Saturday, July 23, 2022

Dan Raphael Navigates The Sun's Illusory Slippage, A Mole That's A Library, The Heresy Of Power Tools, A Breathing Trampoline Sidewalk, And The Waste Disposal Light Of Stars

Three Months ‘til Christmas

a feeling of spring

three days into autumn

or just a feeling of change

a coincidence of waves of different frequencies

most with their own particular sensors

one that hears the oak leaves getting ready

something internal charting the sun’s illusory slippage

as some organic gyroscope still feels the earth

penduluming from equinox to equinox

the deceleration and reversal

morning rush hour louder than usual

though it’s Saturday

explanations take too long and seldom click together

still something appears building, whether just a bubble

to pop or a crescendo like an instant tree

most collisions are so incremental

you hardly feel the friction, the air

compressing around me, how molecules

say excuse me, or watch where you’re going

Road the On

mouth cannot open wide enough

as if the air is resisting me,

whenever 5 per cent of me flexes

that much electricity illuminating the small town

in my armpit, a tendon that’s a river,

a mole that’s a library

i am anywhere. in motion

a nebula of partial foci/coordinates

waiting to choose/open portals at what cost

strap in for another day, another 1500 miles

turning around at the halfway point

and seeing where i’ve never been,

so much changed by sweat and gravitational wind

if i spin will the floor spark, will the carpet

become permanently attached to me

as if i now have a few spare brains.

the challenge of floor plans, the heresy of power tools

two bright hands on a dark table

i can’t see the other end of

as a thousand steps become just one

my head its own GPS number

my feet potential lanterns, waiting for

the right darkness to trigger them

a cluster of switches i may never know

what i turned on or off


everybody knew who I was but few agreed with each other

were the shadows or my features moving, was my height fluctuating

or had the sidewalk become a breathing trampoline

no one thought I was speaking their language

daylight melted like a pile of snow teleported to July

night-water was rising through my heels, not yet enough

to wash my face, to write on the dry pavement.

when I said I was hungry it sounded like

“get the fuck out of my way” which caused a few to bolt

some clutched whatever protection was under their shirt

a city bus pulled up, the driver came out and handed me the keys

as I got inside the bus became a bicycle with squirrels for pedals

in the mirror I saw the leaves of my hair were beginning to change colors.

where my watch was was a lens that could also receive

transmitting gps confusion so no one would know where I was

even if I refused to move

but soon I was heading the other way

turning onto wider and wider roads bordered by denser and denser forests.

the median became a canyon filled with ziggurats of shipping containers

glowing with light, exhaling so many origins and fuels

throwing ropes of water up to the surface that always slid back

up here the road don’t mind slicing under mountains

as the light of stars is mostly waste disposal

so many pictures ahead and above

at least one of them is me

dan raphael's poetry collection Maps   Menus   Emanations was

> published this July by cyberwit. more recent poems appear in Unlikely

> Stories, Otoliths, Oz Burp, Lotus-eater and SurVision.

Saturday, March 19, 2022

Jason Ryberg Contemplates The Nostalgia Of Panasonic Boom Boxes, Bukowski Schtick, And The Great Grandpappy Progenitor/Original Sinner Of The Species

1) Skipping Your Ten Year

High School Reunion

Then there was that time

me and Big Earl Corby were

out there on HWY 40, driving 

around just like old times in his 

primer-grey pick-up truck (that 

was somehow still holding together 

and running after all the years) 

with a twelve-pack of Schaffer 

or Black Label or one of the other 

old reliables and one of those basic, 

standard-issue Panasonic boom boxes 

(also somehow still holding together 

and working, despite the wear and tear) 

that everybody had at some point 

back in junior high or high school 

in the late 80s before, presumably, 

moving on to bigger and boomier things, 

and an old cassette tape (once again, 

still somehow working, despite the odds) 

with Black Flag’s Rise Above on one side 

and the Dead Kennedys’ Fresh Fruit for

Rotting Vegetables on the other, 

and we’d flipped that tape four or 

five times by then that day, just 

retracing the old back roads we

used to explore way back when

we had nothing better to do and, 

yessir, it was damned near

like old times.

2) Dead and Buried 

The last of them what could still get away with that 

schtick (at least in a no bullshit / in your 

face kind of way) probably would had to have been

Bukowski, and they made damn sure to bury him 

deep and seal the tomb up good and tight when 

he died just to be sure the last whiff of a trace of 

the spirit of the rebel / outsider  / rock star

poet stayed dead and buried in there with 

him to serve as a warning  and example to 

any others; so you might as well deal with it 

now and just move on: cuz nobody and

I mean nobody gives half a flying fuck-all

about the sad and lonely sexistential angst 

and pain of middle-aged white male poets,

and all their demons and their old baggage, do they?

3) Tripping Me Up

Seems like I’ve spent the better part 

of the past two decades reviewing and sifting 

through all the old security tapes, 

going over all my hastily scrawled notes, 

retracing my footsteps back through 

the winding, rollicking lollapalooza of it all, 

trying to track down and identify 

the one original misstep (in a life 

of so many notable missteps), 

that set things into motion and 

would come into play, over and over, 

for years to come. 

We’re talking the Prime Mover / 

Pater Familias of all FUBARS, 

the exact x/y coordinates from which

the continuum of its progeny of lesser faux pas, 

fumbles and faceplants have ever since issued forth 

for their own respective moments in the sun, 

replicating the original memetic material 

in various mutated forms, to the best of their ability,

but never again quite regaining the former glory 

of their great, great grandpappy progenitor / 

original sinner of  the species, 

but still, to their credit, somehow managing 

to jam my frequencies and trip me up 

whenever they can.

Jason Ryberg is the author of fourteen books of poetry,six screenplays, a few short stories, a box full of folders,notebooks and scraps of paper that could one day be (loosely) construed as a novel, and, a couple of angry letters to various magazine and newspaper editors. He is currently an artist-in-residence at both The Prospero Institute of Disquieted P/o/e/t/i/c/s and the Osage Arts Community, and is an editor and designer at Spartan Books. His latest collection of poems is Are You Sure Kerouac Done It This Way!? (co-authored with John Dorsey, and Victor Clevenger, OAC Books, 2021). He lives part-time in Kansas City, MO with a rooster named Little Red and a billygoat named Giuseppe and part-time somewhere in the Ozarks, near the Gasconade River, where there are also many strange and wonderful woodland critters. 

Wednesday, March 2, 2022

Mark Wilson Contemplates The Phallic Oar, The Fugue Flux Odyssean Complex, And The Sirenshrouded Houdinis



The phallocentric epic enters

the gynocentric counter-epic,

& is all but swallowed up.


Modernity, Myth, Sign are a fugue-

experiment, trying hard to forget

that flux is Necessary Angel

who arrives: ironic, blunt as Asrael.


Parian, plastered, admiring ‘rosy fingers’;

marmoreal is my liquor-dark ocean.


Slough off Mauberley’s skin,

shed your Odysseus complex.

A phallic oar suffices,

marginally better than limited

edition print-runs to the elect.


Literature’s no friend to sinecures,

Mr Nixon advises from his gilded deck.

Friendship only with equals,

opines Kung fu Tcheo with know-how

of the obvious; so take down this memo

which still mesmerises millennials:

We dock with little-known circumspection,

latterly dine with asphodel-ridden scops

during the lock-down. Why not turn down

that radiophonic poem because it carries

on appalling your sensibility?


Helen’s currently in high definition,

all her hermetic traces are occluded

by the airbrush’s scythe.

(H.D. faints in Elysian cornfields).

The Mysteries are common or garden lore.

No-one manufactures ethics or a praxis any more.

Indiscretions are de rigueur.

Confessionalism is the condign currency.

The Sphinx plays Chinese Whispers with Tiresias

eye-deep in the Tunnel of Net Gains.

Before you have time to climb

this rusting tree of your theogony,

Surveillance, juridical flamingo

of the state, issues your subpoena

not a micro-managed second too late.


Inside White Mariah: sirenshrouded, her inmate

mot-swinging at windfarms in gloria excelsis,

tempest-tost your mind out-Houdinis its internal

triple-locked schoreograph, claims only an End-

gamer’s phanic-zone in paradise of slycensed fools

& zanier mountebanks. Inside the Cream Mariah’s

futerus are padded walls which aerily enwomb

your antic-dispositioned scop, whose only hope

for taolvation’s to be twice-born in the nicodemus

of time, to samsara thru the swarm-maternal cavern

& re-hibernate through wintry-jiscontent season;

hopefully emerge a sans-formed monad: Lazarus-

seawildered, staggering out of antiseptic kinema-doors

conscious only of a fulti-framed sweetholymarie

vision, absolutely lantern-elided & unleathered; who,

in the oapposite mirror, is that alien shaven-headed?

Mark Wilson has previously published four poetry collections: 'Quartet For the End of Time' (Editions du Zaporogue, 2011), 'Passio' (Editions du Zaporogue, 2013), 'The Angel of History' (Leaky Boot Press, 2013) and 'Illuminations' (Leaky Boot Press, 2016). He is also the author of a verse-drama, 'One Eucalyptus Seed', about the arrest and incarceration of Ezra Pound after World War Two. His poems and articles have appeared in: The Black Herald, The Shop, 3:AM Magazine, International Times, The Fiend, Epignosis Quarterly, Dodging the Rain, The Ekphrastic Review and Le Zaporogue.

Sunday, February 13, 2022

Laszlo Aranyi's Homunculus Mask, Halo Gallery, Puppet's Wax, Gilles de Rais Chants, Gas-Masked Fenris, And Broken Reeds

Aquarius: The Revolution of Predators


thousands of mysterious drawings made of drops of salty sweat

on a creased tin-plate-like homunculus-mask

Gelded , the good Abélard,

(A pair of spiders weaving webs from Héloise's brittle bark-hole

to the varicous crust of the moon...)

Mourns the galleys that sunk in the depths of the sea

"This is not our world," she whispers gently,

and like guilt incarnate, she is embraced by a God

trembling with pagan intoxication

A hideous, degenerate witch's night,

The age of Aquarius is coming. He gives names to hitherto nameless rivers,

rowing on a halo galley.

Gorgon-cluster: a multitude of coagulated, dried-up serpent -

whips snap,

he’s submerged, the incessant siren calls

summoned him to ancient realms.

(Translated by Gabor Gyukics)


(Tarot, Major Arcana XX.)

Initially, the beginning seemed closed,

the serpent bit its own tail... Now, opportunity

drifting fateless.
Close to certainty, the answer is no longer clear.
Amorphous drops of wax on the wrinkled, pink
crepe-paper: the puppet's wax flows...
A balancing plunge on the edge a peeling message
Dirty green parasite-coating,

Emperor Domitian poking caught insects,
sticky abdomen substance on the quill.
Gilles de Rais chanting dirty rhymes
in the ears of fat brats, writhing and whimpering.

Only the acceptable
work where the structure explodes (the supports and other handholds
are just sneaky traps of interpretation).
The artist is a Dual God: the manifesting Ra-Hoor-Khuit,
and the hiding Hoor-Pa-Krat.

The wind’s yanking a ragged "Jolly Roger"
(elongated, artificially distorted skull,
a cauldron’s foaming from below, the marks are
self-sufficient and indecipherable,).
The slimy wreck of a ship is grinning on the beach. The islanders(a sophisticated, degenerated species, close to extinction) are
watching all the arrivals from the steaming marshes.
Midgard is dead, so is the gas-masked Fenris... the broken reeds

would love to smile, "ashen jasmine leaves..."
- the poet sings again wildly.

(Translated by Gabor Gyukics)

Laszlo Aranyi (Frater Azmon) poet, anarchist, occultist from Hungary. Earlier books: (szellem)válaszok, A Nap és Holderők egyensúlya . New: Kiterített rókabőr. English poems published: Quail Bell Magazine, Lumin Journal, Moonchild Magazine, Scum Gentry Magazine, Pussy Magic, The Zen Space, Crêpe & Penn, Briars Lit, Acclamation Point, Truly U, Sage Cigarettes Magazine, Lots of Light Literary Foundation, Honey Mag, Theta Wave, Re-side, Cape Magazine, Neuro Logical, The Daily Drunk Mag, Unpublishable Zine, Melbourne Culture Corner, Beir Bua Journal, Crown & Pen, Dead Fern Press, Coven Poetry Journal, Journal of Erato, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Spillover Magazine, Punk Noir, Nymphs Literary Journal,  Synchronized Chaos, Impspired Magazine, Fugitives & FuturistsThe Dope Fiend DailyMausoleum Press, Nine Magazines, Thanks Hun, Downtown ArchiveHearth & Coffin Literary Journal, Our Poetry Archive (OPA), All Ears (India), Utsanga (Italy), Postscript Magazine (United Arab Emirates), The International Zine Project (France), Swala Tribe Magazine (Rwanda), The QuillS Journal (Nigeria). Known spiritualist mediums, art and explores the relationship between magic.