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.
Kite flying in an arctic gale.
The Moon is a Hoax.
Truth a Trope.
A mistake dangling
Out of God’s nostril.
(here’s a whisper from the Buddha)
Fuck The Man
For He Is Wise
In Giving His Cash
To Sleeping Artists.
POWER CORRUPTS, OR IS IT THE
STRENGTH OF ONE TRILLION SUNS
AND LETTERS TO THE INSANE
YOU CAN’T CALL IT CANDY
OR ROSES FOR THE QUEEN MOTHER
IT’S SIMPLY THE SCENE YOU PAINTED
LIKE TEMPRA PILLBOX SUNSET SPEARS
USE THE PAWNS LIKE PICKETS ON A FENCE
KEEP THEIR EYES WIDE OPEN AND LEARN THEIR NAMES
LAMBS WHO EAT IVY SURELY WILL DIE
BUT ONLY AFTER A SECOND TRY
IT IS HUMAN NATURE, THIS WILL IN BATTLE
THEY SHOUT FROM ONE MILLION ANGRY THROATS
AND POINT TOWARD THE ARMOR SHIMMERS
WHISPERING JEALOUS POEMS
TO ARMS ALONE
WHO NEEDS AN ARMY?
THE UNISON SOUND BREAKS QUIETLY
TOWARDS THE FRONTIERS OF DELUSION
THERE WAS NO BATTLE
THERE IS NO FOE
YOU TASTE BLOOD BECAUSE
YOU BIT YOUR LIP
Chimera Bombinians In Vacuo
Wring my wait
Standing pandering fool
A wrung Chimera aside.
Or a mountain of blue un re-totemstone
Blue luster cast bleeding
Cracked grey lids for seeing
Lips in favored breathing night…night
Here’s a callous rubberstone
Bouncing, prancing, chewedly bone
Glissading dogmouth kites
“ Ah, Youth! You glide like God-Dog water.!”
(I’ve watched from my perch..)
Yes. I’ve sat and set
Down in silver trails unheat
Spattering cowbones at my feet
I eat more stone in hand
I smell beauty
Assuredly( ME )-seat
Assuredly (ME )-seat
“ The Chimera has a riddle, soft man..
~young * man~
who scars stone in a moaning sun?”
My poetic statement- has to reside with the words committed to blank pages. Though it may, (at times), seem so -these poems are not limned in blood. Racing thoughts and automatic writing are the stuff of whispering ghosts. And I’ll be damned if I don’t listen between candybars. Pass the salt and it had better be worth it, pilgrim.
Faith may be primitive, but it’s the rarest tribe I know.
Bio- J.D. Brayton is an artist and musician who can, as if by magic , transmogrify poetry into lyrics, lyrics into short stories, short stories into novels, and novels into guaranteed poverty.
The Poetics of Immersion
Sentiment and Sensibility
by Kenyatta Jean-Paul Garcia
Withinside of experience is poetics
an unhidden poetry runs its course through occurrences
a further unhidden poetry has been handed down and lived in for centuries in myth, fable, folklore, philosophy, religion, worldview, and other notions often marked as ‘culture’
images have existed
images created are tangled with past images
ideas are images to be
images are ideas had
images are ideas being had
the image and idea (of the image) is the center of the poem
even when the poem has no center or focus, the image/idea is
a direction of a poem is an image
a whole piece can turn on a preposition
into (for example) is an image/idea immersed into the wordery of the poem
the wordery is the added imagery of words surrounding the essential image
a room described is often done so just to place in or out of it the agent or patient of the lines
a poem finds its place immersed into other poetry at all points
no words exist alone
there is no alone with words
a single word is a combination of concepts, idea, and (what) sensiment imag(in)es
sense is a two-way conduit for sentiment
sensiment(al) is the poet’s stock of ingredients, materials, detritus, etc for poetry
sensiment is found art
sensiment is art forced upon artist via life and the image/idea occurring and being processed
the poem occurs within the overall web of poetics/wordery/sensiment
poem as written/being written is an act of immersion (at times invasion)
poem inserts into web of myth and history and truth and wish and current events and the POP
the pop the today’s need for myth with truth being subjected to wish
the poem once inserted into the umbrella of wordery undergoes the next step which is to be immersed into the reader
the reader more properly defined is the perceiver of poetry
the perceiver once in contact with the poem is in the poem is withinside the occurrence of the piece
minimalism, distillation and small vocabulary further allow for an enmeshment with the poem once the perceiver is immersed in the poem
the poem immersed in the experience of the perceiver
immersion poetry is NOT conceptual poetry
concept is but an aspect of/step towards idea
immersion poetry is not found poetry
all poetry is found in the cosmic and psychic language of the real and irreal/subjunctive worlds
possibility is its own myth
wish is a pantheon governing the will
immersion poetry enters this world wrapped in other wordery
it comes through and with all art and all pop
it comes with myth attached
it comes via quote via reference naked but for the air it has relationship with
it comes knowing it itself is at times nothing other than a paraphrase a para-image para-idea
it gives room for continuation
it is conversation
it is called to respond
it responds to call
it calls for response
respond and correspond is immersion
it does by being allowed to do
to do is to be received
perception is reception where poetry is concerned
where poetry has flourished in its immersion
as but a petal coming from and returning to a mythic center
APPROACHES TO LONG POEMS OF THIS NARRATIVE
by Kenyatta Jean-Paul Garcia
Anna Elena Eyre
- Although temporal this narrative is non-chronological, non-hierarchical and non-linear and more akin to that of a spiral with layered complexity as well as the backward, forward and present trajectories of moment(s).
- The idea of the image of an occurrence is the motive for this narrative and the motivation for readers to enter into the story as well as to have the story enter into them.
- This narrative emphasizes transition/attention/relation not action/conflict/heroism.
- This narrative is no longer storytelling, it is story-talking.
- This narrative is highly interpretative on behalf of the reader because of authorial choices.
- In this narrative the reader in some ways becomes the writer because the text requires participation to be determined. It is because of participation that we can locate and re-create a poetic tradition that requires personal enactment.
- This narrative engages delimited and ultra-discursive identity, naming, setting, plot and experiences.
- This narrative wishes to escape the literary narrative (resolution, coda, evaluation and exposition) to bring about a linguistic narrative (intuitive temporal sequencing, displacement, coordinate clauses, orientation complication, and an abstracted exposition).
- This narrative is primarily textual and utilizes translation of oral poetic strategies including: patterns of recurrences; morphology; deixis; pitch; juxtaposition; minimal vocabulary; variation; improvisation; rhyming that can be but does not necessarily have to be sounded but rather based in associative resonances; as well as rhyming that is unpredictable and spontaneous.
- This narrative is a mirror or window that has been shattered but each shard is a piece of and offers another jagged perspective of the whole that is necessarily indefinite.
- This narrative explores othering, exile, hybridism and errantry.
- Voice is key to this narrative.
Critics, theorists, linguists, translators, poets, teachers and students, Altpoetics is calling for all those bits of poetic musings which tend to have no place on poetry blogs or in the vast amount of poetry journals/zines.
Altpoetics is looking for manifestos, mission statements, process pieces and any theory on poetics/poetry, language and translation. This is the place to voice all those odd and innovative ideas about writing. This site can also be a place to dig into older theories (as new tends to sprout from old) but really, there’s no need to continue to sing the praises of decades old manifestos. Let this be the place to voice your own ideas. The future is yours to create.
Altpoetics isvery interested in writing as a response to other writing/writers. Letters to the past and poems re-visioned/re-imaged are also of great interest.
Altpoetics is also looking for slipstream work -writing which shows innovation or a new/different approach. Altpoetics is especially desirous of work which pushes the limits of the lyrical narrative.
Please send 2000 words or less in a .doc attachment to firstname.lastname@example.org. (Previously published material is welcome.) Also, please title the piece and send a short bio within the attachment. And, a cover letter is appreciated.