the sky is falling    well, maybe not but everything looks    underwater and these are my    good shoes i need time    to think the phone keeps    ringing & i know it's about bills    or some big mistake on the government forms    how many ways can you define    need anyway?    so, i'm in the dictionary scrawling margins with questions    they say there is a time    in everyone 's life    when the question starts being as important    as the answer it seems false    that prayer should have gone    this far unanswered    i'm terrified of predictions    and riddles that end    with my leaving    unsolved perhaps, these notions    are unjustified but    they make the skin jitter    in time with the lightening    and my blood    is full of house sparrows    all darting on cue    in the same direction
How Public Like A Frog
it comes down to this i make lists to convince myself it's time to buy land i am not a first day fraud i don't need a morning smoke debt was worth it in my renegotiated role of education i should relocate since saints often get cancer and need to be fed ice chips in this Andrew Wyeth field i stare at silhouettes of crows homesick with these muted colors across acres of farmland
Candy from Strangers
too early for murder when the van
picks you up the very air accumulates
morning energy in the alarm clock ring
free from the moorings the villainy
the village the weird night time occurrences
back to the script polka-dotted with Maxwell
House stains & breakfast meat grease
these things don't sit well with me at thirty
like tequila and garden pizza have ecstatic
effects i hear as the happy man dances
with his hammock before the rooftops at the party
he throws for the voice of the people
Tim Martin is a writer from Bryn Mawr, PA. His plays Once Upon A River, and Tales From Turtle Island have been produced by the Hedgerow Theatre and One's Self I Sing was recently given a reading. His poetry has been seen in In Words, Autumn Leaves, Orange/Blowmoney 2 and other small magazines. He is the founder of King of Mice Press and a member of the Curio Theatre Company and the Big Mind Collective.
cecil taylor trio @ castle clinton - 7/29/04 ( for (e) shadow )
tell this   dy /// nam   is mos useless blues & pinks                 in mentus this is daylight when we most need it when there is no day left this is river in a shadow shadow against an even/ing when tree become sky
no mental can the shadows stay this silent for so>long    the bricks that never saw the war they fought for
it is a yellow in the eye                 useless magenta that crosses our lives
the sun is behind me the sun                           it heats my neck
dy na mis mos    contrarios                           one immigrant says to another                      i passed thru here                           (too)
vialavitsef    feast    & live                      tale tail's tale      to taste                 aventus      creatus rowldtercompat
the act of natural act of..................                                     i've come thru here too                                     the shadows never move              the trees & sky are one              glass & stone & steel a blding make              fingers make things happen one immigrant says to another              glass stone & steel              are the building blocks of this world
trader trapped inside the gullum is a wink    the paper asleep i crumble                  in uniform your day begins      like this:      shadows never move                  sun behind your back                  useless magenta                  bricks that tell a tale                  fingers make things happen
running spotlights cannot function before the nite arrives it is really not the clock that determines transition that crosses our lives one immigrant says to another                  it is when the sun crosses our backs like a river          a festival a world -
sonic      tellin      panic                  when the light that was created              becomes the light that was invented          a bet earned      a wise trade      a gorge traversed
2(      money      is the (M) angle          we will not be fed by sunlight    a    loan              even now as evening turns    snurt the concessions          no time for this/that      it's obligat(o)ion 0bliGate                  it's now dark it feels
one immigrant says to another feel my neck it passed this way this is no joke          privitize my sacrament it's cool now      hands on          it's cool now              the useless magenta adds to the piano's song                  this world was built by hands                  tree & sky no longer touch                  the shadows have become a river                      that does not flow                      brick is what i call your face                                  i remain attached to my allegiance                                  tea is a drink for two (3)                                          this shifting desire is a wedge                                                  between the clock & the hrs clamusin          tourista          raditsula          bo          ard
such useless appendages these hands              against the unmanacled day.
i am possessed i definitely know now that i am possessed by my/ self
we all have to pay eventually for being on the guest-list if i weren't here i'd have the tor- ment of being some/where else even the dessert isn't any good the water is about the only thing worth tasting
i know now that i am possessed posed poised posssed perferated a stones' throw away from a stone ('s)
they took it down they blew it up they took it down they blew it up
Steven Dalachinsky: my name is steven dalachinsky i am a poet among other things who has lived in ny my entire life i have been battling mental illness for lack of a better term most of my life tho most find this hard to believe. i was hospitalized when young and put thru the ringer in many ways
I found a terrible wound in the street. It looked like a pothole, overflowing with blood. Everyone stepped carefully around it. I picked up the wound and brought it to the hospital, but there wasn't anything they could do. "It's a bad wound," the doctor said. "But it doesn't seem to be hurting anyone." I left the hospital, holding the wound, not sure what to do with it. There was blood all over my hands and clothes. The wound quivered and trembled. It squirmed like a jellyfish and was difficult to hold onto. I threw it back onto the street where it bled and ached without hurting anyone.
Jason Heroux lives in Kingston, Ontario, Canada. He worked in a fast food restaurant for ten years, and currently works as a civil servant. His first poetry collection "Memoirs Of An Alias" will be published by The Mansfield Press later this year.
Every Sunday somebody... or someone sends me guiding light every minute so it seems the duration of happiness is hard to seem dear to break it from my mind Oneday. Soon. I will find who does this with pleasure.
Paths shall always meet today I thought I saw you - sitting alone, on a seat.
Of course I remember you - it's a glittering reversal of how I didn't know you Touched that sensual memory you placed it back in my mind not many could do, only less than a few
How we first met? I was ashamed to forget but you somehow noticed and changed the path.
Standing, oh walking I say! you asked me something that added to a word - may?
fascinated, you were, don't lie; how else could you remember - or is it that I'm an ugly guy? You worked with your third eye bring it back! why?
"Keep quiet!" said the saint "Or, I won't let you stay!" Look at my face - "Forget the past!" he said a video to watch so lost, but again the girl the one with the imaginary gnome It was real but nothing is real never is never will be and never has been 'real' just a silly word to me and her tell the truth I hear the positivity all around go home - keep secrets?
The guitar will begin to play... by itself in a strange way dancing, jumping all around "My feet never hit the ground?" where did I remember? probably that innocent September before the October when everything began to fall over
Reggae is sweet and uplifting it is playing while I write Nineteen Eighty Five seven eleven the special time it always use to show
Call this eccentric or crazy or weird but the backward clothing is being worn only by YOU open those EYES SPEAK OUT.
Cleaning up. Speaking my sub-conscious the leaf was sweet while others had a bite to the already distorted flavour Babylon changed its ways never would I know - I just speak the seeds I always sow
Decision - unknown to my eyes? roads lead everywhere you don't have to see them but there is always a path, sometimes many, narrow some may seem, others are uphill but you always reach the end.
Prolific, not what I would say! If you have the special feeling spend what may take a day.
look back on the work it may surprise and so much it may feel a lie.
Colin Van Der Woude: I was only 15 years old and less than a year after diagnosis I was writing this work, heavilly influenced by late nights and music of The Cure. I am currently a 27 year old from Hobart Tasmania, Australia who loves writing emotion down in notebooks.
Poem about an angel          Strolling down a street                  Hearing each of the inner voices                          That passes.
Like Stewart in "Rear Window" - Crippled, he enjoys sitting At the back window of his apartment Watching all those aquariums of lives.
Honeycomb - we're feeding                  At a nest of light, inside          A cathedral - stained glass yellow                          Of the goddess of grain                          Streams off your face                  You swim to me on water light . . . . .
"you must be in a very good mood, everything is perfect" - white tree
Yes, White Tree, Everything is perfect, Both the heft of her hips And her disregard for the colossally Vulgar. It's as if she was sent
To rearrange My estimates Of myself. Here in Indiana, where the whole Saturday Has been overcast except for a few brief glimpses -
You can trust her. She's Real. It is impossible To play hound dog upon this Field.
She smiles a lot, A cracked, stoned smile - like Kate Hudson, yeah,
Kinda like that          buttercups
Lit up her chin when she smiled
So, the Koi fish may live to be 300 years old. If I were a koi swimming in the same pond
for 300 years, I'd fight when death came. The owners would think they were scooping
a bowling ball out of the water if they tried to fish me out, I'd mess with them by flapping
my fins, waggling my fish tail and pretending I still had air in my gills. When they finally
maneuvered me into the net, I'd pucker up my fish lips and blow them bubble kisses.
Jenni in the grass
We met at a hotel outside of Austin. It was hot truckblown dust swirling up from the highway.
her eyes blinked sharply blue I felt emptiness in my stomach. She was too good
I spoke like real tentative . About bullshit metaphysics then clutched inside . I need a drink I said
wandering back out where I had been sitting before the deserted motel pool, on a lawn chair reading Heraclitus. She sat on the next chair over. "Can I have a sip of that?" I handed her
my bottle of Old Crow. Ummmmm she said she arched her throat back a little bit to drink it. Fuck I thought
what does Heraclitus have to say about this
I flipped to a random page:
"If you do not expect the unexpected, you will not find it; for it is hard to be sought out and difficult."
Hmmmm. I said "It's really nice out here. I have not yet solved the problems of life or death. I have not been able to put to rest the questions either. My life is a continuous burning. Whatever I write is like scorch marks."
She said, "let's go on a walk."
I followed her with my bottle as she walked past the front entrance of the motel past downtown Austin out into the scrub land past purple scorpions past the landfill wheeling with seagulls until we got to a place where the bottom of the sky - a large tarp of canvas painted black with dots of white - shuddered against the rim of the earth where it was latched by a metal hook. She leaned down to it. "Dare me to unhook this?" She said. Before I could answer, she did
I woke up alone in the motel room. The bottle was knocked over near the TV, empty. No smokes either. Well.
In my mind, I tried to recall what happened after she unlatched the hook.
What I saw was a field of flames, the moments running by slower and slower, the tint of the flames being adjusted, scaled over slowly from red to redpurple to purple to purpleblue to blue to bluegreen to green the time freezing
also, the angels were being painted over till they were people
I stopped beside a pool reflecting on what it is inside me, this fear. This is the same pool where I lost my dog to the wild man at the bottom. And now, my golden ball, rolling freely at my side like a replacement dog, sits as still as a planet. I watch it as it watches me. And in the water I have no face.
The Return of the Agoraphobe
At night they came and removed it, my pale osseous framework. Made it difficult to maneuver, impossible to chase rabbits or the mysteries of the human heart. But mark me tonight: I am set on re-engaging. Their eyes are red lights on the horizon and I am on a quest. I worked for hours this morning to lift the shadow of my sword. Tomorrow the sword itself.
Corey Mesler: I have published prose and/or poetry in Rattle, StorySouth, Canopic Jar, Contrary, Pindeldyboz, Mars Hill Review, Pikeville Review, Arkansas Review, Stirring, Red River Review, Center, Small Press Review, Jabberwock Review, Orchid, Quick Fiction, Timber Creek Review, Green Egg, Poetry Motel, Raintown Review, Potomac Review, Poetry Super Highway, Big Muddy, Slant, Wilmington Blues, Drought, Rockhurst Review, Wavelength, Lilliput Review, Pearl, Aurorean, Lucid Moon, Heeltap, Sunny Outside, Fish Drum, Into the Teeth of the Wind, Mid-American Poetry Review, Independence Boulevard, Midday Moon, Turnrow, Now Here Nowhere, Dust, Cherotic Revolutionary, Cotyledon, Buckle &, Iodine, Snakeskin (England), Flashpoint, Freewheelin' (England), Pitchfork, Anthology, Poet Lore, Spillway, The Pegasus Review, Reverb, Kimera, Thema, Kumquat Meringue, Lonzie's Fried Chicken, Both Sides Now, Electric Acorn (Dublin), Razor Wire, Gin Bender, Blue Unicorn, Black Dirt, The Spirit that Moves Us, Wind, Red Rock Review, Art Times, Concrete Wolf, Memphis Magazine, Rhino, Visions International, others. I have a chapbook of poems, Piecework, from the Wing and a Wheel Press. I have work in the anthologies Full Court: A Literary Anthology of Basketball (Breakaway Books), Pocket Parenting Poetry Guide (Pudding Press), Intimate Kisses: The Poetry of Sexual Pleasure (New World Press) and Smashing Icons (Curious Rooms). I recently won the Moonfire Poetry Chapbook Competition and my chapbook, Chin-Chin in Eden, has just been published by Still Waters Press. One of my short stories was chosen for the 2002 edition of New Stories from the South: The Year's Best, edited by Shannon Ravenel. My novel-in-dialogue, Talk , was published by Livingston Press in 2002. Raves from Lee Smith, Robert Olen Butler, Steve Stern, Debra Spark, Suzanne Kingsbury, Frederick Barthelme and John Grisham. I've been a book reviewer (for The Commercial Appeal, BookPage, The Memphis Flyer), fiction editor (for Ion Books/raccoon), university press sales rep, grant committee judge (for The Oregon Arts Council), father and son. With my wife I own Burke's Book Store, one of the country's oldest (1875) and best independent bookstores. I have been suffering with agoraphobia, panic syndrome, social anxiety disease, for the past 6 years.
what he believed he knew what he knew was true, this for him pristine a church bell in a light snow layering metaphysics
once replete the contagious pact with reality reworked, the truth poser rang pealed the sanctity of doubt
with an immoral aroma of almost rain sat him down to one riddle at a time
The feeble written wit taps through the fog with an old man's cane, while the pompous elegant verse strides briskly past, seeking reality at the sidewalk's end.
… Silently surveying his gutter world the street urchin humbly wonders at the tense waves of cold damp grey such efforts bring the night.
Craig Kirchner: I live and work as a consultant on the east coast but consider myself a hobo of the universe. I write about what I know best and yet least - myself - in an effort to remove those labels.
Twisted images of man dancing in the gale white silk blown around and around
strange, this strange a kiss, a kiss a kitten barks animals explode
one limp horse so helpless and poor I try to help but it reaches nothing it fades away before my eyes
black to white lost in the snow these are disfigurements
Colin Van Der Woude: I was only 15 years old and less than a year after diagnosis I was writing this work, heavilly influenced by late nights and music of The Cure. I am currently a 27 year old from Hobart Tasmania, Australia who loves writing emotion down in notebooks.
This cement one sun or another has colored. The south wall of Saint
Cecelia's was to this color built. Winter is over. The wall is the same
every morning. Winter is over, the color is original. I photograph
debris and think it beautiful for it is grey. Color is morning.
Your travel one hand or another has driven. The stream of your wetness
was to this hand released. Barriers be through. The shudder is recalled
each morning apart. I photograph you bare for you will travel again apart;
for I think our hands beautiful in this winter that is over, in your wetness
that is new. Mine or your hand recall this to one in thought the other; for
the wetness released. Barriers be through for the sugar and the hand.
A man near death must tell his son "Go to labor your hands & build now a house; answer to not architecture, but bone of only your boy hands."
So a man has & I went the stone valley & saw all to burn that I may study resistance to wrath & for my home use the strongest ash as clay.
Imbalance of the river's casement dams in flood, a barb in the hand of an officer.
A blue mouth, white woman smoking on the east coast. Language of my foreign birth. Ein toter Soldat und sein Sohn. I have suddenly again become the man my father sought to raise.
It is like my dark hand again beside your face: here now
the sun is not where I am but it does not matter
what may here be seen:
my dark hand again beside                your face, a violet
in the window & the sun weak                on a brown house
Wife Poem: Text Fifteen
I will keep at your side if rooms are to fail, the ports submerge, the big guns manned blow into our home and level lanes & corner-                                            -stones shatter
I have by the barrel birthed fire, and there it will be I carry you for respite if your legs have buckled; there it will be I carry you, move in for warmth and keep at your side
the big guns steam                & hammer, the                gods skirt                further away.
Pedro Trevino-Ramirez is 19 years old and resides in Texas with his wife. He is a Pushcart Prize nominee and author of 'Origin's and Anonymity', an introspective chapbook published by Foothills Publishing. He is a monthly contributor to The Hold Magazine, a guest editor to MiPo, and his work is published or upcoming will be seen in the following: Cotyledon, Poesy, Tryst, Thunder Sandwich, Third Lung Review, Jack Magazine, Pilgrimage, Cokefish, Tamafyhr Mountain Poetry, Rock Salt Plum Review and Tin Lustre Mobile.
litmus test for liver: lie courage comes lily and yellow white feathers grace the headdresses of the chief accountant for the firm abdomen a section of a bug jackets yellow and tiger striped like the pants of prison inmates malfunctioning machine makes me mad don't drink and drive, my mother said said suspect slyly lies laughter of clowns always melancholic or alka-seltzer plop plop plop bird droppings on the bald man's pate- -ernoster prayed in genuflection like a real flexor muscle man lies and lifts weights in prison yard three feet under lying dead letter officials censor, cut before you deal the deck chairs too flimsy for the house a full one wins the hand- -yman prize for furnace installation art with yellow lilies painted
Millie Niss is from New York City, where she writes and does web design. She has had poetry and web art published in trAce (UK), Beehive, Sidereality, Milk Magazine, The Museum of the Essential and Beyond That (Brazil), The Buffalo News, Artvoice, Sudden Magazine, m.a.g., wordcircuits.com, Rhizome/hypperhiz, Furthetxt.org (UK), wordcircuits.com, bannerart.org, etc. Her web site is www.sporkworld.org
To: "M.K" From: email@example.com Subject: Re: my new-Attachments:
it's nice to be virtual again.. missed life somewhere.. well, not life, the image.. the one that's in time with the other lifetime that will never recover... oh well, it's not that bad ... there's hot and cold running water and a candle..
forever on a stick
To: firstname.lastname@example.org > From: "M.K" Subject: Re: your old attachments:
that's right left without a moment's notice or a catalogue to the show. how was it you expected me to follow the seed trail without the seeds? take care
mk don't think of it
To: "M.K" < email@example.com > From: firstname.lastname@example.org Subject: Re: my relapses:
you came in garbled, kind of smooth to the surface, but I could tell the real from the fake. and that's right I hit the skids again following a form oeuvre . . . there is more to tell, but I lost my metaheart in lala land.
love forever non-stick
buy a car quick, need to get a minimal cost plus am radio @ gateway to statistics
To: email@example.com > From: "M.K" Subject: Re: you paste or add on item
dear almost over
as I stated in our last Do Not Resuscitate, prepared for the worst, since you know... once one knows no one knows who I am, I can be that something happened once again, with new favors and big hitters. so I welcome you to the party with all the battery powered widgets, including all the Portable Wireless Peripherals you can stomach
mk I have the road map bite hard soon
To: "M.K" From: firstname.lastname@example.org Subject: Re: my compulsion is too hard:
frankly I wind up and fall down, I think it was a lie . . . with cards and PARADIGMS A banal through and through as runny as you know what . . . but every time I think, I crave the other side and a slow low return image.
as you remember me.
ps. this is it. I have hit the pavement.
kari edwards is author of iduna, O Books (2003) and a day in the life of p. , subpress collective (2002). edwards' work can also be found in Scribner's The Best American Poetry 2004 (fall, 2004), Aufgabe, Mirage/Period(ical), Van Gogh's Ear, Call, Fulcrum: an annual of poetry and aesthetics, and Pom2.
They said it was sin I was hiding but it was only a tattered lottery ticket as unhinged as I routinely am - a little tattered too - thinning away in my workman-like back pocket because the sky might upchuck me any day now & I didn't want to be found bereft of a wonky wish even if only a borrowed one.
In a fine weave of shift & cope we make use of each other delicately.
Rain falls & we watch it noting how it has to do with everything, even dry lips left over from anxiety raveling out.
Belief in anything like endurance is out of fashion even as yellow slickers are.
I'll zip yours if you'll zip mine
Why I'll Never Be The Cooling Sweat Blotch of Dickinson
She had palm tree breath in the crystalline winter of every feeling over the top to the point of paralysis -
the gaping hole in the garden where she'd plucked the first bud so quickly the possibility of coveting never entered.
I take her words the pattern an edge of honest extreme which I admire -
take her words with a cup of spiked tea easing absolute out of benign recognition, cat tongue racing away to the slatternly program of yelling against the silence.
She is a dream. She is frenetic neat - so it seems to me - in a way only never coming undone in the front room in front of someone - anyone - can in the end allow for.
I'll never be that starkness.
I'll never lose her symptoms of being more there than the way I mean to be.
I've a tendency to practice laying out victuals on the off chance a feast will result.
In a kitchen lacking counter space anticipation piles up among items of a menu in revolt - leeks/love/lodestars, a wealth of sticky surfaces.
But look: there could be hands washed to the wrist perched over plates radiantly emptied; intense second helpings for the never-sated; one too-sweet mouthful of bleeding berry.
Cannibal, courtier, vegan - staples of my guest list on honest days.
(I take my place at the head of the table suddenly aware of how hungry I am.)
Raw spaces where you work to fit the linear musings of logic -
the thrust, the pound, the slit superimposed over dimples & sweat pool, stark clavicle hum.
Inherently you're other - legs/hair/vulva - you're underside after all
conch shell & collusion strong stripped hip bone.
He knows parallel lines never meet.
To help him with that knowledge you casually rock his head in your arms content to let space spill if only just because.
You suggest I acquire a Chinese name. Yours means very very. Sliding beneath the sound, a path that insists.
Young I was teased about my old fashioned middle name - Florence for muting fever. Took revenge on my brother Ross, how he'd colour up at mention of a red red Rose.
The best names carry either everything or nothing - parcels piled by the kitchen sink. Bo, Ursula, Allah, Chrysanthemum.
Vague tags in a crossword of muddy fate - sweet water & lemon juice. That old movie Ship of Fools lacked the substance of its diminutive.
These days so many children with those heart-breaking, rootless names. They think everything is made up, no rhyme or season.
I'm always forgetting who is who. Leave it to me to know you well, never how to address you.
So you're querying like a novice again immune to the experiential sloughing off of innocence with one hand blankly open, the other sorrowfully fisted.
Your name is just a name you say & no amount of vague knowing harvested on trap-door mornings after can make you into a 'true' someone.
You're invariably red-lipped, though - did you know that? - & the way you seem to see with all three eyes the twitch of necessary politics in the way the streetlight changes -
the way you never shake off asking after stillborn events & babies like everything must be related:
well yes - wicked isn't it to be two or three or four & still somehow less than one.
When I say too much I still don't say everything
all the dross of languages in a dark handbag slung upside-down over the moon's crater of a shoulder like an armpit filled to spilling.
In the aftermath everyone is free to sift sucking in gut upon discovery of mini skirt, cinch-waist belt, too tight hat -
all that & those words like shredded tissue for some magnetic's tiptop parade wedded to the nervous tickle that is applause avoiding growing sickly.
I can't help it if this is coming off as a thought grown confused - it's what happens sometimes when you actually stop patternless to listen.
On ward he favours dove white, faith blue - grows a goatee, sharpens crayons (hoards the yellow ones ) seems blankly luminous as a wave-dunked rock.
No talking please: a Jesus cockatoo toned down radiating mildness & stone soup for all.
(At the nurses' station some feel smiley faces to be plumply inappropriate.)
What is strange is what the others think to add to the pot: Sara's rosary cigarettes, Bill's psychic termites, Maya on cue with a charity sweater for the girl who loathes eye brows.
As bellies fill with rumbling sustenance - intentions & hopes & gap-filling sighs - predictable desire digs in like a hang-nail - everyone thirstily sated on a sudden yet still demanding more because
surely there always could be more.
Lisa Gordon lives in Quebec. Her work has appeared in zines including Mipo, Junket & Writer's Hood. She has poems in the 11th issue of PoetrySz.
I      Helen Keller                      would
Would, wooden                          you
That I might smell what isn't given to me,
as others smell danger or a rat
when none is there
Oh, I have my touch, and I can feel wind, tears, loneliness, gratitude
some things some others
have ideas about
What is a woman
with her sight and her sound paying her attentions
I have my own intentions to find out.
No, seriously, why should you be different for one requiring
a human mirror with hands and fingertips for eyes
and voice formed of fingerprints?
Steve Tills lives in small town in western New York. Taught English 10 years in Northern California (Santa Rosa Junior College). Publishes occasionally, last in First Intensity, #17. Developing/Editing/Publishing Black Spring Online; theenk Press; and therepublicofcalifornia.com presently. Wiped out badly by Stock Market Rip-offs in 2001 but still alive and kickin.
"Sympathy For The Devil" resuscitates our adrenalin strongbox. The trailer park's strip lights twink as we fish up the lift-thumbing Beat by the painted milepost at The Far Side Of Reality. And snatchin' at the blinker-signal dodge-dust up Thunder Road onto the cloverleaf freeway interchange and open the throttle for a chuckle at the drive-in movies.
The carhop at Begley's Diner inherits sunup, a breather to log tonight's storyline for her novel...
...Ghazi glowers from nave to mosque catching the chink of toe bells. She flicks stone, dry then spatters. An overripe afternoon. The tinkering dust storm sidesteps dunes, milling satin hooked up over a mallee tree. She is Morocco sings to the echo of distant cliffs. A sniff of salt, wear-and-tear sand meddles with the Venus Fly Trap. She miscarries amongst locusts awaiting sounds of whirlwindish rhythm that welcomes the coming of rain.
an oxymoron pinetrees gather steam but on some Spanish scales a knobbed never counted and still life O refusal superannuated refuse as such to become all you do nebulous tend toward that particular one could permeate some before rereading this operates with oxygen these boyhood is such a fascinated intoxicate a messenger the wrists of sangria unpleasantness thorns imperitive learned about spitting her foot again occasionally oblong is it the antennae and the reasons exhaling pushes porcine by flames or cups magnetism helps the bottles Albert Ayler's body visions of translation spill sudden treebark neighborhood cross-town by then it's out of your hands water around bubbles bring down do the grounding first teleport glibly metrical and sometimes fishtail claim passionless shallow a thank you slow me down today's kites of turned cold teaming but anyways essential to and looks at traffic tenderness reveals two is not an occupational hazard for you relation take the cake typographic as for a bit the roofing sunshine enquiries was drifting at night was a another reddish screamed in implies stances sponges were until samples were taken without that bland another reddish hushed two pounds messages are prolix love in her chest we not Jarlesburg mentioning a detail vitreous into the sole spoiled and then dissolved sonic vicarious stretching wasn't bound boundless tubular remarks the splendid off the walls of from a can of ham matches and mildew tunnels is he collects them their spines spoons business with cashier eastern vehicles caromed easily truthfully the spangled dreams seemed historical in a drawer gathers whenever window sill a bit kicked without a fifth a golf club none my friend plowing suspecting about tar with a box of drowse but angles wanted my
like claptrap glycerine shirtsleeve weather
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Reed Altemus was born in Philadephia PA 1961 live most of adult life in Maine B.A. English Bates College 1985 1991 diagnosed as having a schizoaffective disorder have been micropress since 2000
poems in: Lost & Found Times, Blackbird, Vert, Xtant, SCORE, Offerta Speciale (Italy), Voce Piena, Unarmed etc.
also published chapbooks of collaborative poetry with more to come in 2004
2001 began a visual poetry postcard series which went to 30-odd numbers printed in small editions of 100
in May of this year attended the small press fair in Mainz Gemany as guest of Belgian mail artist Luc Fierens
at years end came out with last issue of magazine FARRAGO- 62 artists/poets from 19 countries 128pp. many in color $10US from: email@example.com