Apr 27, 2011


(All poets with valid birth certificates, except for gaseous who did however try to prove his existence by forwarding a photo of a birth-mark on his left inner thigh.)

In our 4th issue stream of consciousness makes a smooth transition to video streaming in an attempt to broaden the spectacle of the modern verse. Or something. We like the different forms. Beatnicky belly-flops and seamless dreams saturates the inter-web's (never completely blank) page for your reading and viewing pleasure. Hopefully there's one or two things that may charm or disturb your interest here. After all, one wo(man)'s intolerable fuckface is another's blue-eyed addiction.

It's a bad day for editorials, all this pollen in the air, dishes left undone. Let's just cut to the conspirators.

Reading Matthew Porubsky's "The Molting Series" we sense a kind of language-exorcism, the poet trying to arrive at some lasting image or meaning not by announcement but by careful examination of seemingly accidental processes, follow wherever they might lead. Nouns and verbs momentarily seem to change identity and you're not sure what's going on, but the poem, somehow, never falls to abstract navel-gazing. There is something wholly earnest about the investigation, perhaps the calm tone and the writer's disinterest in getting in the way of the words, that we find moving.

Matt McGee's little poem "WHATEVER HAPPENED TO THE SCHMIDTS?" is a completely different number though we see a similarity in narrative composure. (Reading submissions, and other work by aspiring writers poets elsewhere, this is one of the things we find quite telling, whether the writer possess (intuitive or otherwise) a kind of narrative awareness. Maybe more so in poetry, where there seems to be less of an interest in separating the writer from the written, "write from the heart/soul" or what not. Anyway...) We do like a good open-ended story that hints at questions such as: What happened? Who is this narrator? Questions you find yourself asking only when a story or poem has managed to convince you to care about it. We care about McGees and so we ask these questions, or vice versa.

What to say about Dr. Lucky? We're not sure, other than we find his poetry completely disarming. A rare and little admired talent in the field, we find, to out of the every day bustle of life take a potentially mundane happening and render it important and even timeless. Breathe some life into an industry that seems, to our eyes anyway, (yes, here it comes) mostly in the hands of careful academic workshop (shape up, The New Yorker). Also, if like us, you are in mourning over Don Van Vliet''s passing, you might find some solace listening to his music. Check out swami's MotelBand.

Gretyl Grimm, as our first returning contributor, will receive no more flattering words here than that, our first returning contributor. In fact, we consider her now officially employed and expect a bi-monthly 500 word column.

Joanne Farie's "More Than a Mouthful" is a peculiar little story. The sometimes quirky language and detail appealed to us. Also we have a weak and bruised knee for childhood-floaty-beach-dream sequences.

Furthermore, we are thankful to all those who have come forth with testimony about Gaseous Feet's so called "real" identity. No doubt The Majesty's secret army (or whatever you frumpy British call those characters) will have their hands full tomorrow.

Thanks to
chiaroscuro for artful inclusion. We always need more art, and stuff. Video, audio, power-point presentations, whatever the bent. Anyway. That's all folks. We know you're busy and we have a lawn to fertilize. Keep writing. There's a pie in the oven and tobacco in the bread box, make yourself at home. In the last yawning words of D.H. Lawrence: "It's all this cold-hearted fucking that is death and idiocy."

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