tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60031352012-01-28T04:48:38.299-08:00As + Is = Everything you always wanted to know about the group poetry blog, but were afraid to ask.Clayton A. Couchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11468908253210060055noreply@blogger.comBlogger39191100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-68790692025551733862012-01-24T15:00:00.000-08:002012-01-24T15:02:42.983-08:00

Western society is sick for a sense of affirmation of any kind in 2012. Conditions of life, in America in particular, constitute a formidable denial— of rights, of substance, and (most importantly) of a sense of duration. Many of us cannot imagine our lives extending into an indefinite future— too much around us has come unhinged. What the Internet affirms is, to be simple, that a dynamic,

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-84147470930344958442012-01-19T02:58:00.000-08:002012-01-19T03:11:35.140-08:00

#671Even as a little girl, she got beat down. There was something wrong with her brains.She couldn't relate to people. Cheltenhamguys noticed how adorably doll-like she was(lookin real good, like Natalie Wood), but shewouldn't date anyone. She died a mysterioussocial drowning death. She got older andbecame a Tennessee Williams heroine-as-Jewess.I'm telling you this because I nailed her, dude.I

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-15187183242569690792012-01-17T00:04:00.000-08:002012-01-17T00:09:34.128-08:00

Guido Monte/Vittorio Cozzoprologue of "Nothing recalled and the misterious life of God" (2000)Painting of a crowd praying before the sun,a painting hidden inside a little medalwhich safeguards the whiteness of centuriesin Milan's oldest square -the square of a solitary day of sunlight,fragment of other lights.Dream of a crowd, of nothing, of vanityle rêve devient petit et lui aussi un autre néant

Guido Montenoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-55052044564862755412012-01-16T04:15:00.001-08:002012-01-16T04:19:34.640-08:00

What would happen, the elderly matron thinks, if I fall in love with a thirteen-year-old kid? I only saw him once, picking up my niece from Cedarbrook. They were flirting, and he looked very dashing- a gorgeous Goy. I can't jerk off to anyone else. Because (obviously) at fifty-five you can't have sex anymore. She picks up and dandles her vibrator. She got this about thirteen years ago, too.

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-22691685885490097452012-01-06T05:52:00.000-08:002012-01-06T05:59:17.870-08:00

before: ashabdham,silencein the mismo soplo de vida,of primeval breath…and going now,after the hiding,to the lifeins leben

Guido Montenoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-12897187713065545752012-01-01T03:58:00.001-08:002012-01-01T03:58:46.172-08:00

Post-modern ethos and praxis aside, poetry isn't meant to be ephemeral. It's meant for an educated, adult audience, who like not only their hearts and crotches but their brains touched. As such, I start the new year on a double-edged sword. On the one hand, it is a wonderful gift for me and many others that The Argotist, Great Works, and Tears in the Fence are being archived by the British

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-53449107190419946502011-12-31T07:05:00.000-08:002011-12-31T07:09:29.230-08:00

I used to think, when I'd drive bythe houses on Greenwood Avenue, whathappens in these places? Do peoplethink, dream, scheme, fuck, masturbate,or what? Greenwood- a hundred yards ofmansions, and then desolation. So helooks at who he used to be as he drives.Someone from his graduating class looksout the window, sees him, and chuckles.I can't believe he's still obsessed withme, she thinks, and that

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-50117865538212035412011-12-26T07:44:00.000-08:002011-12-29T04:17:02.831-08:00

To what extent does language constitute consciousness? The question is pertinent, not only to literary theorists working under the rubric of Deconstructionism (and, to a lesser extent, the rubric of New Historicism) but to those who seek spiritual solace in Buddhism. The Buddhist's focus, indeed, is just as much on consciousness as on morality, and "right" consciousness creates right morality.

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-36421218109451873932011-12-23T07:44:00.000-08:002011-12-23T07:45:51.019-08:00

#601A bunch of teenage boys run in the rain—a gravel path called Valley Green, elevatedabove a capacious stream, bordered on theother side by rocky cliffs. Each has his fatewoven into his face. An old man sits on oneof the rocks, watching them run from a distance. He spots the one he likes best—a nondescript, slender blonde with wavesin his hair that the new rain has yet to ironout. The man

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-52232159665208871272011-12-23T07:09:00.001-08:002011-12-23T07:38:09.261-08:00

Check out issue 7 of Blue & Yellow DogIt is chock full of great poems, including work by:Anton Frost, David Woodruff, harry k stammer, Michael O'Brien, Corey Mesler, Lee Marc Stein, Peter Ganick, Carl Grindley, Walter Ruhlmann, Cortney Bledsoe, Tyson Bley, Ben Nardolilli, Valentina Cano, Matthew B. Dexter, Larry O. Dean, Neil Ellman, Les Wicks, Randy Brooks, Michael Lee Johnson, Howie Good, Evan

Raymond Farrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09465855044579966735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-4074770289781387522011-12-21T03:18:00.000-08:002011-12-21T03:22:26.773-08:00

This page was put together by Vanessa Vaile to include not only a link to "Benjamin's Desktop...", but a link to the Argotist piece that preceded it, a link to Walter Benjamin's "The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction," and generalized info about Roland Barthes and George Bataille:http://poetsandwriterspicnic.blogspot.com/2011/09/essay-on-benjamin-digital-reproduction.html Hope you

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-21348817337844192352011-12-20T03:53:00.000-08:002011-12-20T03:54:40.936-08:00

#433When they go out for a smoke,she looks at the stars and is glad(there are none in Center City).Her mind realizes the pun andscoffs— as if those two-bitdegenerates, with their Gucciglasses and Le Bec Fins, werereally stars. But the people hereare beneath her too, for a differentreason. They’re talking to her; she’snot listening. She’s looking atGlenside Station, and dreaming.

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-26469993262027423542011-12-19T18:15:00.000-08:002011-12-19T18:16:30.322-08:00

“self or consciousness” picture’d rattle wheel (out) sidehole elbow suit coat “not urgent” benchrest cold elbow up (face) face’d (look) backup (siren) rolling (stop) leg arm headstill wheel’d out rip (polyester) where’d

harry k stammernoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-45472153162161007232011-12-18T07:49:00.000-08:002011-12-18T07:50:25.405-08:00

Built into the structure of the Internet is a certain amount of depth and density. Google searches don't bring up everything; some sites are "embedded" more than others, and it varies country to country, continent to continent. Excavation can become a wonted task, and old texts that were not widely noted upon release can be recuperated. Excavation and recuperation are not just Internet processes;

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-31100549107403821742011-12-17T04:34:00.000-08:002011-12-17T04:35:39.685-08:00

#1653There were three clues placed in hispath that night, that were stones inhis pathway. The first was a one-lifebitch talking about hierarchies ofgender. The second was a minor poetdoing histrionics which needn’t be enumerated. The third was a brutalrapist that jumped off the GoldenGate Bridge, but failed to fall all theway down. All these clues led him tosit in coffee-shops, bars, nightclubs,

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-1480302597089304742011-12-16T14:05:00.000-08:002011-12-16T14:05:29.491-08:00

thx Bree

AlexGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16858525907800097129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-10260922428369478222011-12-16T08:52:00.000-08:002011-12-16T08:54:17.968-08:00

#429It’s Friday night, and she’s going nowherenear those drug-dealing sons of bitches.She forces herself to vomit up an ice-creamcone. If she walks past Burholme Park, ofcourse he’ll be there, right there amongthem. It’s not just that she expected more—she banked her whole life on him havinga little class. Over at Burholme, they’ve gotsplendor going in the grass. Nothing canbring back the casual

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-21664708960267383202011-12-16T08:10:00.000-08:002011-12-16T08:21:57.888-08:00

by guido montei awake you, youwoman-labyrinth between empty rooms,in the void, in hollow shadesthrough waters, aguathat nets and fecundates you,misterio of a nature-templeof vivants, tus ojos, in una oscurità trasparentenot visible to tired minds,in one only possible combination...hearingonly the sound of waterwhile similiter spirant omnia,(the same breath is for everyone,all a part of the

Guido Montenoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-14713827020791376062011-12-16T08:00:00.001-08:002011-12-16T08:05:02.130-08:00

#431As if, we all thought to ourselves.She outed the while thing immediately.So many people were in and out inthose days. He was one of the worst.They sit at the same pub on LimekilnPike and reminisce. Have they everwondered how he feels? They don’trealize he’s driving past, and looks inand sees them there. He still wants in,and pretends not to. The sun set overGlenside a long time ago.

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-86780296175778761522011-12-14T08:10:00.000-08:002011-12-14T08:11:45.866-08:00

#416It’s two in the morning— this bigempty field is a vacuum sucked intothis little girl’s mouth. Everything’slittle, he thinks. At least I’m big enoughto get head. The problem is what shewants from me. And what she’s boundto get. Just by chance, someone in apassenger seat in a car going by onChurch Road sees the outline of thetwo figures. One is leaning— theblowjob part isn’t visible. Wow,

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-23319918900536469792011-12-13T09:33:00.001-08:002011-12-13T09:33:20.921-08:00

a new press: press here

AlexGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16858525907800097129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-33599950167778964502011-12-10T11:25:00.000-08:002011-12-10T11:27:32.196-08:00

Christopher Higgs, who writes for HTML Giant, has put together a very interesting arts & culture page with contributions from: Dennis CooperJackson PollockDeLanda & DeleuzeAlejandro JodorowskyDJ JediBen RobertsonGerald BurnsAndrew McConnell Stottmyself (Adam Fieled) The page is here. Hope you enjoy it!

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-26177772826534432212011-12-10T10:26:00.001-08:002011-12-10T10:31:22.200-08:00

The new "Internet art" (or poetry) may well lie beyond the Internet. I.e. a return to real-life! If this is so, which it probably is, then art/literary theory will have to go back up its arse and return to cancel its self out and begin again! Never mind! Poetry/Art rebelled against postmodern, real-life by utilising the Internet, which was freeing, but now seems passe, dull, consumed by

crescenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430950362582686303noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-2656136894988293452011-12-09T12:55:00.000-08:002011-12-09T12:56:30.536-08:00

#268Satin blouses, trinkets (some kind of jade pendant), & the big trinket between her legs that nobody gets to play with. Rare meat. She’s been babied by her parents since her birth (Rabbit year, a juxtaposition more sad than ironic), and suddenly I can teach her something? And I thought of what she was telling herself in response, and the words came to me, “I’m doing this because I promised, my

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-40881562473826883302011-12-09T05:10:00.000-08:002011-12-09T05:11:29.611-08:00

#1644Oh for the sentience of books, Kant once said, or should have, and if he didn’t it is difficult for me to accept his critiques, as they hinge on acknowledgements of inwardsentience of beings, and books are beings, even as they are-in-the-world. As for this, this is action poetry, but I have no intention of driving my car into a tree, unless I feel the tree has so much sentience I would

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-60465918418987690912011-12-08T12:16:00.000-08:002011-12-08T12:17:25.478-08:00

#213You and your proud working-class ethos. You, sitting at your laptop, spying on me on Facebook, jerking your parts off. Go ahead and pass on that shipment: you’llget a cut. You’re no beauty school dropout, hanging around the corner store. You need to know: when they do make me into a rag-doll, you’ll get one of the first batch. You can wring me out, slam me down on yourlinoleum floor, bite my

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-30405707186958719162011-12-07T15:00:00.000-08:002011-12-08T00:21:02.085-08:00

by guido montebecause of timehidden into forms:estrellas, depthnothing-buio where all endsno more questions, scrivere;no more sand, silence:les douleurs, almaalma of your breath.souffle-nuit,archétype, l’âme.

Guido Montenoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-73400013798045115092011-12-07T07:00:00.000-08:002011-12-07T07:00:10.102-08:00

Yuckelbel's Canon

chrisnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-49575720502140259652011-12-07T06:06:00.000-08:002011-12-07T06:09:43.628-08:00

Huddled in the back of a redJetta, I thought we were in aSpringsteen song. But there areno backstreets in Cheltenham.It's only the stripmall to houseand back circuit. Anyone could'veseen us. It wasn't a full consummation-for want of a graceful phrase, wewere too smart to fuck. There wasno playing hero for me. Nor did Iforce you to confess. What could you say?Cheltenham was soft, and all too

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-74040547430915763112011-11-30T09:34:00.000-08:002011-11-30T09:37:31.201-08:00

Just out in Cordite, is my essay "Contextualists and Dissidents: Talking Gertrude Stein's Tender Buttons," which points things in a Borgesian direction, here. Hope you enjoy this.Best,Adam Fieled

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-63441036148805103192011-11-29T13:26:00.000-08:002011-11-29T13:30:14.094-08:00

by guido montepaix peace paz ins lebenmissiles and killersin front of a principle of liabilitybut life lives on voices that remainand on water to drinkand we blinders ready to ask ifes posibleto live the samethinking the impossiblewhere we are notnihil luce caecum iuvatur

Guido Montenoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-79162248758398139232011-11-29T07:06:00.000-08:002011-11-29T07:06:07.414-08:00

Nancy Metcalf (1921-2011)

AlexGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16858525907800097129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-64543683771405232032011-11-25T11:42:00.000-08:002011-11-25T11:43:25.807-08:00

#1314She yaks like a yakon amphetamine, Iwatch knowing shecan’t say anything Imight want to hear,she’s dark in throatwhich once held allI had to give her, itjust shows that as Isow, so shall I reap,because I’m forcedto see black hatredin someone I adore,who was my whore. #1246God is an amusement park(among other things) filledwith rides, clowns, hot dogs,beer, circus mirrors, beardedladies,

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-68321323227715357572011-11-19T13:33:00.000-08:002011-11-19T13:34:13.927-08:00

#216You can force your pen into a cat’s anusfor all I care, she told him. October sun-light hit the grimy pavement as if directedby Rocky Balboa himself. The Art Museum,he thinks, is mostly crap but its still imposing—what man has made of man, fodder for gift-shops. His working life is a gift-shop too—no one buys anything. If he did force hispen into a cat’s anus, they’d probably arresthim for

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-63686394277487501122011-11-18T15:13:00.000-08:002011-11-19T02:48:00.943-08:00

magna templa great home caelitum of heavensuniverso de universos. universe of universes…mihi habitabitur mundus ultimus,i just live the last world –and we don't know adónde vamos…---------------------------------------------picture by giuseppe quattrocchi

Guido Montenoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-62577392427398938172011-11-07T04:59:00.001-08:002011-11-07T04:59:58.413-08:00

Appreciate her bare breasts & slender hips. Let yr mind move out, far over the slopes of thighs, the bulk of her belly, the taut, glossy calves; be employed, historicizing her flesh. You are her children, her Jason, you have only to open your mouth. In dreams she has burnished you. In flesh she has buried you. In her heart she has started you. She waits for the decision of yr kisses. Her back

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-91683561424582284702011-11-04T04:59:00.000-07:002011-11-04T05:01:55.529-07:00

Poets are boring people, she said, because they wantto fuck words more than they want to fuck. I said, I like fucking people as much as I like words. You’re no poet, she said, unzipping me. I passed on piecesof a universe wherethe down places go up. When I hurled,it landed in a heapat her feet. It wasboth red and white,together from sensesof a lost cross betweenus. I sputtered out. Is this what

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-70365622710596615632011-11-02T12:40:00.000-07:002011-11-02T12:40:35.248-07:00

AlexGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16858525907800097129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-63493208899156912202011-11-01T06:33:00.000-07:002011-11-01T06:34:25.458-07:00

I leaned on my dashboard hands, Ipropped myself up for the surge, Isparked as I plugged away, Vulcanat a soot-scummy forge, beneath meVenus thinking of grey pigmentation,behind the wheel the music blared, Iwent through the light into the wash,but I came out more dirty than I waswhen I entered: smudged coal, rubber.

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-55567242114833946562011-10-30T07:39:00.001-07:002011-10-30T07:39:52.252-07:00

The Moon, a Legal Tender Breaking in Pitch Water, a photo by crescentsi on Flickr.Via Flickr:Baroque musings (and contemporary aesthetics!).Thank you to Johanna Chambers for allowing me to use her photo (self portrait) in this image. :-)Simonwww.chamberstock.deviantart.com

crescenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430950362582686303noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-79870494558088119532011-10-30T06:31:00.000-07:002011-10-30T06:34:33.568-07:00

I have a new collection of odds n' sods on Scribd, that brings together poems that were first published in Great Works (UK), Nth Position, Seven Corners, Ectoplasmic Necropolis, Fieled's Miscellaneous and right here. It's called "Pigs and Planes: Uncollected Poems," and you can read it here.

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-21514180002598750242011-10-29T06:30:00.000-07:002011-10-29T06:34:06.764-07:00

The New Yorker needs a haiku, on hold ‘til I’m done w/ Cameron… Alright, Cam, you’ve had yr way. I’ll write you that screenplay. You’d think they’d be patient— how many bards bed Cam Diaz, tell-tale in seventeen syllables? I’m good w/ starlets— secret is, treat ‘em mean. Cam, especially, dotes on humiliations; noticed my last Malibu jaunt. I read her Donne— Come,

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-77102940374357311402011-10-25T11:15:00.000-07:002011-10-25T11:27:38.572-07:00

From: Zeros Degrees from My Journalpg 6:Modality’s rigorous industryof beeswax unjarredimplicates words& words’ de rigeur—dry axe handles have yards of itstore-boughtPg. 12Words as witnessto somethingas yet not presentHymns across eyesTree line of tree stumpsA path wide & longNot down & into& God a posederived from Natureis to know shadestand& stone pier off itPg. 22A direct route being—April

Raymond Farrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09465855044579966735noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-40687562780532156942011-10-25T11:09:00.000-07:002011-10-25T11:12:11.287-07:00

My latest collection of new poetry, There Is Something Missing in the Whole Transaction between Us (Blue & Yellow Dog Press 2011), is a product of paring down lines and stanzas into something akin to one-page, pseudo-minimalist, crack-pot-god-like portraits of what I imagine to be the essence of faces, personae, effectively honoring DaDa in all its surrealist, absurdist (yet chockfull of

Raymond Farrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09465855044579966735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-57457014540617687192011-10-21T07:40:00.000-07:002011-10-21T07:42:23.498-07:00

There is an Adam Fieled Best Of/Sampler on Scribd, pieced together from sources like Jacket, Pennsound, Blazevox (in book form), P.F.S. Post, moria, Mad Hatters' Review, Mipoesias, and As/Is.You can read it here.Hope you like it.Best,Adam

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-12395373865813924832011-10-20T16:28:00.000-07:002011-10-21T22:31:05.139-07:00

Response to a response to the Booker live tv coverageI thought Dame Stella Rimington makes a great addition to any competitively middle-class literary event celebrating payment in prizes to millionaire writers winning cheques in the tens of thousands, and am happy she caused so much offense to so many of the intellegensia at home in the mother tongue. I loved the spectacle of embaressment and

Coirí Filíochtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15137576329670368944noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-75405741406468025262011-10-19T10:18:00.001-07:002011-10-19T10:20:27.336-07:00

#212Picture this: thirty kids in a two-story housein the Poconos. They’re little bandits.Their parents think they’re somewhereelse. It’s the popular crew: but half thebaseball stars are homosexuals, half thecheerleaders want to be housewives,and the football guys are putting on fivepounds a day. They have to carry littleMegan outside for some fresh air; she’sdrunk, got ditched by a wide

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-1079382292151353772011-10-10T10:58:00.000-07:002011-10-10T11:01:10.404-07:00

#261Never one to cut corners about cuttingcorners, you spun the Subaru into a roughU-turn right in the middle of Old York Roadat midnight, scaring the shit out of this self-declared “artist.” The issue, as ever, wasnothing particular to celebrate. We couldonly connect nothing with nothing in ourprivate suburban waste land. Here’s wherethe fun starts— I got out, motherfucker.I made it. I say “I,”

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-90861367360599195312011-10-10T07:19:00.000-07:002011-10-10T07:22:11.337-07:00

VII.All through intervening years, Trishnever fully left my mind. Manyencounters I lived through werepointless— one-night stands, flings,all half-felt or not felt at all.When Trish reentered my life, shedid so directly. Simply, we wantedeach other again. Trish now lived inan apartment building, with roommates,on 49th off of Baltimore. The apartmenthad a fire escape large enough on whichto sit,

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-72805869806507837522011-10-04T12:30:00.000-07:002011-10-04T12:32:51.400-07:00

#271“Never forget: Cleopatra had a bignose, an ugly mug, took accidentaldrunken shits in bed. How do I know this? Because I was there!”It’s not just he’s insane, he knowsI have a big nose too, and all thisjust because he saw an ex crossingthe Walnut Street Bridge, her noseup in the air where her legs used to be.How does he know this? Don’t ask.Cleopatra herself wouldn’t have muchfun in Philly now

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-15881522333045033012011-10-01T10:49:00.000-07:002011-10-01T10:50:35.613-07:00

#1505to make love is to be taught, over & over again, how far into each other we can go, but you, who failed my class, must be taught, over & over again, how to pass into real ecstasy (these unholy caresses): wake up, wake up, the bells, the bells!& as she glides down Pine Street,stars are joined by the moon & sun,begin a dance on the shore of this corner (13th), blue-black,orbs wedging crystals

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-562019857619998012011-10-01T05:42:00.000-07:002011-10-01T05:44:59.874-07:00

Check out Sean Ulman's review of ECSTATIC/.of facts in the poetry journal phenom elimae. Sean Ulman does as good a job as any at dissembling the unraveling that is ECSTATIC/.of facts.

Raymond Farrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09465855044579966735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-71160853499581347412011-09-30T11:24:00.001-07:002011-09-30T11:24:58.828-07:00

#1053You sweat her,you want her tobe yours, yet Itouch her likeshe’s mine, butwe don’t knowwhy: cold sweat. #1022Alcohol headiness, my head is thus justa piñata for Gods to inhabit, but I don’t ask Nietzsche for help, I’m too mad to, or bad to— “the best of life,” right? Inany case, there’s a place behind this oldmountain for me to walk a tightropeover humanity. I said this to a guy inspats in a

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-81061893664858658352011-09-18T13:20:00.000-07:002011-09-18T13:22:03.462-07:00

#1187I said, Let’s go, and tookher down into the cellar,it was all so sweet, dirty,illicit, all those mirrorswatching us, I could feelimaginary cameras panaround us, confetti fallon our heads, I feel likewriting about it cause ithasn’t happened yet—#1163In the dream I lied, I said I wasn’t going to make a pass, then I cast my arms around you (slinky black dress), held you close to me (wall length

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-48262899816694031502011-09-16T11:44:00.000-07:002011-09-16T11:48:14.046-07:00

In his famous essay “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction,” Walter Benjamin was led to exclaim, “that which withers in the age of mechanical reproduction is the aura of the work of art” (221). This essay itself is heavily tilted towards a focus on works of visual, rather than literary art; how film and photography were ushering in a new era, as of the first half of century XX.

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-73186375367816417452011-09-11T13:25:00.000-07:002011-09-11T13:27:13.979-07:00

V.Fertilized, loved, I beganto write songs again. YetI remembered what cameto seem like a curse: thefeeling that I would not beheard. I was in the wrongplace at the wrong time.So I spiraled into depression,even as songs tumbled out.“Midnight Blues,” a dirgein A minor, was the best, written during witchinghour, snow coming down,Trish dead asleep in bed.At one point I even beganto consider suicide:

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-45274454022434474682011-09-06T11:21:00.000-07:002011-09-06T11:25:42.915-07:00

I have a new essay in The Argotist (ed. Jeffrey Side). It is entitled "Composite Ideologies: Europe, America, Poetry and the Internet." You can read it here.The essay explores the structure, ethos, and praxis of the Internet, as applied to literature, in the context of an investigation of intercontinental ideologies. Thanks, Adam Fieled

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-17610146809643808252011-09-05T20:09:00.001-07:002011-09-05T20:09:32.197-07:00

Hugh Fox

AlexGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16858525907800097129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-83422138009550350602011-09-05T06:24:00.001-07:002011-09-05T06:28:55.542-07:00

These pieces are collected from the Adam Fieled blog Stoning the Devil. They were composed between 2006-2009. The focus is on an engagement with French thought: Baudrillard, Derrida, Bourdieu, Balzac. You can read them here. Thanks, happy LD.

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-59687741127870072692011-09-04T14:58:00.000-07:002011-09-04T15:00:47.653-07:00

In 2008, Lars Palm's ungovernable press released the Adam Fieled e-chap Rubber Soul. Now, a second, revised edition is available to be read on Issuu, here.

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-87272991321894546852011-09-03T19:34:00.001-07:002011-09-03T19:34:16.911-07:00

AlexGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16858525907800097129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-73505122251350668282011-08-30T06:42:00.000-07:002011-08-30T06:44:53.999-07:00

"Twenty-First Century Poetry and Poetics" was released in essay form in Poetry Salzburg Review 18 from University of Salzburg Press in 2010. An extended version of that Adam Fieled essay can be read here.

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-84053098217605443772011-08-28T17:00:00.001-07:002011-08-28T17:04:20.528-07:00

"Waxing Hot" was a series of poetics dialogues on the blog-journal PFS Post. The dialogue between editor Adam Fieled and Illinois poet Gabriel Gudding was released in February '09. It is now also on Issuu, here. Hope you enjoy this.

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-31785177985619298532011-08-26T05:46:00.000-07:002011-08-26T05:51:41.363-07:00

IV. How we establish ourselves: every night is spent together. I prefer to spend as many nights as possible in West Philly, where rugged old houses sport ample foliage that is ripe with the flush of late August. We make love at least once a night, so we can be fully animal and happily married. Green herb follows us around as a mode of relaxation and to get our moods in sync. Trish is developing

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-79792887406990369082011-08-24T20:40:00.000-07:002011-08-24T20:42:46.263-07:00

from Otoliths

AlexGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16858525907800097129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-19354410577983781902011-08-24T12:48:00.000-07:002011-08-24T12:53:36.954-07:00

"Stress Fractures" is an anthology of poetry criticism released by Penned in the Margins in the UK in 2010, ed. Tom Chivers. I (Adam Fieled) have an essay in Stress Fractures called "Post-Avant: A Meta-Narrative." The essay is now on Issuu in PDF form, and can be read here. This is the first time the essay has been made available in the United States. I hope you enjoy it.

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-52219317739749141872011-08-14T15:05:00.000-07:002011-08-14T15:08:42.936-07:00

II. First night at my place: I am able to have Trish to look at up close. I notice how different she is from Lisa: long, lean torso, tiny breasts, narrow waist, flaxen straight hair that reaches down her back. She loves me wildly and with feeling. “Hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm,” Trish slept late. Yet she was out as soon as she was in; “I’m with Roger again,” she said,

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-17173187111067811652011-08-14T15:03:00.001-07:002011-08-14T15:03:24.412-07:00

Helios 5 (Betelgeuse), a photo by crescentsi on Flickr.Simon

crescenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430950362582686303noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-8037060751875593522011-08-14T15:00:00.000-07:002011-08-14T15:02:39.639-07:00

I. The story starts here: PAFA has its yearly opening, and I explore it with Lisa. I am looking for Trish’s paintings: she has invited me. She is no where in sight. There: it’s her self-portrait on the wall, called The Vessel. Sepia, brown, colors that have Spanish resonance. Trish’s in blue, half-profiled, wearing an expression of pensive angst. She looks at me from the painting. She is my soul

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-21329716704817528782011-08-12T12:21:00.000-07:002011-08-12T12:27:04.278-07:00

underground: shadows, leaves, coldness. and with her, again. here's my word, "over” and she vanished... fate, destiny, and an apparent mistake... is it possible to love who’s dead? to hades for her... why? but i was looking only for the past, and eurydice of hades was only nothing, shadow with fear and void in her blood, and i destroyed her! you cannot understand me, Bacca. my past was

Guido Montenoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-20895962378256422062011-08-05T13:48:00.000-07:002011-08-05T13:50:01.215-07:00

This video was filmed in West Philly, on August 5, 2011, by Matt Stevenson.

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-71360898471914863382011-07-25T08:47:00.000-07:002011-07-25T08:51:00.727-07:00

The new Adam Fieled Argotist E-Book is called Mother Earth: "Normal people tend to figure out what (and who) they want through relationships. Poetry in 2011 doesn’t always need to deal with the exalted, the archetypal, or (as is the case with post-modern poetry) the conditions and contexts of language itself. Poetry that configures the extraordinary through the normal is useful because it has

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-40226980204081455282011-07-25T07:20:00.000-07:002011-07-25T07:22:08.489-07:00

She stood on the roof of a tall building.It was a cold night, she was bundled ina leather coat over two sweaters. Shelooked out over Central Park, and, toher right, the Upper West Side. Here’sthe deal, she told herself: if I jump, I’llgo after him as soon as I hit. It’ll takeme three months to hit, by which timeI’ll have the whole thing planned. I wasin bed as I heard her thinking this. Mybrain

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-15545856434355862782011-07-24T22:09:00.000-07:002011-07-24T22:09:53.422-07:00

Standard of the Day: Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered

Catherinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13873795426098106200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-12344843661878883492011-07-24T15:08:00.000-07:002011-07-24T15:10:09.880-07:00

Scrape me off this barstool, throw me in frontof a camera, I’d look great. That’s the sad thing.The other sad thing is the way L.A. works thesedays (enter stage left the next easy mark); you can’t climb anywhere because there is no junglegym (she’s got money), so here I am in Phoenix.It’s funny to live among Wasps (end conversationsoon) at the base of a big mountain with a pregnantwoman and her

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-16369388609444863612011-07-24T10:14:00.000-07:002011-07-24T10:32:59.959-07:00

My latest book of poetry, ECSTATIC/.of facts, has just been published by Mark Young at Otoliths Books. I hope you will take time to review it. I think he has done a wonderful job with cover, printing, etc. Here is the link http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/ecstaticof-facts/16067593In other news: I have a longish poem in REM No 2 which is out now and available for free on line. It may also be

Raymond Farrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09465855044579966735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-2502221272011043362011-07-05T13:02:00.000-07:002011-07-05T13:03:56.443-07:00

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-90401318977742695332011-07-05T07:26:00.001-07:002011-07-05T07:26:57.463-07:00

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-36983082890949507062011-06-26T06:54:00.000-07:002011-06-26T06:55:38.646-07:00

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-60288556338184449082011-06-25T07:05:00.000-07:002011-06-25T07:06:04.617-07:00

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-87869047574518269032011-06-20T07:42:00.000-07:002011-06-20T07:44:04.470-07:00

& that i must caesar. arms, curdwent down. found, mice, shelf, armormachine. wasp it up, & up, & up, realmember a machine. then, head, shot,“she said”, she said. feel, linger, can’t. belly, caesar, belly. debit, giraffe, red-headed. purge to null, urge, two, pull.eye, belly, belie. ( )

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-12007893250308518912011-06-19T07:58:00.000-07:002011-06-19T07:58:16.972-07:00

this chapbook has been knocking around for a while (mainly as a pdf which I sent friends). so I was shockd when Rinaldo Rasa sent me an e this ayem notifying me he'd postd it on his Beat Super Nova site. there are some spacing & other editorial problems but at least it'll have a bit of an audience this way.

AlexGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16858525907800097129noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-21185966244671073172011-06-18T13:11:00.000-07:002011-06-18T13:16:05.656-07:00

#19As she spoons the stuff into her mouth, wishing he tasted like this,she remembers that musical she was in, in high school: Fiddler on theRoof. It’s that song Tevya sings that tweaks her: “If I were a RichMan.” That’s right, Tevya, you and the rest of the world. She thinksto herself, Tevya at least got to be the star of the musical, I gotcaught in the chorus. To think of having to get in those

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-11323722031410478922011-06-12T14:38:00.000-07:002011-06-12T14:40:34.093-07:00

#22He wasn’t expecting to feel a sense of degradation ashe sat down next to her, her baked skin exuding perfume.It’s the scent of another world, of sex that happens thatmight as well be shopping: scent of malls, mall vanities.It is arousing, he’s aroused; her black hair flips in hugedanger waves towards his crotch. I’m intrepid, he thinks,this is pioneering work, and since I can’t write

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-11905338370909021762011-06-12T13:58:00.000-07:002011-06-12T14:13:44.840-07:00

by guido monte (vergil, petronius, me)il puer novus di virgilio"babae, babae!"said trimalchioet la lumière luit dans the darknessand a child now coming into the worldthe light shines over the darkness againhederas passimkhob, no ké resid bé bâzâr kohné shavad delâzârclinging ivy, helicrysum,lotus and smiling acanthus…turgid milky dugsthe goats bring back to the foldand no fearedthe big lions are

Guido Montenoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-29220740712613455882011-06-12T09:23:00.001-07:002011-06-12T10:22:23.487-07:00

Enchantereuse, a photo by crescentsi on Flickr.Via Flickr:Multi-layering Julie's photo with textures, digital paint and text. Worked hard here to acheive a powerful 3D effect.Thanks again to Juliexstockx.deviantart.com:-)SimonNote for As/Is Poets and Readers: Evidently this is not a poem as such, however the digital art work contains layers of poems that have been edited with digital effects.

crescenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08430950362582686303noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-63070765795701521852011-05-29T13:24:00.000-07:002011-05-29T13:28:16.479-07:00

The entirety of "American Deadness" is now available to be read for free on Scribd."American Deadness" is a series of vignettes that attempt to trace the State of the Union in 2011.Portions have appeared in Milk Magazine, Mipoesias, and Miporadio.

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-29980323611670106832011-05-26T07:23:00.000-07:002011-05-26T07:28:05.027-07:00

#1562“In Your Eyes,” the song goes,“the resolution of all my fruitlesssearches,” only what I see in youreyes is fruitless, and what Shelleymight have called “luminous greenorbs” look like turbid wastelands,capable of ruining any day I mighthave you nipping at my heels. Thisis what I think about her, but don’tdare say, she’s too young to knowanything about wastelands, I’m anold scorpion with mud

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-6230796186780223752011-05-25T10:55:00.000-07:002011-05-25T10:56:27.920-07:00

My story is pretty simple—Because I couldn’t finish a novelMy life beginsIn a nation that does not exist yetThe icon & I weren’t personally closeOur family fled their orchards—From medieval kabbalists To 20th century refugees—Our fury seems particularly apparent hereIn a nation that does not exist yetWhere actors are hired to read scripts& pretendTo be real peopleMy uncle told me—This week’s

Raymond Farrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09465855044579966735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-28919585002484936092011-05-04T12:54:00.000-07:002011-05-04T12:58:50.152-07:00

#1651What’s this about making moves, saidthe apprentice? I’ve got irons in the firewith all these pieces, isn’t that enough?To have mastered how the fire works,so that each piece burns right down: it’snot the only move that matters, but asI just made a line of rooks rather thanpawns, what else could possibly get mygoat? The master heard this, appearinglimber, but quite chained to the voicesthat

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-68054421454975684612011-05-04T06:43:00.000-07:002011-05-04T06:45:55.409-07:00

#1340Arms folded over chest(as the man on the four ofSwords), she paints insidea box-like carven space,(dank edges only seen onthe outside), light filters infrom small square windows,I hover over her, I’m thisthat she wants, but whatshe needs is to once againfeel what avalanches can’treach this head so full ofcolor, ribbons, blueness. #1341Secrets whispered behind ushave a cheapness to bind usto

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-34000454975006462852011-05-03T07:04:00.000-07:002011-05-03T07:05:33.963-07:00

raymond,me and a friend are propping up an online journal under the title of 'Pider, and I am hoping you may be able to somehow spread that tid-bit of information around to those who would be interested. we are looking for puncher's fists, lost infantries of troops, hungry sleep. one may send submissions of text, art, .mp3's... to: Piderbits@gmail.comwhat do ya think?mj

Raymond Farrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09465855044579966735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-40942467648696397832011-05-02T10:53:00.000-07:002011-05-02T10:55:46.100-07:00

#1241Why does no one tell the truth?Because the truth is (more oftenthan not) absurd. No one wantsto look absurd, so no one tellsthe truth, which creates evenmore absurdity; worlds growinto self-parody, systems growdown into gutters, whole epochsare wasted in perfidy; Cassandrafinally opens her mouth, no onelistens, they want her to star ina porno, set her up with a stage-name, she learns not to

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-80089784629802685782011-05-02T06:24:00.000-07:002011-05-02T06:28:06.276-07:00

#1316Hunters get smitten with their prey,but to kill is such am amazing rushwho could possibly resist, I’m intothese thoughts because you dazzleme away from words into your redpulpy depths, which I resent, but Ican do nothing about, because youhave nails in your cunt and crucifixin your mouth, when I come I’m aperfect personal Jesus, but the gashis all yours, did I mention I love you? #1509Myths

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-25438846310421256512011-05-01T04:46:00.000-07:002011-05-01T04:52:05.086-07:00

It has been 5 sweet years since Mark Young began putting out Otoliths. In that period of time he has been one of the most generous publisher/editors in the game.It is my contention that effort such as his should be supported, so visit Otoliths and enjoy the fruits of Mark's labor.My poems may be viewed at http://the-otolith.blogspot.com/2011/03/raymond-farr-investigating-future-tense.html

Raymond Farrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09465855044579966735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-49711600814472711792011-04-30T12:19:00.001-07:002011-04-30T12:19:57.433-07:00

#1335terse as this is, it isgiven to us in bitscarelessly shorn from rocky slopes,of this I can onlysay nothing comeswith things built in,it’s always sharp edges,crevices, crags, precipice,abrupt plunges into “wants,”what subsists between ushappens in canyons linedin blue waters where thisslides down to a densebottom, I can’t retrieveyou twice in the sameway, it must be tersebecause real is terse

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-74348080734313006042011-04-30T04:58:00.000-07:002011-04-30T04:59:54.812-07:00

One night I sailed offSo long Wynken, Blynken, & NodSo long zoppaFarewell [ ]So long [ ]The waters of no more painAre found within thisOr so cried the stars to French poet Charles BaudelaireA dream poemFrom breakfast onIn fact an improved version ofA Dutch pictureWhich [ ] read aloudIn fact a nod to SurrealismThe year 1869The year 2007& which zoppa quoted—A

Raymond Farrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09465855044579966735noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-45406272580815916622011-04-22T16:56:00.000-07:002011-04-22T16:58:08.591-07:00

Pam Daley’s a Cancer.All that cardinal water,footprints in and out my door. Never a marriage or even a ring; lots of nights just here to flirt.Everything I thought solid severed. Everything that soothed now stings. I know I don’t know anything. It’s only a dream, what you can remember.If that’s what she is,I’d like to knowhow she got in.This great bitternesshas sea-salt in it,all her lunacy.As I

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-28952890698698301532011-04-05T11:49:00.000-07:002011-04-05T11:51:01.260-07:00

Since the Back Bay put me on my back one day,I knew I had a crack at confirming my place “donee.”I am a woman who knows what you’re worth.I can calculate by forming composites of manyconstituent parts: looks, charm, degrees, abilities,funds, potentialities for combinations of same.I use anaphora to express this because I am a poet.I am a trained poetess who trained with poetsof no class. I was

P.F.S. Posthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11909851580874856025noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6003135.post-26315841509518480522011-04-05T09:41:00.000-07:002011-04-05T09:44:38.215-07:00

My latest effort chainge is an ebook published by Chalk EditionsVisit the site.There are many good books to be found there& they're all free!You can download, print, or just enjoy!

Raymond Farrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09465855044579966735noreply@blogger.com0