You are here. Despite my mis-love of clouds and impending rain, It is cloudy and has rained. It may continue raining.
We have had guests. Each guest was lovely. We laughed and each tone of the laughter Made us feel less likely to give up or be ill.
The guests have left. We have the place to ourselves. The football game is over, and the coach. the loss was not embarrassing; we almost won.
Tomorrow is still Sunday. There is time replete with lack of scheduling. The coffee place is open then. Our computer keyboards fit our hands.
The mystery I have read was good. I am number 07 on a list of 108 people on the Phoenix Public Library list To get the book just out I have to read.
Weather complements reading, writing, drawing. There is so much to talk about. You are interested on the latest incident Regarding a sports figure.
My yogurt is being drained into very firm Greek-plus yogurt some people call "yogurt cheese," but which I call the sine qua non of breakfast food with apples, cinnamon, and flax seed.
The present tense keeps nourishing itself. People keep saying I look young. I keep eating apples, firm yogurt, etc. When I breathe I think of you.
Will have to pilfer empire from where I brood Hadn't set out to be besieged by the slow decay The bodhisattva called and the flood drowned saul woke up in the belly of Brooklyn how's that for hindsight? So "drumroll" Will have to pilfer empire to maintain the covenant
For wholeness, I only want to see what's really not there when you turn to gel down your hair in the mirror, cow-licking to intensity those wide, brash eyes and that querulous stare that seems to say, look at me! look at me and relive the pain of knowing you were once a tree, a lush garden shady spot in the bowels of the city, avec some inner-knowing, far-reaching familiar rootless limbs and leaves.
My anime shrine comes with an airtight plastic lid capable of with- standing extreme fluctuations in temperature. I didn't have to kill any- thing to make it.
"HAWRS" is the latest collection of poetry by Edward C. Wells, produced and distributed by Calliope Nerve- an independent press whose editors have taken an interest in the use of new and changing technologies to connect readers and writers.
The experimental poetry of Edward Wells II is another example of Calliope Nerve's support of diverse and non-traditional approaches to both publishing and the production of creative content. This latest offering will both amuse and perplex.
In "HAWRS", Wells has made use of various tools that manipulate text along predetermined parameters (exclusions, fields) and applied them to the texts of content that he has selected. Commonly called "cut-up", his methods seek to change the way that a reader will interact with the work and derive meaning, as the context is de-emphasized and the burden of conveyable ideas rests, necessarily, on key words. He uses programs that are available online to modify the text from the original arrangements which he then edits to produce his poetry. Wells does not stop at text with his experimentation, choosing to manipulate sound as well, spoken words transcribed into text. He has manipulated the internal arrangements of articles, and also the positions by halving content and rearranging them.
Wells shows what can be done with words, and pushes us to take another look at the ideas we hold onto regarding linear structures.
You in your white Pima cotton shirt resuscitate my reason for loving your skin. You in your surrounding halo maybe bask in how I feel when I can see you warm enough to live another decade maybe two. You are unseasonably lovely and continually loved. You are alert to how much beauty can be placed with any common or proper noun. I say your name as if to myself only. I say your name to you also. I look at how you look and I recite some prayer I just made up and elements become my way of seeing. Fears released from muscle tone become bequeathed to someone other than. I live in relaxation. You absorb my relaxation. You recall a photograph you occupied and you re-enter as a silhouette. I think of a small population we become within the frame. My heart frames what my mind sees. My eyes intend. My skin treasures your skin.
World in a state of being seen, perceived into existence, changed a little, photographed, imagined past itself
Experimental Text at it's best! Calliope Nerve presents [+!]
I haven't been doing much writing these days as but editing and publishing have definitely been my artistic forte of choice. I invite you all to check out our newest book, soon to be available in a print version as well! Best to all, keep the faith.
"[+!] is a post-code-poetry experiment, making de-composition into re-composition... art in it's truest sense... a bizarre, compelling, visually stunning, important work. Lysicology may not be a part of your lexicon now but it will be..." --Lucindo Anthony (author A Disease of Poetry)
Kane X. Faucher, Matina Stamatakis, and John Moore Williams bring the collaborative powerhouse that is [+!] to the Calliope slate of books. The very book itself redefines possibility and meaning.
"Felino Soriano's language scans each scene through the keen eye of an eagle. Ekphrastic interpretations in a sea between updraft and whitecap. Our guide into this gallery is the real artist. Articulate. Elegant as mirrors by candlelight. Each painting, like fledglings being pushed out of the nest; all the down has been plucked away, only the sharpness remains. They'll nudge you, lead you to the edge; teach you how to fly." --Joseph R. Trombatore (author Screaming at Adam, Pushcart nominee)
Ow stop that Not like that It’s hurting So we stopped One day When we’re old Honey remember when? Honey will be Dead but His cocking dick Knows what It will tell all The chicks It’ll squabble Over the feed Peck their nipples Bone sting Bite sugar Rock candy ‘til ill I took two The next day I said I’m going to At least Get high Off my Rapist boy See you Soon She said See you In ICU I took the Biggest Lollipop and Left her The gumball 22 issue Number fives And a Pocket knife Went to the Nursery and Said here Take my Baby girl She’s sick Sugar coma Puking All on me Ow stop that I bruise Easy
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