The on-line journal Absent has their second issue up and waiting for your beautiful, shiny eyes. I'm happpy (with three p's apparently) to be included:
absent magazine * issue two
now online at http://absentmag.org/issue02/
featuring poetry by Jasper Bernes, Charles Bernstein, Regis Bonvicino, Jack
Boettcher, Tim Botta, Julia Cohen, Shanna Compton, John Cotter, Shafer
Hall, Lisa Jarnot, Pierre Joris, Joan Kane, Noelle Kocot, Jason Labbe,
Kathleen Ossip, The Pines, Matthew Rohrer, Kate Schapira, Mathias Svalina,
Kathryn Tabb, Allison Titus and Betsy Wheeler.
in translation with Sergei Kitov and Octavo Paz.
musical work by Aaron Einbond.
prose by Joe Amato, Peter Ciccariello, Simon DeDeo, Adam Golaski, Kent
Johnson, Amy Newman, Davis Schneiderman and Tyler Williams.
to whet your lip-
a piece of The Pines:
to talk pearly
in the mud room.
a piece of Allison Titus:
goodbye to all the lanyards of my youth. To unanswered letters. To idols
and relics; goodbye to the underside of your wrist.
a piece of Mathias Svalina:
In order to understand anything there had to be at least four people in the room at all times. A PhD in water could only comprehend the water
What are you waiting for? Go finish the poems, and those of Wheeler, Ossip, etc.
Welcome to my block, this is where I hide out on the weekends, watch a whole season of Dexter in two days with D. Ludgwig, have a crazy dream about trying to read Brenda Iijima's book "Animate, Inanimate Aims" while nervously trying to cover up the murders my younger brother is committing (anxiety dream?) all over Ireland, eat rice cakes, listen to Jana Hunter, listen to Wooden Wand, drink tap water.
I want this car. Even if it came with those trash bags, I would still take it. I can't figure out which neighbor owns it, this lovely, blue Galaxy 500:
They are building this giant thing next door to me. What kind of building I don't know. It is the kind of building you want to break into during construction and wander around w/ friends at 2am, though:
When I was a kid I would walk to the post office and go to the penny candy store. The store sold lots of things I don't think anyone ever bought, like porcelain bells and little fake mice dressed up like dolls/people. But they sold small red Swedish fish and you could count out 100 for a dollar. It seemed like a good deal when I was 6 and I'm pretty sure it still is. Outside this post office, white with pillars, I would sell lemonaid or sometimes just drawings I had made with friends. It was never very profitable, but more so than my endeavour to sell mud sculptures created in the stream that leaked across my driveway:
I only like the red ones, you can have the rest.
Sometimes I feel like this: