doni Mark Harris P Jack Galmitz Richard Gilbert Sabine Miller

Paul Pfleuger, Jr.

Peter Yovu

Theresa Williams Eve Luckring

Remember Ing dADa

Rememer Ing dADa copyright © Impress, 2013 Rights of individual poems revert to their owners after publication. All other rights reserved.

Susan Diridoni

mighty song sung

girl who was of little appetite so ravaged by others so broken apart by many so cracked they craved hearing her desert expand hoarse and miraged into night terrors blinded to the refuge of the stars bound to the dank dreams of the

imprisoned hoarse and miraged she grew gaunt the brittle things called her the wood spittaled places unhomed her hoarse and miraged until a bright day of a mighty song sung by a quiet voice hiding jewels dropped into her dank pools repeating as he did the wondrous words reservoir you have lifted she was by his sweet tale

by the rising warm thermals of reservoir you have the washing that Jesus gave the unclean the mighty song unveiling her to herself these years all these sins all these gaunt desert battered years a restoration was happening a liftedness was shown all who could see ah the joy that flew around her on everyone but herself at first then even herself gaunt no more

needed no mirror for the hills were her refuge the end of fear the bright day the return of love the disbelieved even delivered to this once desert girl her gifts brought out still shining to her immense surprise and the sun still shined and this reservoir you are girl awakening from dark sleep

her beauty restored fashioning for all the sweet awakening she even now assiduous the tangential kiss

Sandy . . . Sandy Hook . . . Sandy

amygdala blues

must the pounding dark be

named Sandy

a fomenting edge

crawled into me when

I was not looking


a shimmer/void


I awake bound

raw aghast no more

hands surely not mine

time shrieks

bullet-ridden freeze

the beloveds


early death swamped

time sinks away

Mark Harris

COR TON permafrost lost

Jack Galmitz

into fields. hold ing back ocean s. a pur ple feath er re assemb les

lightning. struck. splinter ed tree. blonde wood. off a branch fell. brought down the park swings. women in kimonos walk in threes.

Open. field. saturated sponge. sponge of my shoes. a cross. to pick up the sky where it fell. to throw it back. ultra violet pack.

a tree that offers no shade that offers no wood where no cicada sings or home be built a tree that rhymes with free in a word

The road is straight continues on dirt gravel tire treads there since it was cut out in the right corner is Alvin Lucier arms crossed a wrist-watch staring at you his Music for Piano and Oscillators holds notes longer than the instrument could in its slow sweep to the end of that road that is bumped and continues in a white sky that defies where there would ordinarily be a line

rails. the yellow dog. the length of the road. dry. leaves. mulch. the man’s odd smell. maybe death. the family gives thanks for what it is about to receive. the yellow dog. rails. the odd smell. sunset. property. human skin. mulch. maybe death. The earth wet. green sprouts of no one knows what yet. the yellow dog. property. line. the stranger’s smell. other towns. odd. rails. the smell. hay. wells. wagon wheels. please pass the potatoes. the peas. god. the odd smell. the man’s black suit. hat. shoes. may have made the sign of the cross. many foreheads. maybe released from jail. the yellow dog. trails. reaches the soy field. acres. acres. acres. wide leaves. sprinklers. maybe a clerical collar. maybe killed a man. grace. homemade peach cobbler.

at a pace like falling. are we? falling? to the grave. pleasure. pulsations. ours. what we have. all that we really have. to give. without permits. willingly. discretion. of course. discretion. it is night, anyway. we are the sole witnesses. witnessing. ourselves witnessing. ourselves. if we don’t count the grass. the bay. the bridge looming. the rocks. the water rats. but they participate. are the chamber. our sound is only real with them there. atmosphere. they make it original. authentic. otherwise. it could be memory. or retelling. did you feel that? did you feel the earth? move? does that happen? anytime. between any two. or is it love? something special. your face is everything. moon white. hair extends to long grass. your breasts are soft. wool. meant to be moved about. the slosh of the tide on the rocks. quiet as the movement of the rats. is there a sky? I haven’t looked up. you are a small fire. warm. where I retain life. I am a stick. I keep your fire burning. warming. us. our life.

where did it come from? from the sea, I suppose. why suppose that? It has fins and no feet. scales. I listened to archie shepp’ s sax screaming from a stoop in San Francisco. up and down the scales. playing without feet fixed measure. When the piece ended it was fin, but not finished in a formal fashion. so presumptuous, I said. how did it get into the living room from the sea? through the tap water? she looked out the window at the lashing rain. were those flying fish? cats came out from under cars to investigate. things were thrashing on the street. I think they’re firecrackers she said. someone set off a mat. will you marry me she said. on one condition. you rain on me whenever I come in. okay.

driving. her hands on the wheel as if they were built in by Honda. focusing on the big picture. not what is directly in front of her. frequently checks her side view and rear mirrors. knows what’s around. Indulges herself with a CD. autechre. depresses the gas hesitantly. as if it were a live thing. we begin to climb the mountain road. I trust her enough to look out the window. or I don’t care if we die. we’re together. chassis and wheels. the door locks open and close by the remote on her car keys. we’re like that. only we each have the keys. we’re both the door locks. I ask her to have the car painted. orange. or green. but only the shades BMW once made. this is one thing she won’t give in to. the rock ledges on the passenger’s side. deep colors. fissures. fractures. a sense of intimacy. her face has diminutive features. sunken cheekbones. long free hair. she says wait till we reach the peak and park. we’ll find a private place with deep undergrowth. do it like wolverines. this time.

Richard Gilbert

A Likely Prometheus

A cold light seeps from under the practitioner's door late at night. In the morning, additional expenses to consider, added to the child support, the late rent. Still, he works hard helping others learn a new language, believes in novel approaches to malingering problems. He’s become softer, losing his fight with the sadness of years held back. Doesn't want to rest for long. There’s a hunger - mouths aching to speak, his children. And the car needs its frontend fixed. Between day and night, he’s divided, night the more victorious. When I look into the embers of his eyes I see how much he belongs in Crete, on the western shore, ocean to the horizon and all of history behind - father of Zeus returned as son, a smoky fire that hasn’t ceased burning. Dark grey rocks, smell of cooking fish, scrub trees and small, uneaten berries. Hot sand and sweat stains the lines down his cheeks. The same man that cried for dreams; and the dreams came to him, protected by a fierce scorn. Time like an estuary eats into him, exposing a solid mass of bone. I prowl around the edges of his life from a distant world as he continues steadily, walking illumined pathways. I am ravenous.

She dreams of 10,000 seas. She dreams of 10,000 seas. seas.

She dreams of 10,000 seas. She dreams of 10,000

She dreams of 10,000 seas. She dreams of

She dreams of 10,000 seas. She dreams of 10,000 seas. seas.

She dreams of 10,000 seas. She dreams of 10,000

She dreams of 10,000 seas. She dreams of

She dreams of 10,000 seas. She dreams of 10,000 seas. seas.

She dreams of 10,000 seas. She dreams of 10,000

She dreams of 10,000 seas. She dreams of

She dreams of 10,000 seas. She dreams of 10,000 seas. seas.

She dreams of 10,000 seas. She dreams of 10,000

She dreams of 10,000 seas. She dreams of

She dreams of 10,000 seas. She dreams of 10,000 seas. seas.

She dreams of 10,000 seas. She dreams of 10,000

She dreams of 10,000 seas. She dreams of

She dreams of 10,000 seas. She dreams of 10,000 seas.

She dreams of 10,000 seas.


She dreams of 10,000 seas. She dreams of

She dreams of 10,000

She dreams of 10,000 seas. She dreams of 10,000 seas. seas.

She dreams of 10,000 seas. She dreams of 10,000

She dreams of 10,000 seas. She dreams of

She dreams of 10,000 seas. She dreams of 10,000 seas. seas.

She dreams of 10,000 seas. She dreams of 10,000

She dreams of 10,000 seas. She dreams of

She dreams of 10,000 seas. She dreams of 10,000 seas. seas.

She dreams of 10,000 seas. She dreams of 10,000

She dreams of 10,000 seas. She dreams of

She dreams of 10,000 seas. She dreams of 10,000 seas. seas.

She dreams of 10,000 seas. She dreams of 10,000

She dreams of 10,000 seas. She dreams of

She dreams of 10,000 seas. She dreams of 10,000 seas. seas.

She dreams of 10,000 seas. She dreams of 10,000

She dreams of 10,000 seas. She dreams of

She dreams of 10,000 seas. She dreams of 10,000 seas.

She dreams of 10,000 seas.

Spontaneous Generation

Indissoluble tangibles




Crippled mud


Spontaneous pets


Inedible behavior


Moisture red


Alive density




Spatial acoustic *

In your

* Hands beloved

Summertime in L.A. Tiny airborne carbon grains touch my arms where she does not

On our return, landscapes fall in layered crepe through the windshield

Fall apples, fresh fallen gather back home tart, small and red

Drying grass unclasps the essence of an image

Sorrier for the traffic

just as it is. Sunday Apples, pears, grapes, plums Gather in the tail of a dream. Sunday, my present, a cup of tea sitting on an old chair watching fruit.

The more solid an image, the more it penetrates. The deeper it penetrates, the less visible it is. The more invisibly penetrating the more it is experienced as ‘true’ real, solid, a given. The counter-movement of art, of the poetic, is to look at a path which moves these realities into unrealities. And moves certain unrealities into greater realities. The defeat of the so-called 'mother-image' is simply a result of a modus operandi which seizes conscious control of the imaginal flux. Not by becoming a censor, but by becoming an artist. Not by writing one song, one poem, having one treatise, one special code, or set of morals or truths but by a flight-filled process of changing, shifting, blown leaves of mind, a freeing that doesn't sink into reduction, into absolutes, into the unremarkable conceptions of defeated dreamers. There shall be into a turmoil a damage of my ability to wilt, to molt, to cast off from the tree, change with each momentary psychic season. But give me each image, each moment, each feeling, each heartbeat to live fully and freely, to the utmost, in flight, stranded, bound or liberated as may be. These are all more—m or less places in the same game.••Sometimes you've just got to kill everything that's hanging around from the past. Just keep killing and killing, killing it all. To be a killer to live. The past is gone. Too bad, I say, yeah, it's sad. End it. Gone youth. Whatever. Kill the song of caught images. Caught

perspectives. What a relief. But don't kill the images themselves. Release them, I say. Release yourself from tyranny. The tyranny of the supposed real. A song is important. But no song is an important song. It is just a song that's important; for now, for as long as communion lasts. But that's given in-process, and can't be caught. Maybe the Mother is merely the power of the illusion of grasping. But then, we're drowning in the solid concrete of overly literal self-created realities, and grasping is actually gasping. A fish out of water. It's the water we're missing. Not as an external element, but as a powerfully known, continuous psychic ocean of reality. By psychic I don't mean 'special.' Supra-mundane. Extra-terrestrial. I mean poetic. And there is nothing less collective than the term 'poetic.' The creation of one's poetry, for a person, is more unique than any dream. It is the cause of dreams. nuff said. laughs

Totally * Falling leaves

Just keep killing and killing, killing it all. To be a killer to live. The past is gone. Too bad, I say, yeah, it's sad. End it. Kill the song of caught images. Release them, I say. Release yourself from tyranny. The tyranny of the supposed real.

Pretense (to Lethe) Flowers, concubines, harp strings strewn at her altar ornaments to love lies thrown among dreams disappeared. Awakening from clouded slumber mortal entrails forgot evanescence my chariot to wrap the darkened heart; eating a raspberry tart. Remembered among all lies bright, the captured pretense of untarnished light. A paradox of art, bliss: Isis, blind, reknits Osiris — so may absent ones we pity retrace those aqueducts through her city. Forgotten teaching, forgot hope forgone longing, for all goodness gone. In children's hands among the lines of make-believe and false shows, translucent on the magic lantern. Tears for getting blind.

Paul Pfleuger, Jr.

thought screeching at mother’s call arriving in how you define shade say Sunday afternoon stop there symbol for feeling demanding a reader naked if not for costumes of meaning to mean thrown in supersized signifiers before us long after some one thing some one else sea it says just that following an adjective known anonymous or vessel of a body carrying poems tongue transcendent shaped by tangible shapes bringing back tales of imaginable conquering yearning been handled by what seeps from a line in genes we trust

*** remote controlled island room

made known called up on gray pillows of isms the head rest wakened flashed milk & behind swapped beads for the future with isms stroking

for channels reaching itsex patriots left long whiles to miss across isms on paper starring & striping to be in light ended past isms

through screens the distance incorporated outside isms


but I always liked it the sound of hobo lying here mostly in the closet stacks still literally

among them sharp things pointing toward your object envy I get to know doodling about you and yours *** an also domestic under standing how one knows one

mirror from another mirror in the walmart you think of *** a banyan. its roots. stubborn. through pavement. (enter a woman) old as dark. as oh tires. on her way. monosyllabic.

alone by her face. in a puddle rain insisting. muttering lost husbands under. the breath of intersections. planted in their way. to the future. *** the heavens a corner of it

visible from our pillows the sweat still in them how I groped to the nightstand felt for my journal the feathers plucked from any cosmic sense of the word



coming home calloused hands the ungraspable dream two unpeopled hours words for blue collar

old men like ours wouldn’t know *** Supposing her here keyed in Buffering 3% someone’s question naired running down a scratch n sniffing Buffering 37%

sweat in these rooms for it clothes half on dripped another minute waiting them off Buffering 62% from the window moaned the mirror take it Buffering 98% *** (The following is an appropriated text assemblage from the“Love Poems” comments section at Connecting Singles Poetry.)

UR the luv poems Very deep and real. Always nice to read you deep. I feel like I'm eating it as I read it and love its true meaning. I will keep writing. It’s the only way I can release my true feelings. Such a loving heartfelt write…the words poured out. True emotions every word. When someone u love is far away it hurts. A real poet's pen with a good feel for rhyme. It's a masterpiece, a bestseller, it blew my mind. The aching creeps through every line. I understand we all have these thoughts at times.

I think we can all relate to carrying more than what we’re able, which is overall a good thing but still sometimes beautifully deep. At times we must be the oak but also the weeping willow. Just wanted to be on the most commented poem. Now I am. That’s just beautiful, the love between two, even though it's spread in many ways, even bread, but you chose a beautiful flower put it eloquently, with word flow in generous abundance. What an excellent way with words to describe lost love. Now that's a woman in love...and then some. This poem just breathes over me. Erotic, the best word to describe it.

An epitome of goodness and positive flow of goodness to lighten up a rather dark way. Reflective thoughts friend and now you write you write your own chapter of love ever more burning. Sorry for the typo mistake. Love is like a fire. It often expires. A very keen observation. Really dnt knw wat to say im speechless. I have been lost but now am found... I have read this somewhere before can anyone help me? I think the truth can heal all ppl's hearts n more. The truth is a very powerful thing. Interesting images whizzing through my mind as I read it so lovely I could almost feel the coolness of moonlight. I am happy I am the first to shout....Yeahhhh for you who is our No1 Love poet. What a description of love residing in that heart.

Keep writing the poetry it seems to be doing you good. I did put a lot of my emotions into this one. I'm glad they seeped through onto the page. A bucketful of longing and love for her between the lines takes us to the nitty-gritty of what it's all about. So glad you have found such love, it jumps out of the screen. I identify with this one cause I install solar panels…the sun gives us so much we should appreciate it more probably. If only we could fight with no bloodshed or death. The powers that be should have a Poetry competition. If only life was as uncomplicated as that. Don't stop writing love poetry when you are in love, it's the best time to write it. I wonder if I recited that to my ex wife.

All the best. Simply mwah. Well played. Thanking you. Kudos. Thanks. Thank you. Cheers.

And here's some flowers for you too. *** chainsawed property the connection task of awakened with buzzwords for *** The following is an appropriated text assemblage using material found in the “Poetry and Inspiration Discussion” forum section at lines opening minus disfigured neighboring green space

Is Billy Collins a poet? does a bear shit in the woods? just google "billy collins" he writes about the simplicity of life as it should be evoking the abstract with the simple I think it's the moon to spit and spat like kittens girlfriend girlfriend Freudian cigar friend girl cunt friend roses we're alive. Is Billy Collins a poet? does Kipling shit in iambic pentameter? twisting his moustache ends Billy Collins, a Republican poet did this great thing about smoking the poet at the party, the barbecue, the wedding, the funeral, there's more than one.

Is Billy Collins a poet? does a Poet Laureate live shit and breathe poetry? yeah... ferk yeah... knowing what's best for the country he doesn't have to have anti-establishment this, anti-life that, or I love you you but you don't love me, under his poet fingernails to rock the status quo. Is Billy Collins a poet? do Dick and Jane shit in captivity? you do NOT become appointed to the highest "poetry cabinet post" in the U.S. by writing in the language that baffles the ole noggin read as much as you can of this amazing man am I a fan? you bet I am.

Peter Yovu

My Father

My father ate a lot. My father ate continuously. My father ate his children. Who were my father’s children? Me, a cockroach, a newspaper, a canary and a virus that predigested yellow. My brother was a bull. My sister had a silk transparent belly through I could be seen. My father ate his sister’s last name. My father was a chicken devouring himself. My father ate a chicken breast using chicken bones as chopsticks. My father sucked the marrow from tomorrow. My father was the marrow of the subway system. The drone of the subway slowly digested my father. My father’s pockets were full of red knuckles.

My father beat my mother to the breakfast table. He beat my mother to the punch. He pinched my mother to the marrow. My father beat everything called it. My father got the hell into it. My father beat the drama. My father had silencers on his fingers when he tapped my head. My father drummed it into me. My father beat a retreat to the breakfast table. My father beat up, he beat down, he be at me to get the hell out. My father took a beat, he took a ting,

he learned a ting or two about the beat. It took two to beat a tango. My father beat a mango to the tree. My father beat his body, his strangled fruit dangling from a tree, my father beat a lynch mob to himself.

My father sparkled for his mother. My father sparred, my father killed, for his mother. My father was a star behind his mother’s kneecap; she got down to wash the rich man’s floor. My father sparkled to a halt.

My father drank a sugar sea. He drank the ranks of ankled men, shackled to the sugar sea. My father drank purple’s black. He drank the ink of inquisition. My father drank the liquid brick his father stacked upon his head, the drank the smoke that issued from his eyes, the ink of magazines life issued on sidewalk stands, the piss of a nickel’s buffalo and the pus of a spider’s dream.

My father accomplished a wave to his wife. He accomplished a piano piece on the keys in his pocket. He accomplished a raw brain with 38¢in the center. He accomplished a smell and the word “Bolivia” etched upon

his kneecap. My father accomplished a knish, a radish and a radio made of sugar to serenade his mother when his mother wasn’t listening. He accomplished a smoke stack made of smoke, a brick stack made of magazines, a motorcycle made of thighs and one evening to last into the night then gone forever.

My father was a manacle, a manufacturer, a mandible, a dictionary. Words were edible and Oedipal.

My father is a stack of frozen smoke-pies.

My father dreamed his father up then dreamed him right back down. My father dreamed his father was the steam in tubes beneath Manhattan. My father dreamed his father dreamed of him. My father dreamed he wept his father’s sugar tears. My father dreamed he captured the moth that stole his father’s lips and gave them back again. My father dreamed he was the pillow he was lying upon and woke on his mothers breast. My father dreamed my mother loved his father. My father dreamed a porcupine with penis spines. My father dreamed his father drank his

own fermented tears. My father dreamed his father ate a desert. He dreamed his father injected a piano behind his knee. He dreamed I was a piccolo and put his fingers on all my holes. My father dreamed I was his father, walking on stilts of piccolos strapped together.

My father wanted a raisin. He wanted nothing to be delicious. He wanted money to be a sugar sea. He wanted a money sea, and a hive for money bees. He wanted a money monkey to walk him home after work. He wanted a subway made of silk to wrap his mother in. He wanted money to be his mother. He wanted my mother to give him a money job. He wanted my mother to be a raisin. He wanted beer. He wanted his sister to hold him. He wanted his mother to hold Manhattan up so he could see its roots; he wanted her to lift Manhattan off his father, so he could see his father again.

My father needed a company of crows to escort him to the city. My father needed a crow bar to pry black feathers from his ribs. My father needed a needle to read the city meter. He needed a lot of food, a foundation of chicken bones, a basement of marrow. My father needed me to keep: a castle in my ribs, seepage from the basement, a star among the spiders eggs, my stubble away, my weight away,

my anchor in my mother, my ankles in the bay. He needed another question. What was my father’s question?

My father questioned the flute about his piccolo, his piccolo about town, the orchestra of extinct sounds about the growl in his bones. He questioned his question. What was my father’s question?

My father and I went to the basement to find his question. I found his question seeping from the walls and dripping in the sump. My father had assumptions into which a hundred hens paraded. My father and I harbored each other’s oil, we slipped on each other, we fell together in a midden of piccolos. My father and I suspended time in a worm’s heart. My father and I crawled out of the earth in my mother’s ear: he asked her a question, he asked, what is my question? I made a piccolo from a chicken bone. My father crossed the road and I became a yellow stripe, I stepped on a canary when my father went into the subway. My father and I never saw each other again.

My father and my mother shared a knuckle. From my father and my mother I inherited a knuckle that buckled into my occiput, a chicken’s knee and a wide variety of magazines titled boy’s life, girl’s life, chicken’s life, tropical flesh and testosterone dreams. My father and my mother gave birth to a knife. To keep it sharp they kept on giving birth to it. My mother and my father kept me in a soup. My brothers were the chicken chunks and I was the broth. My father and my mother shared a tattoo. My father’s part said broth, my mother’s part said hell. My father sparred, my mother killed. A stack of frozen skies was breakfast for my father and my mother never was the sugar sea that broke around his knees.

My father furthered his eggs. He put all his eggs in one basking shark. My father furthered the notion that a hundred shades of blue get mixed into batter. My father furthered a stack of lice, he feathered their nits. My father furthered my mother’s near-death experience; he pulled a thread through a worm’s heart, he pulled the rug a little further from under Manhattan.

My father worked out the answer to the question what is my question the way he worked the marrow out of tomorrow, the way he worked an angle into a worm, the way he worked was by hiding a hammer in my mother’s ear and a nail in mine. My father worked the mine; he worked his day into a lather, and shaved the night from his face with a sharpened nickel. My father worked in the subway, his supper waited at the end of the tunnel. He was a man about his word the way a pearl’s about an itch. He worked his words into a lather, he scraped the vowels from his face, the ones he hid in like an itch. He scratched himself into a wallet, he wrapped his shins in wallet leather, he shaped his hunger in a bag of chicken eggs and chicken legs. He wore himself out, his stomach on his sleeve. My father worked at grinding words.

My father played the piccolo, pinochle, he wore a navy peacoat. That’s called a penis when I asked. My father played so many plates, the colander, the soft sonata for rice and pork. My father played the numbers in his check book with the nimble strut of chickens in a chicken shack. He played his pancakes to my plate, he flipped out many moons for me to jam upon, he played the grill around the radio, the static sizzle of the morning rain played into him.

My father swam across the linoleum floor, his hand dug down into the basement with each stroke. Sump-fish nibbled his fingers with each stroke. My father swam to the sink across a linoleum sea, his eyes wrapped in sugar, he stood on the beach of the sink, his eyes full of copper tears, his shoulders draped with his mother’s kelp-green scarves; his mother’s scarves made of the smoke from a fumarole in the sump, each nipple now a button from his mother’s skirt. My father swam to the sink across a sea of smoke wearing a peacoat with barnacles for buttons, wearing his father’s stubble, wearing the basement’s cold, wearing the ruins of his brother’s ship, he stood before the sink and let the sugar in his eyes dissolve in copper tears, he fingered nickels in his pockets with pictures of drowned buffaloes on one side and in god we rust on the other. My father swam to the sink in the subway bathroom, in the men’s room where the walls where marked with sucker-marks from deep sea squid that came there to piss in my father’s dreams, my father pissed squid ink into the john, his mother’s face rose up from out of the sepia sea that swirled in the flush of the john and swirled down with it and away. My father swam after her, under Manhattan where the tentacles of squid were looped like the straps in a subway car, Manhattan was the ceiling over him, and his question swam into his consciousness, his question was, if Manhattan is above me, what am I standing on?

My father’s friends had their pockets in his pockets. My father’s friends fed used bubble gum to the buffalos on his nickels. My father’s friends stole one letter from his alphabet when he was sixt and sewed it into his mother’s hem. My father’s mother gave that dress away. My father’s friends drilled holes into every word he kept. He kept the word “mother” in his mother’s pocket. My fathers friends ate his food for him, drank his milk for him, and spelled the word mother for him using stolen letters when his father was gone. My father's friends loved the pale blue canary that flew out of his nap one afternoon, they said his dream was their cage and so the bird was really theirs. My father’s friends spelled the word cage for my father, they told him the alphabet is made of feathers they told him the number 7 is the beak of a canary, they told him the number seven gets hungry at night and eats his dreams and so they had to kill the number seven when he was six. My father’s friends had a funeral for the number 7 the day he died but my father believed the number seven had a funeral for his friends the day he died. The day he died my father’s friends were all the fingers missing on his hands when he reached for God.

My father’s newspapers lay stacked on his chest as he napped, Roosevelt on Kennedy, a nuclear submarine under Nixon’s piano. My father’s newspapers declared war on each other and issued each other funny papers. His heart

lay under them beating, shaking the words up, the words dissolved like sugar in the sugar sea. I was in the classifieds of every newspaper my father read. Wanted: a father. My father tried to be the father who slid beneath Manhattan looking for his father. My father’s newspapers all ran the same article “don’t believe everything you bleed”. My father’s newspapers ran a comic strip about a man beneath Manhattan.In the comic strip sometimes Manhattan was a rug with the label saying: made by your mother; in the comic strip sometimes Manhattan was the ceiling of a subway car with squid tentacles dangling down; in the comic strip sometimes Manhattan was me with my arms dangling down, with a newspaper in each hand, dropping one after another onto the stack on my father’s chest as he slept, there was always a new newspaper in my hand, there was always a new newspaper to drop, but the stack never got any higher on my father’s chest as he slept, it never came close enough for me to reach, but I could see words tremble, shaken by his beating heart, I could see the picture of Roosevelt, his teeth were the Manhattan skyline, I could feel the Manhattan skyline on my back, I was a beast with a thousand penises on my back, I had a thousand missiles coming out of my back, I had my arms dangling down under Manhattan and my father with his arms around a stack of newspapers, I had a million letters dripping from my fingers. Each spoke its name as it entered his ear, as he listened for the letter stolen from his alphabet, the one that didn’t sound like weeping, the one that didn’t sound like moaning, the one that didn’t sound like whining, the one

that didn’t sound like waning light, the one that didn’t sound like wound.

My father slept under the sky when the sky was his skin, when the sky was a blue cocoon around him and his heart was the cloud the sky was searching for, when his heart cloud was made of the raindrops about to form and fall, when his heartcloud rained each raindrop contained one scale of a butterfly’s wing, it is easy to see why the sky would search for such a cloud. My father slept in the blue cocoon of his skin, the sky that held him seeped into him, a blue net closing around his heart cloud, when he slept his blue skin surrounded his heart, his heart was a cloud with skyskin around it, when his heartcloud rained it rained in every direction, the blue skin of the sky shimmered with butterfly scales and my father’s heart dissolved when he slept, his sleep was a sky with a butterfly scale in each blue atom. My father was a butterfly over Hiroshima four years before my birth. My father dreamed there were roots beneath Manhattan. He dreamed there were routes beneath Manhattan for a secret subway. He dreamed his father was a conductor on the subway below the subway. His father wore a blue suit with gold stitching. My father knew the only way to get into the subway beneath the subway was if his mother lifted

Manhattan. My father dreamed his mother had no hands when she held him, he dreamed her hands were lost behind his kneecaps, My father dreamt he kneeled in a church where everyone kneeled upon there hands. My father dreamt of Christ on the cross, he dreamt Christ had no hands on the cross but held his handless arms out. He dreamt of a second cross where Christ’s hands were nailed, and a third where Christ’s feet were nailed and another where Christ’s heart was nailed. In his dream my father dreamed his mother said “now you know why I’m atheist” she said “i”m an apiest” she said “I’m an aviator” “she said “I’m a naviator” and my father dreamt she had her arms outstretched underwater, he dreamt she had no hands but propellors on her wrists, the propellors were shredding newspapers, words came floating down to my father on the bottom of the sea, asleep, the bottom of the sea was a bed of nails, each one impaling the photograph of a hand. My father dreamed he woke up on the bottom of the sea, there were whales the size of Manhattan swimming over him, they had barnacles stitched to their bellies with gold thread. My father slapped a fat ham. My father slapped his slippers down, his supper down, his spanking brand new pants upon the floor. My father slapped his application for promotion. My father promoted the slapping of bearded artists. My father slapped a lather to his face and ripped the atlas from the shelf. My father slapped a sandwich down,

he slapped the rumps of buffalos on a herd of nickels and sent them stampeding to the bank. My father slapped his wallet shut; he slapped the face of a woman he saw the day he met my mother; he slapped his mother with a loss-suit, with a sub-penis, with a surge warrant. He slapped his habit of sleeping with a dream. He slapped blue tracks down in hollow of his jawbone; he went to work there every night, hanging on the to roots of his teeth, his tongue a giant squid sleeping above, his brain waves slapping the backs of his eyes.

Sabine Miller

someone's finger through my flame glass steeple birds

A Midline for Bonnie Gintis, DO

A newborn’s sutured cranial bones stems arranged by a “quiver” a “primitive streak” or “metabolic event... from nowhere:” arising floating petals that once were

chord of the animal enters an animal turns with the current and sinks as a tide Science, my father says will explain; only in the olden days were we seeded of a Wind or seagrassed of wind as wave in wave

SAY GRACE Could each word, like pink clouds from the blue, open: I mean, what sky feels when scratched: nothing to say, light throbs at the surface and is given away.

Here comes the cricket to grind out dusk between its wings.


Lean days, when I let desire outwit hunger. It’s not that you want too much; it’s that you don’t want enough. When a gray whale feeds from the sea’s bottom, the surface blooms. Sun for plankton, plankton for tongues: The whole wide column of

water is nourished.

Theresa Williams

Chris Gordon

Cosmology Sound. Fancy. Cartoonish mishmash. Occult meanderings. Language that gets schoolteachers wet between the legs. Flightless birds. How to turn the echoes of insect feet into hymns that invite the war dead back from the moon. Baroque investigations into follicles and moisture. The Astronaut who seldom returns. The Sailor who doesn’t want to. A few tin cans disguised as breasts and tied together with the red thread. The exuberance of the mind. The insanity of the body. Systematic archaeologies broken into shards. The political machinations of spiders. Overheard conversations about petty atrocities and things that God is saying when everyone else is asleep. Jack-off dreams about Police Officers. Words you’ve never heard. The letters the river practices every day. The little bees who showed up in costume. Diseases you get on the bus. I’m going to kick someone in the ass with my mouth. Storm crow descending. The goblins in the basement eating out your sister. The nickels you paid them. Thistles. Paranormal dogma. The soul is an untended garden. An invisible phone rings.

Fifteen-Second Promotional Spots

The gradual accrual of indefinable elements. Takes on the form of a muttering under the dusts that have settled in the tiny apotheosis you wear on your hip. Somewhat smaller than a sidearm. But agreeably different. The last tatters of summer’s cloak as it gets dragged across the threshold. Little pieces of the world weighing it down. But giving it a certain purpose. First conceived of during secret meetings held in rooms lit by the glow of centipedes. Then chiseled into fifteen-second promotional spots for a hot new series that will never air. A story about this written on a chewing gum wrapper that was wadded into a ball and flushed down the toilet. The body couldn’t be a temple really. Or an amusement park for that matter. We get stuck at the top of the Ferris Wheel. This is not an allegory. This is the owl who reeks of mouse carcasses. Whose eyes are lamps that never burn but never burn out. The key you gave her to open such things. In your other hand the plant whose sap is beaten like tin into plates that stop the silver darts of the moon from entering your heart and impregnating the piece of coal that burns but always burns out.

How To Make It Work The things that could almost happen are far more compelling than either the things that can’t or even the things that will. You leave at dawn. A crow is picking at something on the road. The wind blows away the clouds. There is a tiny man made of coal who has eaten all of my anger and grinds my teeth for me. I wonder whether you have fallen out of love with me within the last hour. The long debated silver implement achieves escape velocity and introduces a new form of lichen. Your obese Uncle. If I gave him a few sticks of lip balm would he agree to step on my head? Let’s make tea with nails and rain water. Let’s make up names for the Gods based on the common structural elements of Arthropods. Quietly I have grown old filling my left pocket while I’ve emptied my right. Don’t you always feel like you’re getting ready to live? That you just need a few more minutes? I feel the thinness of your lips. The new seed cones soft and green. She likes her cat a little too much. The white milky spit of the antiquarian hobos. You can understand how it works without understanding how to make it work. A little dark star in your heart is amassing gravities and coupons that have already expired. Date seeds glistening in the saucer. A

computer dials my number. Her shirt says The World is My Ashtray.

Lacunae Are Permissible

Stretch marks and cat dander. The new warm air of May. Underrepresented aluminum girders. Factory girls. Cookie crumbs. The albatross singles you out. Steaming cauldrons and appropriate size-ratio. Knickknacks. Green rage. A few minutes no one sees. An elastic symphony. A cacophony in the frazzled interstices. I think I’m allergic to you or someone you love. Places on your body where you’re translucent. A second time the beetle crawls out of my sleeve. Eating around the bruise. Laryngeal sky. We grow wet with fallacies. Fire-dizzy amputees. These simple tableaus. Memories of still empty moments. Everywhere you look the name of some minor deity written into the fabric of one or two objects. In the murky air the sparrows, their movement, it’s somehow quicker, in the manner of metal. They gleam and easily tear slits in the air. Through the door I hear her jeans come off. A flattened spider. I’m not sure where it came from. The sand in your pockets. Little misdemeanors of time. The wet bamboo leaves

blowing against the fence remove the paint in places. Lacunae are permissible.

National Poetry Month

Time is made of cinders. Newsreels during wartime. The sound’s a little off-sync. Then there’s all the scratches and the fuzz. The instructions say that the realization of emptiness is a liberating thing. But we get mired down in the horror of reference. Every moment and its exact opposite. We’re left to be guided by tiny explosions. Fissures and crenellations. Some mention of the tree of prophecy. Also known as the tree of death. Beautiful at a distance. You get tangled in it up close. I keep moving. Not because I’m afraid of falling asleep. Because I’m afraid of waking up. As soon as you attend to the possibilities they cease to be possibilities. The torn screen door is banging in the wind. You come to love the wind and pay less mind to the comings and goings of strangers. A few of the green shoots are tearing open at their tips. A flash of lavender and slender yellow pistils. This accounts for the empty spaces in between speech. This accounts for the way your thighs separate your skirt in the aisle at the library. April is

National Poetry Month. That means here and there people are bashing their loved ones on the head with cast-iron skillets. No one makes these things up. They take care of themselves. They’re the only ones who do. The Rare Monkeys

The noisy concatenation moves down your spine and settles at its base. This before the swelling and all its attendant fly swatting begins. This is what we have left to construct our shelter with. The rain that should have fallen months ago remained outside far too long and now barges in the room like a guest who makes up for their tardiness by being rude and boisterous. At the zoo a bear inexplicably eats a few of the rare monkeys. The bear, who was cornered and put down, was himself fairly common. The girl, the only one in the family to survive, said the bullets from the soldiers came through the door before her father had a chance to answer their knock. I write a letter to your Defense Minister with pomegranate juice and dead spiders in a desperate bid to avert similar outcomes. The murderers in their uniforms are looking for their punishment under the skirts of little girls. And where is our friend the Monster? His lines are coming soon. He’s passed out under the pickup truck. The one up on cinderblocks. There’s a part out on order. Let’s not wake him. At least until the part arrives.

The Shelving-Off Sound The sound of bells. Brass ones. This is certain. The clouds coalesce. Start to become something. Then become something else. Hum it backwards and it starts to sound like the name of the knot your heart’s tied in. The sound of thread through skin. The way of slugs. The pressure of the eventual canal. Daisies every time. Why is that? This diagram that is. A darkness. A murmuring of voices. The other darkness. The stars come rushing in. Tell a tale of their disposition. It will be your friend when everyone else has forgotten you. What you keep in your bag. They’re not coins. But they sound like marbles. Today the butterfly is a moth. Today the mistakes are the only noticeable differences. The shelving-off sound arrives seconds in advance of the ordinary travesties. The sun in the shape of your name. The sun in the shape of your demise. Whisper. Your life is a whisper. Here reflect serenades and imbroglios. Turning back while falling forward. A wisdom devoid of forethought. Also known as the trial service period. Later the words will be gone. Freeing you from the

necessity of speech. There are many flames. One though is brighter than the others. Go ahead. Blow it out.

Some with Loops

I tell the Sorceress I have to get back to my island. The Monster’s expecting me to return his boat and my familiar’s so hungry she wants to eat the fingers off of my hand. We are the storm waiting for cliffs tall enough to send us back into the depths of the sea. The morning pries a few threads from our clenched hands. Some she marks with knots. Some with loops. The story has changed, but no one bothered to tell the characters. The setting remains the same, but even the words are now at different angles. The lost Sailor doesn’t really love his wife. He merely misses the feeling the absence of his body has left in their bed. The points on the stars grow brittle and fall into the dark earth of the hills. Let the hounds loose at noon. All but one will return at dusk. Each with a rabbit. Maybe a fox. The one you never see again lies under a fir with a piece of that star in his throat. What used to be years happen now in a matter of days. A last few yellow leaves cling to the branches. Disconcerting as the first leaves to fall. My chest is a cabinet in which hang a few rusting knives and a band of

iron. I’m sorry I have nothing else to offer, but this is all you left in here.

The Sound Of A Wounded Crow The girls on the bus are taking pictures of themselves so they can send them to each other while they’re riding on the bus. Seeds whirling down in the muggy afternoon and clicking as they fall in heaps upon themselves. Some of them were ballplayers who threw the game now and then. Some of them were doctors who hurt the people they loved. Some of them were fortunate. Lost only a portion of the leg when they stepped on the land mine. She tells me about a machine that makes the sound of a wounded crow. It calls hundreds of crows so they can be shot by the Hunter. The Minstrels have threatened sedition. They’ve set their instruments ablaze and tied your daughter up with trembling string. Spring is making us do stupid things. We trade our first child for a set of matching silverware. Then we eat with our hands. The holes are painted the wrong color white. Where the spider was. A bigger spider. In the distance whatever it was you were looking for wavers in the heat. After the fiasco with the apiary the authorities naturally cracked down and soon fewer things happened than ever. Crawling up the red thread an ant is looking for the last drops of the honey. The new leaves look very much

like the leaves that came last year. A few of them beginning to curl at the edges. The foreign contract workers are quicker to sit at the table with you than the wives of successful men. When he said that I wasn’t really sure if he meant death is always a mystery or that he was going to come back later and do me in. By the chair with the cracked leather seat a white extension cord is plugged in and trails out into the empty room.

A Temple Of Sorts The ginger application of appropriate spaces. Wildfires in the hills. You leave in your vehicle and eventually don’t come back. The hatch to the attic left slightly ajar. The last piece to your puzzle. I still have it in my pocket. It’s looks like a piece of the ocean. I love to mention nitrogen. The trees are too fragrant to stand near so I keep to the porch. The wall is still warm in the blue air. The train that comes late at night. The thing that you said. The thing you didn’t. That’s not my fault. The telltale chitchat. Shit like that. That’s my fault. The fairy impresario. Syncopated backpedaling. Your torn-up notes a little vague with insight. Lines going off in other directions. A crypt welltended. Here and there at the open doors a stray dog searching for water. Any day now my new penis will be coming in the mail. Under the tall grasses copper men are waiting to be born. The Sorcerer has abandoned his tower for the invisibility of the towns. I walked away once from the fire. Why did you let me do that? Wild dogs and too much air. Tear a few rocks from yourself and toss them about. What they form is a temple of sorts. An epic about blades of grass. Without this we are lost. Dissonant situations are stacked haphazardly. We never even left the

helicopter. The bone merchants have forgotten your address. Some shadows seem empty or opaque. Others are luminous and mysterious.

An Unknown Variety Of Walnut

There’s an understatement we dress in the clothes we won’t wear but we won’t give away. Maybe it’ll have dinner with our enemies only to come home to our unmade bed. The dark. The dark says no when it really means yes. I’ll sign you up for lessons. I’ll take you down to the leaping-off point. We’ll settle for generic terms so no one gets too uncomfortable. The meteor that tears a hole in the sky turns out to be an unknown variety of walnut. Roasting it for a few minutes under high heat removes the bitterness. Replaces it with a desire to stand behind you and find the sweat that accumulates in the slight crease under your breasts with my calloused hands. The beasts beneath us. Their fur chaffing our thighs. The Gods locked in the paper box that rests level in our skull. It’s tethered at the corners to lead strings that vibrate every time we fall asleep. All would be well if we had a different kind of eyes. But there’s no time for such feats of engineering. A great leap forward with red paper streamers tied around our limbs.

Our best intentions. Our final offers. Our humblest apologies. Not even a pair of trousers. Scarecrows on the inside. Dream vacations on the outside. The plane takes off but never lands.

What Your Ambiguity Is Worth

The devotions are composed of sand. This insures a uniquely cantilevered delivery system. Think of the flower as a bruise on the tree. Think of a number between one and ten. On the other side of the mirror is an eleventh digit that hides somewhere between seven and eight. Here in its shadow we will tear our garments into strips. We’ll tie them to the branches so the wind can produce brief whispered manifestos. Seven pounds of shellac. That’s what your ambiguity is worth on the black market. It’s nice to know who’s an insect and who isn’t. The moon is slow and rides the ridge of the hills like a man on a three-legged horse.

Glass Beads Sewn Onto Your Skin

A way to convey the immensity of flies. A way to have the oak teach something to the sycamore. A way to undress you from another part of town. The bland massacre of our animal dreams occurs unabated. There will be vouchers for later compensation. There will be certain glass beads sewn into your skin. The Gods want to write something on your back, but are afraid to reveal the motions of their hands. Most prayers are threats dressed in fancy clothes to fool the casual observer. For the first time the Sorceress calls herself a sorceress. You tell my machine the name spelled by the undersides of your fingernails and all twelve eggs break at once. Don’t refer to this an omen. This is just what happens. The crescent moon bathes in the haze and keeps to herself just above the hills. Your eyes are full of a black sand that pours out when you lean over to see what’s crawling in the cracks in the concrete. Your breasts hang petulantly in your tank-top. Asking for something that makes them uncomfortable. The Star’s afraid of collateral

damage and demands residuals. There are more and more flies every day. That’s fecundity for you. Don’t look back. It’s a mouth. It’s a new day. It’s a dream shelved off from itself and folded into the cold air. So we can all be the Astronauts of our own personal disaster.

Mark Young

A line from Martin Van Buren There is a big red demon with a surprisingly small penis under Manhattan Bridge. Also there, such objects only as are clearly amplified by the bunch of beatniks who entered the parking lot just before we left— massive amounts of glass, a discarded bike, a "meditation for radio" by Samuel Beckett & dark areas of spinal manipulation. A 29-year-old man is expected to face a charge of animal cruelty. Abandoned trains have a different kind of charm.

The / gendered nature / of political literacy It is raining in the Crab Nebula. I had intended to sleep through until mid-morning; but now that it is raining I get up, make & pack a cut lunch leaving out the tomatoes which I will add later. There is enough sogginess around already. I abseil down to the community garden passing baskets of flowers heading in the opposite direction. My patch of saffron awaits. I chase the wildebeeste away, select some cherry tomatoes from a neighbor's plot. The growing pains of cyborgs attend my lunch like underworked waiters. They're prototypes for a new model— chains of proteins, similar to those found in most living organisms, have been spliced in so that they now

control their own evolution. The garden is their melting pot.

the Battlefords Honour the sacred. A mature oocyte contains approximately 105 mitochondrial DNA molecules as well as tailored team building programmes & retreats! Everything is related. In contemporary society an enclosed body of American 'domestic fiction' is untenable. The Natural Law is needed.

Using bats as a case study The steep mountains by the inner part of Ingelsfjorden show two feeding motions that transform this redundant site into a vibrant extension of the city. There are some minor variations in sounds, but the glottal feature that is associated with other banana social realist novels remains stable.

Churachandpur Bamboo or wooden art objects & the production of kiwi fruit have been abducted by three gunmen, cadres of a butcher shop which mostly deals chicken.

Janet Would Jerk Upward When Flossing Hacking at the brain with a pick & shovel during & just after contractions is one way of creating an appetite supressant. Wearing Yankee colors is another. That’s far too dry & d-i-y for some. They call upon an all too ready pool of volunteer doctors & nurses to help them, then wonder why they end up startup members of a Drum & Bugle Corps Competition. Carl Sagan has a lot to answer for.

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