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Where eagles dare

paul ebenkamp


























Between boredom and shock we oscillate gods and I lodged inside the phrase “end to end” with attraction and resistance suppositions and same pages a glowing green exit sign busy at its frigid vigil posits through another sort of pointlessly gorgeous coastal afternoon, music by James Ferraro blinkered and ratchety from a lifetime of NorCal cannabis and the lame doom of state school student debt excesses of ellipses distinguish you whose drones opened wide a mouth to whisper this boxing phonemes from hot cogitations licked insanely by daylight through senile and skin-tight distances the finest life is turned into insipid fiction pretty quickly cloudless blue upper place wherein sun disappears everywhere the universe is fine it has its place is all Iʼm saying a piece of coffee linking me to sleep

(this tender heart) by brittany billmeyer-finn 1. as my tongue breaks through the rim different objects gather a field of meaning the same field of meaning or how things matter more writing what I think might be healing this participation & this work to meet & to be charming my own combination of insight & awkwardness toxic approaches makers of objects obsessing about this & then suddenly unsuspecting an impulse some stopping I call out for the Subject the tattered couch facing the mantel painted a light grey the fabric blinds & the TV in the corner our heads at either side our feet touching in the middle whirling chance becomes visible & then material & then heavy this ownership of thought a weapon against a sea of transparent forms or just bodies & might my body have been there? translucent form the interplay with the ground neither a place nor an activity nor a body of work something seemingly indistinguishable until it is in the streets afield from the origins no combination adheres identities to the cramped feeling amidst the materials of the object

2. a bundle of mugwort from a friend a stick of sage from an altar a broken crystal from my pocket & three tarot cards: 1. for letting go 2. for validation 3. for reaching towards directed towards myself I fuck up again & again & in some way this is affirming a value system of my emotional state of the political gain of intuitive practice that small rituals hold the space & me I blame the moon for everything these small details of everyday life what interference feels like an erasure a catharsis hollowed out language stark under the rubbing the stain of it on the ridge of my hand the surrounding possibilities for touch a series of hauntings or perhaps a systematic haunting my childhood home was grey each brick the walls the tattered couch the fabric blinds warm in my mother’s tongue how I mold around her skin it is almost that invisible traces the new spaces of retreat of assemblage when this identifier draws a blank reiterates a hierarchy engulfs a refusal I ask what can I prevent? but because we have the conversation again being indecisive this willing flatness or we stand together simply 2 bodies in a space alongside the other we are compatible our compatibility begins apart we are incompatible our incompatibility begins together

3. & how I told you that your poetry reminds me of something Lyn Hejinian writes in her essay “Rejection of Closure� how Lyn Hejinian once held open a door for me my hands were full & her essay was folded up in my back pocket I did not tell her but we laughed about something else I make a bullet point list marking my response to your project & I hand it over to you & wonder where the body went why it seemed to disappear or escape perhaps we will be closer after

I dig for this

reading this book it begins with failure the question does not come to mind it just sits among the muted state until some sounds come through the window I may or may not be alone again to pull on my reluctance to allow it to show itself here how vulnerable it is to remember how much this never changes unspoiled I wait for it to turn

4. there is a sound as the avocados fall from the tree & hit the pavement I would have heard it if the wind hadn’t been so strong the rotting avocados roll along the slopes of the parking lot of my apartment on 33rd St. in Oakland & sometimes I try & go back to the same place towards the objects towards a field towards simpler terms towards the limits of gathering I do not see it the field to be invited into these rooms to turn my back to these rooms wanting to run out of these rooms to charm these rooms to empathize with these rooms to dig a hole for these rooms facing each other I suggest an orientation taking some & not others I must ask you to imagine this & where do you find yourself I turn back & the reconfiguration settles the previous object present in my hands I don’t ever remember using it my memory fails me the failure of the whole story one has occasion to make an imprint a series of crisscrossing or dotted lines in varying widths fully in the pattern of each of its parts perhaps that of herbs of trees of leaves of wood of rocks of minds of roads & rivers the sense of wonder sometimes called the elastic skin possessed by the Subject which is particularly bewildering that attempt to discover some way of preserving it too changeable to appear to any large extent in the earthly hand  

sampson starkweather

Chill Pill

obey nada pile drive supersize a black baseball hop a fence dig the shindig kill off the i no algorithm for lightning crossunder appeal hands of the fur clock metallic wind war whore get bent on religion abstract cat a construct dropped call dialectical silence sure coach past lives garage sale songs mistake soul for style streaming tape math slut power move Donkey Kong Jr. bridal tide sand in the suit mental sunburn crazy sex with context we are starting to fall for one another

In the shower, in my mind, I was writing a sprawling, intellectual but sincere and at its core, humanistic essay on RoboCop, called “On RoboCop” in which, letting down my paranoid guard about writing any definitive or critical prose rooted in time, anything un-liquid, I explain my obsession or constant return to RoboCop as a metaphor, especially for ( ) Poetry(ies). RoboCop is on par with Shakespeare in its scope and in being of its time, and I suppose in its field, it examines—I hate that word—it enacts, or reveals death (mortality), HOPE… both a paradoxical faith in technology (future) but also suspicion and frightening reliance on>>>> politics, class, corruption, culture, violence, the self, techno-spirituality, love, honor, loyalty and dissent or I guess what I’m getting at is more the double edged metaphors of money, drugs, family, the city (infinitesimally), power, freedom, will, … and I don’t know a better word for it—action, which metaphor can’t touch, there is truth to the saying that the camera (an invention intended to replicate the human eye) loves action: movement: physics: transformation, a form of narrative, tension, an opposite re-action… it’s human nature, the thing is I hate action movies, but in RoboCop action has meaning, depth, consequences, most of all, and this is perhaps why I love RoboCop as a default metaphor for poetry, or the possibility of poetry, is that it implies a certain intention, a certain AIM, and that is what defines poetry or art, or at least is the property that jumps out to me as its distinguishing quality, as if everything else around it is carved away, allowing it to take the form it must. On another level of course, as the exhaustive list above attests, it’s the comprehensiveness, the universality of life that the themes and subjects suggest, much like an interview, or maybe it was a poem, in which Dana Ward was explaining poetry through an anecdote in his book, where he finds himself in the dreaded airplane situation or scenario where the person next to you finds out you are a poet (or writer, but fuck that!), and asks what do you write about, or better yet, what’s your poetry about or like, (which even I am guilty of, sorry but coming from another poet this turns from a nightmare into one of the most profound and beautiful questions ever posed), anyway, the point is Dana explains how his answer is of course a kind of bait, he says, love, death, politics, fucking, friendship, guilt, pain, joy, loss, forgiveness, etc., you get the picture, or at least that’s what he’s hoping the dope he just met on the plane will get, he’ll blurt out, oh I get it, it’s like LIFE, therein enacting the inverse of the title of his book, This Can’t Be Life, stolen from Jay Z only naturally, which maybe only now I understand, as the title is like the dope on the plane, who even after having it all laid out (in life) (by the poet) (in real time) he still doesn’t get it, he doesn’t, couldn’t distinguish (Zizek quote here) the fine line between the poetry on the one hand and the life of the poet on the other (are attached to the same fucking body!!), anyway, my point is, in the shower, in my mind, the essay I’m writing about RoboCop is really about beauty, and not even I’m sure I know what is meant by beauty when I say it, but that’s why I don’t write essays, and fuck it, I don’t write poems either, I write poetry. Dead or alive, you’re coming with me.


dan fisher

From BODY WORK Brenda Iijima

If you were tantalized by that sex interplay symbolisms not always present but erections are erections the bolder experiment takes to overcome this experiment, the basic premise of bare life drudgery of animal existence when converted to human terminated either by touch or verbally the Ganzfeld Effect—deprivation of stimuli stare-glare, white wall possible edifice effect (museum, prison) they escorted me into the deep thicket of the forest and tied me to an ancient pine tree—my wrists were bond as well as my ankles and a confining necklace of vertebral arteries, vines and veins parasympathetically though this resembled torture as I was left to fend in the night air of inner sanctum roaming creatures in the space of being and event they thought of themselves that way until engulfed in the conditions of the forest, matted enteric, metabolic convergences Not every titillation results in orgasm polysexual foray through underbrush raptors under pressure, fatal feel—there are 150 pairs movement—marking out/making marks/not indelible, lucidly fluidly charged proximal to a generative survival motif—identity suspension outside the semiotics of human language—self-apotheosis jangle the tendon plume fuck foam single celled netherside bicameral then bioengineering the problem of evil and the symptomatics of the site yet when approached by the lawn there is awe the sacred enclosure of property standing here waiting to be handled can’t mastermind  the  everything then to try and fuck the stick bark hardship this sentence is for someone specific

you speak of responsibility we wrote a planet of that no want of worry Walk again  to  Veteran’s  Memorial  on  Brown  Street   body rigor mortis changes in the muscle tissue after death—cells deprived of oxygen rigidify symptomatically as cognitive dissonance informs posture there is an invisible kennel around my body what industrial farms use to house animals bars grow into skin, sure death I lie prone like an oversized hormone saturated sow about to be tased farrowing crates/gestation crates cannot turn throughout lifespan artificially inseminated deprived of sunlight/grass to roam around on eco-terrorist if one were to film this scenario and care pitiful and pathetic who cars pass as usual, as per usual their directional seem uni Having walked from Site K where 55, 000 gallon drums of the substance was unloaded onto the land to this memorial past Hillside Cemetery contemplating toxicity and extroverted cruelty On one side against gravel and the fumes of emissions heels locked into L shaped spikes the neck is thick and no longer malleable belly up and twisted into painful knot needed this time to relinquish all claims dogs were upon me, as were the dead now is time to roll over if the restraints permit to be tasted on the heels of death, mortifying ambience Tough meat, tough to relive the tensions and locked position night is coming on and the old folks will need me evermore still being this hog in bondage while staring at stone structures a squirrel climbs a last elm in the grove by the 19th century markers tough to meet the meanings like this lingering and becoming the choreography was merely the complex of excavating time to the scene making way, recording in cellular proximity a dinner plated corporeal form is not audience

now and again consumed the remediation site is down this road called Brown Street brown premeditating brownfield and/or superfund brown of flourishing microbial life,  falcon’s  wings,  tree  trunks brown of intelligence evidently diminishes in contact with aromatics such as these seriously, Monsanto, how much crap do you make the  company’s  first  product  was  the  artificial  sweetener saccharine Brandon  Brown’s  poem  where  he  détourned  genetically  modified  corn to the bone of the crop so that we morph briefly into a gestation phase taken by new substances a preparatory act of war of which corn is always implicated 2013: Monsanto purchased San Francisco-based Climate Corp for $930 million timed  to  bowel  movements,  you  don’t  want  to  be  off

chris martin

TIME Spit up, sit up, endless terror and frontier of the body unfolding, sun and bone, bubbling forth, affront to all things steady, he thinks he’ll skip crawling. He’s falling. It’s -25F and he’s standing on the radiator looking at the snow-buried cars, nobody holding him, it, this body that keeps growing like a turnip all winter, turning milk into the root of all that’s sudden and lurches past ecstasy into despair and back. Pause for a breath people in a hurry can’t feel. Four front teeth like a cartoon beaver collapsing toward the cat’s tail. Maybe it’s time to child proof, to scrub winter’s black mold from the cracks in the wainscot, time to pull the anthologies off the bottom shelf. But does he get bigger or does the world shrink before him? I mean we keep taking it away. On his nine-month birthday he eats bright orange pieces of shredded cheese, chokes on a clementine, snow falling, filling in the path from the back door to the garage. It’s -40F with the wind chill the morning

he finally crawls, lured across the nursery by a neon monster pencil top, the kind you win with skee-ball tickets. All week we surround him in the wonky quadrilateral of our outstretched legs, feet touching, forming the enclosure where he falls back and forth, you to me and me to you. We secretly fear he likes the falling down dance too much, so much he’ll never walk, but I love how he practices collapse. Unfolding, bubbling crawling, falling, standing, looking holding, growing, collapsing taking, filling, falling forming I there and you here and the nucleus our desires strewn over the difference, which is now a person. Let him fall and fall in this leg-sheltered field where we too stumble and learn freely, forage song from tragedy, light from loss, fall into evening, morning, the next day, mercy. A person.

kate robinson

david brazil

lindsey boldt

Jess$Heaney$ intersections$in$the$impasse$ who watched boxcars boxcars boxcars sliding through restaurants toward lonesome electric port in expansionist nights who watched hanjin hanjin capital “K” line through firepits and jazz fog toward exponential domain data information, who drank gin and tonics, whiskey sodas in landlocked boats and waterfront hotels stranded amongst concrete freeways, who whipped kink on Jack London’s landlock dock in the 880, who sniffed blow, tied heroin, weighed bricks for rent, moved weed for cash, who worked corners and admired purses, who held company for security, where underground economy holds things in pressure lock, props up what’s left without, sucks back some money that the structure sucks out, where cash is the hustle in economy white out imperial wasted on credit, using hand to mouth to scrape griddles, scrape bikes, scrap trucks, scrap tin, where cacti blush in lawns linked in metal fence, where crab grass catch rose bushes, who ride BART, red lights, bus, and bikes, who drive information, who group-play the game, who upset the set-up, who fucks wit it, who tag, who murals, who writes history, when students walk out, take over intersections, snap shots of cops locking their school gates, where demands for security are revolutionary against the state that swoons for an economy globalized by hanjin hanjin capital K, Clorox, shotspotter, Ceasefire, ATF, FBI, ICE, zarsion holdings LLC count on you me we to activate our bodies covered in skins scaled with histories spilling from our mouths towards ears spread wide between our eyes steady with the beating of our many-chambered hearts as they demand thru the megaphone “real safety means no collaboration with immigration and customs enforcement, means better schools, real jobs. we demand. we demand. fuck the gang injunctions, fuck fuck the gang injunctions”

brandon brown


when an artist dies everything becomes so likeless. Lake light a big drag, the rain annoying although we we were parched. Three farmers shake their heads wimple down on hay stalks sad, even their cabbages have teary layers. It’s the year of the horse not the worm but so far this year has swallowed artists like an orca gulps down ten chum in one gob. Somebody won the Super Bowl, they jump up and down, go home, sleep to wake, my veins hurt, lithe but a little lifeless, blue as Kool Aid what’s easy to forget is that athletic competitions like poetry were invented to war against death against the death of how anybody’s name means anything, it’s best to do this with a helmet on poetry I mean was invented as a log of leased ass, everyone

in the world knows the name Shamu the Seahawks know it the Broncos know it Philip Seymour Hoffman knew it and it is for this reason orca cum is thick and salty heroin of cums.

philip seymour hoffmann

elaine kahn


You go out Have all the fun  I will be here  Having none

laurence jones

"He tried to kiss me after eating my booty. Man you got a potty mouth."

sara larsen

Selections are honey. from After Sappho

i’m moving in two directions a sauna in flux grasping at the body fleeing up in the air a rope w/ no causal tie an agent un

loosened in limb & skin

what do i do o matrix to keep on living in this junkyard i am a goat i have become a goat Anaktoria

for Alli Warren Aphrodite deathless of poly-crown consciousness Zeus-daughter, wiles weaver, I beg you: do not break me like a horse Oh lady. My heart. but come here, if ever


caught my voice (many) and caved, and came, shuttering behind you your dad’s palace gold steering your stallion chariot Helen-esque sparrows (such cologne) quick whirred you over

black earth

whip-wings down heaven through mid-air

and made it. But you. Oh blissful, smile on your never-dying face saying

what’s up with me this time and why

this time again suffering do i call out and what do i most of all want to happen in my desiring heart. Who am I to persuade this time to lead her back to your love? Who, oh Sappho, wrongs you? If she never responds, soon she will correspond. If she rejects your tender body, soon she will covet you voraciously. If she does not love, soon she will love you -even against her will. Come now, goddess: unleash me from bitter care and all my heart to


accomplish, accomplish. You yourself

be my Ally.

for Lindsey Boldt

here to me from Crete to this holy coven this apple secret where we meet a grove of like-i-said apple trees alters smoking with what you brought from 40 Ancient Ways



Larry’s house.

frankincense cold water babbles through apple boughs and sublime stink of rose es it’s quite dark with the sky all shaded out like this and among simmer ing leaves enchantment drops upon there is an oak land where drew’s ponies brew springtime flowers


honey-like drips us there, Aphrodite, take… nectar mingled with

pour grace fully


among us here bloom out

for Laura Woltag

too you

drench wine

i white goat

march 8, 2014

Where Eagles Dare  

Poetry, Art, Ephemera