kari edwards

a dark ageless groan

an ageless tarnished dark. an insane, locked down iron cog, teeth of
the industrial age. the eternal in tightened steel color sounds.
abnormal ageless grinding, accompanied by torturing devices that
naturally come locked down in minds rotating moving another and
another.a dark ageless groan.

eternal moans, troops with steel things of enterprise, tightened hard
around the original crime of love, parts of the heart fall in agony,
locked down as a natural enemy, flowing in waters imperceptible. a
cog turns a voice into the soured calculation within. the invention of
cement blocks, rusted in effort, brings flesh eating demons to
holocaust number 110023.

then the mechanical age, sound pieces drown down the invention of all
movement based on an ancient roman coal furnace, blowing its soot over
the efforts of disco.

ballad for a maid to man

each man, as a woman, each woman as a man, I am there, but with the
steep of blood shown a portraiture, a ballad for truth, a battle with
rain from heaven: on one part bare and bloody feet by sword blade’s
of snow. shake my game, my bloody feet to none or either. with none as
some and some as none, the deadly fires which are the stars of this
thing in sapphire cave of snow, shake to overthrow hath need of the
pencil or the turn of the ending or ending or a turn to a pencil or a
thing that is neither or nor both or none at all: to battle with bare
and cruel mangling made as a gallant foe this ornament, in fierce
surmise when in strain ineffable, we sang: dice be my fierce surmise,
on noble lightning rode meet me as each and every, both and none on
everyday or none on this infallible pyre of no or not this towards the
heavens and rains to ever and none.

Sheila E. Murphy

color cure for the commandments

one off-
white mis-
concept
ion branched
before I knew
the tattled
story I was
one of them and
now then
formalities tender
resignations
equal to
least smidge
of grip
lost on
wherewithal
splayed wall-
to-wall careers
are made of
intravenous kinder-
tact until
a fraction of
the obvious detains
me and my
kind

Michael Basinski

SwaOwlsAll These by Forms

cueyens coppe tub
brekcup curtains
nonce weird
shower wyll drrink ryng
shower will dose horses
hangover and ever
vehicles diluted
loot
luids
lubrication miseltoed
thready eyes
acetic acrid watore
arctic heymn tok la lance
ela cupe key fudal
S w allowed snails
hyaciths wear
Venusians come
herueseans a shore
a shoe as turtles

Far Iff

waesthesia
dis/spell
puff cup rains
in or door if egg honey
were a dress of sand sleep
placed upon hymns
this may excommunication
of pear trees
received birds
as long bits
of fig candle

Cupule

Iscoombning Sea Sun

John M. Bennett

Sudario

hunt slip
damp oil
pod grapple
cob runt
bomb nit
rock haunt
under shirt
book rust
glum trick
host shore
canoe fire
clang night
sat strong
rule melts
spooled hat
hang jewel
ghost sun
look plundered
sock lung
lob clod
cramp dump
spit boil
apple grunt
sit gaunt
spurt dust
thick door
choir fight
wrong smell

Nico Vassilakis

Envelope Poems

The Birds

Sprint like a clue * hovered & frozen * suspended with a body * there are physical expectations * as there is never a lose * but some will say a misshapen design * reminds us

The Fuse

Writes small deaths * like nothing matters but dirt * writing at the edge of you * asks what specifically unfolds * & this may be how long I last

The Paperwork

Caught in a smoke of tongues * the remaining vagueness * reconstructs an event * thumbing through the documented anomalies of art * & that it takes words to conjure is the conundrum * & you will sense what I am sensing * only because I refer to sensing

The Corpse

Asks is this a diarist's hand * you forfeit the short ascent * as you are off the page * you will come to notice my body at the entrance

The Quiet

Rapture is an act of disappearing * three levels of disappearing * & slowly the ingredients * squeeze the chest to return * drown our palm of words * sinking sunk

Geof Huth

a few pwoermds for the entertainment of the small by the small

lostalgia

leafeuilleaf

scarcrow

snowindow

inscentive

devtails

we'ed

meye

blindeaf

lightninght

Raymond Farr

Exemplar

I have moved on ahead. The well seems closer. A vein opened. I have driven snow to a miracle of mountains where a figure descends. Come noon the eggs will firm in their shells. Fire like a compass. Useful shoehorn. In the time of the purges, Raskolinkov, a character, dragged his corpses around dreary, frozen St. Petersburg, as though a hidden dream skulked, and scowled, and schemed sorrowful murder to initiate the ascent towards spring. Red, blue, green Christmas tree lights. Are there raisins in the bald tires of love? I aver. I discontinue my membership in the Civil War Society Chess Club. The homliest woman could've been Whitman. The shock of the curling iron. Hiss. Hiss. The pate of the paternal garland stringer. My hero. Stoop of the homliest woman. The photo of Truman shaking DiMaggio, the Yankee Clipper's hand. The corpses plotted preternaturally. The author's whispers off stage. A literary notion of self determined by consensus. Industrious mice fritter away hours in the playhouse. Nibble at the fraudulent camembert. Residual mirror. If I claim resonance, I claim Sandra Bullock. Twain recalled the correct Mississippi to paddle up. A river dolphin on the death bed. The book was Alien Tatters. The postage stamp is five cents plus. Don't propose a deal if the car you're selling requires work. Lust and a new butter dish. Directorial debut. I'm already in the waiting area. My T-bill's matured without discreet reasons, even while you waited. Mighty is the bear who watches his honey tree. Time never gets read. Red tresses in the arena as the Camaro downshifted up the old Apian Way in a refreshing manner. The top down. Sausage and TV by lantern light while someone hummed "Suwannee" on the cabin porch. The mosquito zapper flinched electrically. The screen door. Flare of the anchors away. Same time next voluble dissonance. Righteous scar tissue. Small train. At the rostrum, I peopled the earth.

Mark S.Kuhar

tripping (ya-ya) the tooth open groove

in miscellaneous (ya-ya)
toxic opus coca-cola
the (ya-ya) groping great
haunted
of (ya-ya) you send for me
in dormant
heights (ya-ya)
* * * * * under the
groaning breathing bridges
(ya-ya) the texaco
yasss the yasss freebie
leather diamond
opus group scrambled
(ya-ya) the (ya-ya) yr
motorola craven designed
(ya-ya) january
february march
goober train
(ya-ya) april ford
may june
* * * * * these points
that grow & prosper
micro july august tripping
(ya-ya) the tooth open groove
in hierarchies
of apple bizarre (ya-ya)
zenith september (ya-ya)
october
jumbo fruit
hovering on consolidated
(ya-ya) sky one trail
houses november
predicated (ya-ya) upon
the lumbering verities
* * * * * traverse opaque
alien rooms
in (ya-ya) yasss yassss
grumbling john deere the grin
grim grumbles in
(ya-ya)
mcdonalds
the (ya-ya) grease goose
juice
* * * * * (ya-ya)
doubleday
hup hup oceans of
lemon pools the
(ya-ya) mikado moment
drainage dreams
the (ya-ya) plastipak
craftsman deep
the % of the % of
(ya-ya) spangle bottom
the gleaming grass poem
hellanic mudd levis
the tripping
(ya-ya) flowers
shaw country craft
the yodel in the
(ya-ya) redemption
* * * * * burden of
razor tooth unity
i fling the sink
(ya-ya) spit frigate
(ya-ya)
(ya-ya) shoop shoop
(ya-ya)
(ya-ya) (ya-ya)

Thomas Lowe Taylor

Stay

Staid and elder, the sending sands, beached outer, went forward into seeming or pleasantness; or elder still. Nothing moved again, but held into what was there in the mists of chance, a beach was raised from nothingness but an abrasive powder scaled forward to the seas edges were no made even or is this a leaner? You might remind yourself of the effort at seeing, how difficult the very management of chance is in the actives of what you do intermixing attentions into the span of light which you seem to occupy even beyond the naming of things where attention itself is made into light for your own seeming as how it is. I'd no outer, but held in these hours after you call my name, looking up into the light as mediation is almost overwhelmed into who you are again, and holding out from here to there, the beach beckons as time and tide revolve from these indistinctnesses are made some mother of your heart again.

No more than that. I've clamored after you one smooth into the next, and held what is too far away to be recompense. Was this your day again? Don't call me, I'll call you into the rooms you left behind in staid sadness was not recalled but named from this very spot you culled out and sold simple colors where the doorways chime what's your chance trance interning here to mark the day at autumn or its opposite, held like a string emanating from the spider's belly, his own soul transformed out again and again, but still the simpler terms are not met here or in disgust, even, but in the pride of the hour which remits you forward into these are the hours we missed together, thee of after longing—was this a terminal redux, the forward claim unnoticed at late hedges, spent where I held too far aside to say enough. Power the army of love; in the cold, cold ground. I listened to your name against my skin. I held you close and whispered songs focused his door into opening sails and followers, another shore wept aside in promises, or in promises wept aside in remembered airs the division of silence in your own partitions is yet a claim to dusk or doubt, a newer focus from the black warrior in your heart healing outward chimes are the rough voiced profit from doubters are the holding pattern you mentioned me to the others, I called you out into shimmering light; in his own sadness was the terminal reduced to nether reaches a skill, a flaming beach house was a meeting place to say a day a dusk, another flaming foreigner in his house of cards was not welcome, no longer welcome in the house of the raining king you sailed the beaches down the rising mists at the end of day, color to the hour, color to the kin's forwards. These are not mentioned from the handles on the door, from the lighters on the foaming cannister.

I'd said this is the day and formed my own persistences from doubt to lesion, from angular recall into a heavier shambles the movies on the scream I met you in between the house and garden showers of light, showers of the roomier pain in tense or kept former, nowhere was I met in your heart a simpler man sought the way and pain to recall love's specific densities healed me out into color and the remaining signs. Spoke. Not from these indistinct allocations, but I heard his voice retreating down the hallways in some tale tole spore; shim-shammie wheeling palms; I've sent them scattering down my own rooms are specific and said intense.

I'm in the moon between you and what what. Teach me how to do. Flail these souls their own inner doubts away in tents and outer. He's too far gone to be an old man, and too loving to have given up. Waits. Make me simpler doors rewind from the mooner spin. I'd have kept you down too far to witness the evidence from my own claims. He'd rather wait until you have the money, but the car is dusted beyond measure. And when I cross the street, it's not too sunny in the empty lanes, and where they cool you down is still a memory of my own hailing frequency.

And this a looter plain.

It's a slow draw from left to right. He heals them from the indistinct shadows they create in their utter ruminations from doubt. It's a clearer show you make into something imprecise to be told that here is the door and there is the plate on the floor. I have no doubts. I implement nothing but heal the causeways left in between my own showers and the later implants she said were waiting in the wings. No, it's a dull day in hell when you change pajamas and call her back into the light. I've said it before, you know, there is no change in the pocket of light. And there are no bills in the walled towns of the nether cities. It's all right. It's all change and walled cities, there in the realm of the newer sciences. No big buildings were scored alert, but read as lines and fathoms, as roomer calms and the doubt you said between us. It's the model of the day and I hear her singing. I hear the singing in the back of my mind and it is all right. I hear the singed waves of hair you spoiled me doubters on the moon. What can I say? I held you in the layer cakes of chance and surveyed my own disasters where I might. No, it's no fun to get high alone. It's rather a selfish air you deeply inhale and then spin out into the room; and where you kept aside was not some simpler harmony but the layers on the floor you kept aside, a meditation wherein and outer. I've said this before, too, but where ever you go, there you are, but not so simple as stars attracted beyond their own dimensions into some scale unthought unsaid and the mooner in his palm a spinning dragon where you let go too soon to measure and too late to feel uncomfortable. I was a chance for you to finish, and clear the pages out one by one into a specific order you might not have imagined had you not been going so fast, but then let them go into their own space like children, or like emotions you culled out into the shore and plainer mists were left behind, and culled out beyond the terminals as you rushed to finish out the day into something recalled, into something chanted from a great distance like a scream at night in the darkness of your heart, and waking unafraid, you roll over and go back.

So what had flamed up resided there before notice, before the model itself, herself. Testing out what had happened was not so much an intention as a residue of thoughts and feelings laid bare in the intensity of emotion recollected in futility, but harbored on into the fog, into the confusion of the present moment where you'd said perhaps that there was more to remember than met the eye. I'd held onto the past far too long to be comfortable with it, and the evasions of the age were no help either. In the salient moments of recall and doubt, you felt passion arising within spheres of action, culled out perhaps from the memories of who you were in the passing moment. The doorway opened and there was a dark hole on the other side, a horror, a fundamental emptiness, and yet you pursued the pathway into the morning's moments.

A scored light of other rooms with their furniture scattered in a design from the other side of the moon. A style of reminding let you down into the forest pathways, linear spoons wherever met no single pattern beyond later days and nights you scaled afar and rhythmed clearer spores their own sensations described or fluttered into safety, after all, what we all seek in the emotions of the day their own totals unknown and made specific into these and others. His words ring quietly on the radio, and the intent of these actions is not any clearer now than at other times. You are here alone in the silence of the heart, and what is beating out is the tenure of the model in her warmth and feeling. She is a moment in the room where you are keeping your heart. She is the tempo of the hours from which you define your reaching out.

Later in the day, another person comes into the room and disturbs your solitude. Is it escape that's on your mind? I met nothing in the hallways of my mind, only doors, walls, a flooring made of colored tiles left over from other jobs. It was not so much alone as a change of tense, as if, here in the moment there was no syntax or proposals relegated into silence by the beating of your heart. A beginning, perhaps, but not anything you'd write home about. A wrinkle and a beating heart. Another focus laid bare by the moving monuments. They measured it, this bruise that was left on the kneecap by a madman who later disappeared into a snowstorm. Nothing was mentioned about cause and effect, but still there was a slight edge you might remember in the darkness of your hours and sensations. I don't know. Maybe it's the layers and stratifications you hesitantly describe as your own that relieve the day. A remainder.

Still the model of your feelings is not an abstraction but contact with another human being, not simply "a part of yourself," but a definition that there is someone there in the room with you making a plain statement that this is the day to start ahead and go into the future. Without making any specific references to this or that, it's a pressure and a promise at the same time, a demand to become yourself in the darkness that follows light, in the waiting time for who they are in the midst of chance. I'd say this is the day, but there is no assurance that anything flows from anything else, only a faith that it will come. If you book them, they will come. And come again, an advertisement made from a phonebooth in the midwest, a color of darkness which you have not seen before, a faith that there is one word following the other in the happiness you have.

It had palled beyond the recollection of the hours. What you'd met was not so much another hour as a description of doubt. In her heart, you were the one and only, and this was the source of your beginning, of the start. The heart's start.