March 14th, 2012 § Comments Off on Gail Potocki § permalink
"Pina Menichelli" on the theme of Silent Movie
"Three Fates" on the theme of Democracy
Artist Biography
Gail Potocki employs deep symbolist narratives to focus our attention where we don’t often enough ourselves. She frequently employs feminine beauty to lure the viewer who, once engaged, often discovers necessary and sometimes painful truths weaving through the unfolding story.
March 14th, 2012 § Comments Off on Ed Steele § permalink
Ed Steele on the theme of David Lynch
Ed Steele on the theme of David Lynch
Ed Steele on the theme of David Lynch
Ed Steele on the theme of David Lynch
Ed Steele on the theme of Las Vegas
Ed Steele on the theme of Cheese
Ed Steele on the theme of Razor Dance
March 14th, 2012 § Comments Off on Jennifer Tomaloff § permalink
Jennifer Tomaloff on the theme of David Lynch
Jennifer Tomaloff on the theme of David Lynch
Jennifer Tomaloff on the theme of Democracy
Jennifer Tomaloff on the theme of Democracy
Jennifer Tomaloff on the theme of Las Vegas
Jennifer Tomaloff on the theme of Secret Life
Jennifer Tomaloff on the theme of Secret Life
Jennifer Tomaloff on the theme of Silent Movie
Jennifer Tomaloff on the theme of Silent Movie
March 14th, 2012 § Comments Off on Jeff Pike § permalink
Illustration by Jeff Pike for the poem Charlie Chaplin, by Ryan Fox from their collaborative publication, After Love, published by the Virginia Arts of the Book Center, Charlottesville, VA.
March 14th, 2012 § Comments Off on Ashley Bovan § permalink
photo: Ashley Bovan - Secret Life
Further Grid
you take your bag
and go you do not
stop you do not
sleep when
you called when
you asked when
you wrote and asked
what was it
for what did
the magic say you
dance you shake
dice you stir
tea bathe
in a coloured bath so
dark so
insular so
unbroken so
lost a song of light a
song flickers to shadow
diesel out and back
nightline
___________
Untitled
If you can’t sleep
and you get up
stand by the back door smoking
and it’s a clear night
with thousands of stars
thousands
and a breeze blows into the kitchen
tinkles the little bells on a cord
you bought from the hippy shop
a gentle ringing
and the stars
_______________
Untitled
I hate toast
I would rather kill someone
than have them make me toast
I often wonder why they don’t get up early and leave
instead of hanging around and making breakfast
which means toast
but then I remember I’m at their place
and it should be me who’s getting up early and leaving
I keep some rose petals in my jacket pocket
ready for such occasions
to leave on the pillow
Sometimes I write a poem and leave it
but then I can’t remember the words when I get home
and it could have been really useful
like for winning a competition
something important
______________________
On the theme of Cheese
Untitled
I am writing a poem with meter
– it’s about a gasman
Author Biography
Ashley Bovan lives in Cardiff, writes poetry and takes photographs. He has been published in many journals and recently finished writing up his MA thesis.
January 25th, 2012 § 2 comments § permalink
INTERNATIONAL VIDEO POETRY FESTIVAL
SCREENINGS: PORTLAND OREGON – JACK LONDON BAR – 3/19/12 – 8 PM – COVER $8
SHANGHAI CHINA – THE RABBIT HOLE – 3/15/12 – 8 PM – COVER 50 RMB
Finalists –
Lani Jo Leigh (Portland) – Darcy Fisher (Shanghai) – Andrea Hope (Portland) – Posie Currin (Portland) – Ren Rey (Renee Reynolds) – Matthew Reed (Vancouver, BC) – Fork Burke (Switzerland) – Jacques Korn (California) – Zachary Schomburg(Portland) – David Foote (Shanghai) – Michael Earl Craig & Dalton C. Brink (Montana) – Robert Duncan Gray(Portland) – Josh Fernandez (California) – Barbara Anderlic (Shanghai)
HAL PUBLISHING OF SHANGHAI CHINA and UNSHOD QUILLS OF PORTLAND, OREGON have teamed up with Portland’s Monica Storss to produce a cross-cultural, trans-Pacific video poetry film festival. Hosting bi-lateral events in Shanghai and Portland, the festival will celebrate the spoken word as infused by the medium of film, promoting and connecting artists from around the world.
Shanghai and Portland, Oregon have more in common than meets the untrained eye. Dark, busy, and both studded with Shanghai tunnels (those in Portland were used in the insidious pursuit of many illegal activities, including the kidnapping of young men for use as slave sailors on the Pacific; Shanghai’s own tunnels transport people in cars beneath the river to do whatever the hell they want). Both cities are divided by a river of trade and both cities are booming with literary communities as vibrant as anywhere else in the world. Both cities lay claim to Unshod Quills and HAL Publishing, sister sites and companies united in the pursuit of promoting excellent art and literature the world over.
$300 USD (RMB 1900) Grand Prize – Judges Choice for Best Video Poem – Second and Third Prizes – Screening Events in Shanghai and Portland, Oregon – Publication on HAL and Unshod Quills – SECOND AND THIRD PRIZES – DINNER AND BOOKS – more TBA
HAL Publishing, (www.haliterature.com) independent English language publisher based in Shanghai, China and Unshod Quills, (www.unshodquills.com) a Pandemic Journal of the Arts and Letters based in Portland, Oregon, in cooperation with Monica Storss (www.monicastorss.org) of Portland, Oregon announce the first ever SHANGHAI TUNNELS PROJECT — AN INTERNATIONAL POETRY FILM FESTIVAL.
With screening events to be held during March 2012 in both Portland, Oregon and Shanghai, China, this festival will celebrate the art of video poetry—the mix of verse and video into a creative form all its own.
Between now and February 22, 2012, poets and video artists are invited to submit a video poem for entry into the festival. Initial judging will be conducted by editors from HAL Publishing and Unshod Quills.
Eleven finalists will be chosen. Three must reside in Shanghai and three must reside in Portland; remaining finalists may be from anywhere in the universe.
Finally, an international panel of five independent judges (including Mike Tsang, Editor at Penguin Books China, Tammy Ho Lai-Ming, editor for Hong Kong’s Asian Cha and London’s Fleeting Magazines, B Frayn Masters, writer and producer of Portland, Oregon’s Back Fence PDX, and author and publisher Kevin Sampsell, of Portland’s Future Tense Books) will select the grand prize winner from a group of eleven finalists. Two judges will be Shanghai-based, two will be Portland-based and one will be based elsewhere.
Those eleven finalists will be featured at events screened live in Portland and Shanghai where audience members will be provided with a chance to vote for their city’s second and third place choices. There will be only one grand prize winner, but there will be two second and two third place winners.
Grand prize winner will be announced prior to the event
GRAND PRIZE: One winner will be awarded $300 USD/ 1900 RMB
SECOND PRIZE: (LOCALS ONLY) one artist based in Shanghai and one artist based in Portland will be awarded dinner and drinks for two at a local restaurant (Shanghai) or at UQ editor Dena Rash Guzman’s delightful pastoral home, Stargazer Farm in Sandy, Oregon, and assorted books provided by Future Tense Publishing (Portland.) and Small Press Distribution. One copy for each winner of HAL’s newest publication Middle Kingdom Underground will be awarded. Once copy for each winner of HAL’s first publication, Party Like It’s 1984 will be awarded.
THIRD PRIZE: Two finalists will receive a collection of books from HAL Publishing and other sponsors.
ALL FINALISTS WILL RECEIVE PRESS, PROMOTION AND/OR PUBLICATION BY UNSHOD QUILLS AND HALiterature.
(All prizes are subject to change depending on sponsorship, but the guaranteed GRAND PRIZE will be a minimum of $300.)
SHANGHAI TUNNELS CONTEST RULES AND REGULATIONS
TO ENTER:
Please download, fill out and return the entry form above by February 22 to both dena@haliterature.com and butler@haliterature.com.
enter ST SUBMISSION into header to ensure the proper delivery of your entry for the competition.
Please contact Wendy at unshodquills.com with any inquiries or questions. Thank you! Good luck.
December 14th, 2011 § 0 comments § permalink
Study of a Shanghai Street Sweeper in the Rain on the Way to Morning Coffee - Shanghai, China, 12/11 - Dena Rash Guzman - on the theme of Coffee
Dear Readers,
DAVID BOWIE DAVID BOWIE DAVID BOWIE!
Unshod Quills is a theme based publication, centered around themes chosen by the editor or other participants in the Unshod Quills Writing Collective. DAVID BOWIE! One of my dream themes, and this issue is very much about him. With just the beerlight to guide us, we also feature works based on the themes of love, coffee, Joan of Arc, dancing about architecture, and enough rope.
Speaking of coffee, David Bowie and enough rope, this is how I spent my pre-Christmas unvacation:
My publisher, HAL Publishing, flew me to its hometown of Shanghai earlier this month. I was there to stage, for an audience of over 300, a group performance of my smutty little short story, “A Brief History of Dan Orange of Shanghai.” This was a multimedia presentation featuring myself and a truly international cast of artists including Estel Vilar, UQ Contributor Ginger wRong Chen, UQ contributor Katrina Hamlin, the enigmatic Barbara A., and Mr. Brian Keane. Video backdrop was provided by Colorado’s own Jerimiah Whitlock. The occasion? The River South Arts Festival, a four day celebration of independent Shanghai art and literature, featuring Slamhai3 and the release of HAL’s second collection of short stories,
Middle Kingdom Underground: short stories from the people’s republic of
The US edition should be ready for sale around February 15 and I’ll have two stories in the book, one co-written with HAL founder and regular UQ contributor, Mr. Bjorn Wahlstrom. The book’s theme of vice in modern China is heavy and dark, and the stories by fifteen authors, both local and non-native to China, are accordingly complex and delightful.
In the meanwhile, a click to the title above will take you to the stunning and beautiful and bizarre Middle Kingdom Underground book trailer, produced and directed by September Unshod Quills contributor, Portlander Posie Currin. In addition, the HAL book release was filmed and will soon be broadcast internationally on the new fine arts internet TV network Bravoflix.
Where do coffee, David Bowie and enough rope come into the above recap? Let me write you a prose poem, that will make no sense, in order to explain myself.
Coffee – I drank a lot while I was in China. Not so much tea. Coffee. I learned that I make a terrible pot of French press. David Bowie – that’s Bjorn, but minus any glitter and plus a freighter of stardust. Bjorn wears all black all the time, unless it’s raining, and then he wears white leather tennis shoes. Enough rope – after nearly setting his neighbor’s kitchen on fire with my suitcase, I learned that Bjorn keeps enough rope on hand to escape out a window just in case of some such event as a clumsy American starting fires with suitcase and a hotplate in a stairwell. There are no fire escapes in those old buildings. Rope is good. He’s four stories up and to get in or out one must pass through two neighbor’s kitchens and twisty flights of narrow, steep stairs. It’s a gorgeous place, though, and Bjorn has a cat that is in the process of self-actualization. Perhaps soon big fat Blackie cat will get his own rope.
I’m grateful to HAL for having me as a guest performer at their book release party, and for all the support they’ve shown to Unshod Quills over the past year.
Meanwhile, back in America, managing Editor Wendy Ellis and I struggled to confine our selections of art and literature for December to a reasonable number. That is why we chose not one, but two featured poets for this issue.
Having worked with James H. Duncan a number of times over the past four years, I am already acquainted with his eloquent ornate minimalist style, and have long been a fan. James was an easy choice to feature, and we hope you enjoy his work as we do.
Our second feature is an amazing writer who sent a suite of submissions on the theme of childhood alone, and our skirts were blown nearly clean off by the gale force of their brilliance. Be sure to look at the poetry of Catherine Woodard.
Both of our featured poets are based in New York City. We get it, New York: we want to be a part of it, too.
December’s featured artist is from another part of the universe: Greece. Sugahtank John Roubanis is a talented graphic design artist and illustrator; his King Kong poster take this month’s front page. We love his work, from the scratchy, ropy sketches of near-human figures to the sublime political graphics to his logo work. Sugahtank’s vision told us it needed a good sharing with the Unshod Quills readership. It actually spoke to us.
We are also happy to see the return of Kevin Sampsell. His Bowie piece is hilarious and I for one will never be able to look at him the same way, fiction or not. Rusty Barnes is in this issue with some uniquely elegant and rough country flavored fiction, while Timothy Gager tells you you’re gonna need a bigger sandwich. Order up. Also look for the work of Portlander Jenny Forrester and the best middle school Bowie obsession fiction we’ve ever read – Jenny Hayes is in the house. HAL Publishing’s W.M. Butler shares a treacherous story about bullies and rabbits and the beauty and brutality of childhood, and it’s an editorial favorite. We have the work of Frank Reardon, Matty Byloos and Nancy Flynn… Ryan Werner kills it with his minute by minute rundown of Bowie and Jagger’s video for “Dancing in the Street.” I love Bowie, yes, but everyone makes mistakes. Look for UQ’s own X. Joloronde and Robert Myer on Joan of Arc, too.
I could go on but just look to the right and click away. Thanks for visiting, and we’ll be releasing our next call for submissions on New Year’s Day – I’ll let you know now that one of our themes will be David Lynch.
Spread these writers around like the pandemic they are.
Ever yours,
Dena Rash Guzman
Editor
Unshod Quills
in the woods near Portland, Oregon, USA
Dena Rash Guzman, seated, listening to Ginger wRong Chen in Shanghai - 12/11
December 14th, 2011 § Comments Off on Matty Byloos § permalink
The prisoner back in society, just like that. One day he’s in, and the next day, he’s reading the newspaper like none of it ever happened, only it did.
He’s never not still surprised by the light. He gets swallowed up a lot now, in his new life. Just like when he reads the newspaper and has to contemplate certain things like freedom. And what it means.
Most of the time, it doesn’t mean that much to him.
The first time he went for a walk, he wasn’t sure where exactly he was going. Just headed off in a direction, and that was hard to stomach because he found himself looking for how he was confined. What walls were out there waiting for him? What was this thing they told him about being free? He kept walking.
And then he found them. It hadn’t taken more than a few hours, when he came upon a bank of chain-link fences, stretching in both directions to either side, into the darkness somewhere small. To places that he could now see were equally hopeless, places he wouldn’t ever bother traveling to. What would be the point?
A dog saunters up from somewhere behind him, smells his hand as if he’s looking for a pat on the head. The prisoner kicks him instead, has to take this out on someone or something. As soon as it’s done he feels guilty, figures it’s just the institution still in him somewhere. He always assumed the guilt would just be his to carry, but it surprised him every time just the same. Now was another one of those times.
So he kneels down to call the dog over from wherever he went, maybe just a few feet away. It takes a minute but eventually he does. No collar. What would be the point? They’re both in a cage. In fact, once his eyes adjusted to the oncoming darkness around them, he realized it was several rows of cages, hedging them in like some kind of concentric maze – more than enough of them to convince anyone in their right mind that trying to escape was futile. What had he been looking for when he went on this walk anyway? The prison psych doctor would have told him he was looking for exactly what he had found.
But that was a bunch of bullshit, and he knew it. Who the hell would be looking for captivity again after what he’d just been in?
Maybe everything of consequence had been washed down the single drain in the center of that cell back there in his past. Maybe it had all disappeared, and him with it.
Right down the drain.
And then everything around him was quiet again, back in the present. This was one of those moments his prison counselor had told him about. More like a warning, actually, now that he was in it, alone.
The dog had trotted off in the direction he came, and the prisoner looked around him for something, for a light or a house or someone who could tell him where the hell he’d been put once they let him out of prison.
About a mile east of where he ended up finding the fence, and another quarter-mile inside of it, he comes upon a house with a soft blue light on, the kind that a television would make. At least he had found some kind of civilization. He wondered if someone else in his position would be scared of what he was about to do. He wondered where his fear had gone to, because he couldn’t feel any of it anymore, and maybe this made him less than human. Maybe this is why they had put him right back in a cage.
A man answers the door. “Watchin’ t.v., what the fuck you want, mister? Me an’ my buddy here are watchin’ some t.v. and then there’s a knock at the fuckin’ door, and guess who it is?” he says, hardly realizing what he’s doing. Or maybe he’s another one without any fear.
None of this registers on the prisoner’s face. He can see something familiar off behind the man on top of a table in what looks like a kitchen. “Gimme’ the newspaper,” he says to the man. “I want it,” he says, not blinking at all.
“Get this, Earl. This fuckin’ guy here wants the newspaper,” he says, leaning over to grab the papers with his left hand while keeping his right one on the door knob the whole time. “Can you believe it?”
“Thanks. I need to read my horoscope. That’s all. G’nite,” the prisoner says to him, turning to walk farther down the street. He hears the door close somewhere behind him, and opens the paper underneath a street lamp about a block away. Flipping to the back, he finds it. The horoscope. His horoscope
Matty Byloos’s first collection of short stories, Don’t Smell the Floss, was published in 2009 by Write Bloody Books. His work has appeared in Everyday Genius, Matchbook, Bomb, Dark Sky Magazine, among others. With Carrie Seitzinger, he runs Smalldoggies Magazine & Press. He is currently working on his first novel.
Learn more about him at his personal blog: www.mattybyloos.com
Or at the Smalldoggies Magazine site: www.smalldoggiesmagazine.com
December 14th, 2011 § Comments Off on Robert Meyer § permalink
As a child, I saw your birthplace;
a small cottage, barely four walls and a roof.
Nothing inside but a faint smell of urine,
like an empty barn; appropriate enough,
whether for a Prince of Peace,
or a Princess of War.
Your cathedral on a grassy hill
blessed you as you played your games
outside on the gnarled monstrosity
called “The Fairy Tree” –
while angels and saints talked to you.
Rheims, the cathedral of coronation,
spoke differently, of duty,
of kings and queens.
Which voice was loudest, Joan?
Shakespeare showed you aloof
to the shepherd from Domremy,
“Thou art no father nor friend of mine.”
Is that a clue, Maid?
Finally Chateau Jaulny whispered,
“Come to me. My walls will protect,
be it from armies or inquisitors.”
The dining hall had a portrait of a Lady,
looking weary.
Is that you, la Pucelle?
Did you hear of Margaret d’Anjou
and long to feel
the honesty of steel?
Robert Meyer received a BS in Math from UNLV in 1977, enrolling in their Master’s program in the fall. In May of 1978, during the last week of the school year, he had a brain hemorrhage (left side, affecting speech & right side of body) while lecturing in complex analysis. He completed work for his MS in Math in 1981. He began working for the US Air Force at Nellis AFB in various computer related jobs (database management, programming, and system administration) in 1982 and retired after 22 years.
December 14th, 2011 § Comments Off on Kevin Shea § permalink
The trees outside are slow today.
God, are you there? It’s me, Walter.
You again? Yes, me again. Whaddaya want?
I’ve got a brand new song to show you,
though it probably won’t blow your mind.
So sing it already. Jesus. I’m on the home
stretch. Only a few more months of pills
& this brain fog. You’re welcome.
What did you do? I never asked for your help.
You’re stuck with me now. Well, unstick me.
I’m not playing your game. I give back
my ticket. I’m done. You entered
into a contract, Walter. That was the old me.
I doubt that’s valid anymore. Until the end
of time. You don’t run the atomic clock.
You swam against the tide but you drowned
in the sky. That makes sense to me now.
I’ve got a song for you too: Because my love
for you would break my heart in two,
if you should fall
into my arms
& tremble
like a flower.
What happened to originality? It was lost
when I became man. Not so easy, is it?
I don’t know how you people do it.
It’s a matter of resolve—a feeling
that everything will get better. The body,
this fleshy mess, repairs itself & houses
whatever it is that writes my songs.
You know I’m the ghost writer, don’t you?
No, you’re not. It is mankind
that sings. It’s why we gave ourselves
vocal chords, chatterbox. You wouldn’t
understand. Hey, I put this thing in motion
in a matter of days. Do you realize how quickly
I could take it all away? You should read
my latest pamphlet. That’s okay, old
friend. Things have changed. We built this
up & we’ll be the ones to tear it down.
But what about me? We’ll give you
a front row seat & then, once it’s gone,
it’s back to the infinite nothing for you.
Maybe I’ll see what Beelzebub’s up to.
Whatever you do, get ready.
You’ll wish that you had somebody
to sing your songs for you.
________________________
Frankly, gentlemen, I don’t care
about what business was like
when you were street vendors.
All I want is a place to sit, but not
atop rogue coats left by a ghost
or a robot. Everything belongs
to someone. No apparitions, only
partitions between the real
& the right, plate glass window
connected by sunlight—showing
insides, smudges, & tape stains.
Two girls sit next to me:
1. The one I love, wrote her
love poems on Valentine’s, & now,
President’s Day. 2. One wearing the same
green & black flannel shirt as me.
Hunched over the same way.
Hair tossed & messed the same way.
Chomping fingernails the same way.
Funny how these minute details
& modicum appearances are missed
by one & celebrated by another persona.
1. She’s got polka-dotted sneakers,
gray & white flannel. Before we were
seated, she raised her voice & needed to
leave immediately—people crashed
& bumped her like she wasn’t there.
Now seated in the sun, she’s kissed—
now, again. Still wearing sneakers.
3. Girl across table: please stop
picking your nose. By now, you should
know that I see everything, all
is filtered through me. To understand,
I throw myself into the depths.
Someday I’ll get out & we’ll see.
Until then I’m here & we’ll see.
_________
Is this what the kids are listening to
today—zombie music? Two guys
in overcoats, eyes like silver dollars,
(sand dollars, Papier Gamâché says), skulk
& swing arms, shoulders brandished, ready
to strike anyone willing to look. I’m sore
to the spine, back cracking & knees rigid.
In a shifty room I’m not moving,
not even the softest toe tap or head nod.
In between acts, tripping patrons flock
to doors, need to leave. They reach the back,
run into the rope blocking the path
from the pit, gaze around, befuddled.
This is the strangest thing they’ve ever seen.
Nosaj Thing finally takes the stage,
the shakers rush forward & nod knowingly
to the music of the skinny kid,
barely twenty, so busy, knob-twisting,
head-neck-shoulder dipping & ducking,
so busy up there, an art so intricate,
tempo controlled by twists of the wrists,
effortless, he only stops midair
to casually wipe sweat from his brow,
a movement figured into the equation,
all so mathematical, precise, every single
sound placed in its proper container.
He plays for ninety minutes straight
without even the slightest silence. I pay
attention as best I can with some guy
swaying in front of me, inching closer
& closer with every loop, no regard
for my space, until I’m purposely mouth-
breathing down his neck so he knows
I’m the strangest thing he’s ever seen.
He asks me to back up. I do not change.
I leave early, joints too tired to stand.
Today is a Sunday. I drink coffee
in my leopard print robe. Tomorrow,
I’ll listen to last night’s songs
through headphones at my desk
as I answer work emails.
_______________
I never give all the heart, for love
is bullshit, mostly. I leave
work early to find your sheets
left at last night’s laundromat, children
threatening as I enter. They’re right
where you left them—cold
in the dryer. You return home
again, but only to complain
about the heat—we can’t control it,
or our hearts. I hope you’re happy
when you’re not here, where others
appreciate you more, as you remind me.
I was happy, years ago, & I was
last night. A thin young woman
danced next to me—I leaned
against the stage—her hairy arm
brushed mine bare. She stared
at me, I thought, but really
she looked through to the stack
of empty beer cups left
by the night’s opening
act. She split them apart
& swung the little swill
& screamed, I’m just really thirsty!
All night I heard airborne signals
of love from another (You know
I love you, right?). I tried giving
everything once before—I failed.
Tonight I sloppily tuck you in
after you chastise me for stealing
the blankets last night, as I do
each night, while I sleep & you lie
awake. Everything is sometimes
lovely & a brief, dreamy, kind
delight (the latter a word used
so often to describe me)—sometimes.
I have lost before
& I will lose again.
You have lost me before
& you will lose me again.
_________________________
I have a job.
I am a locomotive.
My name is an anagram for “Wet, Wet, Large Dear.”
As a boy, the tip of my finger
was ground in the gears
of a mechanical chicken.
I have no will to live.
I live to serve my maker, wherever he is.
I see stars.
I drink shit coffee.
I skinned my foreskin
in a bicycle accident
as a child & didn’t
know if I should show
my friend because I didn’t know
if he or she was a he or a she.
I’m pretty okay at math.
I contemplate the philosophies
of everything in the universe.
I can do as many sit-ups
as Herschel Walker,
the former Dallas Cowboys star less famous
for his multiple personality disorder.
I’m a language poet.
I’ve never been to a dogfight.
…
Okay, I’ve been to one dogfight.
I lost my virginity on a kitchen floor
next to bowls of dog food.
Horses ride me.
I’m a champion
luchador.
I make my own cardboard.
Everything I buy is on sale.
I’m lonely.
I see the best minds of my generation
at the titty bar.
I’m really good at pissing
money away at the greyhound track.
I’m a member of a world-
wide poetry collective
based on chicken sandwiches.
I once stepped on a beehive
& when they swarmed on me,
I stung them.
Do I contradict myself?
I fall in love but never
out of it.
I’m a sailboat skipper.
I’m a coxcomb
but I just found out.
I planted America’s seed
in the sun.
I am the godhead
on fire.
I was born at a very early age.
I intend to live forever,
or die trying.
I can seal an envelope.
I am an actor
& this page is my stage.
I am a Renaissance man
on weekends in April & May
at the Oklahoma Renaissance
Festival in Muskogee, OK
at the Castle of Muskogee.
I get jokes.
I’ve been to the center
of the earth to search for the black sun
but found only rotten dinosaurs
(also known as oil, according to someone
who claims to have loved me once).
I objectify the human form.
I make a mean grilled cheese.
I make a gentle grilled cheese.
I make cheese.
Please, please, please—I’m in love
with the world, so help me
make it love me back.
I’m in love with you.
________________________
Walter has been here since childhood,
numbed & sleeping & threaded with cloth
to a three-post bed—the fourth yanked off
for whenever he thrashes or tries to
sail off. He’s fitted with a permanent sleep
mask, smeared with coal & threaded
with green & white electrical wires. I speak
into his ears while I cover my mouth
with the mesh of a window screen. First
I state the true meaning (here, “paper”)
& then what I will really say (here, “piper”).
Piper, Walter. Piper. He doesn’t know
anything but the boxy outlines of letters
projected onto the back of his sticky eyelids,
& the white text forging lines on black
expanse. I really mean “source” but say
“sauce.” Sauce, Walter. I’m feeding him
sleep intravenously & I stick patches
on his forehead & chest. All is hooked
with a nest of messy wires to the plasma
TV hanging rigid on the wall. I suppose you can say
he can only see what I tell him to imagine, indirectly.
Tonight, it’s time for a haircut in our old home-
town: the barbershop run by the local ex-con (Mike
the Butcher, as our grandmother called him).
He’s known for slicing little boys’ ears. Walter, gracious,
shows me the list of rules on the brown wall: “1. If your hair is long
we’re going to buzz it.” But wait—who’s that outside
in the darkened lot, next to the wooden wagon?
It’s her, last’s night final procession,
the woman with silken locks & no face. Why can’t you
give her a goddamned face, Walter? I’m saying face
& I MEAN IT. Face. Face. Fine.