From realpoetik at scn9.scn.org Sun May 2 13:12:21 2010 From: realpoetik at scn9.scn.org (RealPoetik Magazine) Date: Sun, 2 May 2010 16:12:21 -0400 Subject: [Realpoetik] AMBER DIPIETRA Message-ID: after 1 a.m. remove contact cataract night glasses mon-oculate at K’s mouth, just a black hole in his face. Dream I ate his brain, diffused our fight by morning, 4,686,868 bytes in 58 seconds. Our brain, the cat puts a parasite in so we love him more, suffer litter with some gastric juices on the rug. Shadow, the oldest of 4 K brought to apartment and a corpse already under the floorboard. Electric composter doesn’t belong in tiny subdivided old Victorian. I like Saturdays, benzodiazepine vacuuming over and over scarred wood. Will the machine eat its own cord? heart heart burrow in become zero *Amber DiPietra* is a poet and disability culture worker in San Francisco. Her interests include tracking the orthopedic body in real time, personal fossil records, ¡accion mutante! politics, and warm waters. Poems and prose pieces by Amber have appeared or are forthcoming in *Make, A Chicago Literary Magazine, Mirage Period[ica]*, *Tarpaulin Sky, Mrs. Maybe* and * TRY!*. Visit her blog at www.adipietra.blogspot.com. -- RealPoetik www.realpoetik.org -------------- next part -------------- An HTML attachment was scrubbed... URL: From realpoetik at scn9.scn.org Sun May 9 13:20:13 2010 From: realpoetik at scn9.scn.org (RealPoetik Magazine) Date: Sun, 9 May 2010 16:20:13 -0400 Subject: [Realpoetik] BRIAN HENRY Message-ID: WATER & WEATHER, THE SUN My mouth makes ice cream from mulch, I reach the farther shore. *Come*, I motion, & you follow, skidding across the surface on your homegrown skidding thing. It floats along famously, as well as any ski. After a casual assault, the sun retreats. My elbows have gone all naugahyde, knees skinned to the bone from the day’s begging. I bury my nethers in the sand and wait for your journey to be complete, sand fleas scatter as if I’d brought a rod & hooks. The ice cream is gone but it was good. I nod off & doze, missing the moment you go under. The skidding thing skids CAREFUL NOW That’s a baby you’re holding. *Brian Henry* is the author of five books of poetry, most recently *The Stripping Point* (Counterpath). His translation of the Slovenian poet Tomaž Šalamun’s*Woods and Chalices* (Harcourt) appeared in 2008, and his translation of Aleš Šteger’s *The Book of Things* is forthcoming from BOA Editions. A Serbian edition of Henry’s poems will appear in 2010. -- RealPoetik www.realpoetik.org -------------- next part -------------- An HTML attachment was scrubbed... URL: From realpoetik at scn9.scn.org Sun May 16 20:47:36 2010 From: realpoetik at scn9.scn.org (RealPoetik Magazine) Date: Sun, 16 May 2010 23:47:36 -0400 Subject: [Realpoetik] JACQUELINE WATERS Message-ID: A PLOY a plugged-in glow globe throwing thumbprints of land, islets of the outer Pacific over snow stuffing up gaps in the hospital hot/cool unit. no sleep at first, dream about a patch of bog paved over by the wide margin Thoreau loves to his life: “I love a wide margin to my life” – Thoreau. * * *it *was lovely to say that *it* was raining and to mean that *part of you *was low: half was suspecting yourself *on to something*: the rest fell from following the first half’s lead: opening a book on the bar in front of each empty chair: setting yourself at the bar’s far end till night, your own cloud of it ran right to the orbs of your eyes. No emotion is pleasing! Each must be rejected replaced by an opposite rejected and replaced by yet another vast strain of undifferentiated sentiment till longing collapses as its silvered edges ebb themselves equal, eager to stand there lapsed by the great lapses you find in your way until you find your way or till you find your ways have rearranged you slightly as a mirror rearranges slightly what has mostly been lived by sight. *Jacqueline Waters* is the author of a book, *A Minute without* *Danger* (Adventures in Poetry), and a chapbook, *The Garden of Eden a College* (A Rest Press). A new book will be published by Ugly Duckling Presse in 2011. She lives in San Francisco and is an editor of The Physiocrats, a pamphlet press. -- RealPoetik www.realpoetik.org -------------- next part -------------- An HTML attachment was scrubbed... URL: From realpoetik at scn9.scn.org Sun May 23 22:56:19 2010 From: realpoetik at scn9.scn.org (RealPoetik Magazine) Date: Sun, 23 May 2010 22:56:19 -0700 Subject: [Realpoetik] ABRAHAM SMITH Message-ID: FROM *HANK* ($(%*^U& because you can stand on a rotten moose liver all day in maine in a big old rain and i still love you sheet shake flea bane rain would love to fatten you up to eat you? to heath bar you to heath bar wrapper in the shit of a bear just that just wrapper and berry seeds doing the spangle squat gear out there in front of god and everybody because bears are not toilet people bears are honest americans we void everything behind a white flag and a toilet’s conversation with a septic stopped outside lost a whisker off the hair shirt of truth with a truck with a man made his fortune hauling shit spits outs his window lady didn’t see it fly come home rust kids with the papers to buy the aerials of their farms took the yearling flight it’s nice to see us high it’s good for conversation that’s where we are at guess where’s my heart? barn or silo or house like an eyelid on a sheep sly little seagull with a belly like a barn where were you born? like a shoe in the road dozers the mind toward bouldering the septic pump bill in one leap over the flaming candle kitchen table that’s his revelation there’s shit for money i been thinking why don’t i build houses with windows designed to open out to pines shallow roots sandy soil a good hard wind and my windows would go the further god bless the ten twenty ants with their thirty forty legs stuck on nostalgia’s sucrose cement like eyelashes in honey in the car finish wrecker sap off a creaky creaky snap snap pine but then seeing goes south as ya grow older still there’s a sandbar in every deep promise so my windows take you further over time right now pine sap candle slaps them sapsuckers hanging out there by willow never call your kid by the name of a sad tree parked by them damn dick drip pines what’s the capital of thailand see and then i kick you in the balls with a jag of blind eye and a pack of burdock cheroots my i is in this idea i i.d. the line of them that picket to bring back that window tax you’d think as the kids fatten we’d be heading that way anyway houses like vinyl beats living in an elegy for trees and get this the vinyl squeaks in a good wind a safe cracking song guy’s getting paid good to board up your seeing’s seats and this one channel up high like 200 to show what goes on outside it’s four guys with guns a bird one poet guy or gal can’t tell the channel’s like an ultrasound what swings low? that a simile prone pencil or a pack of smokes you save from the rain with the denim lid on a pocket and a bold cupped hand there by the channel that shows you the freeway old men can’t sleep wonder would the taillights would the red lights light red if my eyes didn’t burn for the gal in the grocery maybe 22 that’s a gun am i fit for the charnal or the carnal that’s a wash the price of doing business with an indoor flame try ombudsmen with burning sticks milling in the library parking lot touch a cloud tickler tickling the prostates on them chinese fireworks pointed out over the river lord my heart is stuck to my ear and my ear is just a wrinkly extension of fear of breaking bones on a radio a western torture a fallen horse dust was a breath mint crunched by teeth evolution took years to shorten our wider set of hippo trending chompers for fibrous matter once you are into rotten meat and sliding back up that cheetah tree teeth slip small as half dissolved aspirin as headstones via aerials them three poking through viva great uncle cretin clyde tight as the space between a rock and its mosses two sister kin too took the typhoid in ‘00 and ‘19 and been mary huggers ever since fat slob preacher kicking my ass against a window on a bus through curvy mississippi i got a pistol and a bible in this box and i am fixing to use either one sooner stave the mary light off the crouching passing animal eye click of the knife on the teeth his habit when he’s thinking bless the chord in the neck of the running wolverine plum the keep deep the stranger here we go am i trying you trying on coat or prolix? here’s the butter so cold you can’t cut it here’s a grackle all spanish dancer by the muffin crumb here’s an elegy for gravel it goes ore villa one-stop shunt *Abraham Smith* hails from Ladysmith, Wisconsin. Action Books published his *Whim Man Mammon* and will publish his* H**ank *in the coming autumnal season. Smith's recent performative laurels include stints at the Academy of American Poets Rooftop Reading Series and Opium Magazine's Literary Death Match NYC. He teaches composition, literature, and creative writing at University of Alabama. -- RealPoetik www.realpoetik.org -------------- next part -------------- An HTML attachment was scrubbed... URL: From realpoetik at scn9.scn.org Sun May 30 18:30:56 2010 From: realpoetik at scn9.scn.org (RealPoetik Magazine) Date: Sun, 30 May 2010 21:30:56 -0400 Subject: [Realpoetik] EMILY KENDAL FREY Message-ID: BIRDS I got stuck in the bathroom. When I came out I saw a sign. *Do you want to know more about birds?* the sign said. PITY I feel sorry for people who fall in love with other people. We wait on the boat's deck to see a whale. What we see are waves. Dead-hearted tomatoes bobbing up and down. Ocean of hearts. LIE I kept saying *It's from my childhood* but it wasn't. It wasn't something I'd ever seen before. Why did I say that? Why am I a red butterfly? *Emily Kendal Frey lives in Portland, Oregon and teaches at Portland Community College. She is the author of Airport (Blue Hour 2009), Frances(Poor Claudia 2010), and The New Planet (Mindmade Books 2010).* -- RealPoetik www.realpoetik.org -------------- next part -------------- An HTML attachment was scrubbed... URL: