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Winter 2016

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ALTPOETICS

Winter 2016
ALTPOETIC1

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Three Poems by KJP Garcia

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Three Poems

by

KJP Garcia

Stop By

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.

 

Afford

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

-expire-

afford a balance to repair’s value.

 

Which Side

Which side of the Hudson is for Verlaine

And which for Rimbaud after the break-up?

Not world enough / strong enough

to open petals

lay out

lyricism

illuminations

the way New York

can

with all the best pharmaceutical grade . . .

And two rivers and upstate to run to and Jersey

ready to back pocket

the written

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 /

unwanted?

 

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.

Three Poems by Michael David Saunders Hall

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Three Poems 

by

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

of expression

choreographed

to the sound

of breaks

extended on

phonographs

I once telegraphed rhythms

purposely

abrupt

cutting in, out—

between scenes

of sound

& silence,

ambition

& ambivalence…

sermonizing

the psalms

of drums

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

crates

creating concertos

of the crossfader

with coaxing

diminuendo…counterpoint

…& crescendo, making

music from noise wandering

amidst the voices

in the margins, lingering

& loitering

like echoes, refined

by time.

 

#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

spliced by

the metronome of memory into the digitized

 

diary of the mind where our analog souls

segue

into the ark of history, rehearsing & conversing

 

In tongues of talking drums

versed in

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

 1)

What’s this thing called love?

Kisses coming off the tongue

Hearts beating like drums.

 

2)

In the scrupulous scribbles

Of  life painted freehand, love

 

is the serenade

of whispered watercolors

echoing anon

 

& on, dancing in the flesh

never to be forsakened.

BIO: My name is Michael David Saunders Hall. Born February 24, 1970, I am a graduate of University of Illinois at Champaign with a Bachelor of Science degree in Liberal Arts. I’ve worked as children’s counselor and a laborer for Firestone among many other jobs. Presently, I am employed by Walmart. My love for poetry and the arts has me putting all my passion, energy and zeal into an effort of building up a following and becoming a published poet, going wherever the journey takes me. Presently, as part of the process, I have two blogs I maintain, The Poet Tree Will Be Streamed and Life’s Last Labors of Love. I also head and help run (with the aid of RC deWinter, Chris Flegel, and Uma Venkatraman) a community on Google Plus called Words On Fire and ezine of the same name. By the end of this year (if not earlier), I hope to self-publish a couple ebooks of my own verse: one entitled Haikooley High Harmony: Life, The Duality of Love Vs. Lust & The Sunshine After The Rain (which will be like a chapbook of haiku and tankas), and the other is to be called Like Blue Notes For Poetry.
Poetic Statement: I believe, When you write how you feel, all dimensions of yourself come to light and cannot help but be exposed as genuinely real. For me, writing is truly the balance of “delicious agony” and suite ecstasy, always revealing itself as both the process and the product of catharsis.

 

Song Texts by Cécile Félix

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Song Texts

by

Cécile Félix

Numb

dive into my iris
arises the numb disease
let it fall in space
on time
words
shewed swords
only what she learned and not what she feels-
let her fall- let her fall-
in
love
in
what
where
when we came for/from
and now it arises

Eva

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
slow
down
to earth
up to the skies to the skies
Oh!Oh OhOh…

pinguin people

I wish I was pure
So I’m spoiled
I wish I was queen
wish I was, wish I was
I
am
co
rrupted
I am?

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.

Four Poems by Billy Cancel

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Four Poems

by

Billy Cancel

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
adventure     protest
love
sex then     fatigued stalemate     addlebrained sprawl     shit
hole     no trigger     masqueraded humble as
we approached casual metaphor          luminous
glut look
closer am
sagging with
dismals

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
do performance
 

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
my wall

Five Sonnets by John Lowther

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Five Sonnets
by
John Lowther

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.

Theoretically, yes.

*

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.

Use insecticide.

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.

Note on the Text
555, is a collection of sonnets whose creation is database-driven and relies upon text analytic software.
The frame or measure is quite mechanical. I crunched and analyzed Shakespeare’s sonnets, then divided by how many to arrive at averages for words, syllables and characters (inclusive of punctuation but not spaces). These averages (101 words, 129 syllables, 437 characters)became requirements for three groups of sonnets (185 in each).
Parallel to this I started a database for lines found virtually anywhere (though I tended to avoid poaching from poetry). Values for word, syllable and character are recorded. Typos and grammatical oddities are preserved and the lines cannot be edited, though they can be swapped out for other lines of the same value.
Line selection isn’t rule driven and inevitably reflects my reading, watching, listening and thus my slurs as much as my passions, my amusements and those things that disturb me. I espouse only the sonnets, not any one line. Some irk me, others please. Some are just off somehow. There are also intentional banalities as I think they can be made to resonate as well as horrible statements that I try to break in some fashion through context.
Sonnets are assembled using nonce patterns or number schemes, by ear, or notion, or loose association, by tense or lexis or tone. Every sonnet must match the average exactly.
The completed sonnet count as of this writing is 404. I’ll be done when all 555 make it through editing. So at the level where all this database and text analytic stuff takes place things are pretty frosty and procedural, but line selection is extremely idiosyncratic, and as the implementation is not automated inevitable mistakes creep in (which I correct if I find them). I often think of Pound’s “dance of the intellect among words” but it is less words than sentences (or units punctuated as such) amongst which I move. The dance in question tracing out a knot (rather, a gnot) that holds the lines together for me.
Poetics Statement
I’ve already said too much it seems to me, but here I go (in somewhat didactic form). All Language Is Poetry (that we do not always recognize this is due to “occlusion” otherwise known as “taking language for granted”). ALIP, a lip, All L is P, lisp. Writing from the head, by what is called “inspiration” is all well and good if that is what you desire, but we are all Systems of Low-Level Regularities (Harry Mathews), SLLR, which read upside down with bad glasses is “slurs” which works quite well doesn’t it? Just as the drunken fool tells you the same story thrice, that we are systems of low-level regularities, that we have slurs — poetic habits at the conscious and unconscious levels — requires (if one might wish to outrun these things) that we adopt other measures than inspiration with which inspiration can, perhaps, combine. Having a poetics, like having a “voice”, is something I try to stay one (or more) step ahead of. Something is following me though, I catch sight of it now and then, it means me no good. It speaks.
Bio
John Lowther co-founded the Atlanta Poets Group in 1997 and quit in 2012. The University of New Orleans Press published The Lattice Inside: An Atlanta Poets Group Anthology in 2012. Forthcoming from Lavender Ink is John and Dana Lisa Young’s book Held to the Letter. He edits 3rdness Press. He is writing his dissertation on the intersections of Lacanian psychoanalysis and queer theory with issues raised for these by transgender and intersex people. For the moment, he lives in North Carolina.

Two Poems by Kenyatta Jean-Paul Garcia

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Two Poems 

by

Kenyatta Jean-Paul Garcia

For

. . . 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?

* * *

believe

in

M            I               R             R             O             R             S

W            I               N             D             O             W            S

one        same

in

sight

encompassing

in biggest picture – minor part – but a role – in thought/deed

* * *

feel more

/sense/

* * *

come, be light upon keys

play soft

deliver gentle notes

into air

-correspond-

.

pluck a drop from sky

for drum’s head lonely

-incomplete-

pining

for touch

.

* * *

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

silk creaks

cotton inlets

polyester reservoirs

nylon canals

merino wool rivers

rayon fjord

woven ocean

canvas clouds

showroom models

best looks left on hangars

 

Blurred

no promise

in possibility

exists for daydreaming

 

fear clings with its name given

-irreality

 

even as it is

forgotten

and overcome

 

when truth returns

to vision

blurred

 

Bio: 

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.