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SF&D | Short, Fast, and Deadly Fall 2013 | [Mash Up]

ISSN (print) | 2163-0712 ISSN (online) | 2163-0704 Copyright Š 2013 by Individual Authors | All Rights Reserved

Joseph A. W. Quintela | Editor Parker Tettleton | Editor Chris Vola | Chapbook Reviewer

Published by Deadly Chaps Press www.deadlychaps.com www.shortfastanddeadly.com DCsf&d2013|2

Rebecca Nison | Cover Photo SF&D | i


iv | CONCEPT [Mash Up] Joseph A. W. Quintela (Editor’s Contribution) | Oh, c'mon, // David Tomaloff | Take Heed for I am Snow Patrol Blaring // Jessica Kirkland | Desired // Jessica Kirkland | Kill/Ride // Stefka Benisheva | Not Regarding the Pain of Sounds // Dale Patterson | Whether They Believe It or Not // Leah Umansky | We Don’t Really Know what Reality Is Made Of // Leah Umansky | Luster, // Wiley Birkhofer | Shabazz Interpretations by Weezer // Thomas Fucaloro | Bop (with Tom Waits Refrain) // Thomas Fucaloro | Thomas Fucaloro wants to save the children (with Whitney Houston) xxii | Featuring Rebecca Nison | Questions // Rebecca Nison | Photo // Rebecca Nison | Love Song for the Dying xl | Featuring Prudence Groube | Statement // Prudence Groube | Photo // Prudence Groube | Plantains // Prudence Groube | The City that Never Sleeps (Night Crawlers) // Prudence Groube | Badlands li | Word Art Eryk Wenziak | fear art // Eryk Wenziak | for amy // Eryk Wenziak | LoveLifeLust // Nicelle Davis | Johann Kaspar Lavater, whose fourVolume Essay on Physiognomy, Explains our Perceptions of the Mouths Architecture // Brynne Quinlan | I Can’t Draw a Straight Line // Katie Peyton | I Love You for Your Blameless Future // Katie Peyton | Contract lix | Prose Travis Vick | Intro to World Religions // Kristina England | The Wife // Kenny Mooney | of stammering unseen animals // Kenny Mooney | they melting hum, you dilate // Kenny Mooney | away senses of on machines // Will Clingan | 8. // Will Clingan | 14. // Will Clingan | 31. //

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Lois Elaine Heckman | Face It // Joachim Frank | Geological Punctuations // Howie Good | A Footnote on William Burroughs lxxi | Poems Alarie Tennille | What’s Out There? // Niela Mezynski | Silver // Silvia Bonilla | Papa lxxv | Views Katie Peyton | Thomas Fucaloro’s It Starts from the Belly and Blooms // Joseph A. W. Quintela | Thomas Fucaloro’s It Starts from the Belly and Blooms

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C

oncept

[Mash Up] Joseph A. W. Quintela (Editor’s Contribution) | Oh, c'mon, // David Tomaloff | Take Heed for I am Snow Patrol Blaring // Jessica Kirkland | Desired // Jessica Kirkland | Kill/Ride // Stefka Benisheva | Not Regarding the Pain of Sounds // Dale Patterson | Whether They Believe It or Not // Leah Umansky | We Don’t Really Know what Reality Is Made Of // Leah Umansky | Luster, // Wiley Birkhofer | Shabazz Interpretations by Weezer // Thomas Fucaloro | Bop (with Tom Waits Refrain) // Thomas Fucaloro | Thomas Fucaloro wants to save the children (with Whitney Houston)

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Joseph A. W. Quintela (Editor’s Contribution) | Oh, c'mon,

this is a heart. That is a shoulder. This is a tongue. No one can see the storm a look ignites beneath the skin. Anyone can see there are no wings. You speak with skill: any one. But the skill of speaking seems a charade opposite this poet named water who sits and listens to the wings of koi and the goldfish, laughing. Sitting by the sea, I put my own thin wings in bread that tastes of cinnamon and leave them in a green bowl to wait for your tongue without fear that they will break beneath the wait of your skin. Under the skin the heart is drumming, no sight to slice through life or ear to fill with speaking,

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but a see of we, dressed in a fashion of shaking corners that seem no corner because within the corner is the storm of you through me.

//written entirely with words excerpted from Imitation of Life as performed by R.E.M. and Fragment 31 by Sappho (translation by Anne Carson)//

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David Tomaloff | Take Heed for I am Snow Patrol Blaring

TAKE HEED, FOR I AM SNOW PATROL BLARING & OLD, BURNT IN BY THE FLAMES, & KATE IS WALKING FROM HER CAR AS I HEAD OUT THE DOOR, & I WAVE & DON’T STOP FOR THE INQUISITION; THE FLAME IS EXTINGUISHED &, STILL, IT GRIEVES ME TO REMEMBER. I saw a broad ditch, bent in an arc, like one that embraces all the plain —Dante How do you know you’re going the right way? —E L James Now we descend here, further into the sweet. I saw a fire, a little distant form—like a small child leaning against the bark of a bitter, still and starless night. And I come into the engine from the quiet, where many speak of dreams, pullhands clutching in fear; how the dark places pour through their veils, cleft land warming the thick of a rising sea. And amen, their weary eyes blood the maker—shamed into a river that cannot give them light. /// & nothing quiets quiet ///

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the ruddier flame still sucking at the wounds— the hum that beehive makes.

the

& he laid softly down his burden. the music cuts off; I cannot well recount how.

//written entirely with words excerpted from The Divine Comedy by Dante and 50 Shades of Grey by E. L. James//

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Jessica Kirkland | Desired

Tantalizingly, abominable, You come close, lips together. Guilty riders travel this wilderness, First-come, first-served. Brisk, brickly-rouged pro, Keep your distance. Do not feed me champagne For $7 an hour. Or lose it, work it, Hysterical, luminous. Not everybody wants to get up close, Scalding hot, intimate. Chances are you can do it— Show me motor court bar close, Venture deep into the worthless, Like you blew out a candle. I’m betting your temperamental heart, Dammed, drained—has no easy trails. Evade my open-air caresses. I’m losing boundaries on your sawgrass prairies.

//written entirely with words excepted from Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov, Whistle by Flo Rida and a Florida tourism pamphlet//

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Jessica Kirkland | Kill/Ride

I am the one, I am the sky. My whole body is a numb tongue Slipping through the trees. I drive my Ford van, Strangling shreds of cloud, Weak and clotted and cobwebbed. In the back, I slam and burn. My skin tasting of metal & My breath spreading as you bleed. I am a hum & a drone Through the ditches. I crack the bone like an animal.

//written entirely with words excerpted from Zombie by Joyce Carol Oates and Dragula by Rob Zombie//

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Stefka Benisheva | Not Regarding the Pain of Sounds

Screams stylishly cling to walls. A dead lover in the war leads to basement walls absorbing smoothly lady’s shrieking sounds. A scream scratched in waving red and blue lines goes best with a white, white wall. On the subject of interior decisions screams automatically prove their furniture character.

//written entirely with words, sounds, and images excerpted from Regarding the Pain of Others by Susan Sontag, Hiroshima, Mon Amour by Marguerite Duras, The Scream by Edvard Munch and Furniture Music by Erik Satie//

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Dale Patterson | Whether They Believe It or Not

Thru rolling eye white space he looks to the sound: clatter, like idiots clapping in church; the cluck of a clock. He balks, oly-oly-oxen-free, still there was no one.

//written entirely with words excerpted from Wise Blood by Flannery O’Connor & Horton Hears a Who by Dr. Seus//

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Leah Umansky | We Don’t Really Know what Reality Is Made Of

1/ a country full of heroes; a country full of spam, 2/ when electricity came 3/ don’t want. Want .

don’t wanton.

4/ poetry saves lives 5/ an alternate history 6/ facebook has a pulse 7/ get me out of this verse 8/ gimme two hours 9/ what is the folk of the future? 10/ once the singing 11. the sort of world that is ____________

//written with words by Leah Umansky mixed into fragments of poems by George Oppen//

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Leah Umansky | Luster,

came away in one of those not-so ways & I want that Luster, here. Back. Keep your handling to your hands. You’ll mind me if I want you to mind me & I don’t want your minding…now or...yet… If I say it won’t be, do you think that it won’t be because I say it that it won’t be because I am a Lady? I can be all close-like, all wet-legged & bellering. (& is that luster coming away or my way?) because I’m not one of those women but I can stand the things I can stand & I’m trying to whet this. I’m not saying it’s not puzzling, but I can go where I want. No one’s got me. I’ve got it all inside this, here. I am playing my instrument & recording every tune.

//written with words by Leah Umansky mixed into fragments from The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner//

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Wiley Birkhofer | Shabazz Interpretations by Weezer

1. “Swerve... The reeping of all that is worthwhile (Noir not withstanding)” My name is Jonas. My name is Wepeel. Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!

2. "Are You... Can You... Were You? (Felt)" The world has turned and left me here. I just made love. And in your place.

3. "A Treatease Dedicated To The Avian Airess From North East Nubis (1000 Questions, 1 Answer)" Say it ain't so. I write you. This is a waterslide away from me.

4. “Youlogy” In the garage. Yes I do, I do. Nearrrah!

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5."Yeah You" Only in dreams. I will crush your pretty toenails. You say, “It's a good thing.”

//written entirely with words from Black Up by Shabazz Palace and The “Blue” Album by Weezer//

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Thomas Fucaloro | Bop (with Tom Waits Refrain)

When the flask is always empty and there is murder on the brink and the bars are all closed and its cold like the meek and every person passing is another terrible reminder of another person passing oh the piano has been drinking And you find yourself alone on a bench in a city you vaguely remember and the cops watch you as if some sort of vagrant and you clutch your book of Bukowski and mix it with Garcia Lorca you got the most mind-blowing whisky on the make oh the piano has been drinking Bourbon shots and ladies breath. The sultry in your hips provide the right amount of light to spectrum shine the right amount of love pours into me and the piano has been drinking And I ask for another round and the barkeep shows me the door and the cold outside seems warmer then snow but still cold enough not to remember your name and the same standstill won’t stop wobbling and the piano has been drinking From the veins of the lost ones, the ones without melodies that can still be

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sung and the proof is heart and the proof of that is the breathing and the late night moments to myself looking for where to set my keys oh and the piano has been drinking and this brickle battered bark of tree is the only honest shade I know and I watch the morning rise as the workers walk and the walkers walk past me like any other Tuesday morning in some city where the next bar opens at 9 and loneliness begins at 10 And the piano has been drinking oh yes the piano has been drinking not me. Not me.

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Thomas Fucaloro | Thomas Fucaloro wants to save the children (with Whitney Houston)

Open ocean noon-ness the beginning of doubt within to the stranger growing up inside plastering the walls with ego and vertigo and open ended sentences with no cause for alarm just the need to understand where we all stand. I am the mountain chiseled by the comings of age past participles breathe youth but linger on adulthood fingers print the open and solitude mighty knuckles inflict on the poshness of the soul. At 35, am I a kid or an adult or an open morning meadow of hayseed flowers blooming incoherent rants about saving the youth from 35 and I believe the children are the future and we should teach them well and something and something else and way. I, Thomas, want to show them all the beauty they possess inside give them a chance to noun and verb and adjective and we the people give them a sense of pride to shadow out the night for the reign of the sun can only bring a new day lost in the moment we remember being there. Wanting to inspire the youth to grandeur revolves around the notion of having something to offer but there is this lack of sight placed upon by walking sticks right on to adulthood and the prize hippopotamus

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wears the crown and sash and the heart vein pumps steel as the rest of us live in one room apartments in Harlem aspiring to be the poems in all of us yearning an ever softening light and my ambition harbors the bloom of tinsel. My aspirations dream in bic pens. How can you parlay time on youth and poems and sudden bursts of light hoping for one more chance to breathe things write something that can help change the world and I remember long ago never to walk in anyone’s shadow. Well you know what I like shadows and flowers and sunshine and the utetarian I submits failing succeeding are all parts of this baker’s dozen we call the world and the lot screams custard and revolution and jelly and I really don’t remember that long ago and no matter what anyone takes from me I have no idea what dignity is. This monstrosity of a drunken mess of a poem

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is for the children. Are they listening? Am I? Is there really anything left to save and why can’t I stop singing this fucking song?

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F

eaturing

Rebecca Nison | Questions // Rebecca Nison | Photo // Rebecca Nison | Love Song for the Dying

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Rebecca Nisan | Questions Who? This poem in paintings is specifically intended as a sort of incantation— primarily, as the title suggests, for the dying, but also: for those limited by their bodies but who crave outer experiences; for those run ragged by the confinements we are bound to in the name of day-to-day survival; for those exhausted by maintenance of burdens we’re told are necessities, but which are actually superfluous; for those trapped by the constantly-swelling demands of our ever-more complicated, costly existences. What? The work incorporates pieces of old jeans, torn blankets, chopsticks, broken earrings, playing cards, feathers fallen from my parrot, flowers plucked abroad and nearby, stumbled-upon leaves, and many other recontextualized fragments of nature and home. These souvenirs from life are intended to shrink the divide between art and the everyday, to simultaneously conjure reminiscence and the unknown, and to remind viewers of the familiar while introducing the strange. My art is not precious; it is meant to encourage living and play. With this in mind, I invite viewers to touch the paintings. When? “Today, tomorrow, and forever.” - Patsy Cline

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Where? I work in the territory between image and word—the bright, slaphappy places without names, simultaneously gentle and perilous, where the music of drainpipes and cellos earn equal applause, the cerebral quiets and the instinct sings, and we're reminded of the vitality of play. Think of the fields before they were slathered in pesticides, the abandoned, lonely playgrounds, land before it was considered no more than a stage for buildings, space before ownership, and the hidden chambers of the body. Imagine a house with countless rooms made only of cloth. Welcome inside. Why? We move ever further from our most basic understandings and instincts, and this isn’t always for the better. How? If webbed by memory, liberate yourself from your past and spawn new experiences. In the face of inertia, choose adventure. In the face of death, choose birth.

//Rebecca Nison’s Love Song for the Dying was first shown in New York as a solo exhibition at Peanut Underground in September of 2013//

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Rebecca Nison | Photo

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Rebecca Nison | Love Song for the Dying

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Rebecca Nison | Love Song for the Dying

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Rebecca Nison | Love Song for the Dying

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Rebecca Nison | Love Song for the Dying

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Rebecca Nison | Love Song for the Dying

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Rebecca Nison | Love Song for the Dying

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Rebecca Nison | Love Song for the Dying

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Rebecca Nison | Love Song for the Dying

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Rebecca Nison | Love Song for the Dying

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Rebecca Nison | Love Song for the Dying

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Rebecca Nison | Love Song for the Dying

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Rebecca Nison | Love Song for the Dying

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Rebecca Nison | Love Song for the Dying

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Rebecca Nison | Love Song for the Dying

Tired of survival, we left home dressed in children's clothes. While our wounds stood open, pensive, waiting for healing that would not come, we did not sit medicated and blue with soap opera light in recliners remembering our young legs dashing between our childhood houses or the warm baths of long ago. Like teenagers in heat, we broke into abandoned buildings, scaled trees and electric towers, got drunk off schnapps and river water, stole animal air into our expiring lungs, and danced until our limbs went useless as unhinged doors, whistling all the while. In the morning, we lay our bodies down and our cells bloomed away from us. We became the field, where we learned nothingness is nothing more than birth reversed, nothing worse than forgetting.

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F

eaturing

Prudence Groube | Statement // Prudence Groube | Photo // Prudence Groube | Plantains // Prudence Groube | The City that Never Sleeps (Night Crawlers) // Prudence Groube | Badlands

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Prudence Groube | Statement

The other title to the You Are Not Here series is a little bit tongue in cheek “postcards from my divorce.” Though in fact the divorce paperwork was just the period at the end of the the saga that my 12 year marriage had descended into. My exhusband was also a painter and as we sat with the notary and signed and initialed page after page of what seemed like a never ending “Ending” Document together we cynically agreed that it would be interesting to do a group show together about the train-wreck our marriage had become. The show has yet to be scheduled. It's taken 3 years to be able to reflect of that time with sufficient perspective, humor, and humility to be able to tell some of these stories. (It also took a terrifically bad choice of rebound relationship and the subsequent discovery that painting with razor blades instead of brushes led to a more expressive paint line.) The need to share these stories is fundamentally human – we go out from our “selves” and journey and return home to share what we have learned. This put me in mind of fables, fairy stories, and morality tales. These conventional wisdoms/stories we are told as young people that inform our adult beliefs. These stories are so powerful that they inform our behavior at every level: who, what, why, where how. But what if these stories were lying to you? I certainly suffered as a result of the most notorious of these lies - “The Good-Girl syndrome”. The “If I'm just Good then everything will work out in the end.” I was obsessively “Good” throughout my marriage. But no fairy god-mother appeared to save me. This was a “Good Girl” crisis –

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my entire belief system and identity was shattered. Lucky for me, moments of crisis and breaking are the moments at which we can be cracked open and freed to change our perceptions and to take control of our future. It took a lot to face up to my responsibilities in the failure of the relationship. In reflection I sure didn't look so pretty or innocent. It took even more to pick up a pen/brush and take responsibility for writing my own future, free of fairy god mothers. I remembered reading a book “Grimm's Grimmest” that had the socalled “unsanitised” originals of the classic fairy tales we remember. Ones in which wicked stepsisters feet get chopped off when the shoe doesn't fit, nature is violent, and happily ever after isn't such a long time in a world were the average life span is 36 years old. The striking truth of these stories was that NO ONE was altogether Good. Even Cinderella. Think about it: she conspires with the fairy godmother who helps her to misappropriate a pumpkin, enslave some mice, and misrepresent her social station, in order to go to the ball to compete with other women to win the heart of the prince. Use of fairy-godmother-services is Cinderella using a performance enhancing drug. (Not to mention the animal rights violations) I set about “writing” my own morality tales in “You Are Not Here.” Each painting is related to a specific (and formative) experience in the journey of the relationship to it's end. Some are whimsical, some are violent, some a just plain ridiculous (Hansel and Gretal is drawn from some of the darkest moments of my life, but when I tell the story of this work to people I simply cannot stop laughing because it sounds so utterly preposterous, yet it really happened!) “You Are Not Here” is offered from my experience as a “What You Probably Don't Want to Do...” cautionary tale. To heal and to forgive.

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I was recently invited to preview at the Hudson Park Library. I said yes to the library show because I thought of “story-time” readings from my childhood at the local library and I liked the sense of irreverence of showing such dark and conflicted morality takes in a venue and format (the book) that many look to for conventionalized wisdom. My style can be quickly read as “cartoonish” which is an intentional effort to make the image approachable. By inviting people to enter into the picture's offered space easily, they remain more open to discovering an alternate way of seeing as a result of what they find once there. The work crosses boundaries of what art and poetry are and how and where they should be presented and interacted with. By bringing the image and the word to the same plain – and not allowing a differentiation between them in terms of “importance” in telling the story. They depend upon one another for the compositional integrity of the work. The series is currently half complete and I am looking forward to a full show next April.

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Prudence Groube | Photo

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Prudence Groube | Plantains

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Prudence Groube | Plantains

I only agreed to take pills so I could stop thinking about plantains green yellow black mashed grilled fried I still think about them all the time I love plantains more than drugs more than you

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Prudence Groube | The City that Never Sleeps (Night Crawlers)

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Prudence Groube | The City that Never Sleeps (Night Crawlers)

The flower arrangement greeted us from an empty bottle of Tanqueray we laughed and fell upon each other like the wanton drops of rain that had chased us out of the alley where we hid from the night-crawlers above

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Prudence Groube | Badlands

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Prudence Groube | Badlands

You turned to me after a a time I don't remember how long it took for you to see me now I wonder if you ever saw me at all and maybe you did in that moment on the pass when the snake first challenged us it was there in the Badlands in the fractured shadows of premonition where I thought I had lost all sensation of reason our spirits long having left in disgust

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W

ord Art

Eryk Wenziak | fear art // Eryk Wenziak | for amy // Eryk Wenziak | LoveLifeLust // Nicelle Davis | Johann Kaspar Lavater, whose fourVolume Essay on Physiognomy, Explains our Perceptions of the Mouths Architecture // Brynne Quinlan | I Can’t Draw a Straight Line // Katie Peyton | I Love You for Your Blameless Future // Katie Peyton | Contract

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Eryk Wenziak |fear art

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Eryk Wenziak | for amy

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Eryk Wenziak | LoveLifeLust

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Nicelle Davis | Johann Kaspar Lavater, whose four-Volume Essay on Physiognomy, Explains our Perceptions of the Mouths Architecture

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Brynne Quinlan | I Can’t Draw a Straight Line

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Katie Peyton | I Love You for Your Blameless Future

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Katie Peyton | Contract

I Love you For Your Blameless Future

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P

rose

Travis Vick | Intro to World Religions // Kristina England | The Wife // Kenny Mooney | of stammering unseen animals // Kenny Mooney | they melting hum, you dilate // Kenny Mooney | away senses of on machines // Will Clingan | 8. // Will Clingan | 14. // Will Clingan | 31. // Lois Elaine Heckman | Face It // Joachim Frank | Geological Punctuations // Howie Good | A Footnote on William Burroughs

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Travis Vick | Intro to World Religions

Certain talk about the body & happiness. The evening I ran, as a boy, into my father’s room while he lay on his side masturbating: the darkness of a bedroom at noon covering his body like, well, like darkness. Like the darkness of a well. Goddamn, he said, I was praying, son. Just praying.

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Kristina England | The Wife

The spider laid its eggs in her brain. She felt the crawling, the catching of silk, the release. She thought of turning to her husband and saying “I have been woven into a nest. Instead she let the family emerge from every orifice of her face, bleeding her out in front of him. She listened to him scream, felt his hands fighting the decision, before she leaned back and exploded into a carcass.

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Kenny Mooney | of stammering unseen animals

Herd of moaning. Legs there bleed of water. He by roads sucking. He by roads making words, man of twisting. His lone lolling. He stood the stare mirror, beckoning across ink of tabloid corrosive cuttings, repeating He with shards smiles. The red is sweat into a sofa body. Seismic harmonies. Fingers undulate patterns of you and of flapping. This signal in neon. A soft amber.

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Kenny Mooney | they melting hum, you dilate

Oil thick animalistic, I, cracked noise, inhale the beast, empty in noteready time from those legs the emotions crushing feel. My blood coils. Tongues around the insane grime wounds. My lashes wait flick-knife. That's psychiatric x-rays. The vast awake. My glow.

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Kenny Mooney | away senses of on machines

Our medicine dreams in soft, the beneath, the many calling murder. The men of nylon grinding thieves into fat. This crime blasting some fragmented field with gaping. Dark make of the nylon, and nervous this from you. From desks, shame in the air. Godless these sinister years. Violent over-machine of some itch. Oh history, out of centuries. A debris of dark nylon, landscape all shattered liars.

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Will Clingan | 8.

“I became fascinated by the anatomy, structure, abuses of it, the calculating gaze toward it, the misfortune, the misery that encapsulated and the joy of being it. There is just so much about the body.�

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Will Clingan | 14.

There’s a time in the evening when all progress and destruction can be felt.

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Will Clingan | 31.

As the plane took off you thought about sex. You tried not to think about porn. If you thought about porn you’d think about 9/11. If you thought about 9/11 you’d realize you were blood inside a metallic cock that could explode. You masturbated in the bathroom. When you sat down you ordered a drink, looked at the others around you and placed a phone call to see if anyone would pick up.

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Lois Elaine Heckman | Face It

Call it Death. It is no noontime nap from which you wake warm, curious to explore what is left of the day. Strike the euphemisms. It’s not temporary separation, promising joyous renewals, or a half-time pause to recover the strength to try again. It is permanent avulsion. Be honest, like it is. Look it in the eye and know where you stand. It can teach humility and soothe you with the security of certain outcome.

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Joachim Frank | Geological Punctuations

Look, this has been long in the making: Pre-Cambrian -- zirconium (the comma in the story of Earth), then Cambrian – zirconium – Devonian -zirconium – Cenozoic. What’s next? Giraffes, today’s dinosaurs, walk on asphalt. (Did you know their eyelashes are strong enough to mince meat?). They lower their necks, to inspect those glistening chicks we call Landrovers in Hluhluweh, in Safariland. But still, when the water finally disappears: zirconium -- silencium.

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Howie Good | A Footnote on William Burroughs

Which word best describes you – hollow? maligned? bereft? Calamities blur together. You shrug a pair of bony shoulders when asked what if fish and birds exchanged places. Mexico sways from side to side. There are no sirens, only more stars than you ever remember there being, like a whole sky of heretics on fire.

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P

oems

Alarie Tennille | What’s Out There? // Niela Mezynski | Silver // Silvia Bonilla | Papa

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Alarie Tennille | What’s Out There?

Sometimes she feels safe inside the tent of day, invisible to the hungry eyes of night. Sometimes she hears snuffling.

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Niela Mezynski | Silver

Drip Sweet. His fingers. Liquid, skin. Grease on hair slap. Pants. Crumple notes, don’t. Silver. Chopin. On.

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Silvia Bonilla | Papa

Your grief revives everyday and everyday you shoot at it with a hand that is rubber theatrical rowdy

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V

iews

Katie Peyton | Thomas Fucaloro’s It Starts from the Belly and Blooms // Joseph A. W. Quintela | Thomas Fucaloro’s It Starts from the Belly and Blooms

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Katie Peyton | Thomas Fucaloro’s It Starts from the Belly and Blooms

is a six-tier crystal chandelier fitted with wax crayons in 64 colors, ranging from “Love" to “Touching" to "Lizards and Video Cameras" and all dripping onto the expensive Oriental carpet in the room where you are reading this review. It is turning the expensive pattern on the rug into an encaustic masterpiece, a shiny, glutinous pop-expressionist rainbow that occasionally bites. Also contained in this book is an entire lunar cycle, complete with self-flagellating miniature giraffes riding on an endless ocean tide, pondering eternity. They want you to read this book and make them real, then forgive them.

//Thomas Fucaloro’s It Starts From the Belly and Blooms is available now from Three Rooms Press. The Mash Up issue of SF&D presents dueling reviews of the book by Katie Peyton and Joseph A. W. Quntela//

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Joseph A. W. Quintela | Thomas Fucaloro’s It Starts from the Belly and Blooms

So I took out my carving knife, and sliced into the belly. Surely the wound speaks just as surely as blood is a language that cradles the gut. How do you transform death into life? We peer, together, into the wound and find a miniature giraffe tangled in the intestines. I take it out and put it away in a closet, where it is both good company and a terrible haunting. When I venture into the closet we collide like children and glass doors. If you do not fear such moments of terrifying exuberance as these, then find them in Thomas Fucaloro’s It Starts from the Belly and Blooms.

//italicized portions excerpted from Thomas Fucaloro’s It Starts from the Belly and Blooms available now from Three Rooms Press. The Mash Up issue of SF&D presents dueling reviews of the book by Katie Peyton and Joseph A. W. Quntela //

SF&D | lxxvii


lxxviii | SF&D

SF&D | Fall 2013 [Mash Up]  

The Fall issue of SF&D includes a Concept section devoted to Mash Up, featured Art Poems by Rebecca Nison and Prudence Groube, Dueling (Re-)...

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