[image by kurt welshinger]skip.10 [july 2006]
[image by kurt welshinger]
edward schneider: towards our departure
kurt welshinger : for catherine
prashant emani : chocolat garfunk
christa beverlin : cut the cake
bryce beverlin II : aleviate nest
edward schneider
we
came to hear
enough, listening for the
giving of secrets
gestures towards the
between of now and its
departure, which
comes too soon
entering as sounds
growing weaker after each
fraction of
another moment, which
coincides with this our
going, our departure, our towards
the
best of it, shouting
derisions our time, which threaten to
collect our secrets and
empty us of our
going.
kurt welshinger
silver sounds
as thin glowing strands
rounds, abounds
t-birds sailing
big reds bailing
the new home of the assistant DA
a gardener of late
observing, seeing-through
(similiar angles of occurance)
having you around, see?
wondering, abiding
barrels betwixt
transfix predicts
a soundtrack to be-
tired a' travelin'
sittin' and a' paddlin'
swing out, set free the day
prashant emani
The wail of the disenfranchised
Unheard by the initiated
Stones unturned
Spurs unburned
Blood spills
Duck bills
In gulf streams.
“You never look me in the eye,
all my speeches to the world at large,
of peace, love, tolerance, the sheer logic of non-violence,
never passes the barrier of my lips,
enthralled in a stupor,
balled in the lemonade stall
dropping, tucking and rolling before the fire starts.”
“You cannot smile,
You want me out of this country,
‘Out, intruder, thief, coloured daughter stealer,
knife wielding savagery,
plane-bought peanut vendor.’
The violence of your thoughts belied by the apathy of your emptiness.”
Can I buy my freedom from you?
Am I condemned to eternal gratitude,
Are the only people who’ll understand me those who see things as they
choose to see them
The idealistically blinded?
Or are there true lovers amongst you,
Fair maidens and heathens,
Mixed bloods and mutt-souled as I?
I cannot pick up a sword,
For fear of my own hatred.
So I sit in a taste, a black bitterness of night
christa beverlin
breathe it into your
lungs
motor oil
now replaced for currency
dollar ba dollop
pint and quart,
fore score fore skin
quarter low
dense diseased cats
the take of in
rake your bank account
bus wont stop
you'll need to swim in
while your mother breaks halibut with W
fear tactic fructose level low
ship myself to Artica
wet suit summer
ringing out off shore animal
horde oil call collect
kill plants to burry for later
murder has never tasted so desperate
put panels on our cars
drive only in Texas suns
far past conservation
for now can only get worse
everyone start eating babies
i'm opted to drink the kool-aid now
serve it round, then cut the cake.
kiva sage
When our forefathers muttered
the words: "We believe all mans can thusly produce
funny noises and floating manifolds"...frankly, I believed them!
Wholeheartedly, I clung to every word like a small prepubescent 4-year-old
girl from a jungle gym. But then, one day when the mail failed to deliver. And
the coma kept growing more beard. And the pottery barn called to say; "Kiva
we'd
like to hire you...the picture of your enormous hairy cock included in your
resume sealed the deal. Can you start Monday?" Well, yes and no.
If by "starting" you mean leaving behind the six-person trapeze act
I've
come so attached to. And if by "Pottery Barn" you mean a warehouse
filled with
different shapes of Belgium Waffles, filled with small charm bracelets, and
it's
my job to find only the ones filled with four-leaf clovers..then the answer
is
"Yes! When do I start?"
However, if this is some futile
attempt to create a 'marketable commodity' of my
inept skill in stone-ware making and my uncanny recognition of throw-pillows
by
scent alone... then shame on you Pottery Barn, shame on you.
bryce beverlin II
cannibal plume ann
along can do operation
shant among dung furlong aminal empathy cat tongue
not dead but gone
not shed somehow wrong
with hand to foot a bit of words after day delayed
here air ear on owned brain loops known as feedback
it's help i need quickly
lickey dale apail these i need sick leave request
also i need a coal bit to keep cold out
a small flame to cut hair by
just a little mitten to make oligarchy
yo sorry sorry i laughed when you jumped in the metal shrubs
it was bushmeat that gave you away
glorified curbs and right now a little liver exchange
pushkin ox to life along line of elbow lodestone
i think b is for bold and t is for triggerfish
ape gut lake mist corrugated fake fist
yes a sound alike alarm along
a meek and keen alleviator
glass tipped out but paid later as in drops are dope
onto tongue into the outer bucket lug the lung down
to a beach to get aqua in it are you shy? hi!
a moist avoidance dance around can't last forever
so it is good to hear you're getting on a train
to make the chances very small i may feel free
and friends won't have to whisper confidential things to me
or ask another question like
how many bees could we fit inside this city?
i thought it was more than one
but indeed the answer is that