All rights to the works included in this magazine remain with their respective authors. All rights to this issueâ€™s cover art (Untitled, 2014) remain with the artist Keith Higginbotham. Zoomoozophone Review is an online literary magazine dedicated to publishing contemporary poetry. It is edited by Matt Margo. http://issuu.com/zoomoozophone_review http://facebook.com/zoomoozophonereview firstname.lastname@example.org
Our second issue is dedicated to the memory of Dean Drummond, inventor of the zoomoozophone.
Blare Coughlin Untitled
Billy Bob Beamer i co eye 3hornâ€Ś POME
10 11 12
John Pursch Trademark Platypi Sawdust Marinade
Andrew Schneider forest fires on orchard road summer solstice
Rachel Balla Walking Home In A Rainstorm
Katya Ungerman Comme une Oie Blanche
Rhoda Penmarq hear that lonesome whistle blow
Chuck Leary drainpipe #1 drainpipe #2
Hugh Tribbey Jackson Mac Low #1 Jackson Mac Low #2 Jackson Mac Low #3
26 27 28
John M. Bennett the spelling the step the membrane
29 30 31
Changming Yuan Chinglish Signs: Towards Globalization
Jeff Harrison Happy Heavy Milk Swans Never Said That
33 34 35
Stephen Michael McDowell there are so many of us thinking abt absolutely nothing
Katey Metcalf therapist march
Sian S. Rathore sweet bread what happened first
Manuel Arturo Abreu scrambled memory opening a selfie in notepad jellyfish
42 43 44
Joe Bussiere JUNE 2014 (selected tweets @joe_bussiere during June)
Louis Marvin and Roo Bardookie A Spider and Fly Collaboration: My Shark Shoes are Gonna Eat You
Carey Scott Wilkerson Parabolic Curve for Icarus
Ricky Garni After Midnight Conception
Howie Good Perspectivismo All Is Straw
Sheila Murphy Swift Segue Identity
Q. North on, the margins. fragrant gestures
Geoff Webb photo1
Alexander Limarev SELF-CONCEIT
Logan K. Young The Beautiful, Nuyorican W.C. Biebs Her period, however…
62 64 65
Krystal Sierra Girl on the Bus
Keith Higginbotham Boundaries Hidden Cardboard Song Sound Blood
67 68 69
Felino A. Soriano confirmations
Volodymyr Bilyk Note Poem 1 Note Poem 2 Note Poem 3
73 74 75
Chris Moran Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1978)
B.Z. Niditch De Chirico’s “Mystery”
Steve Klepetar Cleaning Up Too Many Emblems
Noah Cicero March 22nd, 2014
staring at the same word for too long results inevitably in a sort of cognitive numbness that makes it very hard to wrap the mind around the idea that: “this small clustering of symbols directly relates to a real-life concept, either concrete or abstract” “this small clustering of symbols also directly relates to a clustering of phonemes produced at will by the tongue, teeth, lips, alveolar ridge, larynx” the phenomenon of this numbness last happened with the word “park” and for a moment the concept of a park, a green place with benches, grass, trees, a fountain perhaps, public property, completely disappeared from the mind and was instead replaced by a few question marks and the suggestion of “a place”
glespeck stalkss a sce e ratch
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O freely fragrant fulminators of foreground fallacies and fully finicky ironwork extrusion fits! Gung-ho dining purses clasp hedonic face cassettes in crime-flavored pauses, secreting worn dipstick grunge, intoned to sebaceous augury’s wounded covey of alimony pylons, gonged to furrowed mansion roots by shipped ecstatic measles. If lonely hefty necromancers coulda crabbed about facial tocks of glockenspiel paraphernalia’s swaddled pipe cleaner malaise, thunder might’ve pinned attractive breastwork platypi to fiord swaths, pumping downy stork nails for swimming inculcation’s dubiety with nodal giddy-ups and nap-time brawling byline skewers of cheesy baccalaureates, swung to tundra barriers before blonde fondlers overheated in marginal Westphalian humps. How flared waves becalm the slaving seizure vectors, imperious yet paralyzed with tear duct symposia notches, climbing sneeze hocks for spansule lockjaw gypsum paddocks, trailing dribbled mead along slung porridge trembles, chugging hooligan insect hides attached to shaved nirvana’s misty fish. Pushy caustic varicose meat men tend to hallmark smudge lice, tripping bulwarks into tread mark cropping bluffs of stoolie worm Cornwallis determinants and stunned heroines.
Ham salutes packed arsenic debentures, abridging cuffed bones to digital catalysis in haughty ermine’s petal ratio of swoons per doctoral perambulation limp. She goes heavenly croaking in bogged bland chattel score of sawdust marinade, fleshing into postal lurches, timed to doxological inversions of whacked spheroidal tusks. Muddy tears aim an eschewed futility train at rational patriotic symptoms, spanning sable groove amides with gleaned peptides in furious reprisals for loaves forgotten fears ago by neurological seduction feints of wan surly phonemes uttered without passengers or leveled one-way tourist cycles. Blurs crawl through the eyelet husks of sandy underwater domes, sipping sumptuous Terran sludge from yoke parades of softened eels, flicked to tramway syllogisms by salivating tracer hacks. Aft of ownership’s bully steel comportment, Billy clucks seesaw blackened filth from censored alimentary gunwales, dribbling millipede concretion gel on optic vernal winter stills of nubile votive carrying kids, wrought from siren nodules by closed suppuration crunchers at timely guzzle garden fallacy’s postulated summit.
Barf rebreathes a household fly in public pillow oratory, burning shell effacement solvent surge in sallow tallow Kundalini mythos, treading sympatico en passant for fingered suffragettes. Sidecars flung centripetal belong involved from starchy pestilence to greyhound zebra miscreant defusing ceremonies, pinging testicular mornings till downwind libations ache.
understand: iâ€™m fighting a war against the men in houndstooth suits who are trying to sell me broken mirrors. they follow me in their yellow amc pacers as i go to buy dragon fruit, and on the way back, i see a young couple buying the fainting couch i had put on layaway. concrete and glass abominations encroach upon my breathing space, and i fruitlessly attempt to scare them away with the durians i ate during breakfast. ostrich feathers become fletching, and piano wires become bow strings. contrails seem to draw the borders between â€œhomeâ€? and wherever i am now. the con artists next door are fighting again, and i find myself in a state of blissful nihilism. young men hide from their emotions in bomb shelters made of plastic and silver, and young women shed their tears in the streets, disregarding shame, like the orchids drowning their sorrows in sunlight.
i am digging up bones from a burial ground, looking for an excuse to be cursed. i am watching the sunlight shine through my scars, creating crop circles on the pavement. i set myself ablaze in the august rain while waiting for my gas tank to refill. i let the summer sun take me hostage and melt away my flesh. i let the termites take refuge in my floorboards. i let the fireflies become my only source of illumination. i let the moon collide with the earth. i wage a war against my shadow in my final twelve seconds.
Walking home in a rainstorm light enough not to harm any delicate plants. It is not summer yet. I am still, comfortable, and actually blissful. I am kissing every rain drop that lands on your cheek. For love of the crying earth, I am in love with your happy, crying skin. Resting on the way you hold me when we are both feeling connected and peaceful. How else can I describe the unique aspects of your individual body? Maybe we will both die trying to migrate from this dimension. Infinity is the same regardless so Iâ€™m not too bothered by this possibility. Strange to think we were once a soul without its vessel. Floating around in arms of the universes.
I. My Muses with lovely hair lie in bed next to each other. II. I made you holy, my Muses with lovely hair. III. Unpolluted by the apple blossom, they are a wellspring of pure water. IV. In the way they sit, I can see their white bellies. They are two white geese. I shoot the apple from their heads! V. Polluted only by one another, they are my Muses with lovely hair. VI. I cannot kill geese that lay golden eggs.
through the glass window of the little tearoom â€œexcuse me, miss, do you mind if i join you? i wouldnâ€™t bother you except that all the tables seem taken.â€? straight from the refrigerator rushing from one end of the supernova to the other do you enjoy serious literature? he fingered his teacup hesitantly listen to the sound the train makes when there is a pain in your head your family may have been dealt a bad hand laura felt a slight throbbing in her temples because her grandfather had lost everything in the federal investigation she wanted to scream at this importunate stranger but there was no need to say anything more because everything would pass away hundreds were just waiting to be snared mechanically repeat some pattern mechanically repeat some pattern hundreds lining up like rabbits to be snared her head was ready to explode it is cursed strange, muttered dr jensen in celebration of the primordial pagan pieties rushing from one window to the other without saying anything it was all so strange listen to the sound the train makes hundreds lined up beside the tracks as it passes it is damned strange indeed
*sources: conan of the isles, by l sprague de camp and lin carter; gray matters, by william hjortsberg; dance night, by dawn powell; turn, magic wheel, by dawn powell; geek love, by katherine dunn; anywhere but here, by mona simpson; the hunger games, by suzanne collins; battle royale, by koushun takami; maddadam, by margaret atwood; my struggle, by karl ove knausgaard; the virgins, by pamela erens; eeeee eee eeee, by tao lin; person, by sam pink
sex is green beans power is soy sauce patriarchy is raspberry jam privilege begets fig newtons patriarchy begets pomegranates truth begets woks oppression remembers the samba fame remembers the foxtrot preference remembers the limbo class forgets the torture maidens of mars race forgets the face of fu manchu sex forgets the octopus men of saturn fame loves powder river fame loves powder river war loves the gunfight at the o k corral preference cries geronimo power cries sitting bull truth cries moctezuma privilege denies genghis khan class denies tamerlane class denies babar war produces fun class produces peanuts laughter produces a day at the circus freedom affects johnny carson war affects ed sullivan gender affects milton berle
green beans annihilate truth green beans betray fame yellow mustard confounds fame avocados decimate the albert einsteins of injustice marshmallow explicates the j robert oppenheimers of freedom raspberry jam fecundates the edward tellers of injustice grape jelly generates the captain marvels of privilege rhubarb heliotizes the popeyes of patriarchy licorice infantilises the supermen of preference marshmallow justifies the batmen of revolution rhubarb knows the robins of oppression peanut butter levitates the wonder women of preference meat balls apologize profusely lasagna had no idea fruitcake looks down at the floor raspberry jam has no answer maple syrup slowly takes out its wallet marshmallow looks out the window yellow mustard knows the commissioner personally lima beans yawn ostentatiously grape jelly rolls its eyes itâ€™s getting late raspberry jam tries to take hold of the situation but meat balls break out in loud laughter suddenly maple syrup and rhubarb make a break for the door as green beans and meat balls scream at wonder woman and batman to stop them
jam acrostic monster account no yes clavicle appetite tree kidnapping incarceration thighbone elapse switch unsuspecting crumble herbal organ Ithaca Luke necessaire incunabula cream enemies malaise issue nothing trustworthy accesses Nietzschefied your criminally accidental think longs intrusion maturation engulf ontology ichthylogical laminate whistle Adirondacks Kroll examiner
Jesus Alonzo McGillicuddy appentancy incessant mental capture argument Tinseltown kinch island terror encasement sweet U-Bahn cocotte horatory ohne illiberal Lorca narrowness iron cough endless Margaret indeed nurture trampled annexation intent Marblehead cure acid Transylvanians legislation individuals metamorphosis Oxydol ihren lock words Austrian kid escapement
January ascorbic molecule accidence insistence Moscow clip-joint Arthurian thief kinda illicit travertine existence sage universal complexity embarrassment off instability Lorenzian numbers inevitable click electric Methodism immortal national escapement academic Illyria margin cap alarm transit labia incomplete mode evolution oâ€™clock insistence licorice whale Alabama kids escarpment
long whistle on yr chin or gristle lathered with yr folded speech a clam re plies a glisten on the bowl of noodles’ speech rejected where yr sporken chin replied to’s blisters long seeping in yr yrtext squirreled away was steam was disappears my chewing spork my p age di gestion yr shirt’s stains shape the shirt
shuts the upper pl under an yr whistling f ork sight’s shaded ,de-en forced ,watered where the s cored s tone t urns be neath the f ill yr s welling shoe con dit ion .ouch ,log ,face t of eh ashy window where yr cor n b oiled l eg ...the razors on the s ill ...my shoulder’s r each ...wr inkled p age uh , seen through the shredded binding ...e rect o sp illing on the vers o...
it is a long SUIT murder identified SUIT transcende leg lint SUIT bloody taste kinda foamy SUIT morning muttered tox SUIT poetid fungus foot SUIT spelling cloud defecation SUIT root constraint SUIT bullets canned beans SUIT arc smoking SUIT brains un written seed SUIT mask ideas ,index ,SUIT swallowed the animal bread SUIT viol ence features snake SUIT bam membrane toasted SUIT bond eaten SUIT subjects dribbled in the SUIT river in the blemished SUIT kitchen stemming SUET twist SUET SUET brimmed the deep SUETSUET With chunks from Jim Leftwichâ€™s Six Months Aint No Sentence, Book 69, 2014
postcard mono plize [postcard store] mobile phone electrizing [battery charge] the road const ructino, please round to go [construction / detour] adult care, condom, sexcare [sex shop] please be well seated and always make yourself safe [buckle up] please don't make confused noise when chanting [no noise during recitals] excution in progress [construction ahead] slip and fall down carefully [wet / slippery] do drunken driving [no drinking and drive]
my milk made always cyber pounce let’s go see R.H. Raven Toes right now selling short the reading newspaper famous written joke: how to be news? I’m past of yesterday, but of English open yesterday we were to portrait Virginia so find good in Virginia, R.H. Raven Toes you claim happy heavy milk say Jefferson today, please, is the other King Kong... only will you remember? that time was heaven captioned “Dream Pleasure Speaking Lamp”
threaten scents + hunt him pun wily fall. hid. unedited struggle mesas of caveat Hear The Look and deny much broomstick tho sharp, him half understands herself Oh you, so his speaks weeps between hers once more the bitterest foe a caged lion for the sake of the old loaded suspicions -- afterwards, an interlude: sisters | little mother | the letter | the ice of old loaded suspicions has swans in the back of its face
Let cheering be the refusing Beginning sit louder after I place Her seat was the preferred bread What such a love the archaic had for me Did discuss fatherâ€™s and another Description deny dancing distinct she there Needing time, Fried Cement Anything lingering more afternoon sings better Splendid coal bribed with fruit Little things biting did above all toys seat intuition Dearest, the exclaiming credit still and these rubber lengths higher Eaten abuse of merriment likely when pressured Children describing convicts there pieces conclude Smiling precedes opening and lighting material there To the asking happening stays half the whole merriment Lengths choose to leave there pieces every afternoon Excess is colored green though shows better red Choose your hearing, Hearer, convicted of a little soiling Choosing still concludes and all places whole red well fire Sing those who wholly abuse afternoons and stay May noise
i am rage i am fury i am orange one last time this life in the future this decade will be â€˜the penis inquisitionâ€™ my carotene will no longer force my melanin to send u signals wrong i am requesting a swift judgment i am requesting a long sentence i am requesting execution i am requesting u not be given any visitation rights inside my pheromones are molecules for me & me alone im covered in latex & bristles where the rivers & glitter had been i held u on the subway platform i held u in the doorframe i held u on the mattress as we were both on this same mission a reminder to e/o of the underestimation u keep making of just how many things are here inside us which is infinity & some i am allowed to hate u all i simply dont & cannot bother i am allowed to crawl beneath the cracks between the small dimensions between the severed meanings & forever lost for-ever-ever thru & then under orthogonal conceptions u have wrought of what goes where & why together but i am truly given up i am so so done done w shit i am fucked & upset & nmnghahh all of the time now when i ask myself why do u not speak to me my conclusion is that we are both v dumb u are dumb in the sense that u do not speak clearly & i am dumb in the sense that im waiting for u to
forever & goodbye again for the love of no-not loving for the love of each eye contact by those not of u good night for the special times of sorrow u may hereby mine from in or on me mine is nothing that i am in constant flux w/i w/o w u missing missing missing missing missing missing missing missing missing missing missing missing all the shooting stars watching u thinking at some moment maybe breath will leave ur lips & just this 1ce it wont be froth & ash & cum & pus & white-as-angel lies but no why not whatever
she proclaimed: the promise of postmodernism has been full / filled-not de construction but re construction [something absently self-aware or self-haunted; mimetic]
the weather changed three times before i woke up and three more times before i got out of bed. outside, it was sunny, and clean in the way things rarely feel clean. [like that shaky rebirth after a migraine; like a particularly cathartic fight] and the grass field was warm and streaked with that midwestern black mud that is the god of growth. and you feel grown.
when i lost you it was like i’d lost my pancreas i don’t know what it does in my body sitting there i barely notice it and i’m no scientist but i know that for long enough without it my body would eventually shut down.
i worked out my own future by napoleon’s oraculum; dominoes and rituals determining our fate as we alight the 43. shadows that the ghosts leave as they fall through the top deck sit amongst us and you said, on the back-seat: “what’s behind the stars?” like i could ever know. touching your hand and reading lines, i pressed my fingers into your palm and said: “more stars, probably.” because it was your turn. so you got off at my stop. and you found a way of paying.
You walked past me and I closed my eyes and her scent came. I know that if I look at you I shall never look away; I know that if I look away from you I can never look back; I know that if I remember you I will never unthrum. Your touch buzzes in me like a filament. From every one of your footsteps blossomed a dream of mine: a nightmare I had when I was five of the graves turning into gray tongues extending indefinitely in pursuit, my running steps and screams soundless in the night’s loam, the tongues furry and sprouting little hands from the tastebuds that lapped at my feet hungrily; a dream about a castle built from clouds, a building built of bone, flesh, blood, rising from a steel river between them a wall made of every human in history, the bodies looking breathing junkyard scrap, the skin hues conflating into a gray; various dreams catalyzed by the bug-eyed cat bus in Totoro, zooming through waterfalls, over resonant greenviolent canopies at the borders of cityscapes; a dream in which my consciousness inhabited various inanimate objects—chairs, paint, a violin, etc, the longest dream I’ve ever had, inciting strong empathy in me for all inanimate consciousnesses everywhere; a dream I had before I stopped wearing them in which I wore eyeglasses, of barbed wire... you took about twenty steps, then turned to look at me. The sun lit your hair. The dreams drifted up, dissipated, and again my eyes fogged, and you were gone. I wake up.
A: “If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put foundations under them.” B: damn sounds like emerson or thoreau A: thru row i used to be blind, now i sorta am still blind B: niec. happy bietrhday A: happy beard day erry dayo B: you should have left your whiskey w/ me, i was dumb to not go to liquor store yesterday. i am the greatest mooch who ever lived literally shove me through a woodchipper until i am nothing but blood and pain A: wear a mooch queen t-shirt B: nice A: take the spare key from where u know it is and get the whiskey from in my closet so i can punch you when i get back for being a mooch B: wear those stupid cat ears and get into a catfight with veronica omg i really want to but i feel bad doing that that's like, the greatest level of moochdom that's like if i was a cloud in trousers just waiting for you to castrate my heart and explode by balls and peen w/ a ballpeen hammer A: my whole family is wearing gold paper crowns from those english ‘popper’ things. lol my gran is sleeping on the recliner with one on omg
B: i lol’d a little captain beefheart’s “safe as milk” record is playing on 89.1 this is amazing you should wear a popper too A: also the parrot being ‘put to bed’ was quiet an ordeal B: i am the parrot-being-put-to-bed ordeal of you please skewer my eyeballs and then softly kiss the bloody socket? A: please provide me with a bib and bbq sauce? B: hahahahah no only sriracha A: then no B: niec brb gonna break into ur house and poop on ur hamsters A: please taxidermy me and put an apple in my mouth if u break into my house the cops r waiting jk not funni i no also if u get the whiskey u owe me something like a jellyfish B: i mean u already own my balls wtf what more do u want A: gotta get some flowers for the property u no lol veronica is ‘sick’ i can’t tell if she is faking. i feel mean hey i gotta go tend to the weary byeeee B: ok byee
where will I live I will live with my babies
i would prefer to not live on rikers island
is your best frend your doctor
i used to write poems now i play with rats
is it possible to love i like cities
the horse is kicking the walls because they find the sound it makes soothing eat grass let the cockroaches be let it rain
days the same ago and what is great the world is going know same but not
i have pains but I found my baby after I lost my baby I know you have pain too what has been lost will have been found found
a wedding in yemen bombed by usa drones Mariah Carey sleeps 15 hours a night in a room full of air humidifiers
horse poetry horse images horses
Or... Click Once on an image to view it alone (faster!!) Florida Carries Out 3rd U.S. Execution Since Botched Killing
fast and delicate ornamentation or alankar, Other taans used in thumri gyaki include the khatka and the zamzama.
im listenin to lil wayne n writing bad poetry again praise jah for the gift of life
getting money and getting money im a bad poet
bitcoins in my butt Ill be yr wall street slut
poems about the united states
poems gave my pet rat a tumor
poems drowned my pet rat
ive eaten pork ive never gone surfing im evil i want to make a deal with the devil
asmr from yr piksha baby that asmr
Love, My Horses
cry and sweat x2
I have a couple of pairs of shoes, I think by Jimmy Buffet’s company. The soles are all about the ocean. One pair has a map of the Florida Keys on the bottom of the shoes, while the other has a pair of sharks. It tickles me to ask kids, “Did you know I have sharks on the bottom of my shoes?” I show them and we all giggle about it. The problem is, my socks get a little wet and my feet smell like salt water. I asked Roo what she would do if she had sharks for shoes. She told me this: I’m gonna step on you with my shark shoes fuck you fishy bitch I got a family and don’t need to blow holes in your boat but, my shark shoe gonna eat you write your book about “how to write” I’ll tear out a page and wipe my ass oh so vile, those ashes in the vial at Peabody Winston’s Country Store and Bait Shop oh so sad, this non-techno geek failed and upset you at wash time, the wife asks “what’s with the bloody sock?” my shark shoe ate a small, fishy bitch “uh huh” and she shakes her head sometimes, I wish my other shark shoe would take a bite out of her superior Chinese head too! now, my shark shoe shits out the little fish bitch editor while another sends me a contract—this a Roo too
I As a rule, Icarus prefers the fast freedom of a vertical drop to that vertiginous arc in gravityâ€™s slow thrall. These days, of course, a doomed aesthete plying the ionosphere has lost some of its early provocation. Spectacle now reads as lurid propaganda plunging through clouds dotting lines over maps of warm water. He would not deny a certain delight in surrendering the myth falling out of canonical favor. And whatever remains of that chimerical enterprise, perilously irreal, is folded into worn wings, rubbed and hurting in the received sun.
II after a quatrain from Horace If it is a dream of flight, it is, therefore, as sail is to moon pushing through the harborâ€™s recombinant motif, a machine for effluences and tales of escape. Lyric violence in Gaetulain Syrtes has alarmed the logical positivists. Icarus, drifting over Hyperborea, hangs in a glaze of comatic light.
We will have seen him turning or tickling in air the vague promise of dual forms and double games lost to specious claims and a signature in fragments, in parallax, in nomenclatures of collapse, in geometricities of the middle shape, the putative vertex of memory where what goes up
III From this height, the lights in the railyard oscillate in early springâ€™s pale skein, mapping thus the migration of indeterminate troubles across colonnades in the city below. Veiled by the shadow of some cathedral spire, chess and lunacy converge in the park, as from remote frontiers of privilege and squalor clowns and ghosts trundle, ambivalent under the sun. Here, then, is a world swooping up to meet the falling feet of one who plummets forever and may yet splash down in The Aegean or Brussels or at Black Mountain College, but who by his nature dreams only of points fixed in space, Newtonian tyrannies descending through symmetrical calamities of the Western heart, winged, incongruent, rhapsodic, lost.
Somebody is skateboarding at midnight. Perhaps he skateboards every midnight. Perhaps his name is The Midnight Skateboarder. Perhaps the chicks love him; perhaps they do not. This Medianoche Caballero. Perhaps he is 75 years old and lost in time. He woke up this morning and listened to President Eisenhower on the radio and ate a cheeseburger. And tonight he woke up and thought: “What happened?” It’s cinchy: the 21st century happened. The Midnight Skateboarder is happy to be in the 21st century with a skateboard. I am happy that he is happy. Making such a rumble in the dark. I won’t tell him his hair is silver.
A child decides to grow a beard when he is four. He doesnâ€™t start shaving until he is sixteen. By the time he is eighteen, the beard is fourteen.
Is it normal to be able to see your veins through your skin? she asks the doctor, & no one even answers, not Miss Navajo, or the house guests, or the sun-beaten path, that itâ€™s about yearning, itâ€™s about words & the spaces between words, a chorus of yips & hoots, the bones made visible, what you trip over when you step back to take in the view.
My heart is crying, crying. . . Rather to blow up, then! Let’s be wild tonight. Roses plural or Rose’s roses with an apostrophe? It is hovering and it’s not an aircraft. Dear me! I think I’m turning into a god. Oh wow. Oh wow. Oh wow. Based on “Last Words” at Wikiquotes, available at http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Last_words
Confit blurs the taste of simple chore, a carnival implores the squeak between convivial and staid as incontrovertible melee taints expectation of the limn tall walk that supples water at a glance a gem aligns with cool chalance, craves stamina as tones wall down the clatter trimming fault lines, traded for most keepsakes given shade and calmed to temperate new plaudits caution tame and small perennials.
Here is what (She shelves I know about (my homonyms this proper noun (each night as inventory removed (I take away my vulnerability (pearl darlings recurs as in (connective tissvisible notes (the reeds left visceral, starched (near the river diamond (ply my trade weeds cloy (way through crops fill acreage (lithe young minds (felled steepness where the coy (now gold pond over (takes a smooth flows the street (commerce as weal signs free of (measure for mantra ink or lug nuts (toying through nerves of rice (these normal streets
consolation any song. i loved your mother. might say, but the king, held me, up, stuck in pins. needles and blink. loop a song, hold hands, war going on, upon my plate. plated. fried. eggs. too much, too traumatic, lunch at the courthouse. z through a. sorry, about, in this world. on the margins. we became strangers when, far too long. they let us. alone, the boot, the shoe, the laces, and unwound. held, you are, but only when you are.
leaden about it / over it // some thing it /// why //// the matter i haven not much money i have not much love ///// too did not . . . . . .
After Ezra Pound… Negro, negro es la Avenue about el Río And los squatters have overfilled the close Square. Y within, la poetisa, en the midmost of her youth. Marrón, brown de la face, hesitates, passing the door. Thick, ella puts forth a hand de espesor; And she was una camarera in los old days, Y ella has married un sot de ESP-Disk, Who now goes va boracho en Alphabet City And leaves her too much tiempo solo. "That’s your bathroom there?" - Carlito Brigante Black, black is the Avenue about the river And the squatters have
overfilled the close Square. And within, the poetess, in the midmost of her youth. Brown, brown of face, hesitates, passing the door. Thick, she puts forth a thick hand; And she was a chambermaid in the old days, And she has married a sot from ESP-Disk, Who now goes drunkenly out in Alphabet City And leaves her too much alone.
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Her period, however, was right on schedule. Up in the air, betwixt CLT & Louis Armstrong Internat’l these 2 immaculate H*A*M hox bled as red as Jesus’ words in the Neu Testament. But the worst part? It was like 3 full weeks post-Labor Day, y’all. Thx the good Lawd, then, Cheryl Miller beside her had an extra pair of pleated slacks. #FlyUnited
It grows sharp like a thorn or stem, cut, it grows in the pit of her arm. She smiles a watery smile, a fluid smile, a blue smile, a smile that says you donâ€™t know. Hiding hiding hiding hiding water in the eye, eye love you seems easier. Her shoulderâ€™s a stage from which her hair performs, from which I jump to her lap from which I listen to the bright sun. She is drawn in pencil on rock, waiting to be washed away by rain which never comes, strung upon red thread. She knows the reason boys talk. Boys talk but not like girls.
the sea also ripe / our sides itch / milk bottle every sheep brings flattening the nobody ray, wind sniffs the following:
snorting through every story yet gleaming to not downwind downshifting: aftermath kindling to our skeleton bubble moving in again molehills tomorrow even northwest stairs though matter subsoil midnight methane wind this sky is a long hand on chasmed codas beyond what blossoms
stealth ourselves import ant uglier the pl ace strains hoops no carved tong ue ego ebbing across future and be tween discordant shadows the stucco of radio watching cloaked is olating; again straight through sub conscious
and the redemptive burn to which it might
subside __________ watching what wings ensure erase indicate as purpose paralleled in each rhythm justifies in undulating pulses existence, then, augmented by an eyeâ€™s oscillating focus __________ into desired asymmetry as does a focus dissuaded, diluted temperature of hold and what delves or dismisses each missing sequence wearing holes as spectral delineation unguarded __________
react: ion ive persona movement meant as broken syllables and their finite regurgitated meaning in response to? daily momentums and their open-hand scents why? to engage and bother, believe and entangle again? these sequences cannot tire nor telegraph their initial intent I seeâ€” you werenâ€™t an aspectual aim-toward ___________ I inward-see circles their cycles search and form fundamental dexterities, the needed dualities of interpreted splays differentia documented among what clarity folds from/ or in/:to: origami in flame-burgeon naming toward beautiful presentations
â€”into silence my body needs assistance, as chaos contains a braided formation of genetic persuasion as certainty and occultation blur though blind though each in the either sensation follows shadow-hall silvery methods of delivering nuances as song, as longevity and contemporary forays toward not yet among halos and
systems of language
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may we collect spirals of autogenic distances of the ceremonial eagle born now and forever in primeval slime through warp zones in spacetime cosmic spores as the extraterrestrial the hydra head accumulating shadows in a perihelion of the mind the Martian luminaries of great antiquity emptiness vibrating within the frozen core the blown apart spheres of hydration collecting data on emptiness and incubation as the orgone accumulator, the hyperspace oversoul techniques driven into the trigger pool of the arctic polar soul, the monarch process deprogramming the blood ritual fusion isotopes in league with shadows quotidian variables of vegetal wisdom menaced into submission by the primordial soup infestation the cosmic debris, the botanical nightmare cross-pollinated webs shrouded as the man-headed dog zombified, contaminated at the root level vertical disintegration inside fluent air the second body, the duplicate body, the elemental body as the catalyst for the inner crises to manifest
Small footsteps by the circus wagon in secret existence trapped under caves of Platonic underworlds by the spell of arcades and all absence gone as time wears out stone, light, earth in a laconic noon with secret escapades by Ariadneâ€™s bed unmade yet not slept by space of day dream falling by breath in the vanquished past of an amorous scurry by epigrams of projection consumed by a sun never late breaking at vaporous dawn.
Chimneys rise out into night, fingers from a gloveâ€™s stump glowing with work that never ends â€“ sparks and noise to tear silence from sullen air. When we speak of something ending, we mean tears and a clawing at the earth, we signify cracked branches and a sea rising. And rivers that terrify. We carry shards of broken sky, we cart off dirt and smashed glass, we pile rotting wood to placate the latest fury and torn up roots of trees. We have entered the woods again to view our nightmares wriggling where we left them, green and tangled in this place we once called home.
Too many emblems, too much heat. Once we lived in a world of black and white, where clothing made no proclamations and rain pelted down in clear, gray drops on concrete walks so colorless they almost disappeared. Now bright banners wave, gold, maroon and green, squadrons of eagles, tigers and bulls, gnomes with their tiny fists raised in belligerent pose, preening peacocks and dolphins leaping around the black prow of a curved ship, a god reclining on the deck as grape vines burst into fruit from the arching mast and sailors, maddened by visions, leap head first into thirsty, purple sea.
Noah Cicero woke up in Las Vegas to the worst feeling he had ever had, the suicide feeling. He had never seen this feeling before, it had complete control. He couldn’t move. He just wanted his mind to stop thinking about her, running the same stupid information over and over again in his head. Then a blast went off in his mind, Noah Cicero was his six-year-old self, a little version of Noah Cicero. The room was nothing but whitespace, even the chair six-year-old Noah Cicero was sitting on was white. The little boy was crying, head down. There was nothing left to grasp, the wind had taken it all away. Noah Cicero had nothing left, he fought and fought, greedy to make reality work the way he wanted. And none of it worked. No one left to blame. No one to be angry at. His six-year-old self sat there crying. Then he heard someone yell, “Brother!” Little Noah Cicero looked up and saw a young 1980s Hulk Hogan, wearing his red Hulkamaniac headband, his yellow shirt to soon be ripped off, and his red underwear thing. Noah Cicero’s mind searched and searched, looking for anything, for one true belief that remotely seemed true and beautiful. And this is what his mind found. Hulk Hogan yelled at the crying boy, “Are you a Hulkamaniac?” “Yes,” he said whimpering. “Hulkamaniacs don’t kill themselves, brother! Remember when I body slammed Andre the Giant!!! Everyone said I couldn’t do it, everyone said it was impossible!!! But I charged up, I took the energy from all the Hulkamaniacs, through the power of all the Hulkamaniacs I was able to body slam the 500-pound Andre the Giant!!!” The little boy looked up at the Hulk, the Hulk danced around, flexing his muscles, screaming, giving it everything he had to keep Noah Cicero alive.
“Hulkamaniacs don’t kill themselves because I need the energy of every little Hulkster to keep me strong, to give me the energy to body slam my opponents into the ground!!!” Then the Hulk began shaking and sucking in the energy of all the Hulkamaniacs, the energy swirled around in him like a wind, the power of a million Hulkamaniacs. Then Hogan screamed, “24-inch pythons!!!” Then the Hulk put his giant hands on the shoulders of the boy, made him stand up, and said, “Brother I’ll show you how to gather energy!” Hulk Hogan began shaking violently, flexing his muscles, whipping his head back and forth, the boy felt scared but he started shaking, flexing his muscles and whipping his head. He felt the power of Hulkamania surge through him, it was there, the power, the power that surged through the strong unstoppable body that was Hulk Hogan. Then the Hulk got down real low and yelled, “Get on the biggest back in the world and I’ll carry you!” The little boy had stopped crying, his face changed to a smile. He jumped on the Hulk’s back, the biggest back in the world, 33-year-old Noah Cicero stood up, took a shower, brushed his teeth, washed his hair and when he saw his sister later in the day, he told his sister a funny cliché, because sometimes all we have is clichés, “Today is the first day of the rest of my life,” and his sister responded, “Thank god.”
Alexander Limarev is a freelance artist, mail art artist, and poet from Russia. His artworks are part of private and museum collections of 41 countries. His artworks as well as poetry have been featured in various online publications, including Time for a Vispo, Expoesia Visual Experimental, The New Post-Literate: A Gallery of Asemic Writing, BAA:BE:L, Nothing and Insight, FOFFOF, Spontaneous Combustion Language/Image Lab, Poezine, DEGU A Journal of Signs, exixtere, ffoOom, The White Raven, UndergroundBooks.org, ŎŎŏŏŏ, Boek861, Tip of the Knife, Bukowski on Wry, Kiosko (libera, skeptika, transkultura), Microlit, Metazen, Blackbird Anthology, etc. Andrew Schneider is a writer currently living in Madison, Wisconsin. Follow his thoroughly underwhelming existence at @schneidysrevolt. B.Z. Niditch is a poet, playwright, fiction writer, and teacher. His work is widely published in journals and magazines throughout the world, including: Columbia: A Magazine of Poetry and Art, The Literary Review, Denver Quarterly, Hawaii Review, Le Guepard, Kadmos, Prism International, Jejune, Leopold Bloom, Antioch Review, and Prairie Schooner, among others. His latest poetry collections are Lorca at Sevilla (Main Street Press, 2012) and Captive Cities (Presa Press, 2012). He lives in Brookline, Massachusetts. Billy Bob Beamer (b. 1947) works in small formats to create compositions through the use of meditational and labor-intensive techniques. He has exhibited in over 60 solo, juried/curated, and invitational art shows throughout the USA and at the Ancient High House Museum, Staffordshire, UK. His art works can be found in numerous public and private collections, including the Virginia's Governor’s Mansion, the Virginia Fine Arts Center for the New River Valley, the estate of noted art/cultural historian, Roger Shattuck, and—most recently—the Avant Writing Collection at Ohio State University. Currently, in addition to his own drawing, Beamer teaches classes in “drawing as quiet active meditation” to relieve pain and stress. In January and February of 2011, Beamer exhibited with internationally known artists at Roanoke College in Salem, Virginia. The exhibit featured work done by those who use meditation as a primary vehicle for creating. Beamer says, “My best way to express incalculable enormity is to create its contrasting opposite. At this time, I am concentrating on drawing—that most basic mode of communication—and on arte povera-like constructions, both in a small format. To paraphrase Blake: ‘the universe lies in a grain of sand.’ When drawing and creating objects from and on ‘worthless’ materials, I am paying homage to the marginalized…” Beamer, a sociology graduate of the College of William and Mary, is a retiree from the Commonwealth of Virginia’s Department of Social Services and an award-winning trumpeter with a 40 year week-end career playing jazz, R&B, blues, and other types of music. He also explores experimental, experiential writing, often as another meditational tool, and has had several books of his POMES published by chalk editions and white sky books. Beamer (who has a married daughter, a psychologist) lives with his wife Kathy and their cats in Bedford County, Virginia. Blare Coughlin is tall and does not know what to do with their hands. They write on the internet and draw bad portraits of things, including cats. You can find them on Tumblr at adreamghost.tumblr.com.
Carey Scott Wilkerson’s poetry collections include Ars Minotaurica and Threading Stone, both from New Plains Press. His play Seven Dreams of Falling premiered in summer 2013 at the Elephant Stages in Los Angeles and is published by Black Box Theatre Press. He holds an MFA from Queens University of Charlotte and teaches at Columbus State University. Changming Yuan, 8-time Pushcart nominee and author of Chansons of a Chinaman (2009) and Landscaping (2013), grew up in rural China and currently tutors in Vancouver, where he coedits Poetry Pacific with Allen Qing Yuan. Since mid-2005, Changming’s poetry has appeared in 859 literary publications across 29 countries, including Asia Literary Review, Best Canadian Poetry, BestNewPoemsOnline, London Magazine, and Threepenny Review. Chris Moran is the author of GHOSTLORD (Solar Luxuriance), Night Giver (privately released), and Poison Vapors (Solar Luxuriance). He lives in Columbus, OH and his website is http://subtlefields.blogspot.com. Chuck Leary lives in the United States and loves everybody. Felino A. Soriano is a member of The Southern Collective Experience. He is the founding editor of the online endeavors Counterexample Poetics and Of/with; in addition, he is a contributing editor for the online journal Sugar Mule. His writing finds foundation in created coöccurrences, predicated on his strong connection to various idioms of jazz music. His poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net Anthology, and appears in various online and print publications, with recent poetry collections including Mathematics (Nostrovia! Poetry, 2014), Espials (Fowlpox Press, 2014), and watching what invents perception (WISH Publications, 2013). He lives in California with his wife and family and is a director of supported living and independent living programs providing supports to adults with developmental disabilities. Links to his published and forthcoming poems, books, interviews, images, etc. can be found at www.felinoasoriano.info. Geoff Webb: Located in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Sensitive artist that spends time driving pizzas around town late at night if not contemplating what kind of life is being lived, what form of expression should be pursued. Battling artistic suppression as I tug on the leash to keep my ego restrained. This is a really shitty age. I’m waiting it out. Howie Good’s latest book of poetry is The Complete Absence of Twilight (2014) from MadHat Press. He co-edits White Knuckle Press with Dale Wisely, who does most of the real work. Hugh Tribbey’s poetry has most recently appeared or is forthcoming in experientialexperimental-literature, Truck, Eratio, Moria, Cormac McCarthy’s Dead Typewriter, and Mad Hatters’ Review. He is the author of eight collections of poetry. His most recent is Wrinkle and Mechanism, published by white sky ebooks. Hugh holds a Ph.D. in English from Oklahoma State University and teaches literature and creative writing at East Central University in Ada, Oklahoma. Jeff Harrison has publications from Writers Forum, MAG Press, Persistencia Press, white sky books, and Furniture Press. He has e-books from BlazeVOX, xPress(ed), Argotist Ebooks, and
chalk editions. His poetry has appeared in An Introduction to the Prose Poem (Firewheel Editions), The Hay(na)ku Anthology Vol. II (Meritage Press), The Chained Hay(na)ku Project (Meritage Press), Sentence: A Journal of Prose Poetics, Otoliths, Xerography, Moria, Calibanonline, Dusie, unarmed, Big Bridge, Sugar Mule, experientialexperimental-literature, and elsewhere. Joe Bussiere is the largest employer in the United States. They are paying its workers, on average, $8.80 an hour. Now compare that to 1955, when the largest employer in the United States was General Motors, and they were paying their workers on average $37 an hour. John M. Bennett has published over 300 books and chapbooks of poetry and other materials. His works, publications, and papers are collected in several major institutions, including Washington University (St. Louis), SUNY Buffalo, The Ohio State University, The Museum of Modern Art, and other major libraries. His PhD (UCLA 1970) is in Latin-American Literature. John Pursch lives in Tucson, Arizona. His work has been nominated for Best of the Net and has appeared in many literary journals. A collection of his poetry, Intunesia, is available at http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/whiteskybooks. An accomplished memorist, John recently recited the first 2,104 digits of pi from memory; check out his pi-related video at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l33aUs7obVc. He’s @johnpursch on Twitter and john.pursch on Facebook. Katey Metcalf is a midwestern daydreamer with a penchant for street art and confused realities. Katya Ungerman is a Boston-based playwright, harpist, and ordained minister. When she was fifteen, she was featured on the Encyclopedia Dramatica. Keith Higginbotham is the author of Calibration (Argotist Ebooks), Theme From Next Date (Ten Pages Press), Prosaic Suburban Commercial (Eratio Editions), and Carrying the Air on a Stick (The Runaway Spoon Press). He puts collages up at keithhigginbotham.tumblr.com. Krystal Sierra lives in Cleveland, Ohio with her son. She has been published by Pure Slush and GTK Quarterly, among other small presses, and is a second-time contributor for Zoomoozophone Review. Follow her feline-like shenanigans via Facebook or Twitter (kMsCLE). Editor-in-chief at Classicalite.com, Logan K. Young has published four books of poetry, including 1,000 Anagrams for La Monte Young (Peanut Gallery Press). His ebook My Twisted World: The Annotated Elliot Rodger is out now via T(W)E(L)V(E)! Books. A summer student of Thurston Moore at Naropa’s Kerouac School, his poetry and criticism have since appeared in 3:AM, Berfrois, Proliferate, Cormac McCarthy’s Dead Typewriter, New York Daily News, and the Online Encyclopedia of Integer Sequences. Young’s work is anthologized in That Devil Music: Best Rock Writing 2014 (Excitable Press) and An Anthology of Asemic Handwriting (Uitgeverij) and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. He lives in Gowanus, Brooklyn. Dr. Jack “Diamondback” Veenum, herpetologist from the U. of Arizona and writers’ group head, sidewinds up this diverse group of writers: Louis Marvin, Roo Bardookie, Peabody Winston,
Hug Honor, Dr. Wang, The Escort, etc. They are from Arizona, Hawaii, Alaska, Spain, China, California, and parts unknown. Manuel Arturo Abreu is a poet based in Portland. They are interested in the difference between being horny and needing to pee. Read more of their work at twigtech.tumblr.com and @Deezius. Noah Cicero is the author of The Collected Works of Noah Cicero Vol. 1 and The Collected Works of Noah Cicero Vol. 2, both published by Lazy Fascist Press. His first novel The Human War is soon to become a major motion picture. Q. North is a poet from sundrenched California, modern and trying. Rachel Balla currently lives in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania where she studies Interdisciplinary Fine Arts at University of the Arts. She is a vegan who is passionate about the environment, putting Sriracha on everything, and the emo revival. Rachel is happiest when she is doing nothing. Rhoda Penmarq lives in the United States and blogs. Ricky Garni is a graphic designer from Carrboro, NC. His writing has appeared in Mad Swirl, Evergreen Review, Used Furniture Review, Abjective, Pedestal Magazine, and many other fine places. The biographies that he loves best and that confuse him the most always end with this kind of a sentence: “At which point he quit work and decided to devote his life entirely to his poetry.” Sheila Murphy’s most recent books are collaborative visual poetry, with K.S. Ernst and John M. Bennett, respectively. Murphy resides in Phoenix, Arizona, where she is a writer, visual artist, organizational consultant, and teacher/public speaker. Sian S. Rathore is a poet, critic, and journalist living in West Yorkshire, England. She is the author of three ebooks and one full collection, and is working on her second. Stephen Michael McDowell (b. 1988) is extremely small. Steve Klepetar’s work has received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Three collections appeared in 2013: Speaking to the Field Mice (Sweatshoppe Publications), Blue Season (with Joseph Lisowski, mgv2>publishing), and My Son Writes a Report on the Warsaw Ghetto (Flutter Press). An e-chapbook, Return of the Bride of Frankenstein, has just been published by Kind of a Hurricane Press. Volodymyr Bilyk is a Ukrainian writer and visual artist. His books include a book in the series This is Visual Poetry (thisisvisualpoetry.com/?p=1151), a book of asemic short stories Cimesa (white sky ebooks), Scobes (No Press), and Casio’s Pay-off Peyote (The Red Ceilings Press). His works have been published in such magazines as 3:AM, Altered Scale, The New Post-Literate, and many others. His works have been exhibited on Bright Stupid Confetti’s asemic show, Yoko Ono Fan Club, and Venti Leggeri in Bologna.
Published on Jul 9, 2014
Contributors: Alexander Limarev, Andrew Schneider, B.Z. Niditch, Billy Bob Beamer, Blare Coughlin, Carey Scott Wilkerson, Changming Yuan, Ch...