Did you ring the doorbell?
This house is your house –
so to speak.
Open so long as you let yourself be heard.
But locks must be engaged, shutters closed
–there are some
that do harm –
Villains are not simply storylines, costumes, secret identities, powers
but will and win if not on guard
Feel free to come by, as (is) possible, you’ve come by before so unknown
So entrance was removed.
Time, this, as always will be different.
If on verge then do well to continue
Ceiling leaks, drops break in.
Mattress steals space from living.
And this teetering persists?
Make a go of it
– rest doesn’t go well
Fall, jump, get pushed
afford a balance to repair’s value.
Which side of the Hudson is for Verlaine
And which for Rimbaud after the break-up?
Not world enough / strong enough
to open petals
the way New York
with all the best pharmaceutical grade . . .
And two rivers and upstate to run to and Jersey
ready to back pocket
on train out of here
to calm down.
So, Seine, which side is for Warhol and which for Basquiat
When done / decorated enough
to have back what is held close /
Poetic Statement: Experience is a plurality of convergences, interruptions, digressions, departures. These occurrences are the fragments which create larger memories and the narratives one attempts to convey to others. The closer one comes to examining the past, the more one notices how the present constantly interferes. The narratives one creates from the keepsakes of yesterday are shattered and forged again with new data – sensations, perceptions, insights, exemptions, the heard-words, the read-words, the thought-words, the dream-words, the images and ideas of having been inserted into a life of disturbances.
Bio: Kenyatta Jean-Paul Garcia is the author of This Sentimental Education, ROBOT and Yawning on the Sands.
Michael David Saunders Hall
Analog Soul: Ode To The Ark of History
“History is never silent, it reminds us again and again and again, that we live its presence in every part of our life every day.”
–Paul D. Miller (aka DJ Spooky)
#1) In the Fountain of Now
in the beginning
of the end, in the fountain
of now, where youth
is the eternal exuberance
to the sound
I once telegraphed rhythms
cutting in, out—
in the cadence of heartbeats
with rhythmic instinctions
transcending the trek
of life. it’s all a mystic brew
of rhythms spun from
constant conjures cooking
in the cauldron
of old record
of the crossfader
…& crescendo, making
music from noise wandering
amidst the voices
in the margins, lingering
like echoes, refined
#2) In the Tongues of Talking Drums
Everyday is the big playback: listening
to ex libris
excerpts & excursions in aural alchemy enjambed
& juxtaposed within the soul vibrations
of lingua franca
conjured in incantations of rhythm, connecting
us to the continuum of lost & found moments
the metronome of memory into the digitized
diary of the mind where our analog souls
into the ark of history, rehearsing & conversing
In tongues of talking drums
hieroglyphics & a tapestry of folktales.
Words on Fire (or: Destiny…in search of the light)
inspired by Mark Helprin’s Winter’s Tale
Are we ever to be old
As the destinies or dreams
Of our own decree we seek?
Connected by light
We are stars ageless as God
More ancient than Earth
In a clockwork of spirits
Born out of our words on fire
& loves unbroken by time.
Two Views on Love
What’s this thing called love?
Kisses coming off the tongue
Hearts beating like drums.
In the scrupulous scribbles
Of life painted freehand, love
is the serenade
of whispered watercolors
& on, dancing in the flesh
never to be forsakened.
dive into my iris
arises the numb disease
let it fall in space
only what she learned and not what she feels-
let her fall- let her fall-
when we came for/from
and now it arises
it is right it is wrong
it is black it is white
it is here, now it’s gone
it is right, it is right
it’s ugly and it shows
is it bad?
now it moves me!
it is all so close
it is melancholy for joy
and it’s fast
up to the skies to the skies
I wish I was pure
So I’m spoiled
I wish I was queen
wish I was, wish I was
I wish I was lovely
and I only pretend
I wish I was lovely Oh Oh!
Here I am
I wish I had never cheated on you
If only in my dreams, If only in my dreams
I wish I had never cheated on you
If only, if only, Oh my! if only I!
Wish I was a child I could cry I could cry
I Wish I was a child
Bio: Name is Cécile Félix- I play and write my own songs under the Name BoB.
Was born in Bordeaux, France in 66.
Live in Hamburg, Germany since 1995.
I’ve been playing in a few bands before I started my solo project, with names like Spunge Paper, kill the Body and the head will die, les idiots.
I wrote my first poem at 11, my first song at 20.
I’ve always been drawing and started to paint a few years ago.
Poetic Statement: The point is to create,to find a way out of the blue and sometimes into the black..
I like to use accidents in creation, see myself as a tool versus a master.
I practice the same in my life if I can. Not trying to change the world, but my vision of it, when it hurts…because: 7milliards people = 7milliards different views about what peace should look like.
through the muzzle infused with lag
squawked counterclaims incorrect
assumption at bona fide onset
even marauding randoms were
shard birds beneath multi-track
sky i ushered in such provocation
spruced up allegiance to white hot
parallel triggered a languish
harsh negotiations helter-skelter
into union camouflage these sample
impressions spaced like obstinate yoke
envoy desire obtain neglect so many
hybrids barely elbow room fabrications at
their most copious urbane sift
through imprudent splatter deft
vitalization signing off as
undercooked throughout splice
influx pandemonium maintain
rhythm of complaint so steady
light don’t get translated as mend
my illuminated zone peers free thinking
& elongated switch to neutral background
the question who amongst us unmodifiable
low pitched entanglement ornamental
conceit profound barrier dismal permutations so
overzealous surveyor lords it indeterminate
distance where fools lurk babble doddle
subnormal framework their expectations of strange
happenings in meadowlands meanwhile
imprudent bootlick myriad in active
thrive beneath alienation heavy stresses
sex then fatigued stalemate addlebrained sprawl shit
hole no trigger masqueraded humble as
we approached casual metaphor luminous
this smear founded upon radiating blotch
skewered rampage meticulous
abandon skewered abandon deferred insipid recontextualised
essential i floated through convalescence exemplification
spin floated through ballistic moonshine contaminated
blossom hardly a biscuit trip at theatre of science
was out of joint mimetic representation didn’t know
wind picked up chlorine leak vagueries pulsed something about
future abundance remember me i tried to turn off chemical valve
either way turned this room bright oink it is today undercut
by some uncommitted double your worm eaten ships coming
apart so come on all you crazies ferry leaves in 10 that was luke warm with
ferals vs. imports one of my
favorite artists out of the short lived
cancelburg haze core scene his new
album pitched camp with swine is
out on frost surf & you can catch
him live on the 22nd at
g spot supporting i kind of
how to outflank the suburbs dvd bonus disk
moon glued top left wide of dwellings worked towards
passion circuit reroute accumulated gaps in the
narrative bastard flourish synced me up why
i came gauze eyelids detritus swirl snake
the road brittle accumulating beneath digital sky
well groomed scrawl unparalleled interrogation
did you facilitate mash-up cut ribbons
into shine? or was it based up bemoaning such
disengaged patterns holding a lantern up to pensive
background sweet abundance of
whistleblowers strained rapport i can see festooned
with climbing ivy me with co-workers team
building at alligator church each avenue
remorselessly turned towards production out
of red grey
zag try to
fashion collisions something
dropped by the hunt hangs on
I never resist temptation, because I have found that things that are bad for me do not tempt me.
That will make more sense when we’re actually doing it.
This kind of judgment emanates from a hot emotional space, not from a cool intellectual one.
To whoever tagged this “gonads and strife”: Excellent.
You know, vacuum, dust, mop and help me move the furniture so I can clean behind them as well.
Certain people I imagine naked every time I see them.
Ultimately this is the only thing that interests me.
Yeah, that’s right, I said it.
I’m so over school.
I got my own ideas.
I like to sleep a lot.
The ethic that is never relinquished is that which embraces exploration, experiment and play.
This sentence no verb.
Clean and set this wig.
You change life for me.
If the egg sinks to the bottom, but stands on its point, it’s still good but needs to be used soon.
Nothing is possible.
You left this at mine.
You have to make retarded podcasts to keep yourself entertained because porn is so boring.
I think it depends on how much you consider humanity to be an invasive species on the earth.
Meditation on scripture is like a cow chewing its cud.
That requires a tank, and something pneumatic to run.
My life is like a glacier.
Fate doesn’t give a fuck.
Any event, once it has occurred, can be made to appear inevitable by a competent historian.
As an unabashed shoe person, I gotta say that I love the blue satin pumps and am meh on the boots.
Piss off fuck face.
This is not a pipe.
We found a real gem.
I had my face done.
Get over yourselves.
You’ve eaten earwax.
Give him a blow job.
Enjoy the jewelry.
Look at her lips.
This is not rain.
A change in enunciative value is produced as a result of the new system of inscription, which because it is organized, has wide-ranging, yet regulated, effects.
Some people, though, simply do not ‘telegraph’ any information about their sexuality.
Here’s the kicker.
You should think of a lesson as a weapon in love.
This is my time.
In both directions at once.
I can only see the dead ends everywhere I look.
There is great disorder under heaven and the situation is excellent.
Blocking relationships are computed for local pairs of parts that are in contact with one another.
It’s a huge myth that unconditional love, or radical acceptance of someone you care about, requires you to accept them for who they are.
That’s the gist.
When in doubt, freak ’em out.
All the road signs have been pulled down.
Russian roulette isn’t the same without a gun.
Kenyatta Jean-Paul Garcia
. . . it’s tight around here. nothing’s changed. what’s ever been easy to come by other than space and dead hours past memory’s reach to resurrect?
* * *
M I R R O R S
W I N D O W S
in biggest picture – minor part – but a role – in thought/deed
* * *
* * *
come, be light upon keys
deliver gentle notes
pluck a drop from sky
for drum’s head lonely
* * *
give it a try. what it? which it? give what to it? give it what? to what? to try. to try it. try it. try what? give.
* * *
this is the best pane of glass in town. this corner is awake and daydreaming.
* * *
sell the world. two for one. everything’s got to go.
felt on the lake
suede on the pond
velvet eddies in leather streams
merino wool rivers
best looks left on hangars
exists for daydreaming
fear clings with its name given
even as it is
when truth returns
The author of What Do The Evergreens Know of Pining, Yawning on the Sands, This Sentimental Education and Distilled! and A Northern Elegy was raised in Brooklyn, NY and has a degree Linguistics. Kenyatta Jean-Paul Garcia was a cook for over a decade and has studied several living and dead languages. Garcia’s work has appeared in BlazeVOX, ditch, Eccolinguistics, Caliban Online, Boog City, Barzakh and many others. Currently, Garcia’s nights are occupied by putting boxes on shelves while days are spent writing, reading and editing kjpgarcia.wordpress.com. You can also follow KJP at @KJPGarcia on twitter.
Deep Within the Ravine
(after the painting by Hans Hofmann)
Below the surface
what never was
it never was
the sseduction of flesh
by skin to bone
feet fins wings arms
of the creator
creating its own
the hallows of the earth
where it began.
Bio: I live in and write from New Jersey. Many hundreds of my poems appear in print and online journals and anthologies throughout the world, including Alba, Anastomoo, The Camel Saloon, Counterexample Poetics, ditch, Fowl Feathered Review, Haggard & Halloo, PressBoardPress and Otoliths,among others. I have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and the Rhysling Award.
Poetic Statement: Mine is a poetry of big ideas in small, singular packages. I want the meaning to come through in accessible form–but with a slant, and always with a musical quality.
Late Afternoon: the Pilgrimage Church
You asked me to explain to you a past
the always-correct Party had chosen
to hide from you. Yet in a new place now
you wondered about the saints and angels
within and without of Maria im Sand.
Willing I went with you over the
hills on that grey day, October fading,
winds bringing in clouds into the valley.
I pointed out the Virgin’s deep blueness,
the smooth apostolic face at the cross,
the font, pulpit, altar, sunless stained glass,
the mixture of styles, depending on time.
In the cemetery an old man spoke
about previous warfare’s heavy toll;
we exchanged a glance thinking of new deaths
and walked the streets of the closing-down town.
Interest does not always lead to belief.
But each November you light a candle
for your mother. You are a pilgrim
pursuing an uncertain goal as you
seek for answers to your unvoiced questions.
I think back to this day, and wish you peace.
Sunday Morning at Beech Island
Sunny morning on the crest of the hill,
Slightly-cold wind in this January
Blowing down the slope toward the Savannah.
Red-doored neo-classic chapel readied
For weekly glimpse of transcendent grandeur.
Uncertainties hover here over us,
Somber occasions, enduring concerns.
During flow of familiar devotions
Light transfixes heavenward-pointed Host
Suffusing unveiled glory over all.
Some linger later outside on the porch
Viewing the landscape with improved vision,
Savoring the moments they wish would endure.
A View Backward from the Bend
Every now and then, my path will bend.
If no mists fill the valley, if cloudless
Skies permit, I can gaze where once I went.
On ribbons of path straddling the ridge
Were elusive apparent destinies
Downward sloping toward sunset beaches,
That so thinly disguised a cul-de-sac.
Stretching to the sky, several towers,
Some unfinished, others now collapsing,
Their classrooms with closed windows preventing
Fragrant air to alleviate the staleness,
Not knowing the land where lemon trees bloom,
Scholars scour the text repeatedly
For some non-existing enlightenment,
Refusing to look at the external.
Occasionally a face that I see,
Or a song wafting melody to me
Reminds me of my travels on that path,
Reconnecting me to what I had loved
Even if no longer can be found
Even if it no longer can be loved.
As quickly as it comes, it disappears
And I follow the bend to straighter paths.
Bio: Arthur Turfa lives in the South Carolina Midlands, but his poetry contains influences of his native Pennsylvania, California, Germany (where he has also lived), as well as other places. He is working on an e-book of his poetry, scheduled for release later in 2014. Published in the Munyori Literary Journal and South Carolina English Teacher, he also maintains a personal blog, Some Poetry at aturfa.blogspot.com
Poetic Statement: Essentially I think Wordsworth had it right, although I do not always find long-lasting tranquility. Something or someone grabs a hold of me, and lingers until I recapture the moment, the glimpse, or the time from my life. My poetry attempts to include the reader into what I experienced, rather than telling the reader all about it or me. At times I strive for a sense of closure, at others I want to preserve something (more as a Symbolist than an Imagist). Whom do I read; Eliot, Auden, Rilke (in the original), Frost, Updike, Shakespeare, Bukowski, and others.Language that sings is more important that language that rhymes.