Visitation (My Head)

"I want to be at least as alive as the vulgar." --Frank O'Hara

"Give me a moment." --The Misfits

Visitation (My Head)

Recycling talons
That killing girl
Scratching brain words
(side of feathers)

Writer's block
Like shooting craps--
A gamble.
Prowling mojo psalms.

How to appreciate art.
Bend thy knee!
Frank O'Hara is
Never running out of verse.

(My Head)
I'm down
In it
--Water Margin--
Other poets so

But I am facing
the last stanza.

--Nobius Black

guilty as the nose on my hypotenuse

you're up early
or is that late
how does the ground
this broken twofold
yada yada cuspic walk
do you deliriate
alone or in communion
by these topiaries woven stuck



aluminum flesh catapulted factory-wise
if not your flesh what can i cling to
when your face notches nowhere to be seen

anaesthetized my monocle's crumbled
down to frown powder in the wig room
everyone else is insane sobriety's a drag

i don't need but i want to
you know how it is
or don’t you


You Have a Daughter

You have a daughter
To be rich like this is lavish
A woman who will always be your child
Her eyesight and the breath you made
That you can touch with thought

And the thought of water as this summer turns to sea
You share with her some blue light
You believe her whispers
Never separate from your hearing and your eyes
She is your evidence you are responsible and not responsible

Look at the wide line of the incoming sea
Look at the footprints being soon erased
As water comes to take the marks
And meld them back to sea

And when the water dries from bodies
Thoughts with dance subside into a kind of sleeping
Fast asleep's a lovely contradiction

And the motion of the thinking lasts
Unreasoned feel lost to sea

What Is and What Should Never Be (adam fieled)

I was up in the stacks, picking at

a scab done in blank verse, I was

gazing blankly at lone/level sands,

I saw you floating in ginger down

aisle after aisle of carrion, carrying

red beacon light from a head halo,

I saw a book suddenly snapped, I

saw you in blurs of blue metaphor,

I was up against you in an aisle, I

took you into a kind of castle that

was really a closet, in castle/closet

we were magically welded to rivers

we were dirt to Browning in greens

catch the wind sail and spin way up

I woke to the sound of rain’s gong

I saw that the desert had melted


Calliope Nerve XI: Adequate Brood

"All we have, all we are, are cliches." --Peter Milligan

Calliope Nerve Part XI: Adequate Brood is available now and free of charge featuring the work of Michigan's own Shawn Misener.

the arrogant and uncomfortable truth of things

I’m putting up the poems for good this time.

I’m hanging them outside
on that rusty fence made of wire
hoping the poems with suffer tetanus and die.

I’m wadding them up
lighting them on fire
or just plain deleting them to oblivion.

I’m serious.
I can’t get anything done
with these fucking poems hanging around.

It seems the more I hide them away
the more I see your poems.

Those poor little poems
packaged so pretty
with nothing inside except dust and spit.

I just shake my head
pull the old bastards out
and tinker some more.

Somebody has to do it
if only for the love of all poetry.

Somebody has to balance out the shit.

--Shawn Misener

Calliope Nerve is a poetry and lit zine focusing on shorter works. We also run reviews, commentary, quotations, and odd bits in a wide range of styles. All editions are free of charge. Back issues available.

To order this issue send your snail mail address to nobius at gmail dot com. Submission info is located here. (We are always looking for talent.) Internet link trades, advertising, and flier swaps available.

To support Calliope order your Amazon products via my web log: White Rabbit - *BLACK HOLE*.

Name your muse! Calliope Nerve.

as you were

commas not breath marks
litter space between
(elipses also)
each former point of melody

each inference run free
of variance thus
imponderable spores of sheepish
claustrophonics rasp into

imagined daylight (is it
"me" asked the emergent
playwright is it "not me")
so the lowest common

denomination becomes the
fleuro for the nonce
indivisible with fiefdom
and just ice for thrall


stoke the viol
in st
rings once a
and you h
ave sh

In the Mouse of Dracula

In the Mouse of Dracula
could anything be more tortured
than enviable omniscience?

Some arrived
in plank ships of potatoes
arms loaded with suffering blood
at Tampa bay

Coming over from
the olde language / the olde worlde w(e)ary
their plank ships strained
at becoming—

Whitman’s cigar / Lorca’s approach stood by

ahead of Subaru…
on yr left…
as we stroll…

& Garcia Lorca
looking dandified
[if I know him at all]
surrendered his cravats

“It’s Lorca than it ever was.”



The conversation
was quick
and clever and

afterwards, I


aureole of a star traveled i by tongue
swollen breasts balloon nebulas spooked rouge baby
what swampy sky did you fall from spanked and special
see i'm haunted by this thing that you do
it went something like this
i'm a louse tangled up spangled
there's room for two on this unnameable raft
climb aboard let's get stoned turn the radio on
make out drunk on unfilmed film of our bodies
swaying back and forth pumping or thrusting AM to PM
by god if this isn't the damnedest
wouldn't you agree
this should be illegal
for you and i
it is not

melting pot once again (unending) marie rennard guido monte

linn the fire, sunn the wind
trip to mankind
voyage des sens
- tant de mots
one meaning -
où nous sommes des otages de l'obscurité,

where we’ re hostages of darkness

g monte m rennard

picture: numbers/flower, 2007, by g quattrocchi-g monte


NEW BOOK: Sheila E. Murphy (Otoliths Press)
The Case of the Lost Objective (Case)
by Sheila E. Murphy

This vibrant collection of new work by Sheila E. Murphy encompasses both lineated and prose poems. In addition, for the first time, selected prints of Murphy’s visual poetry, some included in private collections and in gallery exhibitions, are presented in book format. The range of work within these pages attests to the versatility and depth of this poet, and invites being read aloud to reveal the full range of perception and innovative use of language.

Product Details:
Printed: 84 pages, 6" x 9", perfect binding, full-color interior ink
ISBN: 978-0-9803-6592-4
Publisher: Otoliths
Copyright: © 2007 by Sheila E. Murphy

Wracks Him with Saddles Him

In Lorca’s yawl of penultimate paradigms
this world’s a charade smokes papa abnormally
his mind is a coffin blacker than lignite
his tone is existence contains the axe of his foot

His tale is a prop colder than loci, yelling
“In six tales of two horrors swimming ashore
Tampa’s a murder mentates impossibly—

the Lorca of shells shining upon strands
the Lorca of alleys & hallucinations eminent at limits
the Lorca of puppet-glory sailing towards death
propped on one leg.”

His dream’s a flamingo
wracks him with saddles him
meaning the watery distillates
of what are his chances

In that hour of grievance lost on reflection…
In that theater of circumstance gold as a beard…
Lorca’s a digger if not as a grave
his lips such a monkey
his papa a mango pinker than twilight



i'm so in that i forgot what i was saying
of the many who could i am the one that might
i've potential you see i am set apart as if
i am the technicolor to their black and white

floaty in the ether
i want to get all dirty in your supply
doubt and desire are odd bedfellows no
i've graduated from handcuffs means i yearn


Print Another Madness

My muse returned just in time as my bile rose again. It came back with a vengeance. I could hardly hold my tongue.

In the land of a thousand rivers a man was gunned down between rocks and greed.

Then they slew him again on vapid front pages of necrotic newspapers.


my business

runaway loving
flame give us
denations give us
as if the forgetting
were the reclaiming
is destiny with us always
sultry as ever omnipotent
lounging on her ottoman
our demons are our demons
they taste us each and every
our venusian leashes keep us close
only when we want this is the root
i've this overwhelming urge
to fuck the shit out of you
better to say it now than later
don't get all up in our business
the apocalypse opens early everyday

Secret Decoder Ring

"Join the crash." --Metallica

"We're on my hands and knees in times of winding
We night it's only when we civilize that worm
For vagrant time we need it
What secret of your knowing is there beginning?" --The Melvins

Gabcast! White Rabbit - *BLACK HOLE* #6

Secret Decoder Ring

In Chap
on Canvass
I gave words Sweet

Drank tea
With his Kennedy
(Never knowing Gun)
Pyramid of mind's

Smoked Opium
With the
Caliph of Tides.
Salt verse
Left in sand.

Lived longer
Than any real poet
has Right too.

Wore the Secret
Decoder Ring...
It all came
Mushrooms &

Losing days
That Civilized worm
(My problem of Alice)
Let me wrap my lips
'round till
Calliope sings.
This is the -day-
No PIG dies
Another chance to feel--


Every time He reads
My work
God weeps.

--Nobius Black

A Whole While Cum Horse Power

For some it was Apollo—
men golfing on the moon at last
********& conjunct with
Lorca, Federico Garcia
unsamenesses at Ybor City
*********MONKS opposite
the CIVILIZED Tampa Bay
ruminate like madmen
****[Upon this continent…
our ZOOM lense
paints wallops [a whole while
cum horse power
**********For alone-man’s
a wash board
totes the fracture of ice
**********His sod rites
speak Darwin
Look astronauts look upward
**********His round up
writes Lorca
All bonkers itch fly down
caught upon sheaves


distance full of you

a pelt is less
wearing than full
presence when experience grows replete

one wants to swallow neglect whole
and to be safe
hold evidence like armor
to the self

whatever poison you've been
meaning to release
has grown synonymous with you

I like to think in peace
the idea has no sensory fact
no implications
no breathalizer
and no hate

it's Tuesday evening and nothing beyond
itself enclosed between
some other weekdays and my aspirations
as they play themselves
out into a wilderness
of full recovery


word on the street is that
i've haunted you like you me
laying in that bed the peeling
yellowish wallpaper how did it feel
the man with machine guns in his eyes
salt and peppering reality with blows
so false so transparent aims at you

you've saved your hair for your baby
and your body you've saved you've healed
the wounds of separation in the many masterpieces
that hot love can create jumping through halos
of night on fiery feet to salvation
possessed by this wanting in
like joyous outcasts


above the horizon
of your hips
a factory
stands tall
blowing smoke
and a kid blows bubbles

i'm alterred
somehow changed
in this struggling
to become familiar
and right lunar i love
because i know how to

the liars can't squid you
squint to the sunshine
in our rooms and rooms
everything happens here
everything happens there
everything including this


this could be the worst day of your life
this should be the best day of your life

i hold my hand over her mouth to keep her
from screaming that the voyeurs cloud their ears

i've a specially designated spot called G
this should be performed in my labyrinth

her phantom breasts like lightbulbs
casting all sortsa spells on my solitude

drink of the calculus think of think hard oars
drink of the moaning riverbones unsettled exquisite


A Sparrow Now That He Thinks of It

ART’s pointless perspective
[the allure, how are you?]
upsifts images
frozen to radios

Makes poems about Tampa
a sparrow or Lorca
(now that he thinks of it)
a sexism’s mnemonic doll head
a village or pillagers’ charmed consensus.

ITs version of “Abigail”
[in situ, a dark one]
jots pint-size, aspirin-like haiku
(never sweeter than Suzie’s suites
of sonic booms in metaphors)
to chums, Javier & Manuel

& Lorca (on fire
in cubby holes of identical
squash patches)
wrestles the evidence
alar upon twos
can only remark
how late his dinner is


three from "the fear series"

pluck the moon
from your glass
like an ice cube

suck it


one needn't
a roadmap
to find mars
i know her skin


exposed to glow of a slightly open door
we're fucking to the sound of breathe
flickering through the television set

i know that you're reading this
just look over your shoulder

Garcia Lorca's Dolorous Copious CausewayPOETICS

His words at
The Pier veer icily
gabbing with Dali
& stick fingered
Ricky Ricardo
burgers & fries
at Busch Gardens
wilt with the persistence
of memory
strictly a poetic’s
dogmatic affair
in the breach of
often a node
canters towards
spans a December
traffic jams jam
Dale Mabry up
every word
a nightingale
posed upon tarpon
& skirted in red
Lorca remarks
how bluer horses are
than torch songs
imagines a bridge
in tempo


today's low point

today's low point the impatience with her determine connections dissed him in the first place amuses you with the pheromones of the sea with each possible joke the vibrations the eternal physical form of things inexact of the almost said where the existence looks moved beaten under the covers to see excess or if he is not empty closes eyes to a deep breathing in the necessity to happen and it creates this roadblock in the geography of youth expatiating stove of fantasy causing chains of noon that visualize aerial monitors for each possible place still all ignited lengthily those doubts of him to consult calculated in the external edges rehearse with a positive terrible voice begins to appreciate something to traverse the request of loitering in a gallery's echo scared to say because it is scared like that compassion she is not there marquees will not be useful desperation cannot be pleasure useless in the empty alcohol-ill fantasy that deceives time all the this that one can wander towards in absence interprets each possible thing in consideration of calm for the skies would wish to be good distant separated under like idiots for the woman in disorder would have him maintained as rat is dwarfed and more than this

fond cole diaries6. listen to the poet inspired.

the slow oslo of south florida

lewder imperatives
grow smaller
than rooted

steeples fly like texts in collage—
a polemics
dashed upon hillsborough ave

the locals here butcher the joneses

yet what i write—
the slow oslo of south florida—
contrives an unwinding
more birthing than solar

more charade folk
than lorca

more mania
than clockwork


Here be Monsters

and they watched the flames licking our world

while we reposed.

then we rushed out screaming

and they howled in pandemonium.

friend and foe taunted

as we tried to quell hell with a single raindrop.

now my body pains from sky to sand.

i hope i am wiser for misery.

the poet begs to differ.


again repeat
themselves new waves

bathe each ingredient
warm pacific

across sand
this tall wave

salt lashes sharp
blue water


砂の花に眠れば .
enide sighe men pontos,
silencio del mar
rojo negro del sol muriendo
sigonti d’aetai,
Dans l’ombre, dans l’ombre humide
en la sombra hùmeda
spatio brevi spem longam reseces
et words mixed with laughter
mbarite riua riu rigithoa, ria thakame


Marie Rennard, Theocritus, Nyambura Kiarie, Horace, Kazue Daikoku


what lie

10 results of 59800000, Tuesday, June 12, 2007, 9:43:14 pm EDT

A new book
chronicles the

controversial use
of the lie


Historian Ken Alder

focuses on the
inventors whose

new book
chronicles the invention

controversial use
of the lie

Historian Ken

focuses on the
inventors whose

Thomas Jefferson said
religion was

matter which lies
solely between

his God."

citizens of
the fledgling country

Hersh Says
It?s Okay to

(Just Not
in Print). The

runaway mouth of

premier investigative journalist.
By Chris

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strFrom, objFSO,
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= Request.QueryString("REF")

Select a country,
Afghanistan, Iran,

/ Palestine,
North / South


Syria, United Kingdom,

States, Albania,
Algeria, Angola ...

don?t tell
a lie?. and

you should be
of age

to take
that trip.If your

are elderly and

are a
child who is

past age
of adulthood ...

We tell white
lies to

our relationships, promote
ourselves, protect

feelings or
to help

our reputations.
Lying is also

a quick fix
to poor

will be
a 'Shell's Wild

counter-exhibition and
public meeting with

from Shell-affected communities,

at LARC, on

Devil is
a Liar! Jesus

Christ Is Lord!..
Visitors God

gets the Glory!


here ·
Wicca/Pagan click here


what if a world were only suction

polarities delimit more than they define
all in relation to
no north star(ttime)
overage and under(r)age topography
failing to relax
chimes seeming rigid thus not quite sing(l)ing
outages give rise to scarcity-based worship
when worship is internal it is all the rage

Dwindling Praxis Flounce

Outbursts of clarity slide under the foreskin. The natural position
of liquids addled and intervening. Notes glowing in full retreat, mere spoonfuls of the chromatic beginning. Any as according vividly recalled back into air-owned arias by a smoke sandwiched between petrified hills of metal and gardens of despair.

We pour that syncopation over some palindromic ago. Scarves
collapsing the notion, doing research for overflows, brown-ringed antecedents longer by the twins. The taut carcass sentenced, fetal like sleepy variants that vanish suddenly from nostrils in the city of silos. Masked pools, stony haunches flicker with disgust as they squat an invisible nexus.

This day, those eyes, another curve.

Sprinkling and vice versa mirrored in their fiery limbs.

Pastel DNA a twitch fantasy to grandeur intercourse
scrambled from a saxophone.

Head a few gyrations began strobing ends--Full over to falsetto
How cruel springs in one dancing blue--Tough, pulsing within a
Fear sentencing funnels and almost seventeen--Welcome to wheezing laughter
The sphere drawng millions of lips to visceral rupture as fossil fuel

Stretched from sky to sky,

in a confluence of stuffed closets with mummified reason. A plastic cocoon has broken at the threshold of ambient swell. Ointment madly in love with the world, a nudge from pink pills aside. Devoured, a colony of dreamers becoming that particular sun for mere spoonfuls of light. To collect in swank circuitry, to pixilate an interzone of pursed contours like pulpy nohow in the drained moment.


when the ducklings died
her mother thought of me
she said and my "smile"

melissa's not sleeping she's hooked
what a miracle drug coffee
we've discussed flaubert half a xanax

the sun rises softly above fluttering eyelids
insane laughter outdoors drunkards
rolling tired sags home pissing a carnival in pothole pants

my legs are shaky i'm tired of booze and sleeping
it's been returning that like liking someone
i need a shave body odor disturbs she gonna kiss me

my imaginary comrade maximus dwarf
casts awkward glances flickers spells on the wall
the old television show is going steady


what words are

Dio si nasconde e gioca con gli anestetici,

si muore senza avere il tempo di sognare

God is hidden but is playing with novocaine,

we die after a dreamless sleep


A strange definition of what words are or not



(g.m. russo, m. rennard)


Interview with Peter Ganick

Outside Decency

do you live outside decency?
where maggots salvage
and serpents sabotage
I saw you wearing rage
whenever I collected bliss
you giggled like a nuke
when I bombed out like a leper
and how burns your skeleton closet
that seeds your hate?
we could hitch to that strange strange country
to swap lives and bones.

french kiss

my eyes' bar-brawling blue
scans ethereal shapeliness
of her testament

she's some bootboy's
wet dream
it's almost theological

my lips' jock straps
spell oblivion minus the o's
do french kiss certain silences

Stage Prop Clouds. Creak. In the Wings.

*******************The pilgrims huddle.
Over there.****************************
***********************Beside Walmart.
Out of luck.***************************
******************In jars.*************
Made of walrus.***********************
***********************The story fails.
To progess.****************************
*****************Because of.***********
**************In Tampa.****************
***********Wallops oysters.*************
On concrete.***************************
******His fingers.**********************
At six.*********************Before nine.
In one.***********Of his dialects.******
He drives up.********A Lincoln.********
But.**Ends up.******************A poem.
In the other.**************************
*****************He's Whitman.********
Stage-prop clouds.*********************
In the wings.**************************


what's up on "seconds"?

poetry by Josh Hanson, Noelle Kocot, Simon Perchik, James Belflower, Jen Tynes, Aaron Belz, Simon DeDeo, Adam Fieled, Francis Raven, Komninos Zervos, Paul Siegell, and Jake Berry.

my squid, my golf club

the floral tides of her yawnings
between obese to petite make outs
my little to my large wantings for

wandering out i could've kept
to myself my own private vertigo
i could've polka dots close dearly

should've would've pantyhoused
ooh la mascara if it weren't
for being so irritably pretty

much appreciation
for any appetite
to see you around

reciprocally i've as much
cubism for you as you
likely have for me

naive fed up friend thinking i'd
want to be filmed in so miniature
oh shit farewell elastic bouquet

eyelids pulled far back
into color of blue dishrag
and egg white ejaculate

i can pull a tongue out
as far as i can throw you
bring back my squid my golf club



oh lenee she's slowly losing
her glisten as me i lay me down
to listen to purple rain bottle
of bourbon bedside anticipating
my lips' languorous pronunciations
a solo night of asking ease me out
of pain as out of robes or shorts
sheepishly too large to jostle me forth
play air guitar teeming with discontent


dulcet near the stream bed yet

a winder of a soft young river
stills the feast of replication
are you now or were you ever
in the presence of a light chapeau
above wheat hair and did you kiss
the likeness there or here
when you think do you revive
the surface of oncoming daylight
being sustenance itself as if
unending peace would cover any chance
of natural evaporation of the wish
that blue melded with gray in motion
at eye level would forever last


If I Cannot Understand This Must Exist

impro c loud
impera c rowd
span func
dry mou
home co
blat ant
as if
ever is
as is


happy scare

a someone was crazy down the hall the small thorns
climbed to my feet to stand slipped into a halloween

happy scare winning the staircase i followed sure
with silver grin trembling and breathing fast

burning like a pilgrim beyond the sex-flushed clouds
advancing strangely dark coming to know this mouth

from basement lament nothing fixed have pocketsful
searching joint thunder the deeper song

the evening somersaulting escape
was one of very good-looking called

single bed in me 'round me more than
scribbled movements jelly-like legs

realizing wickedness feeling and thirsty
lips to hands sucked hand petals spiraling joy


the murmurings
from strange lilies

burn a funky house down
assume the hole
see it

probe a mouth and flow space
a drink for me
mix antennae sweet influences

hungry reckless
like a velvet attack
insulation behind the sun

demands crux of we
sepia love is
the overwhelmed

The Clockwork Tiger

"I give you concrete shoes." --Megadeth

"I thought I could write about the horrors of the city but the horror is too big and it goes on forever." --Grant Morrison

Gabcast! White Rabbit - *BLACK HOLE* #5

The Clockwork Tiger

my clockwork
growls angry
beats sensitive


pounce dust
kicks up frenzy


-Surreal Me--
Words with skin.
paper truths

swallowing Earth
anxiety hope
(little drops)
Raise umbrella
for Tuesday's
& Angels

broken skies.
It's a yellow brick
We follow home.
Me, my ghosts,
the clock on the wall.
As if I'd forget...


--Nobius Black



the land of legs remembered
colours ache cloud into opening
secured in faith you a smile of night

i'd almost say between souvenirs
the final act of forests behind chairs
my arms we’re in this river

the air parts our heads
the moon harder than any pain
we cannot bury the pages