Tim Martin
Steven Dalachinsky
Jason Heroux
Colin Van Der Woude
Anders
Monday, November 01, 2004
Tim Martin
Perhaps These Notions
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.
Tim Martin Steven Dalachinsky Jason Heroux Colin Van Der Woude Anders
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.
Tim Martin Steven Dalachinsky Jason Heroux Colin Van Der Woude Anders
Steven Dalachinsky
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.
possessed
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)
throw
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
Tim Martin Steven Dalachinsky Jason Heroux Colin Van Der Woude Anders
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.
possessed
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)
throw
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
Tim Martin Steven Dalachinsky Jason Heroux Colin Van Der Woude Anders
Jason Heroux
The Wound
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.
Tim Martin Steven Dalachinsky Jason Heroux Colin Van Der Woude Anders
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.
Tim Martin Steven Dalachinsky Jason Heroux Colin Van Der Woude Anders
Colin Van Der Woude
Sunday
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.
S
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.
Well well...
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?
Saint
"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.
Tim Martin Steven Dalachinsky Jason Heroux Colin Van Der Woude Anders
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.
S
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.
Well well...
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?
Saint
"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.
Tim Martin Steven Dalachinsky Jason Heroux Colin Van Der Woude Anders
Anders
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
Koi
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
Tim Martin Steven Dalachinsky Jason Heroux Colin Van Der Woude Anders
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
Koi
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
Tim Martin Steven Dalachinsky Jason Heroux Colin Van Der Woude Anders