About The Typeface The words are set in ink on the pulped innards of trees. The idea for words comes first from Sumeria as wedges in wet clay: tales of what came before, lost to flood and forgetfulness. The shapes of the letters formed in Phoenicia, and sorted themselves into vowels and consonants - each breath a brush stroke Continue reading
Boulder Ghost Tour
Because I want to see ghosts,
I pass the two rooms in this hotel that are said to be haunted.
I want to see the filmy image, at the end of the hall, holding a bony finger to his lips
Telling me I’ve said enough and now is the time to listen;
Or the little girl with a twisted smile on a twisted head
Standing in a doorway inviting me in
Because there are things I need to see.
But there’s nothing but closed doors and a maid with a good morning smile. Continue reading
Out in the open between the two willows unshaven
a little too lean for song
coffee for dinner last night cigarettes the night before
he strains to see what I load
and I strain back so as to record him for the telling
posing myself in mid-air Hefty bag stretched tight
cans and bottles returnable harvest at ten cents a shot
nothing to sneeze at he nods
_____ Continue reading
Train Flowers - for my father
Flowers are the only things we can cut away from a body, put in water, and watch open slowly. Today the subway is blasted full by bouquets smearing their tongues on cheeks and brushing against buttons to be pushed only in emergency. Imagine the vases, the arms, crooked, black, yellow, young, they are going to. Continue reading
It’s not that I don’t like the kids
just that I crave respite from the clutter and crash
of toy tractors and trains, trucks shunting
from one junction of the sitting-room to another.
It’s not that I don’t like you browsing
the web on your laptop, switching from gifts
for your family to documentaries about
bottled water, and breast ironing in Cameroon. Continue reading
Come with me. Through crazed,
Embroidered webbing of night, come.
Without your aid I am useless. I need
To gallop past lips red and hungry, dripping potions.
I move in shame and stumbling;
Give me your holy dance. Light the flagstones,
One by one, flowering in praying light.
The night is weeping worms
And you must choose my steps: Continue reading
Painting on Papyrus
The blue feathered ibis is a symbol of immortality; the crescent-shaped lotus flowers, symbols of immortality; even the goggle-eyed asp who sheds his skin, symbol of immortality.
Man went to the moon
Never asked what she wanted
Man drove his rocket straight into the Moon
She turned her face away
And let it happen
Because it was simpler
He didn’t make it easy
He did a victory dance
Bounding like a child,
Like an ape howling into a vacuum Continue reading
One fifth of humanity was marching into Portugal.
It was bringing with it
large barrels of its family’s familiar salt.
It tried to place one of the barrels
at one end
of a seesaw that was no longer capable of being fixed.
I knew, because I was at the other end of the seesaw.
I was asking the wind why it didn’t want my signature included.
I was passing out chocolate to anyone who could speak. Continue reading
Drag your white skull beyond blind seas
that tumble dazed to your mono-eyed magic.
Go tell Neptune when the night is through.
Charm him, too, with your waxing and waning. Continue reading
Impelled toward vigor,
we’re demeaned by violence,
by nihilistic philistinism,
by wishful mysticism,
by competing mythologies
of those who cooperate only to copulate,
by individuality stifled with surveillance
and the cynical fratricide of civil war. Continue reading
Foggy brick streets
-red brick that is-
dredged from the bottom of a murky river
which has seen things sink
other didn’t want to be seen,
And who is she to tell until her sediment is exposed?
That red brick stands for time
and age, Continue reading
by Hamish Mack
We walk down to the estuary,
raising clouds of insects,
like smoke, with our feet.
We look for clues,
in the sky, or on the water
as to what has happened to us. Continue reading
“We choose … to do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard.” – JFK’s moon speech, 1962 He snaps off the transistor voice, choosing the hard things, more concerned with politics in hand: the rigged feel of a borrowed boat, the smile on a borrowed wife – Continue reading
This song is not for the shivering sleepless child
huddled in a cardboard box above a restless alley
watching a smog-orange midnight sky
through the rusted bars of a fire escape
praying no monster climbs up and tries to take her.
No, I dedicate this song to you, Architeuthis.
You have not stumbled and fumbled with words,
never trembled in the face of meaninglessness.
Let the lines of this song become tentacles.
Let them draw meaning out of you
and ever closer to my eager snapping beak.
"Marilyn Manson Talks About Lewis Carroll" by Ron Riekki cobweb tattoo, alice is never described as a blonde, hair like a pet, nine light bulbs, eyes sent to jail, a recipe for schizophrenic—and at the time—aphasia, black, arterial bleed lips, wires, it’s very raw, innocence demons, I have to scratch my groin while listening, calm calculated kind cruelty
Emma, Who Stabbed Her Right Eye
by John Grey
They came for the
sight in your right eye
when the ones
who could have protected you
were busy elsewhere
reading or watching television
or staring out the window. Continue reading
Wonderland - Club 1350, Long Beach, California Tonight I want to go to hell, I want to know there are Hearts more rock than the granite in me. Down Anaheim Street, the yellow dandelion street lights spread more sparingly in the rear view, the city reaches—like a garden of hungry blossoms and weeds—to me. Continue reading
The Mathematics of Sin the time I did not turn the other cheek the time I fought an unjust war against a herd of vampire bats in suits and ties the time I said, “The Devil is an ass” the time I lied like the Egyptian midwives lied the time I stole to study poetry the rainy night I rested in your arms Continue reading
Global warming keeps them awake,
sweating between hot cotton sheets,
asking themselves have they turned off
the heater, oven, iron, and coffee pot?
Her hair spray and his shaving cream
that used to flirt in whispers
now hiss and hasten armageddon. Continue reading