Versemeister's Convention

Many many days buried beneath Andre Breton's Nadja and From Socrates to Satre;
I have finally gotten around to project #10, which in blueprints involves stitching Intravenous lines into the seams of my ancient cinderblock grey sport coat.

I am no longer hassled by china and demitasse or the impending threat of liquefying the interior dermal ridges of the roof of my mouth with boiling water seeing to that Sumatra Mandheling now runs directly into my bloodstream with a simple thumb-stroke of the nurses keypad.

Deadpan lately with an almost completely vacant facial expression
coupled with hints of John Malkovich nervous ticks.

I've got black bags beneath my eyes to complete the look
(Like Maximillian Cohen meets Faces of Meth) and confirm without a doubt that the crushed and macerated coffee berries of which the goat partook serve as my only thread to the
sensation of physical and existential subsistence.

(And you thought I was kidding about run-on sentences right?)

Caffeine tremors and day-off-dom led me out to New Paltz, New York to attend The Mudd Poets Reading Series of which William Seaton and Ken Van Rensselaer were featured.

Bill read for about twenty minutes reciting his German-to-English translations of several Dada poets before closing with some original work.

Ken read some really fascinating material dealing with the cosmos and our relationship to the idea of void, sadly he wasted no time disappearing into the brisk autumnal nighttide after having performed.

Several talented regulars read at the open microphone;
Terrence "The Man of Many Voices" Ciesa dramatized a set of prose
as the Irish blue-collared "Tommy Burns"

while

Billy Hermin recited his punchy often humorous and explicit confessional texts sotto voce
from a brown sketch pad.

Sharon Butler premiered a work-in-progress and the host/czar of poetry Mr. Robert Milby
read some fine verse concerning Edgar Poe and autumn.

In between frantically chewing coffee-beans dipped in dark chocolate
and chugging the Mudd Puddle's delicious "Dancing Goat" blend
I read Othello Calicio (a piece from my last book Bodies/Galimatias)
as well as debuted Umbilicusissimus from Mnemosynesiac with fits of frontal lobe-ish improv.

The night was pleasant as bards,
poets and the like dispersed into the darkness and the comfort of their heated auto-cars.

We ended up in a quaint little Greek
diner in Poughkeepsie to enjoy a long-delayed meal of rare hamburger and sweet potato fries.

I am remembering as I pull the artifacts from the sand of what it was once like
to be a regular on the scene…


Parting sentiments and shameless butt-pluggery:

After a pseudo-review like that someone on the scene would likely carbomb me if I didn't include this information in the closing.

For folks interested in performing poetry, prose etcetera, listening and attending check out

http://www.poetz.com
for a comprehensive assemblage of poetry reading calendars
spanning from NYC to Vermont to New Mexico and beyond.

And for Christ’s sake make a cup of coffee!
You’re making me look bad.

Talking Board

Photographs of a talking board commission.
Designed and built by Nee Nee's brother Mr. David Bovensiep.
















Interesting facts:

* The artwork in the center is a recreation of Alex Grey's painting Sleep.

* The planchette (not pictured) is designed after the "rainbow eye logo" from Tool's third LP Lateralus.

* All the text and interwined root effects were created using paint and hot glue. I shit you not, it's pretty amazing huh...I don't think I can write the first letter of my name clearly with a glue gun.

* It's a one-of-a-kind piece and its freakishly groovy. Word around the campfire is he's making more boards, check E-bay for possible postings.

Van de elfde vlo gebeten pagina

The fine spice of autumn blankets the living in a bouquet of leaves as they decay and leave behind chalkline traces of a perfume savored by dying gods; we mortals dream of drafting.

Chestnut season and the time in which the blood jet cannot be stopped has begun.
Mulling spices, winehouse apples, The char of kindling, suspicious cosmic fields and my royal is singing soft flat melodies that remind me of reddened cheeks and the brisk snot-nosed hush of infancy.

For now an
excerpt from page 11...



Xenomorph Slim

When the stars were SARS---were stars when young and pretty girls make pretty dull…
graves.

Very inexpensive and intrusive to obtuse passengers contused to drug-abuse toward abstruse proof-oriented, forced choices.

Her toes curled around the bloodless brakes as the acrobatic leviathan flung itself into this
manchurian candidate tenement.

What’s left are simply photo albums
and
we are where the whistling of plane crashes chthonic for reasons undefined convoke you and curtsey
in skinny shoplifting fits,

while I lion-heart burnish in this swimming pool sky.