THAT GUY (STANDING ON BROKEN LEGS)
if there were power enough to do so
but who believes there is
would use it
a good ape
a bad ape
though probably not
us—where we were
some chief proponent—un elected
(un assailed) assistant
(to the) boss
of nothing special—
a motherboard’s groan
hears a fan going
the way of heat
I no you do—
were there power enough to do so
yet you believe there is
would take it
the despicable and heinous
practice of printing
practice of printing
cuz—cause the many
the transparency and honest
nature found—in such printing
(really made you)
really makes you
shit your pants.
but not really. permanent. did you think
they were coming—that they’re here—
if there were powers
enough (& I believe
is like something that would that
have been—properly utilized much
to wish for—
a documented medical need
Poetic Statement: I began this poem learning of the Senate Intelligence Committee’s report on torture during the transnational American war begun in Iraq and Afghanistan. It is a test for the poem committing the emotion that would like to see especially those war criminals that look and act like something called us subjected exactly to what they’ve accomplished. To commit the beauty of stone legs made trunkless and the reality of social order. Mechanically this was difficult to achieve, if I have at all. The poem does not bear witness. The poem is romantic, kissing mere instruments.
Bio: Jared Schickling’s recent books include Two Books on the Gas: Above the Shale and Achieved by Kissing (BlazeVOX, 2014), The Paranoid Reader: Essays, 2006-2012 (Furniture Press, 2014), and Prospectus for a Stage (LRL Textile Series, 2013). He co-edits Delete Press and eccolinguistics.
Bio: Chris D’Errico has worked as a short order cook, a doorman, a neon sign-maker’s helper, and an exterminator, among other vocational adventures. Born in Worcester, Massachusetts, he lives in Las Vegas, Nevada, with his wife Tracy, and a small clouder of house cats. For more, visit www.clderrico.com.”
SOURCE TEXT: “A Field Guide To Critical Thinking” by James W. Lett, from the book “The Hundredth Monkey And Other Paradigms of the Paranormal”… Filtered through insomnia and nervous impulse. Inspired by Salvador Dalí’s description of his paranoiac-critical method: “a spontaneous method of irrational knowledge based on the critical and systematic objectivity of the associations and interpretations of delirious phenomena.”
Bio: Wayne Mason is a writer and sound artist from Central Florida. His words have appeared across the small press in magazines both print and online. He is the author of five chapbooks. and is the former poetry editor for Side Of Grits, and The Tampa Bay Muse. Wayne Mason has also been active in experimental music for nearly twenty years. He records ambient, experimental and noise sounds, formerly under the name of Zilbread, and is also a founding member of the experimental/noise project Stickfigure and electronic duo Blk/Mas. http://brokenzen.wordpress.com/
Poetic Statement:When I was much younger I aspired to change the world. Now years later, my work stems from a desire to change myself by exploring my own internalterrain. In the end the strangest, most profound journey is not the one outward, but the one inward through my own psychic landscapes.
-Real Pagans Drink Blood-
Pianos made for dragons are pushed
into the crevices of their hearts,
in places where music doesn’t exist,
bare, prone and pungent
like a piss-stained mattress on
the best friend’s floor.
They dream of a pianist career
impossible and daring
a 3rd (& fervently dissociative) party
rattled by the bleak standards of a 2 party system
often find themselves in the company of
those willing to question which endeavor
is higher and best suited,
chase down the avenging spirit?
wrestle the diluted dream into submission?
werewolves on the prowl
in darkstar nebulae,
violinists w/ bionic attachments,
eventually a pattern erupts
& it all leads to jungles
in full moon pitch & high strung
engagements w/ Morse enemies
wearing bridal gowns & a ring
of upheaval that holds their full
The midnight stumbler
is grifted by locusts in
detective coats/monocles cuz they’re
winged scrutinizers who
can really stomach all the clues.
But he’s not too naïve
that he misinterprets their deliberations
for the sound of palmetto bugs
flying in the dark
and even though he can’t really
call this night a win per se
it’s a hard one to chock up to a total loss.
The pair of knuckles in
his polyester pants are made
from brass and dragon teeth.
Everything feels justifiable/within bounds
Ideas of self defense leading to Homicide aren’t necessarily unappealing.
A rat lives another quarter of a decade
inside the walls of an AIDS house w/ green energy
The broken glass in the parking lot doesn’t make it
into the heel of his polyester Vans.
It’s not a TOTALOSS.
& when the sun comes up,
all the dismay bleeds off like a cherry popsicle
on a hot sidewalk. Everything’s got possibilities to
He keeps stumbling,
carrying an empty Mason jar of something dark & rich
like virgin punk blood.
A real pagan on holiday, the reaper
Ignoring locust theories &
palmetto songs heard exclusively in notes of pianissimo.
Basquiat Wannabes w/ I.E.D
winning staredowns w/ Cooper’s Hawks perched on chain-link fences in need of repair just as bad as the park itself,
ripped apart by monsoon storms that soak to bone like baptismal water or motherblood,
running away from unfit challenges & lightning bolts in the eyes of predator,
hand mirror stand offs made square on the
edge of a hairpin inevitably play out between men of similar/unequal understanding.
Stringing all those crypto-maxims together w/ a chip on your shoulder that feels like a bulbous clot and having tunnel vision ahead of mowed grass is convincing enough.
It’s a prominent argument to be self-reliant when you can only see what’s in front of you, that moments where vigilance falters, someone’s ready to cut down your neat,
unilateral visions of what is achievable in a codependent world where nothing out-rightly expressed or offered is genuine and w/o consequences.
What a fuct way of coming to some grandiose & ill-formed conclusions about the people around you, the people ‘willing to lend a hand’.
You build mantras and weigh daily affirmations around your exposure to stressful situations, against the fact that Cooper’s hawks aren’t passive aggressive, the monsoon season isn’t passive aggressive,
predators, hand mirrors & hairpins are not passive aggressive. But you’re not an elemental reaction to hot air or a hunter with the nerve.
You’re used to avoiding direct confrontation,
so you relate more with the broken fences, you’re ripped apart on a regular basis, you’re very used to running away from perceptibly insurmountable challenges, shying away from standoffs w/ crypto-delusions in the mirror.
Do. Not. Fall victim. To self righteousness, to fear, to apathy as a result of bearing down/trudging through. Slink back into the earth like something coiled w/ venomous teeth when the blood is cold. Be brazen and unassuming in matters of wisdom, stretch yourself against Cooper’s neck and stop fucking running.
Let yourself fall prey to being
carried off by a purpose bigger than yourself.
Bio: Frankie Metro is 1 slice of the pie and co-founder of Kleft Jaw Press, which celebrates transcendental realism (a fancy way of saying we like to put stuffed baby bears in t-shirts with the sleeves cut off and read poems in front of it.)
Poetic Statement: Transcendental realism is the equivalent of butchering your grandfather’s WW2 notebooks, but throwing a party for him afterwards, which includes every Decepticon you could possibly conceive, wearing baker hats and grilling your sensibilities/conventions with a fire that is only stoked by your capacity to see past moral ambiguity.
World’s Fair 9
This jumper is close to that number
This laugh is close to that throat
Select visitors are invited to go
Behind the bridge
The yacht’s naked body
Elegant no longer hidden
Others discuss terrorism
Their clothes almost screaming
With short-term power
These students see the jumper
Not unlike the elegant yacht
They attract a wide range
Of nature and elevation
They freeze in yoga
Pants / positions / swing-the-statue
This is an amazing thing
A husky laugh
The jumper sees the students
Any other person would have
Been frozen in the speculative voltage
And thus have overemphasized
Their interest in the supernatural.
Nature has its vein of gold
Cheese its bleu network
This feeling will never survive
Without a secret hiding place
The bee has its hive
Mind its subconscious
Face its subcutaneous tissue
On has its off
The cough drop box
Its odd bearded brothers
Cod its liver oil
Hat its tin foil
Lonely alchemists hide
In the alley
The only place
Their ongoing research on hiding
South of here
There is work being done in the canebrake
On the afternoon shadows
Cast by silos
Expose any aperture
And that other world
Also click here to read A Brief History of Meat at Sparks of Consciousness
Bio: Glen Armstrong holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and teaches writing at Oakland University in Rochester, Michigan. He also edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters. His work has appeared in Poetry Northwest, Conduit and Cloudbank.
Aesthetic Statement: There’s a certain finality to a story that I can never quite achieve. Narrative seems so damn sure of itself, and that’s most likely why I lean toward the lyrical. The fragmented and broken still hums. It still resonates with the blow that destroyed it. Certain grammatical units remind me of my birthplace, Pontiac, Michigan, where there are scraps in the streets too abandoned and too interesting to waste time rebuilding.