HTML POEMS I
russell jaffe ▲▼
It’s true that I worked with children. It was during an after school creative writing class in a square brick building sleeved by tan and pocked with shrubs, big block letters speaking to us as if for the first time every time. Yeah, but that awful lunchroom monitor or recess demigod, I don’t know what her title exactly was. She was so cruel. She hated the sound of children. She hated the way the moved. She hated what their skin did to the air and what their eyeball looks did to the sheets of space and time hung out for all of us to dry upon. But me? I knew that she had an inner child. I knew it. And after the kids had left for the day I made sure to open her up and see. But from the staircase of dried, hardened tongue panicked forth not just an inner child, but a reaching, shivering, darkening wave of children. The children laughed and played, they held hands, they made mortal circles in yards. They ran in and out of houses. Dogs barked. I heard some car alarms go off. Windows started getting smashed and I heard sirens. All around me like leaves like rain shakes the hot pavement awake like now, right now, like we have to go. I saw the limbs of townspeople in puddles; of what, it was too dark. I saw the circular and miraculous watery birth of cracked bone dry as a branch swooning damp from the tethers of meat. Still I hear the menacing laughter of children, the sinister stained drapery which is sound enough for the living remains of a body; the out of control sound of learning you can do whatever you want, the primal drone siren of growing. I record this last message in the hopes someone will find it from beyond this breathing cloud of children. I am in an unsecure location. This will probably be my last broadcast.
Hey Similar:Peaks::, I’m a fan of your journal and layout and skills etc… I like the twitter feed and the poets and the Wendy Xu and the Rachel Springers and the Feng Sun Chen’s of the poetry world. Without revealing myself, I must say that I’m intimately involved…. with their work, or work, or poems, or just fucking reading them. Okay. It says it should say something about what I am about and that is what I’m about, the fucking and also the poems (because of the fucking). Here are some poems. I am hopes that you will you enjoy them. I also like Joseph Mains. He has tattoos and babies. I like his babies. And by babies, I mean his poems and also tattoos. Yes. I swine myself with poets. The poems has not been simultaneously submitted as of yet. Because they are the most recent. So if you want them and are quick to say they tickle you in the right ways with the feathers and shit, then these be you. I probably won’t send them other places for awhile. I am keen on placing them here, if you like them, but if you don’t that’s okay. There is still the fucking. And then I can send them elsewhere (but in the event I send them out and they get fucked up by someone first, I’ll remove them asap via the interweb email service…. but then you’ll know who I am and whale shits because my emails gots my name and disqualified! NO BIO INCLUDED!|
Much love, man car swallowing knives into his diesel brain persona
S I M I L A R > PEAKS>> a literary journal / print edition I //
INDEX:A:: [ r e d]
SIMILARPEAKSPOETRY.COm<FACEBOOK.COM/SIMILARPEAKSPOETRy < SIMILARPEAKSPOETRY.TUMBLR.COM< @SIMILARPEAKS
david blumenshine : rachel burns : jessica linde hiestand : robert cole : justin metz :
masthead :: co-founder + editor in chief :: co-founder + senior managing editor :: poetry editor :: fiction editor / poetry advisor :: web advisor
×××××××××××××××××××××× II : :: dedication Co-founders, Rachel Burns & David Blumenshine, dedicate the journal's first print edition to Dr. James D. Sullivan, Mike Theune, Ben Fama, Alyssa Bralower, Eliza McKinney, Joshua Crow, & certainly not forgotten for her contributions, Carleen Tibbetts. We are humbled & grateful for more than can be stated here. Thank You.
×××××××××××××××××××××× III : ::dedication 2 it is impossible to order if you’re not in order: you are the boss when the boss is sleeping. everyone is sleeping. when the boss does something right -- every one will do everything right. that is the secret of the boss. you already have it. that is the conclusion of the boss, cockatoos excerpt of Joyelle McSweeney's poem “The Cockatoos Morose” from her book, The Commandrine & Other Poems, published by Fence Books
When I went out to kill myself, I thought that only this world could be more thorough.
POEM IN WHICH THE 'I' IS SILENT.
“The love of endings is a love of form. It is a tributary. [ I will lead you down the river of this] It is triumphant, even. Challenging and channeling; measuring the riff. The world hurts. The world pains. The world cuts into wounds and we let it let on. We let it let on us. The gush is good. The lucky is in the happening. The lucky is the way that the stitches run. If we were to take this in a musical direction, first, I’d want a motorcycle jacket first. This is a direct address: “You! Come here!” This is where I realize the recognizing has fallen. The report should have stated: this is precious. This is all a master letter on: wandering. If this is woven together, it will be satisfying. I promise, what comes is promising. I will make light dance. You will believe that it will be. I will collect the shatterings with my own teeth,” says tomorrow.
Like “In a Station of the Metro” in a corset, Like the cyrillic for J Dilla + the kanji for heart-shaped nipples, Like flames inside of a .wav, This book is instructions for cyborgs making love. Though most cyborgs can make love in the traditional manner, It is common for this to be an uncomfortable experience, Not only physically—cyborgs contain heavier, non-organic matter—But much like two mirrors pressed together, Like a geode used for an cyborg’s heart, It is recommended you talk to your partner, Explain not just what you like, but how you’re feeling, Like how we are textbooks for each other, Like how cyborgs can just plug in to each other. Like their machines talk better than their hearts can.
My life is a red circle with a 1 in it. It’s over the icon. I want to have a good relationship with myself. I want to be in a healthy relationship and check “single and lovin’ it” on my taxes. We can work on our communication skills and talk about our problems and talk about us. When it comes down to it, though, I’ll always be jealous that I want more from me. I want the world to snatch my body and run me into a mirror and let me come out the other side, wounded. I’m over the icon too. But, some guys like girls who look like lesbians. Did you know that when I told you him. I meant that. But it was frustrating when you immediately showed your brother, who was sitting next to you. I liked your shoes it meant I want to get to know you better? It’s impossible to say anything you mean these days. I stalked your brother’s facebook profile and it made me want to have sex with How was I supposed to know he was in town? Some guys like guys who look like lesbians. That’s me. I like that. The key to a good relationship is good communication. It’s that easy :9::
I just don’t know what my sex life will be like. “Sex Life” is so repulsive, redundant, reductive. But I guess it has to be jerking off in a mirror, If jerking off in a mirror can be this: One time I read “Baraka” by Ariana Reines in front of Nikki Giovanni. Nikki looked really bored the whole time. It was like she got a notification but it was just a like on a comment she didn’t remember making on a post she didn’t remember reading. Nikki is all about the icon if the icon is her. I was reading through it and my heart was beating fast and I felt the passion, and desire, and the beautiful desperation in her voice, in my voice, and I tried to capture whatever it was that I found so compelling and so I would sometimes look into someone’s eyes, someone in the audience waiting to read one of their favorite poems, and during some exaggerated pause, some anxious break, I found Nikki’s face, looking at her fingernails with a slightly concerned, slightly not concerned face on, and then she looked out the window, and I imagined her as the body-snatching world’s mirror to my words, well Ariana’s words, and the window as an aural trashcan for Nikki’s boredom. : 10 : :
When she got up to read what was supposed to be her favorite poems, she claimed she was notified incorrectly, that she thought she was invited, yet again, to read her own poetry, yet again, so she read a poem by Nikki Giovanni, after everyone else there, every other writer who has an interest in the idea of making a transcendent, yet abstractly cerebral connection with a writer they love, read something by a writer they love. I guess she did too. I started making threads for myself on my timeline so that wouldn’t happen to me, so I could confuse the icon and displace my multitudes. I said, “good thing we locked this down now that we can get married to someone else and all.” I said, “we’re taking things way too fast.” I said, “I can’t wait to be old news and look bored for once.” I said, “I can’t wait to die, so I can go to Earth.” I (pressed) pause. I said, “What will life be like when we are all in Marc Jacobs ads?” I said, “What will life be like when I close my browser tonight?”
: 11 : :
THE SHIELD OF ACHILLES
Mind-prints in two habitual rooms, music in-between during and after everything my love in a shroud of clouds uptown a ballet. Fainting undone a machine. Crinoline of humanity – oh – ! how the south winds blew. Disaster appeared in the form of a mouthed ring gusting dry the paint of my soul. Emily Dickinson downtown, wiring missives through the storm, the duration of panic a pastiche of years to come. At the corner store an ambulance ride we both have experience falling. Curl into a ball. Stop, drop, kill yourself. Damning my moods mercurial we kiss it’s fire. Annoying. Sand dunes rise up through a hallucinogenic hurt and it’s all vice, nothing but power I like this. Meanwhile the buck stops. Envelope stops. No buttons, nothing wet hot American or tender the shock sucks through the back tapered off. No one let go. Three shuttered across metal transits of heaven. We read the emergency before it got bad I worry the tracks won’t hold a body does, holds. Breaks off. Nods. A band on the arm of the soldier he is strong she cries out a battle ensues the most beautiful face in the world at the helm of my life in a sea of random death. A torment. But there’s burns I love them crossing sheets for sun-baking, blonde-in, passive-aggression. A life inspired by a notion of pastry. I lie alone it kills me it is morning I work. The storm is over letters still. A pigeon on an iron slot pecks through time, shatters the world, concurrently submits to the truth and holes up in a stall, never heard from again. Verbena through the impossible breeze napalm swift and deliberate.
: 13 : :
taylor jacob pate
i am only harp →though digital selling my noise© for nothing i would have made a pretty little girl or negro' too it’s stunning how much pain the body can learn to tolerate it’s the same song again i might explode yes, these are tattoo’s, yes they mean something i have beliefs too they are probably not the same as yours i think that’s ok i think i’m good enough to smash up the sky
___________________ © would you like to buy my noise? i promise it’s noise of the highest quality. i mean, it won’t help you get into heaven or anything, but i made it myself. ' [soft black/local god/virtual pony landscape/birds have more money than me]
: 14 : :
BIRTH TIMES SPACE
The hands of God are bigger than crayons no more so than marauding skeletons dwarf humans into spineless emissions. We’re not horizontally here. Dwarf the human. Be in again. Moneymaker. Moonraker. One room fucks another, but who can tell songs from music. Too, a great goose stirs the pot to augur good fortune. Rooms go back to back between walls of horse teeth. Condom wrappers. Still, the dogs won’t come and I’ve got a quick question, I’ve got the short answer, “Because if it’s boring in a different way, that’ll be interesting too.” Same-way sex: boredom integrates everything. The package doesn’t fit the size, except Yes times yes. I grow up through graves into these beginnings. Just then, Madrid became the world’s smallest stomach.
: 15 : :
from LIVING NOW AT FLORAL PARK
CHORUS Little Roman, We see you twirling around in your suit. All that excess swinging of arms. Even as you say things we might say. You spit a future wife insult. All you should have owned. Flame on your lap, flame knocking. Everything is right now. The gutted people have no eyes. Green shell underwater, green shell under mud: like the want to make violently contact. You have spied Granddaddy hack off a snake's head, swing the body still twitching to the burn-pile. You have also spied Grandmama do this. In the grass, you get needles in your feet. This is the evidence against you.
: 16 : :
TROLLING FOR GALLERY
Up and down and down the street of no retreat ever. Insatiable. Her. Pest, she is. Never enough. Get lost, lost in those studio of acrylic and paint thinner. Never no more, gimme. They wonâ€™t ever gimme. Why does she care for fame and ill repute. Plenty of where that come from, only. Canâ€™t fit. Too fat in your head go get thin up there where it make sense. Fit. Round. Which is only, work. That fit. No gimme. Never have will only a few. Love. Love her. It them. Me. Those.
: 17 : :
HTML POEMS II
: 18 : :
vanessa jimenez gabb “Shorty can’t eat no books,” -Tommy (DMX) in Belly
So then she can, she can Be bygone and eat books Get down in swallows In back seats and in mansions In the blue light of drugs Where it looks beautiful I can’t believe I spent forty minutes googling Hype Williams and thinking about the late 90s Back in the day I stopped reading, thought more About my ass and upperclassmen How sick Was that wide view He and everyone used for everything So taken with aesthetics Untroubled by things you don’t want To intellectualize And want simply
: 20 : :
from ACT 2 of DEAD YOUTH, or, THE LEAKS joyelle mcsweeney “My mother JonBenet and me…” ASSANGE: I believe it is time to reveal myself. No, I do not claim to be the son of the Divine I think I’m a little smarter than him I’m not going to do the eli eli lama sabachthani just because some moron spills the salt or tears up when the cock cries out in some damp suburban hideout. If there’s one error you can count on, it’s human kind. I have been betrayed so many times! But I am the son of Christine Assange, who survived. In the Anthropocene, and at the mercy of men and their financial instruments, that is no small thing. People, a conspiracy is an engine. It is also a computer. A thinking machine. It can think better than any single component entity. this conspiracy. Another name is Wikileaks. I built Wikileaks to be the CIA of the people of earth so that they could know the workings of their own states in perfect Transparencee. The veil is rent! Or at least soilent. For this I have been reviled as some kind of reptile the Original Wriggler, the one with no conscience. Who only loves his own blonde hair and fame. I mean the odd snake who’s gay and rapes women you meet so frequently in films and not on earth. Still, I won’t entirely refute the charges because I love films. Though I’m organic.
: 21 : :
I come from a blonde. Sometimes I think I’m a little John Lennon with my idealism, and my disappearing acts, and my feminine good looks, and my conspiracee. He wore those granny glasses to bring the truth to light. But really, the truth was as plain as blacklight. the truth was a black eye. the truth was a bottle, blonder. A blonde of gold and tungsten A wiry blonde, a blonde of wiring A nylon blonde, a blonde of laddering A punched-out blonde, a blonde of hiding A blonde of smuggling and a blonde of trafficking I change my hair when I’m being followed I’ve learned that from the movies A blonde of dubiety and a blonde of beauty two blonde suns would make the sky fall down pull the universe apart with too much gravity Everything’s Gods fault because God is not a mother. O Christ I’m an atheist I only believe in bad motives and mothers And in computers. Tho mothers can have bad motives and bad mothers can have good motives and computers can have no motives. Something can be itself or its opposite. Zero can be one. The value is not significant but the difference is. When there is no difference, that’s where the digital collapses and gives birth to the virtual. That’s where the virtual betrays the digital and is a bad son.
: 22 : :
THIS IS WHAT IT'S LIKE WHEN YOU UNDRESS ME
This is where my father is buried. This is where I tell you I might someday be a dove. When you thrust your mouth against me I unbutton far too much for you. Because he’s dead & you’re discovering that some time ago, some sharp beak shoved a farewell inside me. Or did I. Because I am taking it all off & my God what a terror. Beneath my deer coat glamor is a body so unfucked it stutters into language. Because there’s no way to say you are becoming quite savage to anyone. It doesn’t sound like a love song. This is when you touch my vulture feathers. This is when I lick your whole face & I am revealing pockmarks so cruel I hear your hands consider leaving. I am becoming quite savage because I’m so afraid you think I am. I’m so afraid of myself. Not in a claw-marks-dressing-the closet-door sort of way, but in the same way I worry I’ll crush a small mouse in my hand when its pretty face purrs hot inside my nerves.
: 23 : :
LONG AFTER LUNCH
Your what hurts, there, but there is in the dark,
and so is now and never spoken of, and youâ€™re what hurts,
and so you drop it like an object: Eveâ€™s dove, a mean pinball,
a window, but a window broken up into its opposite.
: 24 : :
LOVE SONG #24
Getting rich and finding fame wonâ€™t change the mealy feeling inside.
We all want the same things, someone to walk with us to the store.
: 26 : :
We r strapped 2 eachother like some species of occult glamour I discharge my titters over the bodies piling out of the glass The reanimation of my pie in a funk of vex My eyes camp backward in my head My burned-out vision crackles on Even mid-plague here comes St. Boner Yr amazing bone has finally started talking It sez Waah Waah It wants to ride in my sexy piggie purse My media twinkle hole
: 27 : :
Kerpow The samurai pop out in demon masks The scenery collapses & Iâ€™m knuckling down atop the cloud-riding necro boys Their ghoulish lips My hot mauve hanker My naked clowns fail like goggling white meat puppets Like human cheese My darling My greasy & mobile tumor plug When I finally come in2 the ampules in the lustgarden of suffering Iâ€™ll wear my rodent face like a beam of light
: 28 : :
Sun chiding, a glut of flung dust turning the bedroom disco, swollen nostril, cold of October’s first day swapping yellow for green on the maple, you sleep on, having woke so many times to feed the teething baby, who himself finally sleeps, his strangely strong arms raised in victory and now a gentle mania goads the day onward, purple current of the world plugging us in. I open software, drink coffee, hear the birds squabble like toddlers, are they toddlers? At 8:17am there’s a moment of silence that feels entirely apocalyptic. So these are the notes of dad stoned on bare life, rabidly, full athrum before the turpid slog of capital turns over, goes off, gorgeously plods on. Wealth, like guns, should be harder to get, impossible to keep. I open a file, save, fly my tattered potlatch sail, mare’s tails everywhere
: 29 : :
Witching under the anxious weight of a storm that never arrives. Or never arriving, its shadow is the one that moves inside, displacing lungs with money. For now the baby dreams himself a full head of hair, but mistypes it as hear. A toddler crashes into the rain-fresh window, sun occluded, day occult, glittering spinnaker of free downloads acting balloon to commerce. New Drake. Old Zombies. The last episode of Girls. Suddenly youâ€™re awake and singing the baby his morning song: Weâ€™re all in our faces with bright shiny places and this is the way we start out our day.
: 30 : :
have finally learned how to escape from life into life. I dream we have two faces We have two bodies anywhere but here We’ve done this before Why not admit it We’re going back to do it again New York is nowhere now My heart bled out my nose They built a cinema there The multiplex in my chest is showing you in every theater There goes the neighborhood There goes the neighborhood You’re here in droves and keep saying industry industry industry The difference between industry and art is falling from your hair We’re going back to work We’re going back to what is it about you you’re big you’re loud you’re tough Blondes unwrap me now We’re going back to celebrity couples
: 31 : :
: 32 : :
from ACT 2 of DEAD YOUTH, or, THE LEAKS joyelle mcsweeney “My mother JonBenet and me…” from ASSANGE and DEAD YOUTH: My mother JonBenet and me My mother Margaret Thatcher. My mother Henrietta Lacks. My mother Antigone. My mother strong correlation Palingenesis, telomarese, recapitulation My mother twentieth cee My mother enceinte My mother epicene My mother in surburbia My mother sleeper cell My mother human error yellow cake or Zyklon B My mother migrating heron that, chopped up in the engine, brings down the corporate jet My mother trashed reputation My mother Hitchcock blonde My mother windswept highlands My mother updo My mother bog My mother bared midriff, dirndl, sari, sandal, buckskin, wristwatch, hijab, Who survived my birth but barely Whose idea of groceries was a bottle of bleach or pills a donation to the church or the Panthers lived in a vat of spaghetti died in a petri dish
: 33 : :
My mother in Arcadia ego My mother botulinum in hypo wiped toilets in gloves and smock played bridge in evening dress sabotaged the trainbridge shot up the bank vault worked the third shift was throttled in halter top was choked in a stalking was brought up on charges Became a rogue signatory No longer agreed to the plot Divested of media resources became a relentless top and crashed the last centuryâ€™s banquet a radioactive grain in every dish Her name was Estrogena, Aspartame, Nicotiana, Thalidomida, Saccharina, Carcinoma, Sacerdota, Carmen, Carcinogenâ€Ś
: 34 : :
CAN'T REMEMBER HOW OLD I AM
I learned from a social networking site that I'm actually a year older than I thought. I'd been telling people the wrong number all year The last time I got my haircut I told the hairdresser that my hair was "at a crossroads." She took me to the back and sat me down. She took her time with me, with the scissors, her buzzing hand I moved my eyes to see her arms moving around me They were lean and hairy I thought it was my hair at first but it wasn't. It was her arm's hair. I saw a photo next to the mirror I stared into It was her and a man Maybe her husband I thought he was lucky. After she whipped the bib off me removed the thin tissue circling my neck I got up from the big chair and put on my glasses Saw myself come into focus. She saved my life, I thought.
: 35 : :
Who am I? asked the plush-shell desperately.
A Who-Bear! squealed five boys tugging its left-most limbs.
A Who-Bear! squealed five boys tugging its right-most limbs.
Who am I? screamed Who-Bear, pawing its too-small shirt.
: 37 : :
root root root like a baby for a breast I think as I see myself squirm for approval & how did I end up with a job where I help women decide how they’re going to get their babies out of their bodies Isn’t that really bougie said the drunk man to me & I said I guess so with a weak apologetic smile like I need to defend what I do with my time to some motherfucker but of course I do feel like I need to define what I do with my time to motherfuckers like how I earn my money is anyone’s business but my own but it is because being me or you or she means having to justify anything like your crocodile pocketbook or your red-cheeked children & how you got them, & why. I can write thinkpieces & reload, hoping for a chorus, but honesty is only one way out. We’re here in the ether, effervescent in our constant reimagining of what it means to be a person with a checkbook, a conscience, & a sex drive. It’s harder than I thought said my friend, like lonely bursting frustration is a new invention for our age, head-shaking, a shame, the crazy price of stamps these days & shoes scattered everywhere on the closet floor when suddenly someone’s toddler bolts forth & springs out across the yard like water from a hose with a hole, the sharp embarrassed scream in the scramble; gather everything, put it back, & zip.
: 38 : :
kathleen rooney X elisa gabbert
A glass of scotch, gold-lit from behind by the fireplace, in which burns the only copy of my manuscript. You can still make out the title, but I can’t. Diegetic music is playing, not that you can see it – it's more of a feeling. At middle age I became interested in the Middle Ages. The books on the shelves have uncut pages. Gilt lilies are better than no lilies at all. I’m sitting in a folding chair, but thinking of a wingback one. Sourceless anxiety usually has a secret source, and that's what therapy is for. Everything’s symbolic if your brain is strong enough. That vase is my mother, who was beautiful, is dead. That window, my ego, once glittery, now dim.
: 39 : :
Her therapist suggests sand therapy. It sounds Eastern to Tatum, mystical like bonsai art. She nods to indicate she is open for whatever. The goal, her therapist starts, is to…but halts. I don’t want to influence you, so I won’t suggest goals. The idea, she continues, is that whatever is on your mind will come to the surface— you’ll work through it in the landscape. The therapist uncovers an octagonal basin of blonde sand. The perimeter is painted turquoise to symbolize a pacific sky. Scattered on tables around the room are objects she can manipulate to create scenarios. Her eyes scan the plastic people, miniature yet delicately balanced. Among the rows of potential civilians are a bespectacled grandfather, a pig-tailed Asian girl, a pregnant redhead, and a Native American man in a wheelchair. On the wall, a cabinet hangs open displaying extraneous figurines and baubles: dinosaurs, gemstones, wooden ambulances, marbles, clown props, anchors, coins, masks, and rubbery bouquets. Too many resemble Happy Meal toys. With a lucite comb, Tatum evens the sand methodically. Her shoulders slacken. Like a dying giant, she exhales onto the shaven terrain. Her breath imprints half a clover in the basin. This curled three is an error, a future false lead for her therapist. Tatum reviews the surface like she’s studying scripture or a legal contract. There is nothing she wants to add, not a pregnant redhead, a pterodactyl, nor a superficial wave. It is impossible to replicate her internal maze of guillotines. The slaughter is without dimension, an ocular panic that throbs without end, far from any office of help.
: 40 : :
instead you let yourself live in my house of a heart painting the walls with your semen she thinks it’s for her but in ten years i wanted to look at your face while i was crying and you were telling me i’m a terrible person i would go home to cry and laugh i’m obsessed with that idea the cruelest form of honesty i am choosing to believe him i deleted everything else even though you said that i like you as a person you could be a girl or a guy this isn’t about sex i am still searching i’m just a guy why did you feel my ribs like we were kids again i don’t want to be a physicality i don’t want to be a part of this poem i was shaking i felt so stupid i thought because you said to the couch not the bed like you do want to be that shape of a word when i left i said i’m sorry i wanted to say for changing my mind but i said for being me : 41 : :
I am eleven when the Rockette’s kick up their thankful legs and I bleed for the first time And I don’t say anything I just asked for a Kotex and my Mom says “Welcome to thirty years of suffering.” I am eleven when I meet a sample box of toy-sized parfums and a pink Bic on Christmas Eve And I Spellbound my Barbies and I pull the razor up my shin without asking how, A ribbon of skin unfurls over wet red tiles. I am eleven when the girls in my class name my hair tumbleweed and I start waking up early And pray the iron doesn’t burn it all off. I am eleven when the girls in my class can wear lipstick and my Mom says no But I steal hers and hike up my skirt anyway. I am eleven when the girls come pregnant to school and I push my belly out in class so that Someone will like me though I’ve never been kissed. I am eleven when I write a love note to a boy, “I need you, I want you, I have to have you,” I’m trying to understand desire but my Mom rips it up. I am eleven when a man holds open the door for me to walk through and stares me down like A honey holiday ham sweeter than he could imagine. I am nineteen when I realize I’m one of a lucky few and it starts to make sense and I see My Mom knew better, she just couldn’t say it right.
: 42 : :
I typed a message that cost ten cents to a guy who couldn't really read At the mall the vendors sold neon cases for chubby Motorolas What was I supposed to say to a woman like her For months the water was rationed Horses rolled on their collicked bellies My mother said don’t look so scared out in public Why are you so chiflada with your nails sticking in your teeth I was coveting Britney Spears’ perfect midriff, my fingers slicing water shocked with white tablets My palms seeked the contours of a museNot the handbag but the graces that eluded me But instead of duende I got voluptuaries lusty for wind chimes and frozen food The bellybutton was the erogenous zone of the early 2000’s A bronze bed knob of tween sexuality, it wasn’t actually
: 43 : :
getting anyone offOnly rubbing the undraped fabric of their Blockbuster dreams Bare waists were sloshing in the pool on the north side Where the city controlled the power box the projects were lit with gels It was a rumor industrial complex based on quasi Christian media fantasies: the abstinence of Britney Spears, and the allegiance of school shooters to Satan the benign thong engineered to beat pantylines Rhinestone crosses bubble wrapped over push up cups She clicked her acrylic nails on a key and balanced her risks To fix the costs of our choices the women clumped together in air-conditioned rooms to gossip I had to keep my head down, chiflada around people whose people were invested in history, its ineluctable modality Given limited resources the choice to bare midriff at whatever cost incurred was so chiflada like who did I think I was : 44 : :
I didn’t know how to masturbate yet but sometimes with my bladder full I felt pressure Chiflada alone for hours like the eyes of the well-bred demurely looking down at their antebellum waistlines The cops were sexual predators and racists circling the projects People said don’t be so chiflada with your boyfriend’s mom The boys sat on the wall and smoked blunts dipped in embalming fluid I learned the two worst things about county jail are the lights that never go off and the issued disposable underwear padding between thighs Lip gloss is meant to insinuate that the wearer has just slobbered over something delicious Glistening and fruity we took the Limited Too in our JC Penny’s bags all summer I was exhausted from pressing my bladder into the cool springs of my parent’s mattress
: 45 : :
Ears sore from sleeping on the phone, the glow of VH1 smearing pink on the walls In her ugly refurbished kitchen with my shirt pulled down I tried not to be chiflada when she was saying this man is making my panties wet Tonight I’m bringing home a new daddy and I didn’t yet get how impoverished opportunities can be when you’re chiflada Turner Classic Movies with my hand in my cheerleading shorts as Deenie Loomis backs into Bud’s dark car with her red bangles trembling like cymbals My boyfriend whose body was lighter like a girl’s body, hairless and so masochistically sunburned I get that I’m lacerating with passion on the salon chairs at Suzie’s Secrets acting chiflada- the wrong way My tongue is a buoy in the deep end of my mouth
: 46 : :
My boyfriendâ€™s fathers were washed up bull riders One died in the kitchen of a heroin overdose and the other one may have fondled his sister Potions of amnesia swallowed with chlorine and Hawaiian Punch from her thimble Town beauties who married were widows by now How did they get so fat so fast Her boss was paying for the in-ground pool I had maybe the cutest stomach, and at night I dreamt of putting needles through it There will be another luncheon for the ladies of the towneven the festival queens who were stripped of their crowns for getting pregnant unmarried Liqueurs of preservation taken with the nose pinched and hair curled with unironic foam rollers She sat under the press box, a creation goddess drawing the sex on her sonâ€™s taut pelvis
: 47 : :
The teenage girls crowded around But I was too good say hi, too chiflada to make small talk I was scared of getting caught under the heel of a passing epoch thatâ€™s all about like Whatever and talk to the ineffectual hand Audre Lorde said shyness is shit and sheâ€™s right The redneck aspiring bourgeoise is not breaking eye contact anytime soon One afternoon in the American Legion Hall Uncle Tommy was saying that little white girl there is my niece And I got that toothe lack of windows, the primal smoke of sausage and cigarettes where they confided their baffling treasures While the canons squatted in the heat like tired pickers, the chismosas rolled thickly down the tacky grocery aisles Veterans unbuttoned their shirts past their bellies, and I was shown how to rub the blue chalk over the cue
: 48 : :
I took aim at the corners but couldnâ€™t sink into a soft water there or truly anywhere There is no such thing as class without property Decorum without propriety is called putting on airswearing a white dress to a picnic of dirt No relief from the pressure that spread across my waistband At the city pool I swayed with just the bodies The girls wearing boy shorts pretended to be pushed in by the guys growing more absorbable every time
: 49 : :
I want depressionera glass knives for our cakes I want grown flowers in the yard obscenely blooming The neighbor’s chicken won’t let me touch it On our walk this morning Ava and I found a spine Turn heat up down and down again before bed I find out the names of most songs but not tonight’s
: 50 : :
sampson starkweather nahahahahahahaha
MY UNCLE WAS A SERIAL KILLER NAMED CHARLES STARKWEATHER
is it bad to quote serial killers and call it poetry life is plagiarism you can quote me on that dogs of time please release my leg blood in the contrails why sky wait, let me present my mistakes: facebook cleanse ubiquitous clitoris classic aquarium death scenes rococo sky, retro blue rollerblades are real! Why would anyone want to go â€œviralâ€? anyway uggh language, with your matching luggage and pet poodle say hello to Randy, my flame-thrower I live in that puddle it rains knives the second you leave me with your trail mix and $9 beer on a train to wherever and me here in this wheelchair the king, the unthinking thing here doubled over between nothing and nothing I say love and you : 51: :
rebecca wolff |
IT'S WORTH WATCHING JUST FOR THE PART WHEN his lips, his fat insoluble lips around the words about the devil Charlie Watts, a manmade tick-tock and interludes of gunplay French graffiti, always SO lame, by its very nature lame and the evolution of the studio version. Hope you guess my name hope you cut a rabbit-sized hole in everything made of Mice and Men I’m seeing I’m remembering I’m seeing and remembering at the same time the images and how they were shown to me, and the sounds they made. in performance and without. in love and out.
: 52 : :
No gesture adorns love. Not even dessert. Don’t grieve because I had you. Sneak physical generosities. Have our differences been tried so pleasant you didn't care? In your inch-big pain, I would let you at my shoulder. Doesn’t the concept of peace flatter itself? Up to my neck in birthdays’ partial ash. I refer to fuckers who live as if they mean it. I wish my chortling bronchoscopy was a humus people sweated. I wish the spread of all who know me upon the weakest willed. To whom it may concern: this letter aches to be state-sized and nuclear. I have kicked the bossy curtains down. Tell me a joke. Anything legal. When your guts resemble an Islamic obstacle course, what will flee the contour of every torso bumped against, minor and policed? The alphabet lacks petroleum. I am not insane. The sun leaves the hill. That’s all I get. : 53 : :
“Up Beleaguerer” from ATLAS BEHIND DAVID MISCAVIGE’S SKULL
from the bakery a circus cools on the ledge. It glistens because its eggwash contained morals. Ballyhoo permissiveness! Its newsgiving sways us. Burglars in catsuits and eyemasks pummel fences to get to and into the gooey circus innards. David from his bedroom watches, it ticks past sepiaic, and he intuits if he netted the Delaware, he would pull mere cuttlefish. He the circus baked for. He a little president, who debates in ties, who has gained rights by tooth, blued from witness done by purls reagents become some nights. Gideon blathers, porpoise-like.Spurious, considering Quakers in Saturn’s effluence, David achieved empathy once. It was for the burglars. It was because scopophiliac daymares meted out love. It was because what risen symphonics bless youths repurpose niederwald husbandlove. It was because during these interpenetrative teen years volk stalked David nightly at the end of a plank jutting over promiscuous valleys littered with fresh soda cans, plus daemons that condense into bleak fatherly visage which, when it gets laughing, pushes dead hens out its mouth of solidified, crusting night-passed gas. It was because surplus. Because surplus requires necrotic reconditioning, an utter desiccation of love.
: 54 : :
NEVERTHELESS, WE SCATTERED FRAGMENTS DING-DONG
stains, stairs, stars. you’re the cloud breath! you’re the exit! my sky: blueberry mash. pickled fish stench on the bus everyone in a hat in a hood surrounded by garbage chugging along. whiskers & frost. whispers. rust. fat clouds. you’re the exit! i encrypt noise. notes. tuck them away. still attached to the bone. the holes address us. stars you drew like wisps of hair. here. close the disaster. overwhelmed by scale: we must contextualize our euphoria. first—the body? no. loudspeakers.
there are teeth you’ll never meet. you’re the exit!
to be a city, our disbelief must brick and climb. can’t just sleep in the curtains. get drunk in the big tub. the mystery arrived charred and that’s the mystery. if it glowed like heaven, i’d eat it.
: 55 : :
from THE SUGAR BOOK
There is meat on the walls of Los Angeles. Photographs of meat. The restaurants display it to show that they have meat, and that it’s fresh. Los Angeles smells like meat. My friend tells me it’s because they starved for so long that now that meat is cheaper and everyone can eat it, they cannot get enough. They use feathers to puke sometimes. Even orphans like himself sometimes. I run into a museum of contemporary art and there’s an exhibition of media art and the media is televisions screens not meat but the language is meat and the meat is about the war and the war tick-tick-ticks. It says “Cannibalism.” It says “Sweet joy.” It says: “I’m ashamed of the rats.” It says: “Sounds.” It says: “Skin.” The exhibition makes me self-conscious of my fame. In another room they exhibit modern Asian art, including a Buddha on a surf board. This is also media theory: versioning the sacred profane may be one way of putting it. Another way might be: making the rats sick with human saliva. I want the meat of Los Angeles to tell me why I’m such a bad tourist. I can’t tell you but I’ve told my wife. She said, don’t tell our daughters they should never know.
: 56 : :
More insights from the hallucination: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7.
Make sitcoms One sniper in Iraq killed 160 iraqis with the sleeves cut off his uniform He once killed two Iraqis with one bullet – they were riding on a scooter. The allegory was fine. The sniper hid the nightingale under his bed. One veteran killed his nightingale but everyone thought it was slang There’s something vaguely oriental about all allegories about art, even the Iraq war. 8. Desert Storm 9. PTSD: another soldier killed the sniper when they returned home 10. “The Duchess of Malfi”: I learned to write with my fave all messed up. 11. My fingers were shaky and the video smeared. 12. A serial killer must have killed all those people in Baghdad. 13. I have been seduced by Fame. 14. I have wanted to watch. 15. Kim Hyesoon has a poem about puking silk. 16. It was in the hospital I made the connection between Meat and Fame. 17. The television was violent with me. 18. The Failure of “Tolerance” 19. Soon the plague will spread to the images and then Los Angeles will surrender 20. But who will it surrender to? 21. The Soul 22. How I Lived and What I Lived For ***** The violence inherent in Fame makes itself known in the body. Cannibalism looks natural in Los Angeles. Fame looks allegorical but then it doesn’t anymore. I can’t look at it, it’s such a bright piece of cartilage. Is it the soul? I don’t know but the thin threads I’m pulling through the streets certainly shimmer. The contents is however somewhat damaged from media. If they had horses here they would be dead or at least skeletons. We could make some horses out of the girls or the driftwood of the beautiful sculptures made in the 1970s. I hate those sculptures. Even the horses? Yes, even the horses, even the drownings, even the ladders and the electricity. I call them electric swans and sell them to the Japanese prostitutes as Cold War artifacts. I have a long interview with one such whore. : 57 : :
Can you tell that I’m fucking up my book because I’m hateful. Spiteful monkey, my trainer would have called me. If she would have been alive. If I were alive. I would imagine the murder of various CEOs but I don’t know what they look like. I don’t even know their names. I just know how they would scream. Los Angeles ends up with tourists washing bodies in bathtubs. I’m burning sugar for hell. I’m playing with Nature because I am stained. I have a Coca-Cola mouth, I’ve been told. Also that I’m a stoner. Also I’ve been told that all the Indians are really poets. All my life I’ve heard about the spies. I have changed my mind. I don’t think that song about the blow torch is romantic. I broke into the palace and everything turned green. I could have talked about autobiography but it was the 1980s again – the decade of pale men and impaled men and the bomb that doesn’t fall but which we pray for because if it doesn’t, if it doesn’t, it’s all interviews and prostitutes. And the ramifications are all Los Angeles Soft. ****** The butterflies are drawn to the sugar but also to a certain muteness. I walk alone in Nepal but they still go all poopa. My daughters want to become Japanese. My wife wants to shake up the hair industry with a new biography of Rimbaud or the bombers. What could be worse than feeling homesick at the riots? I just found out that the Biological Theater is shutting down.
: 58 : :
I want to be there when it does, to be there with gloves ready to speak to the death squads when they do that thing with paper lanterns. I’m a sickening “shut-in” even when I walk around in Los Angeles I’m performing the sugar piece about fame. The Death Squads: Don’t make us kill you with clubs and gasoline. Me: I call myself and my wife “The Pearls of Stockholm” because we won’t pay a damn thing. We choose Art. The weapon is still a nightingale with the mentally ill. The nostalgia is for crying in elevators. ****** The pounding discoteque is the animal farm and the Stockholm and the American studies and for every one of them the punched-out beauties I sing. Fucking freedom songs that don’t mean shit. Enough said. And it’s frightening. It’s never wrong, it’s always attack.
: 59 : :
“Full Clip” from MOTHER OF A MACHINE GUN michael j seidlinger Mother of a machine gun enters the crime scene and asks, where is my son? I am that mother and where is my son? My son where? Where? They have taken him from me! Mother of one mother of none glances at the scenery of dark red and torn skin broken bodies of incident and anger. There where there is leftover hate a man so young too young to die crawls to her a fraction of his hand missing. Can you help me? Can you help me? How can I help you if I can’t begin to help my son? My son is missing. You are missing your part of your hand. I am so sorry but I am much worse. I am missing part of myself. There there but mother does not coax the dying into death. The dying young dies reaching last thought is surprise seeing nothing not a single thing left of his hand except broken bone and so much blood there might as well be nothing. They have taken him from me! Matthew! Where are you? Matthew! Mother moves with tense steps moves to both ends of the scene where cameras do not cannot will not follow. While there mother wipes away tears wipes away the pain that keeps bubbling to the surface. My son knows not what he has done…
: 60 : :
DINNER & THE ERRORS OF FRIENDS
I wasn’t curious about the light’s source, the bottle ends it arrived through— stain glass composing no Catholic martyrdom—but the effect was still strange to me, as if the glass were a filter packing in some strain of the light, storing its sweetness like a lozenge. Tom and I were in the kitchen using the deep sink to wash the dishes; Sam Rachel and Laia we could hear talking even though they were just creases at the end of the dock, and the children were put down across the small atrium by Laia’s father, who is smoking outside the converted slave’s quarters in the back. To Tom I’ve said something whose profound stupidity and bad intentions I can read in his long silence as he turns a plate around a towel. My hands sink back into the dishwater and locate the lip of a bowl one of us had brought our mouths to drain. I think of Sam and I sitting on our newly delivered couch in Detroit, where we’d just moved, or her saying she thinks she should leave in a year, all the soft implosions around the brittle scaffolds of our faith and whatever stupid shit I’d said to start this fight, my soapy hand wrapping around a bottle of beer to the left of the sink. Tom puts his long hand on my shoulder and squeezes hard as if to say Fuck you, I understand just before the rest walk in again to raise the night so close it could be painful to rest in the half-life of our arrangements in the stream of the sun having finally struck into fire corroding like the welding masks we always wanted to be. : 62 : :
don mee choi
Beauty=Narration NEW TARZON GUIDED BOMB HITS BULL’S-EYE! A secret new wonder bomb. The result of exhaustive testing and experimentation is dropped from a B-29 over a secret proving ground somewhere in the United States. And first the bomb called Tarzon merely seems to fall. Then as if guided by an invisible hand, it moves off to the right to follow the line below. At the end of the line is the target, which the bomb seeks out with an eerie almost human understanding. Watch this performance carefully, for you are witnessing a new concept of modern warfare. Now the bomb holds fast to the line. The air force refuses to give details of the Tarzon’s operation and range, but it hits the bull’s-eye as the bombardier intended. That was a practice run. Now at an actual combat in Korea the guided bomb seeks out the underwater structure of a dam vital to the Reds. Again a perfect bull’s-eye. Is the Tarzon in mass production? Is it used regularly in Korea? The Air Force doesn’t say. Still more sensational films show that Tarzon seeking out a bridge. Loaded with an atomic warhead, the Tarzon could be the world’s most terrifying weapon.
British=Narration BOMB “THE
WITH A BRAIN aka TARZON” GUIDES ITSELF TO TARGETS
America’s secret new wonder bomb, the Tarzon, is dropped over a hushhush testing ground somewhere in the United States. At first glance, it appears rather like a B-1 rocket the Germans used to fire in southern England. But now it moves to the right to follow the road below as if guided by some invisible hand. At the end of the long road is the target, which the bomb seeks out with an almost uncanny human understanding. The target’s not far off now and the bomb’s still holding fast to its path. The circular target area is below and down goes the Tarzon. That was a practice run, but in action in Korea the bomb is released to seek out an underwater structure of a dam vital to the Reds. Another bull’seye. The American Air Force refuses to give any details of the Tarzon’s range and operation. Now the bomb attacks an enemy hill bridge. Loaded with an atomic warhead, the Tarzon might well be one of the world’s most powerful weapons.
Ugly=Ugly=Narration THE TARZON’S GUIDE TO HISTORY
Victory=Narration AGAIN A PERFECT BULL’S EYE!
Like fried potato chips – I believe so, utterly so – The hush-hush proving ground was utterly proven as history – Hardly=History – I believe so, eerily so – hush hush – Now watch this performance – Bull’s-eye – An uncanny human understanding on target – Absolute=History – loaded with terrifying meaning – The Air Force doesn’t say, hence Ugly=Narration – That’s a good sight for my old eyes, he said – utterly so – looked down on the bodies of four young Korean soldiers – Purely=Utterly – so and so – to and to – hush hush – it’s not proper to be against human understanding – Another bull’s-eye – Hardly=World – by some invisible hand – as the bombardier intended – follow the line below – yes, ma’am – somewhere – nowhere – follow the road below – yes, ma’am – the origins of modern warfare – not far off now – follow the road – yes, ma’am – at first glance – it’s Germany – yes, ma’am – it’s southern England – follow the line – it’s United States – Absolute=History – hush hush – at actual combat in Korea the eerie human understanding is released to seek out the underwater structure of a dam that may be vital to Hardly=Humans – no details to Hardly=History – unload, if I may say so, utterly so – follow me
: 64 : :
Departures: An Identity Narrative
brian w hedgepeth
This gorgeous combination of light and tenderness, these body parts everywhere â€” I want to gather them up. This dogwood petals each fiber untied serrated blade saw from the bud for you, you fragrant yes on remembered time I arrive with such a hope for me when the sky, sky opens an airplane penetrates the Cumulus cumulative water drops drop them rain outside as we fall through air gliding by holding tightly to the wind we all buy one-way tickets we save money we truncate our sentence butcher these bird from them act them action we'll unspun I'm tied shoelace drag through puddle each magnetized strip a memory each receipt souvenired is magnet these body parts everywhere â€” I want to gather them up along the way clicking in the clock on the wrists, the palm a nebula whirlpool I want to remember outside toilet flush outside there was snow of my fiction route with dried pan with several English overtime each word an aerial view each word a topography we toss all on drafts serve hands arching and digits scoop the liquid air this narrative from cervix to canal Amsterdam running also between Whitmanic lined paths of Appalachian Oak on Birch on Poplar on Maple on Pine Evergreen, Rhododendron Blind trees not missinterpreting sun as it is transient cosmic move to amend as the digested Apple masks the pallet and departs from the masks to mask all in transit all going where are we headed headed not actually leaders yes so reliant on our departure departures each Conversation in Berks calls back from appoint a blip on the GPS map and allusion turn around torn a beginning a speech set out prove point when we left for home suitcases were brilliant interest in the sliming tailored suits suits our illusions all hand waved over is a blessing distraction dropped onto an idea spilled the champagne on the bow beer in mugs on the bar anxiety a more collection under magnifying glass and white balls like we scrutinize with dogface tilted curiosity and we invest at the gate we take a step out into the unknown core door that leads us at one similar but fragrant of unfamiliar blossom Will it be string veranda green Vanderbilt Moss suit luscious of green asphalt simmering under drizzle 70% chance of precipitation from airport shuttle compensated hotel window when we depart return flights to come departures departed somnambulist untimely from us from shaking leg of claustrophobia. Where are U from? I'm from elsewhere Organs reverse, the liver above the skin filters exhaust from struggling breathers those trucks and buses, those sedans driving my legs swelling with asschecks spread bike seat fitted, pants also now fitted from legs swollen.
: 65 : :
This work: lungs huff, each system of bronchi nebula,
match exhaling onto leaking bug spray bottle. 12 year old pyrotechnical, death unremembered for a time. Extended innumerably the seconds painting onto sunlight, slicing through blinds through windows. Elsewhere where pica eating is a definite measure, understood. understand that we aren't always excitable collapsing into the transparent tendencies, how we forget, that we are wearing clothes, always until we take them off, how we SMOLDER furious forgetting until that joke about Agoraphobics never leaving Sheraton hotels, scared of belligerent snow slush loogie. Swallow into the lungs and you will remember the distinction between breath and beverage.
: 66 : :
FUNERAL AT THE MUSEUM
just one rose for a girl in pink at dawn bikini bottoms with fingers in her hair fixed in the blotted desert, all day Eurydice, cloak hung from elbow to floor left arm diagonal, index finger bent, thumb elsewhere, at deathâ€™s house maybe, the end of the rope all day, the viper. the twerk and jerk off. a rainbow arch turns to fish. man with cat head juts his right leg, yellow shoe, and gashes the fish. all day says the cat. all day say the fish. Lebron James, Gustave Courbet, dressing the dead girl in raspberry sorbet, a desperate prince with a pipe in his hand, a wounded man all day, conjecture, assumption, theory battle of the stags in the woods in the snow poor woman of the village with her goat that I long to see die so that it too may know how it lives and mother also with a net catching wind that belonged to men waving flags on sticks wandering through these streets looking for the legs they lost when they screamed
: 67 : :
FINELY WORKED COFFIN
brett fletcher lauer
Each rap at your hatch with bronze knocker shaped like vulture goes unanswered. To be such a figure of distinction is no simple destination. Be still and do not splinter. Each elaborate lotus was painted for scenery, to play dull and listen to you. Be still. No power of will can crack a lock. That is your pleasure, forever at rest in the hiding place of night, no hawk waiting. The candlelight from the altar is unable to determine your body. Rest assured. You are safe inside with eyes shut and what looks dead is. Certainly my faith will not do; you are not the figure your shape suggests though you recall a figure that walked in the walking light of a midafternoon in the year of our Lord. Be still, there is value in what does not shatter. Your eyes, once pearls, robbed and replaced with coral. Harbored within this structure you are safe; the new dawn spoken of in scriptures, in speech acts, is not yet possible.
: 68 : :
+ listed in order of appearance contributors’ notes, page(s) appeared on, & other necessary ephemeral
)אfront cover: 1) Alina Gregorian (HTML Poems I) is the author of Flying Bark, a forthcoming chapbook from Monk Books, & an as yet, untitled chapbook from Diez. Her poems have appeared in Sink Review, Boston Review, GlitterPony, & elsewhere. She curates a video poetry reading series at the Huffington Post, cocurates Triptych Readings, & co-edits the collaboration journal Bridge. She teaches creative writing at Rutgers University, & lives in Brooklyn, NY. 2) Russell Jaffe (Hello) lives in Iowa City & is a Co-Editor of Strange Cage (strangecage.org), a chapbook poetry press, & MC/coordinator of its reading series. He is the author of one poetry collection, This Super Doom I Aver (Poets Democracy, ’13), & a number of chapbooks, most available on the internet. He collects 8-tracks. Get at him at russelljaffeusa.com 3) Anonymous (Cover Letter) ‘oh, i know who anonymous is! it’s ted danson!’ 4) (Index A) 5) Graham Foust (Saint Graham)was born in Knoxville, Tennessee, & raised in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. He is the author of five books of poetry, including TO ANACREON IN HEAVEN & OTHER POEMS (Flood Editions, 2013), A MOUTH IN CALIFORNIA (Flood Editions, 2009), & NECESSARY STRANGER (Flood Editions, 2007). With Samuel Frederick, he is also the translator of Ernst Meister's IN TIME'S RIFT (Wave Books, 2012). He teaches in the English department at University of Denver. 6) Bianca Stone (Spirits, a Poetry Comic) grew up in Vermont, & graduated from NYU's Creative Writing Program. She is the author of Someone Else’s Wedding Vows (Tin House/Octopus Books, 2014), several poetry and poetry comic chapbooks, and is also the illustrator of Antigonick, (a collaboration with Anne Carson). Her poems have appeared in magazines such as American Poetry Review, Tin House, & Crazyhorse. She lives in Brooklyn. 7) Leah Umansky (Poem in Which the I is Silent.) 8) Donald Dunbar (Organic Scalpel) lives in Portland, Oregon, & helps run If Not For Kidnap. His book, Eyelid Lick, won the 2012 Fence Modern Poets Series prize, & a chapbook, Slow Motion German Adjectives, available from Mammoth Editions. 9) Marcus McDonald (Notification) is a boy, 5'8" & lives in Brooklyn, NY. He has some stuff floating around & enjoys singing along to fire alarms & has recently been reading Animorphs: The Pretender. He wants you to know his secrets [he also authored a chapbook, @snarkus666 (Similar:Peaks::Press, 2014)] 12) Bianca Stone 13) Carina Finn (The Shield of Achilles) is a non-monogamous Fleetwood Mac fan girl who has to buy new dresses on the way to work way too often…She is also the author of Lemonworld & Other Poems, My Life Is A Movie, as well as I Heart Marlon Brando. 14) Taylor Jacob Pate (Sad Robot) is an artist in the New Writers Project MFA program at UT Austin. He is the editor-n-chief of Smoking Glue Gun & the art director of Bat City Review. His work can be found or is forthcoming in Forklift,Ohio, TENDE RLOIN & Mad Hat Lit [as well as a chapbook, the face of god (Similar:Peaks::Press, 2014)] 15) Amy King (BIRTH TIMES SPACE) Of her most recent book, I Want to Make You Safe, John Ashbery described Amy King’s poems as bringing “abstractions to brilliant, jagged life, emerging into rather than out of the busyness of living.” King teaches English & Creative Writing at SUNY Nassau Community College & works with VIDA: Women in Literary Arts. 16) Philip Matthews (from Now Living at Floral Park) is the programs coordinator at The Pulitzer Foundation for the Arts in St. Louis. His poems are recently out in Denver Quarterly. You can find him @philiplm26. 17) Bianca Stone 18) Alina Gregorian (HTML Poems II) 19) Joyelle McSweeney (from Dead Youth, or, The Leaks)
21) Neila Mezynski (Trolling for Gallery) is author of Glimpses & A Story (2013) from Scrambler Books; pamphlets from Greying Ghost Press; echapbooks from Radioactive Moat Press & Patasola Press; chapbooks from Folded Word Press, Men Who Understand Girls, (2012), Nap Chapbook, Floaters, (2012); Deadly Chaps Press, Dancers On Rock, (2011), Warriors, (2013), Mondo Bummer, Meticulous Man (2012), Mud Luscious Press, At The Beach (2011). 22) Bianca Stone 23) Vanessa Jimenez Gabb (Ratchet Noir) received her MFA from CUNY Brooklyn. Her poetry has recently appeared or will appear in Word Riot, Atlas Review, and Smoking Glue Gun. Her chapbook Weekend Poems is forthcoming from dancing girl press [also Red Poems (Similar:Peaks::Press, 2014)]. She co-parents fivequarterly.org. 24) Jade Benoit (This is What it's Like When You Undress Me) grew up in the Cajun heartland of Louisiana. She received her MFA in Poetry from the University of North Carolina - Wilmington. Her work has appeared & is forthcoming in Black Warrior Review, LUNGFULL! Magazine, Nashville Review, Sun's Skeleton, & Smoking Glue Gun Magazine, among others. 25) Aaron Mayfield Sunshine (Condoms) 27) Lara Glenum (JUNKSHOT!) is the author of The Hounds of No, Maximum Gaga, & Pop Corpse! (all from Action Books), as well as All Hopped On Fleshy Dumdums (Spork Press). She teaches at LSU. candycandycandy moremoremore! 29) Graham Foust (Long After Lunch) 30) Amy Silbergeld (Film Studies) work has appeared or is forthcoming in Fence, NAP, Gertrude, No, Dear, & elsewhere. She is the author of Rape Joke (Tired Hearts Press, 2013) & was featured in an Argos Books Little Anthology, Why I Am Not A Painter. She holds an MFA from Columbia University. 31) Chris Martin (Business) is the author of American Music (Copper Canyon, 2007) & Becoming Weather (Coffee House Press, 2011). He is also the author of several chapbooks, including How to Write a Mistake-ist Poem (Brave Men), enough (UglyDuckling, 2012), & the serially released CHAT (Flying Object, 2012). An editor at Futurepoem books, he curates the response blog Futurepost, lives in Minneapolis with his wife, the poet Mary Austin Speaker, with whom he co-wrote the play, I AM YOU THIS MORNING AND YOU ARE ME TONIGHT. 33) Alexandra Naughton (Love Song #24) 34) Bianca Stone 35) Joyelle McSweeney (from Dead Youth, or, The Leaks) is the author of six books, including the new prose book Salamandrine, 8 Gothics (Tarpaulin Sky, 2013) & the poetry volume Percussion Grenade (Fence, 2012), both of which also feature plays. She co-edits Action Books, teaches at Notre Dame, lives in Indiana, & contributes to the culture blog Montevidayo. 37) Carrie Murphy (Heights) is the author of the poetry collection PRETTY TILT (Keyhole Press, 2012) & the chapbook, MEET THE LAVENDERS (Birds of Lace, 2011). Her second full-length book, FAT DAISIES, is forthcoming in 2014 from Big Lucks Books. She received an MFA from New Mexico State University, working as a teacher, freelance writer, & doula. Carrieâ€™s poems have appeared in Columbia Poetry Review, Everyday Genius, H_NGM_N, PANK, Hobart, & elsewhere. Her freelance work appears regularly in various outlets. 38) Adam Fitzgerald (The Missing) is the author of The Late Parade, his debut collection of poetry from W. W. Nortonâ€™s historic Liveright imprint. His poems, essays & interviews have appeared in A Public Space, The American Reader, Boston Review, Conjunctions, Poetry, & elsewhere. He is the founding editor of the poetry journal Maggy. Next summer, he will direct The Ashbery Home School in Hudson, New York with Timothy Donnelly & Dorothea Lasky. He teaches at The New School while living in the East Village. 39) Paul Cunningham (Who-Bear) manages Radioactive Moat Press & edits Deluge. He recently began work as a deputy editor at FANZINE. His writing has appeared in or is forthcoming in publications including LIT, Tarpaulin Sky, DIAGRAM, Witness, Aesthetix, The Destroyer, & others. He is currently pursuing a MFA at the University of Notre Dame where he also works as an editorial intern for Action Books. 40) Kevin Sampsell (Can't Remember How Old I Am) is the author of This Is Between Us (Tin House Books) & A Common Pornography (Harper Perennial), with poems recently appearing in Sink Review & Sixth Finch. He lives in Portland, Oregon 41) Ursula Villareal-Moura (Coastal Cuneiform) was the winner of the 2012 CutBank Big Fish Flash Fiction/Prose Poetry Contest. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in CutBank, Emerson Review, Vol.1 Brooklyn, Lunch Ticket, NANO Fiction, DOGZPLOT, & elsewhere. She lives & writes in her quiet condominium.
42) Catch Business (Temporary) lives in San Francisco, California. She studied Creative Writing at Southern Oregon University in Ashland, Oregon 43) Bianca Stone 44) Kathleen Rooney (Discernment) is a founding editor of Rose Metal Press & a member of Poems While You Wait. She is the author of six books of poetry & nonfiction, including Robinson Alone (Gold Wake Press, 2012). Her debut novel, O, Democracy!, is forthcoming from Fifth Star Press in 2014. With Elisa Gabbert, she is the author of the chapbook The Kind of Beauty That Has Nowhere To Go (Hyacinth Girl Press, 2013). Elisa Gabbert (Discernment) is the author of The Self Unstable (Black Ocean) & The French Exit (Birds, LLC), as well as a recent collaborative chapbook co-written with Kathleen Rooney, The Kind of Beauty That Has Nowhere to Go (Hyacinth Girl Press). She lives in Denver & blogs at The French Exit. Follow her on Twitter @egabbert. 45) Gina Abelkop (Greenfields) is a Pisces living in Athens, GA with her Cancer sweetheart & two funny dogs. Her first book, Darling Beastlettes (Apostrophe Books), was released in 2012. 46) Xuxa Rodriguez (1991.1) is a PhD student in art history at the University of Illinois UrbanaChampaign. She is influenced by Jenna Lynn Goldsmith, Lynn Hejinian, Diane Arbus, Scott Schuman, Dadaism, Surrealism, & Situationist International. She was born and raised in Miami, FL, but lives + writes in the Midwest for the moment. 47) Monica McClure (Chiflada) is the author of Mood Swing, from Snacks Press, Inc. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in the Los Angeles Review, The Lit Review, Lambda Literary Review’s Spotlight Series, The Awl & elsewhere. She curates the Atlas Reading Series & teaches in New York City. 53) Rebecca Wolff (It's Worth It For The Part When) is the author of a chapbook forthcoming from Ugly Duckling, called Warned. Or Warden. in 2014. Her three books of poems are Manderley, Figment, & The King; her novel is The Beginners. She lives in Hudson, NY where she edits Fence & is a fellow at the New York State Writers Institute at the University at Albany. 54) Sampson Starkweather (My Uncle Was a Serial Killer Named Charles Starkweather) is the author of the The First Four Books of Sampson Starkweather & numerous chapbooks from dangerous small presses. He is a founding editor of Birds, LLC, & works for The Center for the Humanities at The Graduate Center, CUNY where he helps run the Annual Chapbook Festival and Lost & Found: The CUNY Poetics Document Initiative. He lives in Brooklyn, NY. 55) Jordan Soyka (Nevertheless, We Scattered Fragments Ding-Dong) runs the New Orleans chapter of The Poetry Brothel. His work has been published in GlitterPony, > kill author, Spork blog, Cave Wall, Horse Less Review, TENDERLOIN, The Quarterly Conversation, & La Petite Zine, (among others) as well as the Fuck Poems anthology (Lavender Ink). 56) Sean Kilpatrick (Texas Bath) has been published in BOMB, Boston Review, Fence, Columbia Poetry Review, La Petite Zine, Evergreen Review, Hobart, No Colony, Action Yes, New York Tyrant, LIT, Tarpaulin Sky, Caketrain, Jacket2, MiPoesias, Spork, The Volta: Medium. Recently wrote: GIL THE NIHILIST: A SITCOM. http://sean-kilpatrick.tumblr.com 57) Brett Fletcher Lauer (Finely Worked Coffin) is the deputy director of the Poetry Society of America, poetry editor of A Public Space, & the author of A Hotel in Belgium (Four Way Books, 2014). 58) Bianca Stone 59) Michael J Seidlinger ('Full Clip' excerpt) is the author of a number of novels including The Laughter of Strangers, My Pet Serial Killer & The Sky Conducting. He serves as Electric Literature‘s Book Reviews Editor, as well as Publisher-in-Chief of Civil Coping Mechanisms, an indie press specializing in unclassifiable/innovative fiction & poetry. He has been a lot of things but nowhere near as much as what he hasn’t managed to become. Odds are he will never be much more than what he already is, but he’s optimistic; he wants to believe that the aforementioned statement is a positive rather than negative one. He’s been a painter, sculptor, vocalist, bassist, DJ, professional boxer, game designer, car washer/detailer, short-lived drifter, & mover/construction slave. He enjoys good company, good conversation, good food, good drink, good wisdom, good books, good films, good fights, good videogames, & plenty of really bad, bad decisions. 60) Logan Fry ('Up-Beleaguerer' excerpt) is an Ohio native,living in Austin, Texas co-editing Flag + Void with Matthew Moore. His poetry has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Bestoned; The Cultural Society; Forklift, Ohio; Columbia Poetry Review; DIAGRAM; Dear Sir, & elsewhere.
61) Don Mee Choi (Narration) is the author of The Morning News Is Exciting (Action Books, 2010) & the recipient of a 2011 Whiting Writers’ Award. She has received the 2012 Lucien Stryk Asian Translation Prize for her translation of Kim Hyesoon’s All the Garbage of the World, Unite! (Action Books, 2011). The narration in “Beauty=Narration” & “British Narration” is from film clips by British Pathe, 1952. The photo in “Victory=Narration” was taken by her father in South Vietnam during the war. In fact, many of the Vietnam war footages aired on TV in the U.S. were filmed by her father. 63) Johannes Göransson (from The Sugar Book) is the author of five books of poetry – including, most recently, Haute Surveillance – and Deformation Zone, a chapbook about translation & mediumicity (with Joyelle McSweeney). He is also the translator of several books from the Swedish, including works by Aase Berg, Johan Jönson & Henry Parland. He teaches at the University of Notre Dame, publishes Action Books and Action, Yes (www.actionyes.org), all the while blogging at Montevidayo.com. Forthcoming in 2014, another excerpt from The Sugar Book appeared in Phoebe 66) Joseph Hall (Dinner & Errors of Friends) 67) Brian W. Hedgepeth (Departures: an Identity Narrative) holds a BFA in Poetry from the University of North Carolina–Wilmington. He was the recipient of the 2011 Ludvik Vaculik Essay Award from Western Michigan University’s Prague Summer Program. He is currently a Sutherland Fellow at Illinois State University where he received the 2012-13 William Morgan Poetry Award. He also curates Word Bombing, a rapid-fire creative performance series in Central Illinois. 69) Jake Levine (Funeral at the Museum) edits poetry at Spork Press & is pursuing a Phd in comparative literature at Seoul National University. He is currently translating the poet Kim Kyung Ju's I Am A Season That Does Not Exist into English from the Korean. His poetry & translations have appeared most recently or are forthcoming in Guernica, Boston Review, Fairy Tale Review, The Literary Review & others. His first chapbook, The Threshold of Erasure came out in 2010 & his second chap, Vilna Dybbuk, is out soon in the forthcoming issue of Country Music. He's from Tucson & reps the 520. 75) Anonymous II (Letter Covered) ‘what is this? some sort of sick masturbatory revenge? 76) Paula Cisewski (The Trees) is the author of Ghost Fargo (Nightboat Poetry Prize, selected by Franz Wright), Upon Arrival (Black Ocean), & three chapbooks. She lives in Minneapolis. Rauan Klassnik (The Trees) was born in South Africa & lives in Kirkland, WA-- a quiet suburb of Seattle. He has two books of poetry thru Black Ocean: Holy Land (2008) & The Moon's Jaw (2013).’ 77) Alina Gregorina (HTML Poems III) ) We are not Contingent: the Adjunct Faculty Manifesto
* I. 13.04.25
COVER LETTER II
Bnonymous <email@example.com> to me Congratulations on the launch of your publication! I am attaching my collection of poems for your consideration... ...and I have original photographs to accompany each poem. Thank you, (we wonâ€™t use yr name) * II. 13.04.26 Similar:Peaks:: <firstname.lastname@example.org> to (x) Ms (Misdemeanor Eliot), Not only did we receive your submission, we are humbled by/ giddy to read it. Thank you for holding Similar Peaks in such high submission esteem! We will report back on the status of your submission as soon as humanly possible, in the meantime, here is a link to an episode of Twin Peaks & our twitter. Best! the Editors of Similar:Peaks:: * III. 13.04.29 Bnonymous <email@example.com> to me I probably am not a good candidate for your magazine, but thanks! * IV. 13.05.07 Similar:Peaks:: <firstname.lastname@example.org> to (x) Hello (writer)! We are a bit confused by your last email, are you withdrawing you work? * V. 13.05.08 Bnonymous <email@example.com> to me I'm afraid so. With sincere apologies, I had a closer look at your website and worry that the publication will, similarly, be loosely done. >> < anonymous II
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paula cisewski X rauan klassnik It was like The birds cared about us. It was like the radio
listened to us. It was like the rain was falling through all of us when
it was falling. Miles of roadside observed hawk-time. We were falling toward home.
We were home.
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HTML POEMS III
<meta name=”text:just”content=”▲” /> <meta name=”text:want” content=”△” /> <meta name=”text:to” content=”▲” /> <meta name=”text:instagram” content=”△” /> <meta name=”text:these” content=”▲” /> <meta name=”text:trees” content=”△” />
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proof resend needs updates