New Spring Intertron Publications

Check out the new issue of jellyroll

and the new issue of blazeVOX

also, Sun's Skeleton has a spiffy new website with some excerpts from our latest issue

Enjoy!

Reading at Site Fest

This Sunday, March 6th, I'll be reading at Northeast Kingdom as part of Site Festival 2011. There's going to be lots of wonderful stuff going on (including the music of Jo Body Morris and the poetry of Tony Iantosca among others) so, ya know, be there or be square.

Variations on The Lobster

Its bowtie askew,

it fires into the air.

The lobster's moribund wounds

number googolplex.

Where there would be a mouth, you open

a window. "Welcome to the deep blue

sea!" it says where it seems there should

be hot cobbler cooling on the sill.

The lobster takes its time

to the bubblebath. Autographs

birthday cards and fortune cookie

fortunes. Ferrari colored words.

A single stalactite hangs from the birthing

fluid of a true-to-life scenario.

Meat, potatoes, carrots, spices.

Tired of feeling all these

ways, is it too much to ask

for a lobster on a length of ruby

red ribbon? A gleaming thing

circumvents radar, the way I lose

track of my third eye while caring

for fragile anxious teenagers.

When yawning, say "banana skins."

Watch the visual and aural realms merge

and sever like single-celled things.

Banana skins. The lobster

smokes banana skins.

Use what you're handed not like

a funicular to raise yourself to the pasty

peaks, nor like an instruction manual

for operating factory fresh circus stilts,

but like what? A citrus stone?

The seething tide of diversions grows

engorged, and that's ok I guess, so you can

feel another way that may be novel or may lead

you in circles along the circuit around

the clocktower of morning's windowpane

dreams. The lobster repeats slogans

of youth television. Yet he seems

so serious when brushing his teeth.

Sometimes a sad face gets inside

and the small shrubs wilt.

Since we last spoke...

Long time gone since the last episode of bloggerdom.

Current Events:

Barnstorm, the wonderful online publication from the University of New Hampshire, has published my poem, Over and Over As I Wake, which you can find here.

The new issue of Sun's Skeleton, which us editors and productioneers have been assiduously constructing, is nearing the final stages of development and is soon to hit the streets. We also have a brand new website so check it out, and reserve your copy now!

excerpts from Spaceman's Childhood Fantasia

Pataphysical Freak Out MU!

Orienting stargaze clouds and un-

clouds his looking glass seeing

himself in tight silver jeans on

a stage of six dimensions (the others

still being dis- or un- covered)

cosmic debris a shaft of light

in his pants in the vaulted heavens as

above so bellow the MUUUUUUU

whale song dust song phantasm

song in pink lady lemonade night on the mountain

on the corner on the white bulb lit stage the women of beer

an cigarettes flail lying on their backs in bright black t-shirts

and bright black jeans lying on their backs on the bright black

voice of roaring electric amplified

St. Captain Freakout and the Magic Bamboo Request

The first time Spaceman

saw real bamboo it looked

fake to him. Must have been

in New Jersey. Before the extra-terrestrial

ventures. Before the tetradecahedron

and the sanctity of circles, the too many

unpronounceables. It was like a movie.

The trembling leaves. The mid-summer light.

Ambient sound of cicadas and sixteen-wheelers.

The stillness foreshadowing the flight

of innocence. He thought of the significance

of an occurrence in a life.

He thought of things he would know

someday but didn't know yet.

Panda bears and the paper

placemats of Japanese restaurants.

Distance. Those sharp

green leaves. New Jersey.

A Thousand Shades of Grey

You could cover the distance between

now and a memory

You could walk that path through

the woods

You could be

Spaceman you could be lost

Distance is as sure a thing meeting

you from the boom box

A flower past bloom in that

handshake any flower no

flower at all arrive at the coast

Spaceman sing Pink Lady Lemonade

Sing In E just so long as you go

out singing

You watch the gulls on the edge of the sea

imagine the edge of what you're seeing

As your gaze rows

toward it rowing in

Rowboat flower song isn't it

enough that distance

between each word each tone

you could walk that

path row that boat

Splendor Mystic Solis

Lonely green

meadows clothed

in yellow

dandelions.

Simultaneously,

gleaming silver

robotic bodies

mirror studded

the size of wild

rodents roving.

Parables

of the search

for home or

authenticity writ

large in the clouds.

Splace in

stock footage

of the cosmos

in a grain

of sand

at will.

You Are The Moonshine

A big cold hole in the dark denim night

a big fat zero of light if light could be said

to be the medium through which one object becomes

known to another through which one object becomes

one object if it could be an incalculable quantity

flung carelessly calibrated distances into newborn

hands if the heavens could be courtmartialed into centimeters

of jelly flesh if mirror upon mirror upon mirror could look

upon each other's eyes then Spaceman somehow

smoking on the brick-cloistered lawns of youth a vague colorless

but seen there a purple flower introduced to a wide-angled

sea of mirrors a panoramic snapshot color smoke when

you wish upon a star yes spacedust

the firmament and all isn't it enough

to know we're all spacedust?

Isn't it enough to know it's all spacedust?

You are real as a fact I neither see nor feel

Spaceman is composed by such information

Spaceman is manufactured in a kind of retinal

metaphor he lays illumined by reflections

he follows a trail of light all the way home a handful

of spacedust and light singing moon moon moon

Reading at Flowering Inconsistencies V

This Thursday, July 22nd, I'll be reading from the new Spaceman's Childhood Fantasia serial poem at Flowering Inconsistencies V, hosted by Northeast Kingdom in Bushwick. If you're in the area, drop by why-don'tcha and enjoy poetry musics and dramatics!

And Wordless, He Comes To Sleep

A forgetting. A wash of brackish

water. The deeds of one's youth, pennies on one's pocket

could come out in the wash. Could be made a wish.

Shopping malls tower above this example.

Remember each particle of gravel, your feet tread

the white line 'tween here and the calendar, a pebble of sand

worms into your shoes. Raw carrion on hooks. To market,

a conference of motors, a goat bleat din. Tomorrow's pizza party

hangs on the edge of a discus. Thus and thusly. Any glass

could be used as a lens, any wall could prop a clock.

Sound and sense linger long after the other guests have left.

Stoic faces, the pop and flash of a camera before

our time. Cross another item off the list.

Those high cheek bones, that posture, so becoming of a diary

entry. So little separates us from the frames of ourselves.

A pause going into the last deep tone.