Wednesday, March 30, 2011

"I'm learning to play the pickax ..." / Poem over at elimae

A chunk of the long poem, "Someone Face Like The Sun / Was On Our Porch Last Night," will soonishly appear over at the nimble, certain-handed elimae.

The buzzy connection of less-lengthy poetry and fiction ( as well as reviews ), elimae puts out an electronic issue every month. I am gained of swag, the correct type, that occurs in April or even May. Holland is nice this time of year: I'm glad for them there.

Sunday, March 27, 2011

STEAMER, Volume One

STEAMER editor, Sam Langer, gracefully performed an exchange of his arto-poetry booklet for a copy of I'm sorry , about Baseball. Engaging, amusing, accessible, poems of varying length landed among pen-sketches. STEAMER, Volume 1, arrives to the states from that histo-mythic land of Australia, with a manner and poise, a reflection of transit and bustle of present voices rushing Melbourne, Australia.

Absolutamente I had this 30 pg. black & white goodie tucked under my arm around the bay area these last weeks. Australia speaks to me through STEAMER.

Fondness over Sam's collaborative poem, "Leather," with Jal Nicholl:

... Sun threw the popsicle willows

A spine of fog. The stunning curds

Floated beyond the beer swans ...

Two more of their collabs are over at Cordite Poetry Review.

Michael Farrell reaches at Australia, "the net":

is good for

catching criminals not

sharks. in my work for the

fake organisation the reformed sharks

league, i have met several actual sharks...

there never was

a tail of blood ...

Then Duncan Hose creates a fresh keel-noise considering histo-politico-geography with the ecstatic-travelogue "your ankels are ham:/var. On the work of Pearce's/ British Addictions." A piece:

... The sky tho circumpolar hath no regular sun, only grays more


Less cloaked, like a promise's promise my running mate's

A convict's convict whom I chose once I knowed

He spells his name 'Charels' ...

Look for it out on those restless whale-roads.

Monday, March 14, 2011

"Unmachinable lord, good apricot hunting..." / Poem at Robot Melon

The newer issue of Robot Melon, # 11, is set to include "Body moving away from this hub" within its folds. An interweb organism, Robot Melon is dedicated to ensuring the infinite archival functions of that dimension work toward an immortality for human-people.


Saturday, March 12, 2011

See Through Me Is This House

After a more than generous run, The McGee-Cirimele Poet in Residence Program has shut down. A spell here, a spell there. Then the great matchstick of the northern-south, Nashville (!) Is there poetry there? Do they have Big ! Lots and 211?

A writing on that old stack of wood:


That which exists through itself

is what is called the meaning.

- Creeley

Spray of town

a hack through blindness.

There is a wall I lean at

and it keeps my sound.

A deck its

smoke and crabsmell.

Bone flat harmonic


brush mumble kenning.

House in it glass run drunk.

Sun badly collapsed.

Sand is coming off me slant

my paper exile

still contains unmeasured injuries.

What slipped keyhole,


bursting into event.

I enjoy cathedral when it


bell salts here interred.

Cooing impostor,

yard mourning, vibrating

air with throats.

Hello House.

Mid-heaven amid the isthmus.

Straight husk. Temple vim.

A dog's heart in me.

Earth church, all I want to

do today is

watch the ice break apart

in my lawn-chair biting

my hand.

Smells wake me.

Plank run low,

the work silent and still any

simple echo.

Adjusting iron skirts.

House is sad and never tired.

I am of a corner cathedral pushes


salt making bones, sand breathing


hides intuition.

Consoled on all sides.

House is a set

of lungs, with lungfish.