Hybrids

Excerpt from ChongDong Misfits [2]

2012-01-14T07:01:00.000-08:00

// dead picture glands that piss flesh.. exhibit from s/punk fuck (a negative propaganda God shows off a fuckless belly specimen. She removes the //scamp gangrene out of the gut with spoon. // voyeuristic dusk (negative dolls across light glands. swarming scrotum. cunt. Usual pliers. pleasure pliers.
Lick apparatus ejaculates pictures of God Shall Blue You.

Chin-Mae//Chin-Mae

And then the wind-swoon feverish… the psychopathy of: dusk mechanisms plucked & plighted// from determined oral exhibitionist women with breasts, cold anal disturbances / love gangrene in her/ swarming in life the discovery of one’s war…

the city of excrement has no /features. blood as determined exsanguinated, while a Fish light removes all

[Caroline, Removed]

2011-11-27T15:16:00.000-08:00

[omitted image from a future series. Smells of crime scenes and dirty hands]

The Beauty Obscure

2011-10-30T06:54:00.000-07:00

Switched-On Gutenberg Issue #17

2011-10-14T03:34:00.001-07:00

Featuring works by:

Christine Hamm
Emily Severance
Paul Barclay
Naomi Krupitsky
Larry Blazek
and more....

Accidental

(Blown Up From The Heart Up by Carolyn Krieg)

New Book of Poetry

2011-10-09T06:55:00.000-07:00

[Eye] not Eye

2011-08-28T13:16:00.000-07:00

Dana/ A Lyric

2011-08-14T07:30:00.000-07:00

A review of Arielle Guy's Three Geographies: A Milkmaid's Grimoire

......................................................-----the warm is

................................................................................orgasm

..................like water

turning..................................... to stone

......................................................we become divinations--------

.................................veins,.....the wet

drifting into folds of a canvas,...........the bed,

..........................where man has been

.....persuaded...............to open...........to discover

.......lips..........in the break of Absence

....................................................a soft mechanism/where?

flesh-glass,.....................chrysalis lovers, the aftermath

of a body you call................................."milk"

..................................The warm is

what an eyeball sees when the lights go out

...........................................................................in New York

................there are so many ghosts --------------

......................................................................................we are hungry

Lethargic musk about the pillows where you recite the song of

sleep,...lullaby...psalmody

...............................I recall the slumberous gloss

.....of your thighs

.......................................................the keen eye-wink,........pubic hair

.............................unraveling

................................................................to a pattern

.................................................... of accidents

Of False Perceptions [No. Zero]

2011-08-12T16:06:00.000-07:00

Sugar Mule

2011-07-23T04:21:00.000-07:00

Check out the new Sugar Mule #38

Featuring works by:

Jared Domick
Raymond Farr
SJ Fowler
Vernon Frazer
Charles Freeland
Matt Hill
Heller Levinson
Duane Locke
Sheila Murphy
Gillian Prew
Matina Stamatakis

X

2011-06-18T06:17:00.000-07:00

& many other things you tease with your absentee eyes. Not your liver like I am empty & need more water. These venous tattoos never leave the skin beautiful. Never carve mausoleums, cartouche, intricate filigrees where bees buzz. About your halo: an explosion of light bulbs. Shard it off, I say. There are so many fractures it is hard to believe in bones.

NEU SHOES

2011-06-12T06:09:00.001-07:00

Sick Spit Girl

2011-06-04T09:17:00.000-07:00

Splice my bone-cry cadavery──mimicry of sirens──here you imitate my flesh quilt—and quit

the scene after the static release of pheromones──here you replicate the gape──or maybe

pupate in the desire hole—leave no milky corpuscule──leave no tiny ornamental defect of your genitals—a sour to be not gentle vomit──O’yellow cry──O’blood sockets---Intestine Artist---make mouth of my anus──tense the octopus

hole—inside I am a Red Show ready for quaildom—ready for so many things you cannot tease

with your finger.

Blogger Woes

2011-05-28T10:10:00.000-07:00

I have been having some issues with Blogger as of late. Blogger will not allow me to log into my account on a regular basis--login acts funny, and does not usually recognize my password.

If this problem persists, Hybrids and Venereal Kittens will become defunct. My right arm will be amputated. I will have to finally admit myself into an SAA (Sex Addicts Anonymous) program, and pretend the sessions are working. Yes, this could become a most depressing reality...

Low Fidelity Kama Sutra

2011-05-21T05:03:00.001-07:00

Thank You [Mother]

2011-04-23T06:50:00.000-07:00

for all of this dead, eagerless skin

whispers a desire without incident

curtailed or drawn-out, a fiberless

canvas portrait of your golden sun

--a deliberate

mucus in suspect places

where the kin you do not love

die in your stomach

before they have had a chance

to enjoy their own evolution

thank you [Mother] for the older man

who boasted adolescence

who kicked-up daisies with a smile

who taught these bones they were not dead

just in a perpetual state of shriveling

clinging to a sugar pulse—going yellow

with pulse—paralytic with pulse

Thank you for this stranger's face

this offers no hair

is enveloped moments of grayness,

shirking the poverty it once knew

was closest to

God.

New Arrivals

2011-04-19T08:01:00.001-07:00

Featuring works by Nico Vassilakis, Cara Benson, Michelle Detorie, Sheila E. Murpy, Michael Kotke, Andrew Topel, and many others.

A Rare Bird on My Back

2011-04-19T07:54:00.000-07:00

Birthday Brownie

2011-04-16T07:53:00.001-07:00

Poem Letter from Geof Huth (excerpt)

2011-04-03T05:16:00.000-07:00

Philosophizing

2011-04-02T11:36:00.000-07:00

Think of no one not even Christ (who will save this meat from its own atrophy?). I call to sleep puddling in the drooled-out phlegm all policies of shriveling women in red dresses waiting-- waiting so patiently for discomforting hands for their exiled cunts to reject them every time a man whispers come.

I will be waiting for the excess of all things & challenge what is deemed unchallengeable what may be revised with censor-marked chicken-scratch on the lattice to draw into air the calligraphic & strike the sun (excerpt the rays) to sever form from flesh the principle of cold nights while naked on a bed dreaming of red dresses (you learn a breath like a dying woman—gasping) I gasp you & will be this enraged fragility of darkness...until I [be]come sniveling Pavlovian-like on the ground, a fanatic.

Avant-Garde Jivin'

2011-03-27T07:29:00.000-07:00

The Ghost of Mina Loy

2011-03-26T06:24:00.000-07:00

From her thermometer earrings
& salt-teeth. An example
of feverish swans –the pulp
of goose-down pillows.

Her luminous fingers clasp
the dawn’s brocaded halo. A space
for the absentee husband. A space
for womanly coquetry. A space

inside a space inside an envelope
missing letters, missing vaporous
gestures.Dismissing the God between

sentences. She is somewhat
of a heretic ghost; her translucent skin,
observant opal. She writes in human mist,
the aromas of sweat pungency.

A crystallization of breath. With alien
thought, the mucosae of subliminal flesh.
Exists the calligraphy of ecstasy--
the tender nerves of shadow ink. A woman

for eerie gauze. For the shapeliness
of heart-mouths. A red. Emptied
of its blood & mercury.

Thierry Brunet Reviews EoS

2011-03-18T03:47:00.000-07:00

EoS

Matina L. Stamatakis

The underlying nature of the visible world.

Speculative commotions and elegant disturbances.

In Matina L. Stamatakis’ new chapbook EoS, an internal combustion is at work. (Once again the dawn goddess seems to be ready to open the gates so that her brother Helios can ride the sky.)

Anti)matter

// all poem //

Mischievously and delicately arranged all over

the page, the lively poems act like a gravitational pull, while they take up numerous challenges.

In Of Unattainable Knowledge:

// from beginning to his foe //

Carefully chosen words that throw back the inhospitable reality, and explore the structures we often accept too easily. Experimental/sensual writing as a blueprint of a new celestial body?

In Simulacrum:

// from beginning to origami //

Exciting journey to the origins. Abrasive melancholy. Matina L. Stamatakis’ poetry

seems to call upon a new birth, another « eXistenZ ». Mutations and Transcience included.

Aurora[e]

// all poem //

Something of J. K. Huysmans’ novel “Against the Grain” comes to mind from time to time. (Des Esseintes, the main character, is an aesthete, found of the Symbolist movement. He studies Moreau's paintings, tries his hand at inventing perfumes, and creates a garden of poisonous flowers.)

Matina L. Stamatakis’ own garden is full of cosmic rays. (Another kind of flowers, but

still intoxicating ones).

The collection ends with the moving

Father

- for Neruda

// from beginning to hummingbird //

Neruda the fighting man. The poet in exile

finds a welcoming place here.

Roving on the plane of the ecliptic, the linguistic constructions of EoS, graceful in forms and movements, will haunt the reader’s mind

through associations or natural connections of ideas.

Like music suggesting a (not so) quiet night

and a fecund dawn.

Thierry Brunet

Kongurei

2011-03-12T12:52:00.000-08:00

This is song is Beauty.

Welcome to ChongDong

2011-03-05T04:08:00.000-08:00

Matina Stamatakis' and Carmen Racovitza's The ChongDong Misfits offers up a hallucinatory trip through a nightmarish dystopia that could be now, or could be tomorrow. In five extended prose poems employing W.S. Burroughs' cut-up technique, these fearless authors introduce the reader to the potential of language to shock, amaze and scintillate. “hallucinatory prose-poetry that will have you scraping flecks of DNA from your radioactive vulva nipples quicker than you can imagine Kenji Siratori savagely rimming Benjamin Peret with an LSD-tipped dildo.” —Robert Chrysler author of Every Exit Impossible To Imagine With Wings “A last breathing through synapse tentacles, rich with signals but leaving no trails: puke greens, nicotine yellows, micromanipulation gametes. Motherhood images with no madness. A book like spitout sperm, distant yet material." —Florian Cramer author of Words made flesh - Code, Culture, Imagination

http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/the-chongdong-misfits/14963827

And the award for best album title goes to...

2011-02-19T04:43:00.000-08:00

Braindead Sound Machine's
Come Down from the Hills and Make My Baby

Personne/Persona

2011-02-12T11:16:00.001-08:00

I'm afraid of not being interested in anything
Or in anybody
I won't go complaining even to you
Beautiful person
You who I love, who I'll love, who I loved
More than anybody
You who acts like you don't know
Better than anybody

No I never should have brought my hand against
Your person
I should have controlled myself, been more sure
Of my person
Who do you take me for, no I won't say
Anything to anybody
Believe me I'll make you look like a lo-
vable person
Of course, if I tell you all this I don't want to
Hurt anybody
These are the couple of truths that don't
Hurt anybody
Maybe I should have told you them in the third
person
I realize that I'm quite clumsy
With my person

Never will I love as I loved
My belladona
Yes you cost me the eyes in my head, but
I pardon you
I don't owe and I don't think I've ever owed
Anything to anybody
Never have I gotten along so well
Except for with nobody

-Serge Gainsbourg

New Work...

2011-02-09T03:30:00.000-08:00

up at Mad Hatter's Review.

Also featuring works by Ann Bogle, Sheila Murphy, Bobbi Lurie, and many, many others.

Norwegian Blue (unfinished)

2011-02-05T05:41:00.001-08:00

No mixed coral nor glass
echoes etched into cold blood
hieroglyphs

holds in its prism
no hope today

that blur of blue;
an explosion of swallows
--the mistranslation
of our bodies, skeletal fortresses

of a gray ambergris
calcified deep in

the snow--

these personal hazards
cling to the
hypothermic belly

so sweetly

in a necessitous grasp
of poverty

Disco/Disco GRRR

2011-02-02T13:20:00.000-08:00

Creepy Disco

2011-02-01T15:58:00.001-08:00

Favorite Short Story

2011-01-30T08:22:00.000-08:00

Sredni Vashtar
by H.H. Munro (Saki)

Conradin was ten years old, and the doctor had pronounced his professional opinion that the boy would not live another five years. The doctor was silky and effete, and counted for little, but his opinion was endorsed by Mrs. De Ropp, who counted for nearly everything. Mrs. De Ropp was Conradin's cousin and guardian, and in his eyes she represented those three-fifths of the world that are necessary and disagreeable and real; the other two-fifths, in perpetual antagonism to the foregoing, were summed up in himself and his imagination. One of these days Conradin supposed he would succumb to the mastering pressure of wearisome necessary things---such as illnesses and coddling restrictions and drawn-out dulness. Without his imagination, which was rampant under the spur of loneliness, he would have succumbed long ago.

Mrs. De Ropp would never, in her honestest moments, have confessed to herself that she disliked Conradin, though she might have been dimly aware that thwarting him ``for his good'' was a duty which she did not find particularly irksome. Conradin hated her with a desperate sincerity which he was perfectly able to mask. Such few pleasures as he could contrive for himself gained an added relish from the likelihood that they would be displeasing to his guardian, and from the realm of his imagination she was locked out---an unclean thing, which should find no entrance.

In the dull, cheerless garden, overlooked by so many windows that were ready to open with a message not to do this or that, or a reminder that medicines were due, he found little attraction. The few fruit-trees that it contained were set jealously apart from his plucking, as though they were rare specimens of their kind blooming in an arid waste; it would probably have been difficult to find a market-gardener who would have offered ten shillings for their entire yearly produce. In a forgotten corner, however, almost hidden behind a dismal shrubbery, was a disused tool-shed of respectable proportions, and within its walls Conradin found a haven, something that took on the varying aspects of a playroom and a cathedral. He had peopled it with a legion of familiar phantoms, evoked partly from fragments of history and partly from his own brain, but it also boasted two inmates of flesh and blood. In one corner lived a ragged-plumaged Houdan hen, on which the boy lavished an affection that had scarcely another outlet. Further back in the gloom stood a large hutch, divided into two compartments, one of which was fronted with close iron bars. This was the abode of a large polecat-ferret, which a friendly butcher-boy had once smuggled, cage and all, into its present quarters, in exchange for a long-secreted hoard of small silver. Conradin was dreadfully afraid of the lithe, sharp-fanged beast, but it was his most treasured possession. Its very presence in the tool-shed was a secret and fearful joy, to be kept scrupulously from the knowledge of the Woman, as he privately dubbed his cousin. And one day, out of Heaven knows what material, he spun the beast a wonderful name, and from that moment it grew into a god and a religion. The Woman indulged in religion once a week at a church near by, and took Conradin with her, but to him the church service was an alien rite in the House of Rimmon. Every Thursday, in the dim and musty silence of the tool-shed, he worshipped with mystic and elaborate ceremonial before the wooden hutch where dwelt Sredni Vashtar, the great ferret. Red flowers in their season and scarlet berries in the winter-time were offered at his shrine, for he was a god who laid some special stress on the fierce impatient side of things, as opposed to the Woman's religion, which, as far as Conradin could observe, went to great lengths in the contrary direction. And on great festivals powdered nutmeg was strewn in front of his hutch, an important feature of the offering being that the nutmeg had to be stolen. These festivals were of irregular occurrence, and were chiefly appointed to celebrate some passing event. On one occasion, when Mrs. De Ropp suffered from acute toothache for three days, Conradin kept up the festival during the entire three days, and almost succeeded in persuading himself that Sredni Vashtar was personally responsible for the toothache. If the malady had lasted for another day the supply of nutmeg would have given out.

The Houdan hen was never drawn into the cult of Sredni Vashtar. Conradin had long ago settled that she was an Anabaptist. He did not pretend to have the remotest knowledge as to what an Anabaptist was, but he privately hoped that it was dashing and not very respectable. Mrs. De Ropp was the ground plan on which he based and detested all respectability.

After a while Conradin's absorption in the tool-shed began to attract the notice of his guardian. ``It is not good for him to be pottering down there in all weathers,'' she promptly decided, and at breakfast one morning she announced that the Houdan hen had been sold and taken away overnight. With her short-sighted eyes she peered at Conradin, waiting for an outbreak of rage and sorrow, which she was ready to rebuke with a flow of excellent precepts and reasoning. But Conradin said nothing: there was nothing to be said. Something perhaps in his white set face gave her a momentary qualm, for at tea that afternoon there was toast on the table, a delicacy which she usually banned on the ground that it was bad for him; also because the making of it ``gave trouble,'' a deadly offence in the middle-class feminine eye.

``I thought you liked toast,'' she exclaimed, with an injured air, observing that he did not touch it.

``Sometimes,'' said Conradin.

In the shed that evening there was an innovation in the worship of the hutch-god. Conradin had been wont to chant his praises, tonight be asked a boon.

``Do one thing for me, Sredni Vashtar.''

The thing was not specified. As Sredni Vashtar was a god he must be supposed to know. And choking back a sob as he looked at that other empty comer, Conradin went back to the world he so hated.

And every night, in the welcome darkness of his bedroom, and every evening in the dusk of the tool-shed, Conradin's bitter litany went up: ``Do one thing for me, Sredni Vashtar.''

Mrs. De Ropp noticed that the visits to the shed did not cease, and one day she made a further journey of inspection.

``What are you keeping in that locked hutch?'' she asked. ``I believe it's guinea-pigs. I'll have them all cleared away.''

Conradin shut his lips tight, but the Woman ransacked his bedroom till she found the carefully hidden key, and forthwith marched down to the shed to complete her discovery. It was a cold afternoon, and Conradin had been bidden to keep to the house. From the furthest window of the dining-room the door of the shed could just be seen beyond the corner of the shrubbery, and there Conradin stationed himself. He saw the Woman enter, and then be imagined her opening the door of the sacred hutch and peering down with her short-sighted eyes into the thick straw bed where his god lay hidden. Perhaps she would prod at the straw in her clumsy impatience. And Conradin fervently breathed his prayer for the last time. But he knew as he prayed that he did not believe. He knew that the Woman would come out presently with that pursed smile he loathed so well on her face, and that in an hour or two the gardener would carry away his wonderful god, a god no longer, but a simple brown ferret in a hutch. And he knew that the Woman would triumph always as she triumphed now, and that he would grow ever more sickly under her pestering and domineering and superior wisdom, till one day nothing would matter much more with him, and the doctor would be proved right. And in the sting and misery of his defeat, he began to chant loudly and defiantly the hymn of his threatened idol:

Sredni Vashtar went forth,
His thoughts were red thoughts and his teeth were white.  
His enemies called for peace, but he brought them death.  
Sredni Vashtar the Beautiful.

And then of a sudden he stopped his chanting and drew closer to the window-pane. The door of the shed still stood ajar as it had been left, and the minutes were slipping by. They were long minutes, but they slipped by nevertheless. He watched the starlings running and flying in little parties across the lawn; he counted them over and over again, with one eye always on that swinging door. A sour-faced maid came in to lay the table for tea, and still Conradin stood and waited and watched. Hope had crept by inches into his heart, and now a look of triumph began to blaze in his eyes that had only known the wistful patience of defeat. Under his breath, with a furtive exultation, he began once again the pæan of victory and devastation. And presently his eyes were rewarded: out through that doorway came a long, low, yellow-and-brown beast, with eyes a-blink at the waning daylight, and dark wet stains around the fur of jaws and throat. Conradin dropped on his knees. The great polecat-ferret made its way down to a small brook at the foot of the garden, drank for a moment, then crossed a little plank bridge and was lost to sight in the bushes. Such was the passing of Sredni Vashtar.

``Tea is ready,'' said the sour-faced maid; ``where is the mistress?'' ``She went down to the shed some time ago,'' said Conradin. And while the maid went to summon her mistress to tea, Conradin fished a toasting-fork out of the sideboard drawer and proceeded to toast himself a piece of bread. And during the toasting of it and the buttering of it with much butter and the slow enjoyment of eating it, Conradin listened to the noises and silences which fell in quick spasms beyond the dining-room door. The loud foolish screaming of the maid, the answering chorus of wondering ejaculations from the kitchen region, the scuttering footsteps and hurried embassies for outside help, and then, after a lull, the scared sobbings and the shuffling tread of those who bore a heavy burden into the house.

``Whoever will break it to the poor child? I couldn't for the life of me!'' exclaimed a shrill voice. And while they debated the matter among themselves, Conradin made himself another piece of toast.

Poetry. Southern.

2011-01-30T05:24:00.000-08:00

THE GAUGUIN MACHINE: RUBBER STAMPED FORGERIES

Sunset red rises
Dawn gold breaks
Morning blue comes

clean in fallow colors
water-tested and fresh
from the South Seas' waves
where dipping and cresting

coast into not just screwing
the cute, brown honey
so sweetly bed and spread
beneath the eye of Gauguin's
Spirit of the Dead watching

but sailing full-masted into
the form-fit escape of a two-bit
freedom and pleasure in the

stretched imagination's snug rubber
stroke of a safe 'Samoa'

painted, as close to the real
thing as you could come
in promises manufactured
to be broken and sold
for the prevention of disease only

Coin returned if machine is empty

-Chuck Sullivan

[1975]

New Publication

2011-01-26T03:21:00.000-08:00

3 of my newest works up at G(o)BBeT.

1 poem here Leaf Garden Press #11

Stay tuned for more poetry from Mad Hatter's Review.

Already this is proving to be a productive year.

Mail Art

2011-01-23T06:02:00.000-08:00

A Cloud. A Marauder

2011-01-11T03:34:00.000-08:00

Progressions

My tongue makes the noise/Of a thousand flies./I close my mouth/And try to dance/A minuet of proper gestures./I watch my porcelain self./There is a cold, steel pin/In every joint.

But I will also tell you this:/Behind the bars of my ribs/There is something about to sing./Someday I will be/ warm milk/Poured out in the night.

-David Budbill

[1968]

Kumquats from 1971

2011-01-09T05:16:00.001-08:00

MIGRANTS

2

In a fallen forest of girders,/boulders of concrete/and meadows of glass/where wreckers have come and gone,/ a man walks in brick dust

kicking the skulls of dandelions,/their bones, fine as ash,/drifting in search of soil.

-Dan Gillespie

Bits of Old...

2011-01-08T10:59:00.000-08:00

BRAILLE

Learning somebody, it's all braille/what the tongue and teeth taste/what the fingers find/of silk and stubble, of bark/and velvet and wet grass/colors that splash through/bronze, violet, dragonfly jade/
the voice that later/comes unbidden as a Mozart/horn concerto to the ears/caroling its name in the blood/again and again

-Marge Piercy

[July 1976]

Shoes. Shoes. Shoos.

2011-01-04T03:47:00.000-08:00

From Meret Oppenheim's bold mis-
creations....

to Prada's sexy heels...

I love shoes!

Water Wheel & Colossi

2011-01-02T06:07:00.001-08:00

A formation of artifacts:
to replace one’s eyes
with the lens

as yet
a vision of the hieroglyph
to say I am all the more elusive
& to ascend

an eaglet on a high-eye

---reconstruct the
cartography of
these pillars

into a distant perspective

that much smaller─

a pinhole
then

(photograph by Paul Strand, 1959)

Macula Lutea

2010-12-18T11:26:00.000-08:00

You make the good mirror blue.

The way you look at specifics without actually looking:

spidery vessels, pictographs of the world, human gestures & undulations.

I know - is not completely naked - a dazzling of war, as it was, the results of a tourist who invents god. & I go home devoid of His light.

I see the yellow-bellied grackle as a thorn in all the hidden places, & it may be feeding the black for it is almost as tender as the fear of injury. What's ears before the voice screeches doubt that you are in my eyes?

Also known to conflict with the line of sight

What is Important?

2010-12-12T09:55:00.001-08:00

To love and be loved...everything else is secondary.

Zanna Van Acker and Anna domino

2010-12-04T09:09:00.000-08:00

New Work up at Inertia (Issue # 9)

2010-11-30T03:51:00.000-08:00

(cover art by Gabrielle Senza)

The new issue of Inertia is out, featuring work by Dean Kostos, Jeffery Berg, April Ossman, and others.

I'm not so sure I like this issue as much as previous issues. The poems are more straightforward, and not really what I had been expecting. When I received the prompt to this issue, I thought the issue was going to be centered around "erotic" poetry, or poetry that was ballsy and ribald. My poem, Intercourse, feels somewhat out of place. I was also prompted to go in the minimalist direction--which I did. The other poems in #9 are lengthy and, for the most part, linear.

Regardless, I still think Inertia is a fine magazine, and I'm very glad to be a part of it. So I stick out like the proverbial sore thumb! That's not necessarily a bad thing.

i[O]

2010-11-13T07:43:00.001-08:00

See: the lithograph eye, an imago trapped in glue
you flinch the imperceptible flinch of disbelief
spirits unveil themselves, unveiling all misconceptions
see: the cosmonaut blinking morse, Dostoevsky’s ghost
performs Picasso’s Guernica—the mad art is one of disbelief
disbelief: see: hyperboles morph into greater hyperboles
[the art of exaggeration blossoms only in smaller things]
a concentrated, single view; granules, a root, an eyeful
of anions spotting the moon.

R.H.I.Z.O.M.E

2010-11-13T05:36:00.000-08:00

review of mIEKAL aND and Maria Damon's eros/ion by Greg Bem.

Metempsychose

2010-09-08T04:52:00.000-07:00

William Allegrezza reviews Metempsychose over at p-ramblings

For Ache

2010-07-25T08:57:00.000-07:00

A tight box in the gut;
accordion of nerves
--arms, snapped shut.
Hinge, the relentless mechanism.
No softness, no tender existence
for the tongue to taste.

If Jesus hung
for all my strength, I should
hope it not be in vain

Soledad Miranda Appreciation Month

2010-07-24T16:01:00.001-07:00

Soledad Rendón Bueno
7/9/43-8/18/70

Disassembling

2010-07-18T13:00:00.000-07:00

i

To study the absence of absence;a hereafter void
where darkness is presence without object, without corridors,
new religions; a scriptural

nakedness--blushed

ii

The clockworks have halted their kinetic dance--we try to conceptualize new components out of old, arrange levers like rune bones

---Time mistakes

Chaos

for order

iii

You feel as though the body is rendered useless after its last performance--we speak of bridges burned & aborted love & nothing appears

palpable enough for lengthy conversation

---so we drown the dialogue down our throats

just to produce a void again

Scenes of Endangerment

2010-07-02T10:33:00.001-07:00

A windowless eye to black-out beautiful nothingness
[note the disappearance of a body
the mute God calls into soil]

Time & space cannot forget the brown root (hold me)
or conch (unheld) or in suspension, the ripe apple in September,

like dew, turns downward. Panic is produced
in the breath, born, expires as aftermath fires enraged,
bellowing text
in the throat

--------- tongue holds the presence of isolated spit
[she loves the pronunciation of quiver
small vibrato
an avalanche
formed in the slits her eyelids; staccatic dance]
…the awakening of a film occurs

New Chapbook

2010-06-27T04:03:00.000-07:00

I am very happy to announce the emergence of EoS,
published by Peter Hughes' wonderful Oystercatcher Press.
Do check it out!

EoS: http://www.oystercatcherpress.com/mstamatakis.html

Find it on Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/8509941-eos

Welcome to Kuva

2010-06-24T03:13:00.001-07:00

Conceptual Cover

2010-06-20T17:39:00.000-07:00

This is the conceptual cover art for my next book of poetry. This book will feature 51 experimental sapphic poems set with abstract themes. I am very excited to start working on this book-- a book which could be the most trying, but could also prove to be the most rewarding in a poetic sense. I look forward to this challenge, and can't wait to get started.

The Last Vispo...in Moscow!

2010-06-13T16:07:00.000-07:00

To be reunited with Moscow...
maybe not in the flesh, but in the form.

http://s753.photobucket.com/albums/xx177/kolam2/Last%20vispo/?start=0

The Beauty of My Son

2010-05-30T10:32:00.000-07:00

a child's fierce drive guides the exploration of life

2010-05-23T07:12:00.001-07:00

R~Street Junction

Aurora[e]

2010-05-23T06:47:00.000-07:00

[i]

quiet lights flow ------ no written geometry…

transparent /

skin in the audacious & ….“non-opaque

….”pigment-bloomed

[in] …”the seeing eye -------

. Resisting sight

Issue #2 of Wobbling Roof

2010-05-21T03:21:00.000-07:00

has just gone live. It features work by Brandon Downing, Zach Shipko, Peter Kalyniuk, CAConrad, Scotty Leitch, Anselm Berrigan, Matvei Yankelevich, Steve Tim, Matina Stamatakis, and David B. Applegate.

Check it out here:

http://wobblingroof.com/issue2/index2.html

R.H.I.Z.O.M.E

2010-05-11T03:09:00.000-07:00

There's a new review by Giles Goodland over at the portal.

Check it out here:

Giles Goodland reviews Heimrad Bäcker

R.H.I.Z.O.M.E welcomes poetry book reviews
with a certain keenness for the experimental.

New Art

2010-05-04T03:25:00.000-07:00

Theoni Tambaki: My favorite surrealite

Four out of Five Pin-Up Models Agree...

2010-05-01T13:03:00.000-07:00

...Venereal Kittens goes great with gravy...

...& the following artists...

Felino Soriano
Arkava Das
Sean Burn
David Wolach
Simon Howard
Jeff Harrison
Philip Byron Oakes
Andy Martrich
Roger Guetta
Jaan Patterson
& many more

Awesome. Offensive. Experimental

2010-04-27T03:42:00.001-07:00

and now...downloadable!

http://rapidshare.com/files/37500606/germanshepherds.rar.html

Newly e-Pressed...

2010-04-26T03:09:00.000-07:00

The new mid)rib 5 is up, featuring works by

Danielle Aubert
Daniel F. Bradley
Margarita Delcheva
Brandon Freels
Jane A. Lewty
Stephen Mosblech
Douglas Piccinnini
Kim Rosenfield
Matina Stamatakis

http://www.midribpoetry.com/issue5.html