Word For/ Word is seeking poetry, prose, poetics, criticism, reviews, and visuals for upcoming issues. We read submissions year-round. Issue #24 is scheduled for August, 2014. Please direct queries and submissions to:
Word For/ Word c/o Jonathan Minton 546 Center Avenue Weston, WV 26452.
Submissions should be a reasonable length (i.e., 3 to 6 poems, or prose between 50 and 2000 words) and include a biographical note and publication history (or at least a friendly introduction), plus an SASE with appropriate postage for a reply. A brief statement regarding the process, praxis or parole of the submitted work is encouraged, but not required. Please allow one to three months for a response. We will consider simultaneous submissions, but please let us know if any portion of it is accepted elsewhere. We do not consider previously published work.
Email queries and submissions may be sent to: editors at wordforword dot info.
Email submissions should be attached as a single .doc, .rtf, .pdf or .txt file. Visuals should be attached individually as .jpg, .png, .gif, or .bmp files. Please include the word "submission" in the subject line of your email.
Word For/ Word acquires exclusive first-time printing rights (online or otherwise) for all published works, which are also archived online and may be featured in special print editions of Word For/ Word. All rights revert to the authors after publication Word For/ Word; however, we ask that we be acknowledged if the work is republished elsewhere. Word For/ Word is open to all types of poetry, prose and visual art, but prefers innovative and post-avant work with an astute awareness of the materials, rhythms, trajectories and emerging forms of the contemporary. Word For/ Word is published biannually.
Jonathan Minton, Editor
John Bloomberg-Rissman and Anne Gorrick / Sonnet22 - “Hairless but swollen limbs”
My beauty is most certainly not about you. How many miles to go before I can sleep? We connect anteriorly and importantly, as if we were near the Nile. Maybe you are an addicting game, or an expensive car. What are the most commonly misspelled words in the zodiac? You and I? Pass these birds to your beloved. You’ve been officially personalized. Me gusta my beauty meme soap, printed on special dissolvable paper. C’est verdad as well: I am a DIY live Verfremdungseffekt. Just like MySpace: “glide along that tide of crayola light.” I’ve been getting a lot of kisses lately, as in “I didn't know an astute jalapeño could be worth money.” Sagittarius unicorns beauty flarf. Yakkage dartow olowute. Your beauty is a specialist who knows a lot about Lyme Disease. We were evacuated from New York. The respiratory system and its resistance lyrics, buttons and gloves at the Pardisus Palma Real. When it’s all over, who is going to resettle Delaware? After the apocalypse, I will reverse look you up. Paper in motion resets the body. My beauty, are you a refugee in need of resettlement? She is so thin her clothes revolve around her. Her dogs, her anime, her dancewear. Ethiopia is especially lethal, the zeal of soldiers and party enthusiasts.
John Bloomberg-Rissman and Anne Gorrick / Sonnet23 - What line are we on, Anne? I’m just winging the hair metal shriek of the processual
Are "broken windows" good for Houston? Will my beauty be known as as a prince of great firmness who spoke little? In Bedford County there is a cave where saltpeter had been produced for gunpowder. He admits the sudden arrival of biodiesel. “This story is a rather satiric fairytale about a little raccoon compulsively obsessed with garbage.” My beauty is satiric and obsessed with garbage. Ergo, “I” myself am a bloody beaut, erstwhile support drummer for D.O.G in the parallel world, where “gnarly has / the musty reek that reminds me of the cow fetuses / I had to dissect a couple of months ago.” “The unconscious has the structure of a language,” said Lacan. “When I get nervous I get hyper and bump into people” . What line are we on, Anne? I’m just winging the hair metal shriek of the processual. Dearest John, my beauty WAS obsessed with garbage, but now it’s a form of lost luggage. This is a story about damage without going into details. It’s a horrible way to start a vacation, but there is no need to lose your mind. SYNOPSIS. Tragically aware that he is not fulfilling his potential in Vegas, this story has a troubling aspect not illuminated by Chris. The gentleman who lost his
John Bloomberg-Rissman and Anne Gorrick / Sonnet24 – “I want to see the night but what I wind us seeing is the light”
beauty was not amused. Levi’s, golf clubs, rainy days, tangled Christmas lights. The word "cheap" was used in every sentence - that should have been a sign. But how does the Fete Bleu leap us from? A full house, blue eggs, blue nails and Geof “in the realm of the violent children”. I mean, chicks dig the brave little bunny, those ancient glittering eyes, yes, it was all for Judy Garland, really, that poor old drunk, my mom. Judy Garland? I meant “Wallace Stevens”. SURFER: Open your eyes, realize I’m BEIN’ God-- Burgundy car coat. Hong Kong chic. On the bird circuit. They had vestigial eyes like most have tonsils. They like opium. It’s been worrisome since my beauty lost the use of his hind legs. Some will be relatively immobile right from the beginning and most will become sedentary. Also, if the legs are moved away from or moved towards the body,it is wise to get him/ her a rabbit-experience that is neurological and incurable out of the blue. Living with a paraplegic guinea pig: FootFoot, spurred on by her stomach, dragged herself by her forelegs over to the lettuce. Her legs are mucky as if he had been trying to catch some of the chicken-flavored pheasants. The loss function at work. Here. So instead of getting all worked up about all that Alexander McQueen is watching Friends one day,
John Bloomberg-Rissman and Anne Gorrick / Sonnet25 - On Leopardi’s beach / your symbols are like an error in gratitude
and Joey the jewel of the sea, the pearl, has been given a very tough and rugged beauty Hijab. So Chandler says, “mln«b*ll.ili- ...”, and then Joey says, “Ask for a room as high up in the 24-story tower as possible, with a Glidelock clasp.” McQueen is delighted, and thinks, “This is like “Robot Boy”, “Anchor Baby”, crushed ice or rock salt. It’s Hollywood history, baby, Full Custom Gospel BBQ, a mycologist bellman ATM.” Informant stringdusters / actuarial gauntlet / That ipad lovingly in the loneliness of space / On Leopardi’s beach / your symbols are like an error in gratitude / In West Kissimmee / pythons knit / coldfusion slipknots / in temptation lyrics / Is there plasma from the sun?/ Peaceful sleeping sounds / pigtails in an impulse line / in Pearland Your beauty is a loop of pearls around my reading “J’ai vu un cardinal gras avec les bras de Dieu et un poulet bleu dans chaque main.” But alas, a simple ‘no’ concluded his bearlike passion. So George Pig says “yuck” at vegetables and only wants to eat chocolate cake in the suicide forest of Japan. Our beauty is singing ‘Riding a Black Unicorn Down the Side of an Erupting Volcano” [And she found Aurora in a pink bikini, swimming there,
John Bloomberg-Rissman and Anne Gorrick / Sonnet26 – “ - disappeared into metallic pods.”
eating fish and chips. / While the grandmother was watching the cooking programme, La cocina de Karlos Arguiñano/ the father was visiting Mr. Roca. / And the rabbit ate Spongebob (Bob Esponja)] at the top of our lungs. Beauty is not despair, or is it? Does death have a dress code? So yes, Demeter was drunk driving, high on glass roses on a deserted island. A destroying rainforest got in way, and a deaf child. There was a disaster. Desert animals publish themselves before a storm. Dermatology factions in the afternoon. What was her despair wear? Something always hurts. I’m not sure why I’m calling. We have a well-formed futility syndrome here. Sometimes his beauty is distant and vague. Sometimes your beauty is saying hello to the green anemones when you see them in the ocean... sometimes it’s walking around the Coachella stage like Tupac, bantering with Snoop, singing some oldies, and terrifying thousands. Is this soon to become a creepy new standard, with death no longer a barrier to personal appearances and touring careers? What will be your hologram’s greatest accomplishments?
Christopher Kondrich / [I Speak into the Color Blue Cut]
I speak into the color blue cut
from the sepia cloth
speak into the night
dangling from the trees
each word cut from your words
Yours truly on a horse
rearing up to say something
like glass I followed here
through spangled birch bark
though headless and footless
all the way down
I have to grow a blue world
I have to surrender soluble
to the parallel strokes
I have to make damned sure
I get it right this time
Ruins in reverse
putting themselves together
then falling from my arms
held over the fire
and melting into this line
is how I treat you, rare bird
I have a problem with all of this suddenly
stopped, all of this quiet
I should speak you into being
I should speak myself across
into bough that comes out now
from my mouth
Christopher Kondrich / [Your Words Trail Off Above Me Into Radial Space]
Your words trail off above me into radial space
the same on the left as it is
in your hair
washing toward me in blue
and walking blue
the walking of your name through the gate
My head held out before me
my hands also lanterns
carried by reflection into trees
I sit beneath
shoving food into the hole in my neck
shoving my neck into the hole in the sky
the same on the left as it is
I must live upright
I must not be a screen
but the screen’s sudden crows
enough sense to follow
not behind but alongside
so I block the second half
which we know
Wes Solether / from "The Enchiridion of Water"
Rob me of tongueguide,
light broken on sanddollars
slight tokens/burst words1
1 A memory—taken at will below skin
dried in constant sun
that magnified bleach
not letting well enough alone
force V collapse II
Wes Solether / from "The Enchiridion of Water"
to find correct wards
even if taken from your sight
best planned route
always takes longest (one mistake)
she made herself a visible past
we believe / breathe
Wes Solether / from "The Enchiridion of Water"
VARIATION 5 (epitaph)
and yet, love persists inconvenience
a sickness to return to comfort
to form a manual “ to reject” said
a monk to his guide and yet ,
Wes Solether / from "The Enchiridion of Water"
wary from unusual
sound 400 years old
resting on water
vision tied to cherry tree
pulled from roots
and drawn into the open
Wes Solether / from "The Enchiridion of Water"
It is common we eat our own words
to recoup some honesty
thus recycled and worth
its weight in steel
Angela Bayout / Bait
Deer tell me stories
of princesses with lips
like boiled rubies
and damp dress hems,
who sleep in towers
circled by motes.
Their fur keeps me warm.
Their tone makes me doze off.
I shiver awake,
find ocher antlers
slipping under water.
Sharks spin around and around,
their teeth scrape stones,
a dirge sends ripples.
Their tongues quiver.
Their stomachs growl.
Angela Bayout / body was found by a moose hunter
–died in a snow patch like bad cabbage and escorted by the Northern angels wearing purple and turquoise ribbons.
When telegraphs spontaneously combusted all over the world and girls in Rome saw the Aurora Borealis, I would later see it too, me and the moose, up in Alaska. But not until the hunter checkmates my long gone soul. The moose and I will spy all of time from the solar storms in the sky.
Angela Bayout / Don't Do This
Spend the day
sitting still as glass
in a waist-cutting skirt,
your arms a corset.
You'll make friends with
the wallpaper, become a knot,
and when someone finally
lays a fingerprint on you,
Angela Bayout / Dress Up
I do apologize for attacking you. It's just that the static on TV struck me as rain
and it moved me to dress up and go out. Also, I tend to open windows in hurricanes.
Girl with Wet Boots
Dennis James Sweeney / Who is Jonathan Richman?
Snow shoe tattoos on snow ridge. White invisible lives in imprint, breaks in empty make the empty. It’s soft. Sing light, light tread disappear. Invisible fill, cold feel on the hand. Empty’s full. Where is air.
Dennis James Sweeney / Who is the pilot?
No God, dials, slit of visibility. Crew parallel to and linguistically separate. Terror proof doors. Air gets in, we breathe air, we kill people. It’s that soft. Let me in and I don’t know what to do. Fly don’t die. Fly get.
Dennis James Sweeney / Who is Ben Walsh?
The space between pancakes. Short bred legs. Tickle of temper in the armpit place only bugs go. Sand hope in the dark place, granule, grind and disappear. The air between the dollar bills in tip. I’ll take that because you never know. Chia pet into wide, invisible kale. Have iron. Have truth. Texture of blowfish. But you cut it.
Dennis James Sweeney / Who is Siddhartha Gautama?
Fat man no one like. Pamphlets. Bathing suit sun rash. Los Angeles crazy up and down Boulevard, no flying shit for unreal items. Empty escape at hand. In his eyes. Eight steps to every process.
Dennis James Sweeney / Who is Jesus?
Body composed of strip mall lanterns. Items for organs, dead items for toenails. Men’s and women’s clothes tentacle feel feel. The heights. Come this far. The point mount snow death. Christmas-lit smokestack, the white of his eyes.
Dennis James Sweeney / What is imazalil?
Eardrum of the universe cold tea in unattuned mouths. Faux needles, faux ginger, talk over the band and clap after every song. Faux is real, stripe full color bedspread sheets of sex juices spilled, factory plastic meat in basketball stomachs, million hand wove yak wool hat keep one boy dry. Rubrics. Wood grain look like real wood grain if don’t touch. You don’t touch. Chemical hum alive inside.
Dennis James Sweeney / What is thiabendazole?
Gems. Formed dinosaur ways. Formed towels, knuckle hairs on the foot. Unlit can’t see back of bathroom scum to frying pan to ceiling tile to gray space between brick. Tuckpoint. Kill hard, make gems. Hard gems soft because we make. Soft gems hard, soft gems water. Through through the kelp blows, digested, excreted, still kelp. Hold it in your hand wear no gloves. What the wind says, goes.
Dennis James Sweeney / What is pyramethanil?
Back back chip in the dog run fire. Let them out to play ground, ground ground, splash in live hexameters. Eat dirt. Head to toe fur out wet. Hard yellow rubber metal dirt with wet and dirt. Wood bride. Items firm deep down to eyes in slants. You think items, stuck. He say invisible. Natural as crawdad and stuck as unstuck is. Every stubborn is extance. Rub up. Make it wet like every other thing.
Dennis James Sweeney / What is fludioxanil?
African tits, great wide white wall. Stomach graphs with metal scores. Nothing of the digital swathes, brass keepsakes. Whole reroutes for the purpose of prevention. Pain is very simple when it is the only thing. Pain is green, yellow-green. Enjoy beans at outset. Shiver. Entice. The sky is a certain way this evening. There is a sky. It causes thousands of things.
Mary Kasimor / a syllogism
withOUT sound there
IS no story
2:00 a.m. a SOURED
apple moon One note
under THE bed
a COFfeE table
book about canARIES
a head ACHE an appointment
it must BE dark
outside no MOON in
my mouth tasting HUNG
over NO car
on the street OUTside
silence A BOx of
kleenEX we are
in THIS world
by our SELVES
WITH infinite deTAILS
Mary Kasimor / the landfill dancers
in basic ANIMAtion they breed
fall IN love
from basic code the roses arise
in a sky under the SOil
I wade into the landfill
dancing beside sailors’ meats
I sold BANanas and baked potatoes
for 38 CENTS
the feminine flowers are subSERVient
and do NOT live in science fiction
but consume themselves
AND WORK and breed
in the amber sleeves of their masters
the cROWs are a market
of nationalists in farmers’ FIELDS
in winter when seasons were written
up in MYsteries
of THE cathedral
they built a family writing factORY
with a coordinated sOUND
the ROSES changed
and there are NO SUBstitutes
Mary Kasimor / sidewalks a squid
another Pattern rules the other and secret Escapes The mind making itself up But the mess lost a chicken I was numbed In the watercolor a nexus of Lemon Stars a spot of blood explains complex Machines In clicking but no One was there I cried Ohhhh in the isolation of my Religion a string of thought and for the lost swans on the ocean Feathers for the solstice scraping gravity a fish sings In a room filled with spoons and they bang on a table in the Depression of each string A china Wind Bird writes code on sidewalks a fine line Of ink the ocean Waves strangle a squid a Guitar the water string a fallen sound I’m a sinner in paradise Only one was there Not the white Sounds of heaven
Mary Kasimor / raw silk
I get your brand Like Movies and music sports people Mostly on this land surfaces raw aches cars of betrayal and lost hands in fissures acre sacred feeling arthritic and Pink stuck to hills blistered grass turning over somersaults over praying ants in hills I was born A thistle art wild under the bridge a silhouette of oil Stains reaching webs undeciding sex wiggled under The spotlight in one speed a head I heard her whisper Away I fled on wheels made from Soup cans and beans Turning thistles over into new energy surprise a standard measurement something expected amazement walking In shadows a shape of Perfect glass fed underground Voices capture the root sounds Stopped a winter sings Through the changing habits life weeps and forgets itself Absorbed in a new taste Of scorched bones high on speed Captured Caterwauling fire and water masochistic ridden Endless insomnia rubbing Raw skin silk dyed and shadows Vintage corners cats eyes arsenic and lead balloons lungs’ damp wool Lavender and airless a frog in my toes A serpent in my intestines a night light behind my eyes No sleeping a punishment in small places and unidentified Numbers in hearts Frozen shaped
Cassandra Eddington / an other history
a thatched roof: the mouth’s
hard palate to mark
the parts of her song
if she would hatch
a pretty egg she knew
it would be her
Cassandra Eddington / Under Story
You see the door’s hinge. To linger at it’s movement makes a gaze. It does not lie in wait like a key hole’s open maw. It does not close completely in it’s brassy flapping. A stationary flight holding and marking separation. In this a remnant of light. A flash. She does not search for the source. Each movement appears a wave. So much begets waving. The sight caused a rise and fall in her chest.
She could not bear the difference between separate surfaces. Only looking at one at a time. This surface presented knots of eyes. That surface a radiating mouth of splinters. The transition required for connecting separate parts was itself too oblong a shape to swallow the wood grain. But one cannot spend their life in corners, you say.
Cassandra Eddington /
She had to put a plate up high on the shelf. Brightly tipping. Below, fungi clamored in their paper bag. Something hidden in a drawer, she sensed it. An activity desired and demanded. Exiting through the sun-soaked side. A cause for absorption here spread oneself like a limping sacrifice of towardness. An elsewhere taps softly. Offers breath’s circuit and becomes for her the edge of the bed, the lip of the glass, the unattached feather. Things to come in contact all waiting. But the glaze caught her. Kept her from her loving and disparateness. She knew it soberingly. But could not stop it: If I could see a world to chant I in, she thought. The shine would not diverge her.
Cassandra Eddington /
A hinge without a door lets the visitors come and go. It was difficult to feed them all for so long, to let them all file in endlessly in their boots.
She was told her song did not have enough notes to make a melody.
Cassandra Eddington /
Some mornings she wakes with some small flame within her chest. A plumed color. Despite all her jarring she keeps alight, through what mysterious movement. She knows not, but day’s descent finds her resourceless as a clock face.
Glowing violet housed where?
I have kept too many captives.
The hunger pain mid-clutch. The miniature gull within her asks always for more. Perhaps this klepto calls me colony she hopes. If she could wear it like a headdress, she could bear the weight.
A grasshopper jumping blindly against her body. Always heavier than expected.
Cassandra Eddington /
The findings needed to hold the parts fallen on the patterned linoleum. Pearls falling in horror. This can occur before blood if she hurries. It must be
Cassandra Eddington /
The neck needs be strung to the soundboard. Yet the wooden column rubbed to a sheen held her sight. A song heard before the strings. A string pulled within. Her neck? These objects are not the same, she insists. And yet to restring and gather them all and hoard them like amulets against disaster.
I am no one’s boot to hole up in. She must determine a shape to make her song. A garment of her choosing. To determine a shape. The hoard within her.
George Kalamaras / We Derive Several Meanings
Now we return to the territory of tears.
We kneel on the faldstool and recite the litany of false indigo.
We derive several meanings for the word wet.
We hunt Old World polecats for their fitch.
Then we consummate the dictionary with fire.
We talk our internal ash down from a smoldering ledge.
The entwined tongues of lovers experience a wetness known only to the groin.
When we try to hold it, it dries into canker sores that appear the next morning
at the table as an argument over the placement of this fork or that.
I try to decode the strange leanings of verbs.
Why are some people knives, not spoons? Some more aggressive than Mars?
There is a hotel, I have heard, in which no one pees.
All the patrons check in, hold their urge, and replace themselves on the street.
It is a relief that a polar bear can kill a beluga if it imbibes snowy patience for
hours at the open hole.
I have somehow, unknowingly, been waiting centuries for breath, for the
flukes of dead replenished air.
George Kalamaras / I Have Died Too Many Times Not To Rest
I’m not sure whether to journey again to the Congo or Cameroon, or stake
claim to Indiana and Colorado.
Don’t get me wrong—it’s less about malaria and more about that enormous
underground yam following me dream to dream.
I have died too many times not to rest.
Although my memory is spotty, something about inertia cannot be fulfilled.
She’s coming in sometime on Monday, you’d said, as if your tongue was sad.
I keep searching for the romance of an eighth or ninth day of the week and
what name—exactly—we might give it.
On what continent might it exist? What accommodation might it entail?
When you’re lost in the aching joints of a flood, you lose the skill to count to
seven among the quinine fix. You lose your taste for fried dace.
There is a fantastic world of petty honor and tribal impunity.
Don’t ask me to render the timelessness of a deadening rag soaked in
kerosene from both the Malagaraisi and the Wabash.
Whenever I mow the lawn I remember the gentle fly-swatting of my father.
What I smell in the fumes is that things weren’t all bad. There were moments
of pained grass, yet almost-human joy.
George Kalamaras / Cliffs of Meteora
So we weren’t content living on a peninsula of male creatures only.
So when we read of the Moabites and Saracens, we imagined the deserts of
Sure, we were in love with God.
Once I stood on one leg continuously for seven months and did not bathe.
That was the season of dreams.
The Egyptian quail would visit nightly and stain the blanket.
Wheatears, goatsuckers, any kind of bird mapped my growth toward the
Even the shrikes arrived from Madeba with the oldest existing map of that
part of the world.
It has been written that, I lie, pure as a big-eyed red hunting ant.
Beneath my body is a pile of empty pupae of carrion flies.
Year after year we took to our cells in the Cliffs of Meteora.
All that we feared, all that we were, could be read in An Account of a Sickness
He Got from a Lady, could be nests, that is, of jerbosas and the unceasing love-
bites of pestiferous flies.
George Kalamaras / This Tongue of It
And so the arm bangle took care of negative astral influences from the stars.
This weaving. This tongue gate. This copper, silver, and gold.
I promise I will ride a horse.
I will be happy. I will be sad. I will almost final joy.
What have you done with my syntactic slip? With my almost and my find and
my most notable noise?
Why have you washed the asparagus while examining photons of my memory
from inside a vacuum tube?
This biblical guillotine.
This book of snow-inverted sleep.
Something is always falling off when you least expect it.
Some part of us is in the basket looking back up as if to ask Why? or How
come, now just as it rains?
This toenail turning to vinegar.
This scent of cutting curving toward finality.
Clearly, I loved you, the way--on the eve of a great departure--one adores
one’s own reflection, the freckle on the wrist of the beloved becoming the
Life to life, this rich mineral rinse, this tongue of it and slip, this most said
almost final joy.
Elisabetta Falanga / Notes on Luc Fierens (Translated from the Italian by Barbara Ricciardi)
“Lotta poetica continua” (“Continued Poetical Fight” ) this sentence caught my attention. As in a theater: you fix point and you don’t see anything else. It doesn’t take much and the body moves in that direction guided by the eyes. And I did it towards an ordinary desk of an ordinary book fair in Bruxelles. Photographs, illustrations, cut words: everything mingled in harmony and clean line on that desk that abounded in exhibit publications. And everything spoke. So I met Luc Fierens, an old fighter, an artist who has always believed in what he did. Flemish, class ’60, difficult and fascinating times. In order to appreciate him, you have to make an overdose, follow his feverish production and dissemination (again logically ordered and chaotic) and under the spell of the direct act, of the whole. His collages are composed of visual images and text links that carry with them whole torrents of words and frames flowing in the flow of memory, making speech sound, and the whole rewriting the semiotic relationship. Direct, clear messages, stances like in a media guerrilla, accompanied by visual-aesthetic choices like in an opaque slick magazine, clear and delicate images carefully selected and assembled with craftsmanship that in oxymoric relation represent bodies and faces of men, children, but especially women (a subject dear to the artist ) , eyes, stars , uniforms, flags , bombs ... Brilliant! Extensive use of figures of speech. That’s his poetry. Visual. And combative. During the noisy and intrusive outbreak of capitalism who was preparing to dominate all the areas of the existing, resistance movements, of resilience, of protest, and political and social opposition developed. So a need to get in line with contemporary society was reflected also in art. We witness to the emergence of various movements that made use of diverse, but interlinked practices and techniques, as the happening, Fluxus, the Body Art, Minimal Art, Arte Povera , Conceptual Art, Kinetic Art, Land Art , Pop Art ... In Italy in the literary arts’ field manifested themselves what are called Neoavanguardie, including the Visual Poetry - experimental movement which combined text and image and was able to overturn the semiotic system of the consumer society and its media. Overturn of the reference semantic relations, displacement, reflection. Visual Poetry takes charge of the role of demystification of the common language of the mass media by using words and images from promotional messages, from comics, newsmagazines, and reprocessing them to provide, through the technique of collage, a turnover of the message itself: subversion of the order of the discourse, medium's transformation from cold to hot. Fierens came into contact with performers and poets of the movement during the 80’s, and since then he continues to struggle poetically, searching on eyes that can read, through striving minds towards seas meeting places, stories that talk about war and violence, beauty and poetry as in a popular song, but through pissed images that scream in your face, rock. Italy remains for him the mother earth, fertile, which preserves a memory. And its continual recall suffers from this. It is not a market question, and never has been, the character of marginal phenomenon remains unchanged. As someone has already said, the power of Visual Poetry is in having endured 50 years of failure (and in having just taken an international range, I would add). In the case of Luc Fierens loyalty to principles is shown by the tenacity and passion with which he devoted himself to his artistic work, and by the need to share this with someone who can understand it. I can tell you that it is a nice experience. Avec son drôle d’accent flamand en plus!
Scott Wilkerson / Review of Joel Chace's Kansoz
(Knives Forks and Spoons Press, 2013)
Let me begin with the double hypothesis that the image is a text and the text is an image. To be sure, there are compelling arguments for and against the centrality of the image in post-modern consciousness, but the splendid provocations in Joel Chace’s visual poetics remind us that the page remains a vast, fascinating space for exploring the intersection between picture and words. Indeed, Chace’s new book, Kansoz, traces an elegant arc across the sustained problematics of the Vis-Po enterprise and reveals a poet with immense intellectual curiosity, unassailable aesthetic integrity, and a positively Romantic love for beautiful things.
In her perceptive blurb, Camille Martin notes how the tripartite structure of Kansoz recalls a certain journey over the rainbow, from Kansas to Oz back to Kansas and thus, from black-and-white to color, thence again to black-and-white. Martin’s insight here points not only to Chace’s celebratory critique of filmic language and its self-limiting three-act structure but also to his gentle subversions of narrative cloture in the visual triptych.
The first and third sections are disquisitions of fragmented texts-taped-to-paper. They begin with a kind of post-structuralist invocation, “period (s) now” and, with this device, frame the center panel, a complex game of colorful textual interventions projected across the ledger lines of staff paper. For Chace, the coextension of text and image marks the transgression of an aural boundary in which symphonic gestures speak in the key signature of stochastic systems. This, however, is not to say that Kansoz is an experiment is chance operation. It is not. And if Chace clearly appreciates the aleatoric frisson of collage, then it equally clear too that all his choices are the result of careful deliberation.
Given the material density of any page in this remarkable book, one may observe each moment of highly-charged poesis as both singularly self-contained and as characteristically representative; at once incidental and essential; by turns, both the point of departure and the departure itself. Moreover, Chace torques the conventional x-y axes of the book, forcing us to invert the text or even ourselves to “get the picture” and thus implicates us in its playful physicality.
Consider, for instance, the exhilarating puzzle of page 38, which I reproduce here in strictly linear form:
* Only our surprise that the unforeseen was arbitrary
allowed the fated to disappear *
* Groaning against buildings, along unwalled corridors of night:
Chimneys and door frames’ crevices let the low music in *
A model of evocative imagery and stylistic sophistication, this lovely quatrain—as it exists on the actual page--moves in a helical gyre and maps our own habituations of text onto a shifting matrix of spatial interpellations. The experience, therefore, is both disorienting and truly delightful. Kansoz is poetry-as-painting, musical composition, kinetic sculpture, performance art, mechanical engineering, post-Dada catechism, and exploding syllogism.
During my study of this book I photographed, with my iPhone, a few pages from each section for portability and quick reference while waiting in lines, crowded student hallways, or any chance at all to encounter the images. And although the iPhone’s zooming function proved helpful for some of the more densely imbricated, color-collages (the Yellow Imbricated Road?), I can report that the rotation feature—an otherwise very useful function by which one may reorient a picture, typically for editing--fails as a reliable tool for investigating Chace’s complex images. The 180° rotation is passable, but rotations of 90° and 270° are wholly inadequate. All this points to yet another way in which Chace’s work documents the inherent, strange elegance of the book form.
These Kans-Oz cantos are rigorous investigations into the possibilities of the page, both as an instrument of inquiry and as the object of inquiry. Providentially, it seems that any serious approach to Roland Barthes’s dictum that “the image always has the last word” authenticates and liberates the speculative nature of the Chacean program. And yet, I sense Chace operates happily both inside and outside the Barthesian ambit. This is, of course, not a question of competing theoretical alliances but, rather, one of old-fashioned, artistic intuition. Chace is not only courageous but resourceful, which imputes to his work a fearless investment in the act of discovery.
Kansoz is the kind of sui generis book that reports back to us from its own dream: at once whimsical and radical, sweeping through the modalities of an alternate universe in which the seductions are many, the perils real, and there is no page like home.
Jim Andrews / Review of Joseph Keppler's First Remainder Series
Joseph Keppler's First Remainder Series presses and folds the line in new directions which, properly understood, should blow your mind. I'd like to share with you what I think is extraordinary about these poems. They also cohere and develop as a group in interesting ways we'll look at. First, though, I'd like to provide some context for them.
Joe publishes Poets.Painters.Composers. Critics.Sculptors.Slaves. from Seattle. It used to be called Poets.Painters.Composers. Since then, he's done much work in photography, criticism, and metal sculpture. He has been publishing this poly-artistic project since the 80's. Some issues are printed. Others are in sound, sculpture, posters, and other media. The visual poems published on vispo.com are by Joe from a 2007 issue called "the first remainder series" which also included work by fifteen other artists. Of the series, Joe says:
In the spirit of St. Vincent de Paul’s, Goodwill’s, and Salvation Army’s thrift-store poetics and aesthetics, Poets.Painters.Composers. Critics.Sculptors.Slaves. announces its first remainder series.
The basic idea is to use up our remainder of paper stock for small editions of poetry and art. The paper stock for our first remainder series is in various weights and colors though all of it is letter size (8.5” x 11”, 216mm x 279mm). Printed work will be issued in numbered editions of 25 or less...
Another of the project’s reasons for being has been to catch the differences between print and electronic media, and a working title for the project could have been, to paraphrase an important Walter Benjamin title, “The Work of Reproduction in an Age of Technological Art.”
Most of the electronic, PDF versions of the First Remainder Series are extant and available via email. Some actual, numbered prints are still obtainable from the artists or from Seattle’s Wessel & Lieberman Books."
Of his own work in this series, Joe says:
We fold. That is, we crease. We crease & increase, six new folds for the first remainder series. Differences among arts and technologies make actual creases in the print editions and simulated creases in the PDF files. In either case folding, a philosophical, sculptural, genetic, and poker activity, unfolds a metaphoric, heterogeneous poetics.
Such is the context. One of the remarkable things about this suite of poems is what Joe does with the line. When you talk about lines in poetry, you're usually talking about words. But in this suite of visual poems, they take on considerable additional meaning: as folds and spatializations, sculpturalizations of paper; the lines also function as “I”; and as lines of poetry; as horizon lines; as paths/roads/connectors; and as distinctions that separate things. The apparently very simple straight lines in these visual poems are part of a rich “metaphoric, heterogeneous” poetics of the line.
The suite begins with “Couplet”. As simple and elegant as can be. A couplet is a pair of lines. That's what we have here. They intersect; they have a point in common. It speaks to poetics. It's about poetry, in a sense. It's about the nature of the couplet. But it's open/suggestive and can be about many things. And, visually, it is aligned with abstract art.
“Couplet” is the simplest of the poems in the suite in its look—and may be the simplest in its look of any poems you will look at this week or possibly this year (or ever). The suite builds or grows like a biological entity or like an axiom system/geometry. There's a sense in the development of the poems of the generation of 'the ten thousand things'.
“Couplet” is followed by “Sight Event”. The word “am” is interesting in that we never say “we am” or “they am” or “he am” etc. If we use the word “am”, the word “I” precedes it. Always. Where there is “am” there is also “I”. “Am” is a verb, an action that only an “I” can do. “Am” expresses not simply “isness”, which can apply to things, but the peculiar action of the existence of an individual "I".
In “Sight Event”, “am” is cut through the middle by a straight line. The straight line is now not simply a line of poetry, as it was in “Couplet”. It's also the “I” in “I am”. Joe states elsewhere that the line in “Sight Event” is a horizon line. The horizon of perception. The line of seeing along which we proceed and think, make our distinctions. The “I” in the middle of being; the “I” in the middle of “am”.
The poem “Sight Event” is a different way of looking at existence. It contains “I am” but with different perspectives than those normally afforded by the words “I am”.
I asked Joe via email why he arranged this piece vertically rather than horizontally. Why do it as he did it rather than have a vertical line between a normal arrangement of the word “am”? Here is part of his reply:
These poems on their original sheets are sculptures; the folded paper is tangible as well as visible. The page is background that becomes foreground. The different praxis between the temporal and the static arts is a topic we both consider important in our work.
The "am" refers to this sculptural aspect of my poetry and to the poem's reference as to the beingness of everything even the paper sheet or the computer screen and even thoughts about being. The horizontal line is the horizon, for we exist everyday with a rational spirit and a sensual body, an "am" as the sun rises and sets all day long. Sight event is the horizon line in art, and the fold in sculpture and philosophy. The fold is the poetic line translated for the screen. All is inherent in the poetics to be witnessed by the reader.
“Sight Event” is almost as simple as “Couplet” in its look but not quite: it's mixing lines and letters. You'd want it after “Couplet” because “Couplet” is a better introduction to the line metaphor or conceit, as the metaphysical poets put it (a conceit is a kind of extended metaphor); having “Couplet” first prepares us to interpret the line in “Sight Event” as (among other things) a line of poetry and/or language of some sort.
The next poem in the series is “Terza Rima”. We read in Wikipedia that “Terza rima is a rhyming verse stanza form that consists of an interlocking three-line rhyme scheme.” And we see three lines in the visual poem. We also read in Wikipedia that “Terza rima is a three-line stanza using chain rhyme in the pattern A-B-A, B-C-B, C-D-C, D-E-D.” We see in the visual poem that the two outer lines are the same as one another; the middle line is shaded differently than the other two. The three lines in the visual poem have the same sort of relation as any of the above three-line units such as A-B-A.
As in “Couplet”, then, we have a visual correlative of a literary form. And the shading indicates an X-Y-X rhyme scheme. More generally, the shading gives a sense of the shades of meaning and energy in poetic lines.
“Terza Rima” could have been placed between “Couplet” and “Sight Event”, but not before “Couplet” and not after “12 Specific Rectangles” or any of the others. It's level of complexity and its place in the argument or the development is just so.
The next poem in the suit is titled “12 Specific Squares”. In the PDF version, they are indeed quite square-like. In the HTML version, it depends on the size of the browser window whether they're squares or not. Which is why I renamed the HTML version “12 Specific Rectangles”. The print and PDF are static; the HTML version is dynamic.
We could see this piece in relation with “Terza Rima”: the 12 squares/rectangles could be seen in relation to the 12 lines in the A-B-A, B-C-B, C-D-C, D-E-D form. We could also see some humour in the title. Squares, by their nature, are not really very specific. So we could see the poem as having something to say about the play between the general and the particular that goes on in poetry and other literary art.
We could also see the poem as introducing greater complexity, patterns made of the simpler ones that have preceded it. That pattern of growing complexity continues with the next poem, “8 Eights” where we see 8 rows of 8's, or 64 8's. This is a very composite composition. We are well on our way to the generation of the ten thousand things. If we add all the 8's together we get 512 which is 2 to the 9th power. So it could be expressed many different ways: 512 = 2*256 = 4*128 = 8*64 = 16*32 = 2*2*128 = 4*4*32 and so on. Digital information in computers is usually structured in relation to powers of 2. The binary system is all about powers of 2. A byte is eight bits. Contemporary computers are 64-bit machines. The poem can be seen as being about the relation of digital information and art. It acknowledges rich possibility while also rather humorously characterizing those possibilities.
The next poem, “Basho”, presents the title of one of Basho's collections of poetry, Narrow Road to the Deep North. Here we have the line as literal and figurative road or path. If I understand correctly, Basho's title refers to the path to enlightenment, the road of the spiritual journey, the path between earth and heaven as well as a literal path on a literal journey. The line is also a fold, as we read in an essay Joe wrote at the end of Fall Collection From Seattle about sculptural ideas of the page:
Folds are one way to sculpt the page for the poem. Here is a brown page folded in half lengthwise and dedicated to the Japanese poet, Basho, and his great work, Narrow Road to the Deep North. The fold in the paper refers of course to the narrow road. His book title’s letters–except H, which is like a barrier or a bridge–split on each side of the fold to indicate the two sides of the poet’s path on the narrow road. Thus his narrow road is through the alphabet, the words he titles his poetic journey.
By the time we read “Basho”, we have seen the suite develop a language of the line and letter to the point where we read “Basho” quite differently than we would were it the first poem in the sequence. We are prepared to look at that language strung out along that vertical line as having much more meaning than we would otherwise. The poem looks complex compared to the earlier ones.
Of the final poem in the suite, “ODE”, Joe says:
It consists of four corner brackets pasted to a stiff sheet with a small “o” printed on it. The numbered print edition has metal brackets and the pdf simulated brackets.
Joe has an interesting dule of love poems including several poems in several media that consist 'simply' of the word 'love'. For instance, when I first met him in 1986, he did a performance that included a poem that consisted of uttering the word 'love' periodically till the insistence became uncomfortable.
The 15-copy print edition of The First Remainder Series, which includes "ODE", actually has metal brackets, then. Joe has mainly been creating metal sculptures for the last several years. A bit of metal going on in a love poem sounds about right. The poem then relates to his metal sculpture practice but also it's a print thing. He says in the introduction:
Another of the project’s reasons for being has been to catch the differences between print and electronic media, and a working title for the project could have been, to paraphrase an important Walter Benjamin title, “The Work of Reproduction in an Age of Technological Art.”
We could view the PDF and HTML versions of “ODE” as pale simulations of the original paper and metal piece, as inferior to the original. We could also see the PDF and HTML versions as drawing a line between the original and this suite of visual poems that explore the line, meaning, shape, and materiality in poetry.
"ODE" takes the line and geometric right-angle into the realm of metalic material as well as the language of love. This, the final poem in the suite, has developed the ten thousand things to the point of metal and love. What we have in this bunch of poems is not simply a suite of visual poems but considerable insight into how contemporary concerns broaden the notion of poetry and the poetic line into new directions that are relevant to expanded notions of language itself. Language itself is forever broadening not only words within it but what we understand language itself to be. And poetry needs to explore that territory or be quaint. Joe's poetry is very exciting not only in its statements but its form and its capacity for powerful statement and meditation within unexpected, fresh forms.
Visual poetry explores not simply image as language but just what we think language is. This is a time of profound change in how we think of language. We see code becoming an important part of language. Through DNA no less than computer code. For all that, it's still quite rare to come across a suite of visual poems that develop language as deeply as this suite does. The metaphysical poets of the seventeenth century developed the conceit, a notion of an extended metaphor. We can see what Joe does with the line in this sequence of poems as something like a conceit, an extended metaphor that links the notion of the line to many things and enriches our notion of the line.
We can speak of the language of cinema or the language of music, and so on, but the language of poetry is a bit different. Because poetry needs to comprehend all language, not be simply a particular approach to language. Poetry is the ultimate art of language. Which needs to comprehend the ways our ideas of language are changing. Joe has always understood that and Joe has always gone there with intrepid energy.
Arpine Konyalian Grenier / What’s Green, What’s Blue: The Silent G
Neither diegetic nor mimetic, or perhaps both, and in a way dumbfounded by both, I am attempting at language as I explore the concept of capital and how language helps or hinders it, where the breaking points are, and/or the strengthening hinges, what and who is involved. That seems to be what really matters because the attempt is who I am, and perhaps more than I am. So, whereas one cannot name deaf and oblique sensations most think come from evil, whereas therein lies unfinished business as G stands for grief, greed, the gothic, gratitude and golem and gul/rose (Turkish), global, gospel, girk/passion/book (Armenian), goodwill and gold. G as in God, green, Gilgamesh, guilt, the Greek, the German, and gravity, gout/taste (French), and genocide, and whereas it is silent and nuanced (muddled?), here’s an ode to tears, an investment return to the investment returns of denial and clinging to the river, Euphrates, Araxes, other.
So, does one utilize language to explore the reaches of capital in order to redeem the evolutionary (and political) path of the human? Do we resist it on that corridor? Political and socio-economic changes affect communities. Do we then button up the laptop or blog to equally frustrated readers? Questions foster cross-fertilization; they redefine terms, confront different but not necessarily divergent perspectives. The forge of language discloses the truth of our feelings as we tap derivatives of the past whereby the new occurs because of what escapes or survives experience, and because there is will. What transforms us will always be the expression of feeling, not the intellectualization of it, remembering that the human is the only capital we truly possess, remembering our strengths and limitations, our diversities and commonalities. There are no protagonists, antagonists or narrators, only participants. Agency is fluid. Hearing the other alongside the self provides path or passage to knowing; path or passage that is not about knowledge, however. Change takes place accordingly and is sorted over time. Moving (velocity?) allows sight when screens are in the way, we, shifting and turning without undoing ourselves, without unseeing or dismissing others either. Uncertainty is operative then, so is solidarity. That is where poetic engagement occurs, ‘from the edge of chaos’, as they say. We are response-able then, after choices, not after burden or fault or blame or praise. We have no “truth” but a place to stand, a place of grace we allow ourselves. We have power and a longing to negotiate the multivariate nature of reality, the elements, how divergent they are, where they are.
it is a small and round world indeed
love wills through still
long time bristled
effort/ proclaim/ abandon
History belongs to the domain of the universe. We must be gentle with it. How to get from the brain to the heart is the task, and somewhere within slippery but hopeful silences words create, there, as we refuse to catalog and customize to familiarize with the human, the way is lit. Hope lives there, a materiality that is luminous and forgiving of matter, and that’s at magical and mundane a space-time welcoming exaptation, possibilities, that ode to tears, that investment return.
is this a revelation?
Language helps and works because it is never only about language, and because it ultimately fails us as it mirrors history, theory, memory and our very being. We’ll work with language, we’ll use it but not adhere to it, and if we allow ourselves not to be driven merely by fundamentals, we’ll experience it differently because when the word hits the page (or our vocal chords), it has already created more (or less) than itself. There’s hope and wishes for every reality gone mad, and reverence, not to respect but to honor the very histories that have brought us to where we are, to honor the warmth of our blood, the cognitive and the normative, not part of a qualified culture nor speaking on behalf of one, busy with dimension while weary and leery of its shadow, calling, calling at an unbearable proximity to the need to do something about all that does not follow the routine of civilization, the functions of circumscribe/ control/ eliminate; calling to fuse what is outside of time with what is within, often at the expense of meaning or syntax, to reconcile with the self as if.
Shall we replace or redefine morality then? Laws cannot define history anymore than history can define laws, humans do that. Remember Gell-Mann’s sympathetic magic. Logic is for the birds that do not fly but think they do, he said. Theorizing is as futile as rationalizing, selection pressures are not consistent and often do not make sense. Consider self part of the “other”, all seems fair then, the purgative, the illuminative, the unitive. Seeking retroactive meaning is toil and trouble, so are recipes, rites, amulets. Do not look at the whole to annotate, look at the parts and pretend. Think of how matter behaves differently under different conditions. You are such matter. Center and periphery are mythical allusions. No pole position survives physicality, forehead to ground, the fez. Mind angle and trajectory as switch and turn are about to follow. Breathe love. Noise will subside. As love does not fail and sentences do not restrict the soul to a mere parsing of words. Remember, speech exerts to overcome excess. Replace all chatter with the silence of those who could but did not speak, undo mimetic shackles to experience all of history including the now and Derrida’s ‘what is yet to come’. I am interested in change.
I am interested in change. I’m interested in the will to align invention with transformation, a will, however, ready to embrace what follows, the risk, the reward, the unknown. How does resisting feed exploration or, how much of exploration is actually resistance? The will with which one applies intelligence makes the difference, says Ben Davis of Ranciere’s emancipatory stance on intelligence and learning; and that, without the unethical, without luck or fate either. Will brings forth what matters, like some Higgs emanating mass. We are its beneficiaries, not victims, capable of resisting norms to redistribute and recalibrate as necessary. To resist is to create, changing the state outside a state by increasing capacity, revitalizing outlook.
The outlook on capitalism would be grim without rearranging (perturb?) the conceptual grids that define capital. Yes, then, through the body and with a plan. Genetic studies point out that only about one percent of our genes are expressed. There’s hope then. Diversity does not evolve by acquiring new genes but by teaching old ones new tricks, says Carroll. Containment tactics distract the masses while will that has pulse ensures access, trade, capital; it fuels life, not the skeletal remains of our ancestors. Where is such capital?
I will not fit into or figure or flee from the human
I will feel it instead
do I ask more questions then?
mediocrity parses limits
as it clarifies
the industrial complex
Individuals do not evolve, societies (populations) do, and they do so with small changes. By chance or otherwise change occurs and is sorted over time. Neither food nor Jesus nor fame or fortune will provide access to the inner power we possess, the power that frees us from the slavery we have come to live by, the pervasive and addictive slavery that sedates the self under the guise of some external power we seem to think we must attain or give in to. Dare we amble by? The ambivalence of intent (or destination) binds process, challenges connectivity at the purposeful and the productive because while cultural legacies matter, they are not indelible.
we define as we go
narratives come up
Extract nothing from history but all the whats and hows, even the pink silly agglutinations decidedly colliding. Our very large hadron collider at CERN vouches for that, a tear at the core or at the edge, varieties of symmetry as the symmetry within variety, color charge, electrical charge, magnetic form factor against momentum; like neutrons we continually absorbing or emitting potential despite our dysfunctional arrogance. Center exists only at rest, but we are moving.
if it’s not broken then break it anyway
self preservation rewrites itself
It evolves at the expense of the individual, opens up to more than self, to more than just some information pothole. The vast global disappears then, the “local intimate” is being cultivated. Lindenmayer grammar/ Feigenbaum grammar/ Fibonacci grammar furtively weighing in and we, the beneficiaries of cross-culturality, and often the victims of the colonization that drives it (the colonization of planet, people, nature). Autonomy, complexity and reward hand in hand, co-opted, marginalized or neutralized regardless, we measure, report and verify. Glomerulus to gene receptor to protein to space recognition and territorial behavior, the over six million years old neuro-modulators in our brain provide as we stay connected to the suchness of memory, reality, phenomenology and experience. How about we evolve seeking the poetics behind desire and what follows, clarity, humility, humidity, forgiveness and compassion. What about that?
what about magic?
are we about a living thing or a human thing?
When it comes to the human, the psychological perturbs the ontological, and vice versa; limits are constantly being negotiated. Stop preserving, experience is irretrievable; persevere instead. Identifying or eliminating perpetrator does not eliminate victimhood. Orphanhood, dispersion and regeneration are life’s concatenations. Events shape and reshape themselves as the event horizon at any given time-space welcomes us to simply be part of it.
God is a spandrel, so are the G
revel in al muqarnas
witness truth reality fact are states not acts
hypotheses unravel narratives
the accused now a speck
the event too
even les evenements are not our own
je leur donnais le jour he said
there is no debt he said
part, part Euphrates
now aghd is stain for
to lose/ find by the corner
at ______ where _____________ they say
backing against a one way street did not
did you see them between the 6th and 7th?
Pishon full of gold and lapis
Tigris East of Assyria
Oh Euphrates --
what breeds your underside?
memory feeds a hydraulic limb
fact to symbol gyrate
do I need an interface?
pieces of human that I am
software software please
touch this heart perk
To have no “truth” but a place to stand, a place of grace we give ourselves, to have power, elastic and interwoven power, Lucifer, bringer of light, enlighten us to merge what is scholarly with what is literally with what is human. Lawrence Lessig’s Remix. Otherwise, ceremony after ceremony is everyday distraction from pain to no avail. Otherwise we huddle and mimic, a people, a person, a country, a nation with no connection, no vision but that of stagnation and preservation. Preservation of what, pray!
at times captured on canvas or film
alliterating our moans
because we wished to make a point in our minds
about staves from Turkish knives and gold.
Francesco Aprile is a free-lance journalist and poet. In 2010 he became member of the literary movement called New Page - Narrativa, founded in 2009 by Francesco Saverio Dòdaro. He lives in Lecce, Italy.
Angela Bayou t lives, writes, and knits in San Francisco, but is a native Pittsburgher. You can find her essay in Fan Phenomena: Twin Peaks, her poetry in Dark Matter, and fiction in Navigating the Heavens. She is the editor of Dionne's Story, an anthology of literature inspired by the prevention of violence against woman. She is also a copywriter for an online fashion retailer.
Andrew Brenza’s work has appeared in or is forthcoming from a number of experimental journals, including Otoliths, Mad Hat, GlitterPony, and/or, REM Magazine, Infinity’s Kitchen, Sawbuck, Strange Horizons, Shampoo Poetry, and Jellyfish Magazine among others. He currently lives in New Jersey with his wife, a vegan food writer, and his tech-savvy son.
John Bloomberg-Rissman is just past the halfway point of In the House of the Hangman, the third section of his maybe life project called Zeitgeist Spam (picture Hannah Hoch pasting stuff to the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel). The first two volumes have been published: No Sounds of My Own Making (Leafe Press), and Flux, Clot & Froth (Meritage Press). In addition to his Zeitgeist Spam project, he is in the midst of two collaborations (one with Richard Lopez, one with Anne Gorrick) has edited or co-edited two anthologies, 1000 Views of 'Girl Singing' and The Chained Hay(na)ku Project, and is at work on a third, which he is editing with Jerome Rothenberg. He has also published (gasp!) lyrical and conceptual work. He is learning to play the viola and he blogs at www.johnbr.com (Zeitgeist Spam).
Anne Gorrick is a poet and visual artist. She is the author of I-Formation (Book 2) Shearsman Books, Bristol, UK, 2012), I-Formation (Book 1) (Shearsman, 2010), and Kyotologic (Shearsman, 2008). She collaborated with artist Cynthia Winika to produce a limited edition artists’ book, “Swans, the ice,” she said, funded by the Women’s Studio Workshop in Rosendale, NY and the New York Foundation for the Arts. Lately, she is co-editing with Sam Truitt an anthology of adventurous Hudson Valley poetry: In|Filtration: A Hudson Valley Salt Line (Station Hill, Barrytown, NY, 2014). In addition, she curates the reading series Cadmium Text, which focuses on innovative writing from in and around New York’s Hudson Valley (www.cadmiumtextseries.blogspot.com). She also co-curates the electronic poetry journalPeep/Show with poet Lynn Behrendt (www.peepshowpoetry.blogspot.com), which is a “taxonomic exercise in textual and visual seriality.”
Cassandra Eddington was raised in Utah, but now lives, writes, and teaches in Fort Collins, Colorado where she received her MFA in Poetry from Colorado State University. Her chapbook manuscript was a finalist in Ahsahta Press' 2012 Sawtooth Poetry Prize competition. Fragments from her long poem "the "hungry matter" were published in February of 2013 by Gazing Grains Press as a part of their miniature book series. She has work forthcoming in La Vague. Other work can be found online in Otoliths and ditch.
Elisabetta Falanga has degrees from the University of Calabria, Free University of Bruxelles, and the Universal University of the Road. She is from Cosenza, Italy.
Arpine Konyalian Grenier comes from science, music, languages and the arts. Her poetry and translations have appeared in numerous publications including Columbia Poetry Review, The Iowa Review, Fence and Envoi. She has authored four collections, most recently, The Concession Stand: Exaptation at the Margins (Otoliths, 2011). The Phenomenology of Giving s a feature she recently guest edited for Big Bridge.
Mary Kasimor grew up in Minnesota, a state of mind that she lives in even when she isn’t there. She has most recently been published in the following journals: Yew Journal, Big Bridge, Reconfigurations, Moria, Otoliths, Certain Circuits, The Bakery, and Altered Scale. She received a Fellowship from US Poets in Mexico for the 2010 Conference. She was also a Finalist in the 2011 Ahsahta Chapbook Contest. She has had several books o fpoetry published, most recently The Windows Hallucinate (LRL Textile Series, 2013).
Christopher Kondrich is the author of Contrapuntal (Parlor Press, 2013) and a recipient of The Paris-American Reading Series Prize. New poems appear or are forthcoming in American Letters & Commentary, Boston Review,Colorado Review, cream city review, Guernica, Gulf Coast, Drunken Boat, The Paris- American, Sixth Finch, 32 Poems and Washington Square. He is a PhD candidate at the University of Denver and an editor for Denver Quarterly.
Liza Samples is an assistant professor of art at Glenville State College. Her work as been recently exhibited at Gallery on $3rd Street and Christine Frechard Galleryin Pittsburgh, PA.
Eric Schmaltz is an intermedia artist. His work has appeared in various places online and in print including Open Letter, Rampike, Poetry is Dead, dead g(end)er, and ditch,, and he regularly writes reviews for Lemon Hound. His first chapbook MITSUMI ELEC. CO. LTD.: keyboard poems was published by above/ground press in 2014. Eric lives in Toronto where he co-curates the AvantGarden reading series.
Wes Solether lives and works in San Francisco, CA where he is finishing his MFA at the University of San Francisco. His poems have recently been accepted in Counterexample Poetics, Timber magazine, and Vector Press. His poems are on the Wall of Miracles in Exeter, UK.
Dennis James Sweeney's work has appeared or is forthcoming in Juked, Pear Noir, Fractured West and Fiction Southeast. He lives in Boulder, CO.
Index of Contributors