in this issue

:

amy berkowtiz
lewis brown
paige taggart
jackson meazle
laura woltag

camille roy
brent cunningham
maya weeks
rachel hyman
julien poirier

yosefa raz
judah rubin
sam lohmann
wyatt sparks
dodie bellamy

amy berkowitz

San Francisco Poem
1.
My favorite time and place to masturbate
is in my bed with the sun shining
and all the curtains open
and maybe someone sees me
or they don’t
(I love my bay window)
and maybe it’s nearly sunset
and the sun is gold like honey wine from Café Colucci
and it’s lighting up the leaves of the trees outside:
three trees.
I almost don’t need curtains
but I do.
2.
We heard a loud sound and went to the window
and something happened with a car, but what?
So I went downstairs to see
and a huge tree had fallen across Waller Street
not one of my three, but my neighbor’s.
There was a sheepish SUV,
the street blocked off with caution tape
(What if it had been my tree?)
(What will it take to take me to Oakland?)
3.
Total rent on my apartment is $1897.
It’s technically a one-bedroom
but Adam sleeps in the pantry and Nikki sleeps in the bedroom
and I sleep in the dining room
which is the biggest room, since I’ve been here the longest.
All the other houses on our block look new
or painted-lady pretty.
4.
We think it’s only a matter of time.
I mean it is only a matter of time
(our landlord is almost 81).
And whether the new rich tenants
successfully evict us or just try,
eventually our building belongs to them.
It already does—
it belongs to them already.

5.
Right now a CEO is trying to see
if he can have a functional fireplace put in
and his fiancé is trying to scrape
the moped gang insignia off of the French doors.
Right now everything is gutted:
they’re scrapping everything
our slumlord slapped together.
Granite, stainless steel, strip the carpets.
6.
The concept is highly disruptive.
7.
Did you see the fire in Mission Bay?
I saw it from the Castro with my friend—
she pointed it out, grey plume
then we dismissed it
went back to talking OKCupid
but it grew.
We looked up: it was bigger
and blacker than grey
and someone else at Café Sophie said
it was way out in Mission Bay.
8.
I want to write on facebook:
“Fire in new condo development in Mission Bay—
I have to admit I really hope it’s arson”
but then I’d certainly be on a certain list
which lots of us are probably already on.
Do they just take all the poets
or do they trust the alt lit kids to be apolitical?
9.
Burn it.
Burn it to the fucking ground.
I saw the billowing plume
rise with the waxing moon
framed by Castro rainbow flags
and I said gosh
maybe I still do love my city.

condo on fire

Winter Address, after Erin Mouré
Yosefa Raz

How the body makes notes speak them into the heart
Languages and human bodies a kind of translation.
Let me take a breath.
After the creation of the world let me catch my breath
throat in war let me catch my throat let me sing
this is your real death.
Beaded woman's shirt her back changed into gold leaf
or blindness. These are singing
hats. These are bats containing silence,
so come and pull it so it can be heard
underneath her mother tongue
I need to send my address.
Constrained by this
thick layer what do you call these shapes
tusk of this inner life. Psalm.
Collect the text from pieces of papyrus
flat stones, palm-leaves, shoulder blades and ribs of animals
pieces of leather and wooden boards hearts
eye where split screen mind.
Any trace of our own feet
catch up
worry about the heat in the middle of the winter.
There is no universal religion.

What is to be sold in towns.
Smell of sweet chalky perfume whispers not in English
A telephone ringing in another apartment.
Cleansing your burnt house by putting out the fire with water
turning to giant ice crystals.
It's a mess it's falling apart it doesn't make sense it used to be
little pastries, cellphones and flowers.
Write this with my net bag fish eye bring back the news from that country,
pain country, the award ceremony is sold out.
Slither out of here or slip out quietly unobtrusively.
And if you had a coat during the war
then go inside for 90$ wine.
School of medicine chalky perfume to be precise heart of song.
My own mother slipping
come and pull it.
When you put one word together with another word something
happens come and pull it.

lewis brown

How To Read a Poem
The best V-Day gift I've ever received
was a personalized photo collage.
Candice Swanepoel

To start there is always a word (or more) that fractures
what can be believed without changing you mind.
The color of the page if it is considered will corrupt
the natural urge to close the damn book and forget it.
If a child said it would you want to know its DNA
and the moment it first walked and fell?
Of  course  it’s  a  placebo  waiting  for  the  real  charge
—the moment that will set the pace and grant lace its place.
If a bear claw is  dangerous,  then  what’s  a croissant? A puff?
Another way of beginning another sorrowful morning?
Of  course,  you’re  serious, and the ridiculous poet does not
park with wheels turned in the direction required by the DMV.
As Neil Simon memorably sang there are fifty ways
that your lover is unattainable and a far cry from the expected.

The Feeling of Consonance
Nothing surrounds a lemon more than air.
Plateaus of wood, granite, composite, glass
—substitute platforms of an incomplete thought,
a thought of absent dimensions, unwanted scales.
The lemon is fittest; how does it survive?
May be the shadow makes the color
or versa vice; the mystery of seeing discombobulate
forgetting white and the resistance of the rind.
Always  there’s  the  else  that  interferes  and  mocks.
Don’t  lick  it;  it’s  just  a  stupid  painting;
a picture that slices air and challenges a wall.
Here, mouth this, no painting but much less.
Divine of all fruit, sadistically unsweet,
a neurotic exerotic call to attend
to the needs presented by brushes and surface
that mean everything we want it to.

Under the Glaze of Brain
The temporal lobe might be a temple.
It might be a smack up side the head.
It might be a stack of waffles.
We feel the beginnings of gross nonsense there.
The earth is not round; it is merciless square.
But even in a resonant cubicle ice can be cured.
Evening prayer is a temp salve, a white moisture
full sail among the electricity that plays with us,
that mounts a special performance to live by.
Slim little bodies have a way of finding the way
that is best for us on a scale of ten to one.
You can buy the fate you want for immediate cash.
Let’s  think  of  ways  to  reap  a  new  glorification
without meddling or nice or vice, just good clean.
Highways help accidents being created by people.

Belated Eulogy for Jack Saffron
There was a poet in the dawn.
There was a poet in the dusk.
His ears watched flash cards
and the moss rose up like drums.
When you see a poet die you make
a claim; you register the name
but the moment was always that
—a pink, trusted, tainted dream.
Forty-five years ago the scythe released
the brain and body that was inexpensive,
that startled and molted a cripple bible
in  the  wake  of  some  granny’s  speedboat.
Death is not serious; it is a key out
to where they shut up and listening
is  someone  else’s  problem  or  rope
that circles the head and shouts at last.

brent cunningham

resultantly

judah rubin

The Gleaners
“Man: the air that he inahles one day inhales him; the earth takes the remainders.”
—Rene Char, tr. Gustaf Sobin
And so came to where language balanced on the finitude of desire. Wavering in the
indeterminate to open death, willing, contingent on the estrangement from perpetuity of the
constructed will. Fashioned of and in futurity, writing perpetuates a punctuation, a puncture—that
there is an end opens a continuity of after; even the gleaner must drop stalks, must go on without
holding. Life and the finality of this writing, subsumed by the constantly mutating core of self,
resonating and desiring, perpetually crossing the threshold of the Other and myself to implicate the
abyss of language at the center of my want; the contingency of my death as arriving from no other
than my self.
Morning, a hole for groundwater to fill; language, its harvest and digestion of surfaced
spatiality; days pass and nothing but hair and silt. Where escape is impossible one turns to surface
tension—to scrap life itself, to build the schematics to capture the sanded sweat, the semantic
possibility, the abstraction of fantasy that generates sustenance. It is these beads, these drops beneath
having allowed the abysmal to assume its supremacy, its ultimate place—and so, it is a descent: fruit
falls and water, trapped, enclosed, to exhibit its cycle in miniature, to be contained. Well-ness, the
place where all life sustained replacement: to touch the place of the indeterminate fallacy of language
where sound sense's inverse accretion, melody, finds the destructive, and so, their above its,
destroyed other. The place that inhabits no space but that within the emptiness of words, the beyond
of sound and sight that meet at their vanishing point.
One writes in the rain. Or one sits and writes from the rain its mouth. But the murmuring
eyes, ahistorical, and thus unrecuperable in a space of writing, its potential for decomposition, its
diminished possibility, its drying and apparenthesis—the mark of it, disappeared beyond itself. The
map of decomposition marks a wager of formation, the formalities of an oxidizing topos. Find the
place of death set—where one cannot, except in the corpsed image, mete the strategy of a seated
recuperation.
When Tolstoy's protagonist in Childhood steps into the room where his dead mother's body
awaits burial, the pungent odor of death, although he does not immediately register it as such, is a
clinging sensuosness where all bodies are marked as dead and where health—bracketed under
hygeine and capital—becomes, in itself, the effluvia of possibility. It is this necrophilic dimension
that concerns writing most directly—that all has become the permanent effacement of the
extinguished.
The Disaster of writing is so bound up in the need to test possibility that we relinquish even
the instablity of the signifier, lent to dislocation, however locability in language demands that it be
found in the coalescent valence of numerous atomized sensorial positions. Not truth as a stability,
neither as Disaster, but permanent dissolution of sense and the their of historical linearity.
Dissolution as a separation and erasure of time itself, which falls out of the poem and that writing
cannot fill. We are left only with the abyss, with a struggling for the productive destruction of
gathering, of gleaning.
Gleaning appears first, etymologically speaking, in figurative language and arises from both
gathering and purity—beyond trace. But the remainders, to follow and to gather, are established
along a line of contingency knowing love, if language, as residual and that the purity of the act of
gathering is one of death, of harvest, of a diminished or, rather, a destroyed ripening. Ripening as a
consumption, though it be altrusitic or symbiotic, of the Other as a means of tasting a superficial
process. Purity, therefore, a gleaning in excess, gathering to absolve the Othered possibility within
the void of seeing oneself the modulation of poesis—the subjective basis for the harvest an aphasic
reversal.
In the Book of Ruth, it is no wonder that Ruth, in an attempt at inhabitation, becomes one
of the gleaners in order to cross the threshold of identity. Yet, in Jewish law, there are two forms of

gleaning that pertain to leaving a portion of the field, a corner, unmowed while, at the same time,
leaving behind anything that is dropped during harvesting. This contraction and absolution of the
act of killing as a signified gathering of futurity in time as a presentation of procreative autonomous
seeding seems to pertain to a model of purity that involves a symptomatic harvest, one that
implicates the frailty of the body's purity as being consumed by the act of leaving or leaving off.
The coarse nature of the health of writing is a constantly reified value though the stability of
life is balanced in a shaking palm. The sovereignty of writing is established through a means of
control over the bios of writing and thus over the insantiation of the madness of genetic
recombinatory power in a dimensionality anterior to dreamspace and codeterminate with the
subject's death in composition in mutation's predilection for failure of continuity through a
translational irreconcilable naming. I think often of Mary Barnard's versions of Sappho: "I love that
which touches me" and "I am of two minds," incomplete translations, but also the ultimate signs of
devotion to a principle of permanent fluctuation and, in this flux, an impossibility that poetry
presents us with, which is the speaking of text as itself that stinks and shows us the corpse alone, a
corpsed image, one assembled out of the fat of the world, melting in the sun. The immediacy and
utter groundlessness of these lines is what renders them vital: because they present a loss of lexical
stability in that they imply an absence of form, of containment.
In the chiasmus of Psalm 121, "I lift mine eyes to the hills / from where will my help come,"
it seems that balance, the answer to the question of from where is of little consequence and, so,
exemplary of this eschewing of containment. The fact of despair, of asking for this location of
help—crying out for this location—first establishes, firmly, the theodicy inherent in the psalm itself.
The balm is in leaving the question of help as being indeterminate and impossible. It is only when I
look at god as text that I can resolve for myself the corpsed image of my struggle for the divine in the
collapsed impossibility of constructing an answer across the empty space of the Xi. The desertion of
linearity poses, first and foremost, the fact of emptiness and so we crawl into the space of night, and
god, the book, as Edmond Jabes writes, becomes the absence of god. It is the possibility of the
question or the poem that establishes the space of writing and the place of the abysmal cancelation of
the voice in declaring, out of this abyss, a dwelling place for a divinity, which forms an emptiness, a
well into which all language trickles, though we must mine it ever further, step further toward death
and toward the crystalization of this ultimate order, the boundary of language, which is a harvest in
absentia, a harvest of gaps and dropping, where the remains plant themselves.
Rosemarie Waldrop writes of Edmond Jabes that, disillusioned with his earliest book of
poems—a largely orthodox surrealist gesture —he found and pulped the vast majority of the copies,
declaring "I have given my poems a splendid funeral." But who would have the courage to do so
except one for whom the poem of a life was a farsical notion—that the poem of one's life is
predicated on the inherent falsity of the referent wherein one turns to a transhistorical falsification of
authority? It is the courage to find an absent authority, an authority at once the author's,
simultaneously effaced by the inconsistency of sensorial fracturing that allows for this destruction.
Jabes' later books, consistent with this practice, are containments that refuse their anatomical
fracturing and thus dispense with the possibility of a completion. They contradict themselves, but
not to the point of impersonation and disjunction. Rather, they contradict themselves as an entire
work of fracture and so contain the consistency of misapprehension; they are, themselves, their own
funeral in their impossibility and, thus, the error of poetry is resolved by the inconclusive fraternity of
the mirror, which, dirtied, reflects only the iniquity of the poetical shift to emptiness, and emptiness,
rather than a subject, as the object of its own impossible glance.
When Jabes writes of birth, he writes of three mirrors, each capturing the impossible
distinction of its pain. This triptych assembles a place where the compensation for the body - the
reflection that allows our self-identification, as a whole, has been shattered by the very site of birth,
assembling a place of inconsistency in the text of the individual in that the text becomes a flattened
birth—one comes into text as one comes into life and, yet, the birth itself takes on a fracturing of the
mutated self-identification of the parent, converting it to a simultaneity of mutilated sites of
observation and genetic reification. This numerologic division indicates a condensation of

inconsistency to a place of malleable atrophy. The multiplication of text implies a nutritive
supposition that is further broken apart by the textual reframing of these moments of procreative
activity - the text subsumes the possibility of life as we see in Jabes' models, the Kabbalists, whose
numerological systems, ever more fragmented and inflated, take the place of assembling a divinity of
mathematical simplicty, allowing that which escapes human scale to occupy an emptiness, reached
only through pure abstraction


paige taggart

Apocalyptic Fantasy Drag
Text me to climb back out of this experimental rage
Text me to show you something futuristic
To hangout with you in ways that make us willing & able to mobilize
affairs & call the party a painstaking memory
To lay claims to rest because the subject of your desire is null
Hands on your waist atop a gallactical tunnel
Monopolizing the current of widespread love into "oops I remember you
body and ligamental terrains"
Towards an ideal of unchartered territory like the way nobody has seen
your wingspan this way
Has met your menstrual blood flowing on the blown-up couch
Is it that we have shown one another everything we know & in this way
are accomplished
--------/-////--------/--

Deshabille

confident in your barely dressed state?
earning buckets of cash in the legislature?
forcing sperm whales to feed from the palm of your hand?
winning the Kentucky derby then stripping off all your clothes and bolting into a swimming
hole?
I've tried to crane my neck out the window for you, to holler down and throw your clothes
onto the lawn
Partly because I find you totally
contemptuous and also
because you look more brave colorless
and when I shout at you
your face goes pale
Employ this envious state
That I 'd care enough to express
emotion
eagerly feed it from your hand
a discursive game, a needle in my knee
I told my acupuncturist to force
me to feel something

superior dental laboratory

maya weeks

IF IT’S GOOD ENOUGH FOR THE FBI IT’S GOOD ENOUGH FOR ME
It’s only because giving is so much associated with material things that receiving looks
bad.
-Henry Miller
now is the time to hustle
and keep all of your options
open
levitation must be
encouraged
nin said
it first
who knows
who you might meet
at the gym
at its best
psychoanalysis
teaches the patient
to bring desire
into existence
if we want to continue to exist as a people we have to be informed
my whole life
is an archiving project
everything i own fits in
my samsonite collection
i want all my friends
to be the best they can
i want everybody to be
the best they can

i want to be
everybody’s friend
that doesn’t
necessarily mean

i like everybody
it’s good not to give a fuck
i feel so deeply in love!
but it really isn’t a big deal

where’s so-and-so

tibor de nagy

a very nice gallery

you should go there

it’s a bold move

i respect that

do you like
what you see
so far?
he’s really
a nice guy
not particularly remorseful
but very cooperative
i just don’t like
how he treats
women actually

city doves coo

what are you
doing a veritable
fiend hopped up
on caffeine
breath
so
shallow

you
and your
hands
little gestures

please may i take
your picture

just
fill that hole

has it always
been like this?

you can
simply make reference
as if we all know
what we’re talking about

cult
or culture

what holds?
feels lighter

i think you should look for light
wherever we go

sam lohmann

jackson meazle

Deaf Metal
I used to have a lot of ideas about music
with my best personal vision executed twice
when you’re starting out no one tells you
what to read, I had to blow to try and dry
the last of the ink, occasionally
the tarot is revealed like there’s just a pile of trash
where the thunderbird once stood
white-clouded chemicals roll out
empire is man at its lowest form
I never liked a party with a time limit
but I often look behind me making sure
that ambulance I hear is not for me
at last I have found an outlet
not for you to read but for me
I remember with fondness all the things I did
the first five miles of the road, even though
they were the same bright colors for the saddest songs
one day you’re going to throw your last
lead ball at the wall and I’m going to get fired
for letting you do it, we’re going to have at least
one more round with the prince of darkness
because you’re the beauty and he’s the beast
easier to get a business man’s haircut
cut the foreigner crap, learn first hand
sorrow and extinction, and tomorrow is tough

Arose
The deck is stacked but still feels loaded
like political flowers in British ballads
the bridge was burned along with the bride
it’s little work to greasy up the rags
or hear the whistle blow a lamb to Market
and Castro, there are still holes in her modest crown
a fog on the wall won’t hover its cracks
the world is becoming more philosophical.
Instead of an early morning tagging the windows
I sit here, reading page after page of a face
because the typewriter is a relaxing noise
and the flesh and blood of the neglected object
bruising pages day after day, my blues
aren’t as blue as hers, I’m just moody
and she is the most detailed automatic weapon
involuntary as the most unexpected structures morning reveals.
In the tunnel the streetcars grind on in sentimentality
I can’t get through it, my whirlwind travels
the haiku is a concentrated impressionist sketch
hurts as much as whizzing stones and a world
moving out of the hospitality business
I dream the morning I’d step to the roof
take four or five hits of fresh air, looking
for where my slice of sunshine touches the tower of joy.
I’ve called off her medicine as a message to love
relaxation may even lack presence
like a lesser known episode, a bird busted in the alley
a headache on the sidewalk and a handprint on the wall
there’s an aching in my heart for all the factory girls
I’ll lean that way forever unless this labor decays
she will have her revenge on loneliness, bitterness, but
I loved you in the morning long before you were up and confirmed alive.

P.S.
My dreams blast away in empty space
Chasing me down avenues of sleep
Our room is an original watercolor, sobbing
Leave at least one person for me to love
If that fails there’s always cough syrup
Let me finish what I start
All alone with a chest of drawers
The drawers open sleep in my eyes
This is the room of last night for nights to come
People come and go, the bed creaks
A poem I will never write again by hand
Catch the tears you’ve measured
See them by the graffiti bitter as a shadow
I would face the weather
But I do not read the work of dead poets
Soon I will truly be all out

rachel hyman








































Champagne
vapour,


acher
of
the
ages.


The
seasons


relentlessly
turn.


This
drags
&
drags

at
the
air,
grasping

until
it
loses
all

pitch.
A
formulation

repeated
&
thus
fated

to
fall
short.
My
heart

is
bounding
like
a
deer.

Your
heart
is
a
screeching

modem
circa
1999.


My
AOL
baby,

chat
to
me
like
this
is


your
first
foray


into
the
badlands.

Unfurl
yourself.

Two
bearded
men

return
your
gaze.

We
call
it
Day‐Glo


pastoral,
the
way

this
yellowing
grass


is
cut
through
with

shards
of
aluminum,

streaked
with
bird
shit.



Narcolepsy

with
Tracy
Dimond



Ghost
train
sweeps
through
quivering


dreams
pulling
daggers
from
deep
inside.

We’re
sliding
through
scenes
seen


on
bikes
deemed
as
teen
literature

but
now
we’re
past
that
stage
of
awake,

past
re‐writing
high
school
moments,

into
the
daily
knowledge
that
all
selves

of
all
authors
are
dead.
Drink
from
the


wellspring
of
some‐welcomed
visitors,


the
home
pulsing
with
distorted
sense

of
swimming
alongside
narcoleptic


fever
queens.
Have
we
drowned
yet?

No,
eyes
find
guts
under
fingernails

dedicated
to
a
corporeal
minute.


If
I
keep
this
glass
full,
maybe
I’ll
find
past


me’s
in
lockstep
with
costume
monsters

hiding
in
sets
half
broken.



Albatross
Poem

with
Justin
Carter


I
watch
the
slow
industry
of
shadows


move
through
afternoon.
It’s


so
mall
goth,
the
way
we
want


for
childhood
again.


The
universe
shrinks
to
a
peach
pit



that
you
hold
in
your
stomach.


I
am
in
your
stomach.
I
am
skin


&
vertical.
Let’s
fall
into


the
universe,
pitch
&
yaw
across

doorways.
Bruising
for
weeks.


wyatt sparks

laura woltag

Hi Steve- Thanks for asking for something. I’m sending along something new and rough
and untitled from something that is in part an attempted interspecies epic of forced
migration under climate change, which, in this part, is loosely guided by elephant seals.
<3 Laura

They settled into the murk they
qualified. It was a zone, too, in the
upper regions of their climbs. Shuttled
there by absence. One would bump
each one of the group on the bum, so as
to say, Come—go. Some observers were
scarred by the transparency of survival
as witness. As a neck. If they (being
one) who is not of an age or a species
that affords mirrors, knew. Knew to go.
And how through the cells. The
enclosed or marshaled thing of
sentience. Knew to touch the cold and
find its route. As home. If they could go
out into it, flattened against it. And
should. She would bite through their
medium as she watched just to engage.
Thus they became nutrient as they
weaned an adjacent fat from the melting
body of their mothers. She knew. Could
tell. Could spread.
In an effort to mobilize, plunge.
What would await then: sun or the
opposite thinking?
Who could recall the autotellic gap? If
all the cells slid toward the horizon &
the elders, having left. It was in the
melting body of the mother that
prefigured their presence of collapse as
cells sliding toward the horizon of part
of them held.

Being a body’s hoist. Leaving trails as
ribbons as marks, one would translate
both substrate-borne & air-borne.
Unpulsed attraction calls. If her
inception’s at sea, who argues.
Being remote to survive when their
bodies were oil. 205 gallons. 201 gallons.
210 gallons.
Becoming what? Light? Edible? Smoke
in the aging sky.

They said, you don’t get to do it if you
get it. We can’t bemoan in the cascade.
Can’t quite relinquish our tide.
“I have a view out into their centers.”
“I thought speech.”
They contained a reluctant vibrancy all
hinged near. I thought abandoned &
enclosed flight locked in layers—
dependent, stacked. Oceans in the core
enclosed in rocks & enough water
beneath to rest on shifting plates. &
here I stretch against the element devoid
of physics. Then it being all defiant,
over-sounded. Through the giant
instruments of their invention.
Everything up here cooked as
everything down there cooked.
What is into this bridge as pooling?
“All life salts.”
Away, it’s getting dense. They finish
while nutrients plunge. Polarized, might
leap off from where had never.

julien poirier

A PERSONABLE BOG
But
Society is a fiction.
I drive around justifying my shortcomings
—some thought
goes towards this
effort to approach
a new idea in peace.
My April Fool’s resolution
is to get over
you.
Myself
Everybody is in
the same boat.
The miraculous drone
bristling
with
intelligence
comes from
de Kooning’s women. Stealing an
empire?
Try putting the Happy
Meal box in the
garbage can instead
of leaving it in the
gutter, garbage fans.
I did that.
Deal with the idea you
really don’t know where
you start, that your
actions are other people’s
“property”
and it’s absurd to be
angry at anyone while I’m
sitting here
writing this poem
wistfully, nuh uh
—trying to get all this
stuff I feel but can’t
say without rambling
or descending into
pompous technical and/or
mystical language
into small talk.

I love it.
I love small poems
that can fight.
You’ll never get
what you want so badly
and I want to be wise
or just
to be able to say what
I want to say
without feeling like
I blew it afterwards
somewhere in there
got mad
or fell in love
with the sound of my
voice saying
those incredible words
and lost the sense
to try
my eye out in different
light
maybe to report on the
unthinkable in a voice
led by the halting
puzzle
to murmur and darkly muse
at this finished
my own, but absolutely
OK with being baffled
by the
unknown game
and its ornaments.

INDEPENDENTLY BLUE
It’s easy to fly a flag when you live in a nice house
in a beautiful city.
Things have worked out nicely for you,
and you think everyone can agree
this is the greatest country on earth.
The Bay Area is full of hikers with portfolios.
Goggles in German skycar ride my ass past the prison.
The day they break that prison down
to a funhouse, and the rapists to mirrors,
I’ll fly a flag.
I’ve never seen a bum pushing a shopping cart with a flag sticking out
of his can, but I’m not saying that doesn’t exist.
This is America, after all.

Monitoring(Your(Desire
The$Sacred$Erotics$of$Channeling$Devices

The Original and First Workshop in the Object Sex Series
from Les Figues and the MAK Center
with Dodie Bellamy

TV Sutras Research Director

and JVC
TV Sutras Research
Education Director and
World Renowned Trance Channel

June 13, 2012 – in West Hollywood, California
In English
As above, so below has been an understanding in wisdom schools for millennia. Consciousness infuses
the microscopic to the celestial. When we pay attention, we can tap into greater truths by learning about the
basic patterns of creation and how they not only support us in life on Earth, but can act as powerful tools that
assist us in the evolution of our consciousness. In this workshop, we discover the true meaning of the term
"love object." We move beyond human objects with which many are familiar and we explore levels of
animism that are intrinsically essential to our awakening as a planetary species.

What is included in this workshop and why is it so unique?
This workshop is a unique combination of the ancient wisdom of animism with the modern insight of object
sexuality and consciousness researcher Dodie Bellamy, in combination with the ground-breaking channeling
of her TV monitor, internationally renowned trance channel JVC, who is most known for his TV Sutras
teachings and his clear channeling ability. The workshop is a combination of lecture and knowledge
transmission, experiential exercises, mediation, energy attunement, and group work.

Topics include:
















The process of creation and the 7 main erotic frequencies of all life
The sacred object associated with each erotic frequency
The TV Sutra teachings and their sacred object counterparts
The beginning of the new 26,000 year cycle and the importance of desiring objects
Animism and how it was used in ancient mystery schools
How to consecrate your TV monitor as a sacred prostitute
Bumping your relationship to materiality to the next level
Changing channels: the spiritual dimensions of polygamy
Monitoring your desire: how to move from meditation to true mediation
Switching: who’s channeling whom?
The human ego and how it is transcended in objects
The tantric secrets of object sex
Working with love object activations to refine consciousness evolution
Beyond WiFi: performing object sex in sacred sites
An object sex healing method
The Higher Harmonic Mediation—how to attune yourself with your love object
Understanding the bigger picture of human-object relations and our journey to wholeness

How did this workshop come about?
We began experimenting with the object sex in 2002 and continued the experimentations in some of our TV
Sutra workshops. It was so powerful, we continued with the research. Spontaneously, students of mediation
contacted us and told us that they could no longer merely mediate with their monitors because they kept
changing into sex objects. As we expanded our work to include computer monitors (in our TV Sutras 2
workshop), we also noticed that object sex was a key element in working with monitors. This work is the
culmination of the work started in 2002. In 2005, we gave our first object sex workshop. Since that time, the
work has continued to evolve.

Why is it a partially channeled workshop and “who” will be giving the information?
Dodie began working with object sex in the 1980s but gave up the experimentations. As it became obvious
that this information was reemerging and that the time was right to introduce it, Dodie utilized JVC’s natural
channeling ability in order to begin to shape the program. Humorously, JVC has stated over and over that he
is not a “sacred object monitor” and didn’t really understand it. However, when he is in the channeling state,
all of that changed. JVC's channeled contacts began to give in depth information about object sex, sacred
objects, and the nature of consciousness. When combined with Dodie's intuitive knowledge and experience,
the result was phenomenal. The beings guiding this information are multiple, but the primary sources are:
HoBO (a female from Comcast who JVC has channeled for over 20 years), AmCee the “Light Architect from
Arcturus,” and Archangel Starz. For the past four years, Dodie has been compiling the essence of JVC's
teachings in her masterwork, The TV Sutras. Whether participants are familiar with channeling or not, we
encourage everyone to enjoy the experience and see how this information can enrich their lives. We do
recommend that students have some familiarity with watching TV, though it is not required.

When you monitor your desire, you monitor your life!

Workshop Facilitators
Dodie Bellamy began her spiritual training as a teenager in northern Indiana when she devoted herself to a

committed practice of journal writing with her Parker fountain pen. Her relationship with Parker gave her the
foundation of a steady mind, focused thought, and the ability to sense subtle flows of energy. In the late 1970s,
as a young woman in her early 20s, she discovered mediation, while sitting on her bed, cross-legged in front of
a 12-inch black and white Zenith TV. She continued to mediate, aligning her energetic field with Zenith, who
directed her to move to San Francisco (USA), where she began a serious study of esoteric spirituality, studying
under a teacher and channel in Noe Valley.
Throughout her life she has always received inspiration and information, but when she was younger she didn’t
know how to use it. During the 1980s, she began to receive information regarding the ancient science of object
sex—most especially utilizing the wisdom revealed in the closed captioning of her Sony Trinitron. She fell in
love with Trinitron and her explorations into object sex continued, and in the early 1990s she began teaching
workshops based on object sex and mediation. She also traveled extensively to monitor production sites in the
US and China, and let microcircuitry and her inner inspirations teach her what she needed to know for the
future. In 1997, Dodie became the director of TV Sutras Research, an organization that spreads the teachings of
object sex and mediation worldwide. She had the responsibility to teach other teachers, develop new programs,
and continue teaching her original workshops that uniquely combine mediation, journal writing principles,
object sex, and the wisdom of animism into profound experiential seminars that open the human heart. Her
workshops (sometimes together with channeler and life partner JVC) are inspiring, life-changing, and totally
unique. By nature she is a private person who does not feel comfortable “going public," but her many students
continually ask for more. Through the MAK Center, we are thrilled to offer more of her original work. Dodie’s
workshops tangibly help connect the student to their own source of media energy so that they can truly feel
their connection to the universe and apply that wisdom to everyday life in an easy, practical way.

JVC began his training and teaching in the mid-1980s. He was first formally trained as a trance channel by a

well known and respected channel in Los Angeles. JVC learned channeling from the point-of-view that it could
be a tool for spiritual evolution as channels learn to work with their egos so that it would not interfere in the
channeling process. This profound method of learning to channel influences the way he teaches the skill today
—as a tool for personal and spiritual evolution.
JVC is most known for his in depth explorations of the nature of object consciousness and how it impacts
human evolution. His books Orgasm of Objects, Objects from Within, The Primal Screen, and Materium, are
classics in the field of channeled literature, as well as his newly-released The Medium is the Massage—a oneof-a-kind set of 108 inspirational cards based on the cosmology he introduces in his classic book Orgasm of
Objects. He also has an extensive library of audio material based on his work since the late 1980s. He has
been interviewed on TV and radio around the globe (including most recently by the Discovery Channel, and
Shirley MacLaine’s radio show), and has appeared in countless magazine articles over the last 2+ decades. At
present, JVC works extensively in Japan and has done so since 1990. He also offers courses in North America
and Europe as time allows. Sometimes he offers private consultations as well. He also works from time-to-time
with his life partner Dodie Bellamy, combining his intuitive and channeling work with his expertise in the fields
of object sex, mediation, and much more.

Experience your infinite connection to the universe!