerable
feeling good about having too much face
please let me use my mind to this purpose
go back to old forms â&#x20AC;Š
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steve dickison
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anahita jamali rad
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I thought we'd look good together by Anahita Jamali Rad
to tear (verb)
on one another
each other apart
like living with nothing
on nothing familiar
familial forgetting
on sidewalks like nothing
is spilling there's nothing
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for giving a number
for making a killing
or taking a beating
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daniel owen
THE CALLED TALLERS
Lame assassin said its nude court of extraneous sun refrigerators, extraneous lunar court retinas. Demolishment's evil gust and popular Spanish music (my God, a pencil) and eleven vibing Medeas suggest corn light, new grass, and errant lasting 11:30 of the night's ebbing only pair of sunglasses, no habit of abandonment in total, the poetry a lick calling jello rock cute little dross. Pale old male markets and pesters for simple accumulation. Lame assassin's days of ocular bravado metabolically dispatch the red cess ecolab. Some merchant airs days of applause, lapsed eras engrimed in your liquor of signs.
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THE CURVE
Alp and lil' eros of 20 years, charmed ego, elk court plums in alp escape zones of chill ends, 25 years, univocal tourist, a day is an hour. Elk court plums as blank ocular moles, as venting nascent day is an hour of hate money in cane and the last images of ambush seem to recruit poor united seconds. The letter of cancellation, a coffee with milk, an injection, a span of talons trepan what hulls a mirror, the near ice day, unnamed, abjures, bronchitis delves in rain. Last manic ossuary reels day's core under court in a late communion. Dawn's passion, a trace of mirrored roast's desultory aggressor (pods of iguana mints discurse sullen laser yells). Old dastard palace brags, a quelled braid of snow ascertaining a moved verse of southern ventricles, a species of premature poor divestment at home, mass oven cakes teen delay, and the peals of Canada enter lost arcades of Plaza Martorell in Barcelona. Dawn passes, a trance commotion of juice ghosts' noon cow beers, a finalized map of haste. 15 years, the desert of lonely manifestos sins a semi-sunrise and traces a pyramid, a buffalo, a sordid day star, the brazen necrotic jovial, perennial succor plumbs pork in the mental dell of chilling ocean slaves.
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NOT A MELLOW ME OCCURS IN RERUN
A quelled cape part of God frontier rerun sells llama Destiny but oh yeah lead into Demented Girl. A quelled cake, ornery with velvet Oz, for last lineage of my hand sells llama Destruction but O yodels indigo Silent Girl. Avenue in simpers, amicable.
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OTHER AMENDS IN THE STAR OF THE OCEAN CAMPGROUND
Only the radio cruises the silence (magnificent nude magnificent air) voices, legion, cake Om parties contiguous songs cable ailing friends, hasten ultra quandary mill, gooning tenants venting years unerasing most, minus probes and minus serene K holes (magnificent nude magnificent air) sweet as style, O new vote of the springtime 10 grades of sober zero at last 6 AM.
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ce putnam
DAY 5 WINDING RIVER: A PART HE COULD NOT BORROW Drop of water to drop of water dragonfly leisure and vagabond buzz debt barging up river and down. Thirty more years wearing flowered shirts conversing with the bodies they want. Add temporary works: a knot of roots under a parking lot, an egret in its egg wondering what its wings are for. But who is going to purchase that? Subtract phase rewards: we must write all our animals now. I revolve in the gravity of spirits above the sea electric with Napoleon below on that prison island beating the air, flightless and stupid. Red cranes spoil the beaches, and then my isolation feels so mechanical. I am following a single water bugsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; total circuit from truck bed
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(10 PAX) to pink funnel to yellow work boots. Lizards in the stairwell, ants in the walls. There is a deep, deep distance I feel it out there, an internal ocean, tiding up beyond any horizon. I need to see our planet in the water, the white flower does not stop going down.
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DAY 78 I TEASED OUT MY ALBA Your feelings before the morning rules: coffee! did the tie up and down gently with wooden wrists and rope pick a branch of sugar mine is a coma measure of being able to pause thus, whenever the song continues it survives on green breath and cues up the EVOL eye wake me up Spoons! or follow me into the shade.
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DAY 95 THE EVERLASTING NOODLE IS ITS DELIGHT Yesterday, I saw frizzled lizards and had a laugh at their jolly caricature of stately Queen Bees with their head attire, ruff, feathered and courtly train, do you want to see? Our walk is being pulled along by frail dogs. It is not just a feeling of corruption without profit without you outside the city walls then some noodles taking off shoes in our tiny days bowling on red carpet my dear fish balls someone is howling three times along with the cardboard
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pile in the stairwell three times the spicy broth with peanuts is over there look away three times not many happy days filled bean sprouts on top remember when we took ourselves off into the moonlit hanger and were floating there up high and beyond all stars we might as well have that as our tender keepsake falling away.
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donato mancini
Biwrixle llama w ill voluntar ism leg less force squirrelwing membr
ane elegy d irge win ce pagan pop pies burning over green skull-li ke cabbages black
mounds li fe of vegetables' lea ves bore in bearded development all
ege the natur naturalists colour-f leck tractor ray ces illusions light
silk slippers dus ty city clogs, hooflike watermelon cleft empty
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ness of state
twitter boi l mutter whist le trout tit ill ate glass gerund dive horseback pelt anteater-ton gue blown crystal
line theatre chir ring bourgeois toa d add quarrel dye t o slopes crisp t toast crunch root s at gold cognac, ant
hology jangle keys of language t hick-walle d semivowel abyss ticklish request en crust de vout fat talk with lactifluous competence
thesis tail cof fee nupt
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ial acci dent omelette immense lottery wheel
whirr hypocritical acorns mon k’s cap antennae ar is ta te got hic pine
cone smelt milk lancet tel egram yacht collusio n dry telephone drip… drip . . . drip . . .
drip . . . small-c small-com modity belt be littling shuttlecock apple told listen ed understood
icy spa zz swans m ini squints h
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ue-noise jaguar â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;s ear flau tist lip oilsick c
anti allprize coal strawberries cochineal bead ver million lump
damp chemise rot to ope n velvet azure ibsen problem sum mon burnoose zouave a barber shaving the bĂźrgermeister
grazes! and if pa le dim innuendo in fidel wrinkles raise vision-teeth crushed by binoculars cr umble pol icemanly phizz je suitical tentacle caresses con
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vexity frisky didactic bi foliate pleophonous whirlw ind pool incunabular sur f well-m eant alcazarian inte
rjections: forward!
lower! away! tap! cameo!
enough!
enough!
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mat laporte
Pay Dirt He who travels down the highway into a spectacular and historically embodied way of life shall cut his own hair. Four more stations of rest;; puke, and then tell him I’m not the machine he’s been looking for. The science of imaginary problems. The fact that the whole universe was created in the Big Bang. You know, the kind of anxiety you get at noon when you’re sitting in a pile of road salt, waiting for your passport photos to print? Wear that hoodie for everlasting love. Party pack, square one, a new man vs. freeloader status. All the little dogs have nowhere to go. This is a portrait of me, sucking. I need to set up a meeting about being a cliché dude. Mattress fire, mattress fumes. The computer is a machine imbued with ‘I don’t know what,’ and so miss the truth, in the hopes that someone might enjoy my life; a body perpetually distracted and amused, half-man, half cautionary tale, allergic to all things exchange based. “We are the searchers and we wanna get paid.” The only thing better than a night out, is a night out-of-body, consigned to the realm
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of problems, any crossed-out time, living animals subject to angry emails. A meatball with a mind of its own. I’ve met horrible people with impeccable politics, cover letter mixologists with apocryphal speeddating tactics, with the ability to slice and code e-blasts into a kind of dailiness constellation: ‘they’ is a team player, a natural problem solver, a fully interpolated knowledge broker, going hog wild about to have and to hold. My desires include: wanting to crawl back into bed and lose twenty pounds, and also, I would like a job where my brain’s plugged in and I get paid to read.
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Young Professionals Thinking bunny needs a nap, gets little else done. Just the animal spin-out we've been waiting for. Big nail in the sun. The inaugural flame-thrower. Once upon a time, everything was a sign of gingivitis. Twenty-two and auto-tuned, just so you know. Congressional dust-breather, about to embody some serious hypocrisy. Young professionals, I want to want to stop being other than cloud shaped and have my aspirations displaced by any other, to push back on performativity as a principle. Young professionals, you have it all wrong. I demand not to get paid. I feel restless and coming of ages, not so hot. Out tweeting the B-grade world. Unhip feelings in a meadlowless swell. My cat just wants to eat grass, walks right in and makes herself a snack. I call this move the 'galactic change purse,' Young professionals, I kind of feel like persevering right now! This is to say that Canadians fly-by with unusual wall-hangings, pleather nothings in liberal reform
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hoods; three new cubicles in a cluster frequency; legislators in a retired universe. I just ate a salad in a dog park, I'm in a reverse osmosis cloud. I don't 'how to deal.' I don't even remember who I'm talking to. Young professionals, send a flag, a portal to all our hollow core interests, so bit, so totally afraid, it will cost you, the body, then run. Girl with dog, boy with bird, I loved the book but I didn't buy it, outright. At the time of writing this, we'd be plussed, in a world where being in the object world is all I can smell, I'd like to live and check my balance, free from pain. I call this move the rotary phone. Stuck on stand-by for feeling time, watching my money dip in the perfect light.
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d. scot miller
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BILDUNGSROMAN Anne Boyer the death of kurt cobain. the death of river phoenix. the death of johnny depp. the death of the fresh prince of bel aire. the death of molly ringwald. the death of keifer sutherland. the death of ally sheedy. the death of juliette lewis. the death of winona ryder. the death of gary coleman. the death of jim jarmusch. the death of quentin tarantino. the death of gus van sant. the death of robert smith. the death of polly jean harvey. the death of royal trux. the death of stephen malkmus. the death of krs one. the death of debbie harry. the death of bret easton ellis. the death of lisa left eye lopez. the death of sinead oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;conner. the death of erykah badu. the death of all the cosmonauts. the death of sassy magazine. the death of jessie jackson. the death of prince charles. the death of francois mitterand. the death of missy elliott. the death of the sandinistas. the death of el salvador. the death of chile. the death of argentina. the death of guatemala. the death of the soviet union. the death of the united states. the death of yakoff smirnoff. the death of chelsea clinton. the death of courtney love. the death of frances bean.
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Where Eagles Dare will return in the fall. Please send work to: 482 40th St #6 Oakland, CA 94609 steveorth25@gmail.com