what we treat it as

 

a hill so big it switches color when clouds push

armadillo red ember echo picnic

I dodder and I stray in crayfish streams

a man carrying a dirigible defense

the one we hand around is full

final and stifling, like a love or re-entry

the glove of Earth and staying seasonly

horse albatross table cloth sky

glass home pinball machine

visitation inertia, bear pawing at trash

acclimating

puff of fog, flash, resembler’s ring

string overflow feather piano and penny

our horses wander and field

a man carrying dirigibles over,

a hero as much as Kenny Rogers cries

on an airplane, about the alone

I ride trolley, trains and sky ferry bus

on a hollow rocket, I head forward by propulsion

to hold you as a soft packed strawberry

our love left, like a napkin on catered table

an embrace drawing of a yet to be

we cannot live in a world that does not distinguish

between the deep sea and our dropping off

as feathers mast our rhino sails

the overture above, expanding

bats creak the sky hero of what we rise,

we exchange keys

a brown coat and polishing tongue

we cannot accustom to disillusionment

satellites find and then we are nebulous

material only in the neighborhood

exchanged glasses

 

It’s been along time

 we talked walking

you stayed peach and I parrot

there is no narrative to resolve

only what we make of trees

pursuing a squad car of questions with paper

pushing legs under clocks

photos that become indiscriminate in rain

we walked on both sides the river

what emerges is not clear

for a instance, the panther coats

illusion heart scenic mystery

crossed fence area before the Safeway moment

hand on a cold fish, mango in my pants

I doubt nothing more than my memory

this is not an Italo Calvino and Maya Angelou novel

wove in Mill City to hope

xerox hand will wave the wand

time, our arms

I am arranging the mane of a bus stop of rain

not a mystery of self escaping

as the world pretty much completes

stories on trains mirroring opposite location

rained on walk water

a sky missing no pieces

a rain maze, illusory and stable

the ghosts are heavy in spots

a forest is not only the trees seen

in a day with no home

a white dog loving its own for a night

_________________________________________

Tom Blood is a poet in Portland.  He is the winner of the 2007 Oregon Book Award for poetry, and his work appears in rare realms.

The Infoxicated Corner and its regulars love few things in life more than a good arts party (a good arts party, I said). For this reason, I wanted to let all my nearest & dearest Northeastern friends know (if they didn’t already) about the really fun time that’s about to go down in Pittsburgh, PA, this January 31st. Filmmaker Rachael Deacon and Poet-Editrix Margaret Bashaar have created an annual event, titled FREE _____ POEMS ABOUT _____. What fills in those blanks changes every year: last year’s event was FREE SNAKE POEMS ABOUT SNAKES, and this year’s is FREE MONSTER POEMS ABOUT MONSTERS.

Here’s what makes it cool: it’s a party for the people. Really. It’s a completely DIY, no-budget event. When they say it’s free, they mean just that. Performers, writers, artists, and other vendors contribute time and work in order to create a festive gathering that brings together artists (of various media) and people who enjoy celebrating creativity. There is also a new book published in association with this event every year; the book bears the same title as the event.

Possibly predictably, I’m jazzed about this yearly event for many reasons, and I already know that when I move back East, it’ll be marked down on my calendar. I wanted to talk to the two gals who invented this superfun, inclusive celebration of creativity, and talk to them a little bit about what goes into it all.

1. My understanding is that you two consider this event to be just that — primarily an event, a celebratory gathering — and the book is sort of an appendage to that, a secondary consideration. That’s interesting to me, because usually in this industry there will be a book and then launch events — readings, book parties, etc. — will be scheduled around the book. Can you guys talk a little bit about how you came to the idea that the event itself should be the primary focus?

MARGARET: We planned the event long before we actually decided to make the book. We honestly thought the whole thing was going to be held in someone’s living room with maybe 10 people in attendance. But then Nina Sauer offered her gallery, Most Wanted Fine Art, to us, and that helped the event get a whole lot bigger and seemed to get FREE SNAKE POEMS a lot more interest. After about 25 different people had sent us snake poems, we started joking about making a snake book. And then somewhere along the line it stopped being a joke, I guess? So the book is incredibly secondary to the event, and almost didn’t even happen. I mean, Rachael and I were folding and stapling the FREE SNAKE POEMS book the day of the event itself.

RACHAEL: Pretty much. Eventually it seemed like we just had so many poems that we may as well slap a book together. Margaret having and running a press already made it real easy.

2. How did you come to SNAKES and MONSTERS as the subject matter for these first two years? Any idea what content anchors might be in the running for year three? (Will it always be a noun? Will there ever be, like FREE FLYING POEMS ABOUT FLYING?)

R: SOOOOO, the impetus for the entire thing, really, was the image we used for the cover, which was randomly found somewhere in the annals of the internet by our special snake friend Jessica, who randomly shared it with both of us on facebook, probably thinking we’d just giggle and call it a day. We didn’t pick snakes, snakes picked us. We just answered the snakey call.

M: We went back and forth a lot when selecting this year’s theme, and monsters was really the one topic we kept coming back to and actually being excited about. It wasn’t a particularly involved process, just a lot of “Hey, you wanna do monsters?” “Okay.” After a lot of “Hey, how about toilets or cats?” “Nah.” (and for the record, we will probably never do cats. Maybe toilets.) We’re not married to nouns, but it’s really just a matter of what mood we’re in the week we realize we need the next year’s theme.

3. I’d like to mention a few of the things I’ve heard you two say in the past about this event — for example, that it’s intended to bridge certain divides. It seems to me that it’s a very unifying program you’re putting on — say, between “well-known” and “emerging” writers, or between writers and other types of artists/creatives. There’s also the fact that it’s free, which to my mind speaks to divides of access — usually, at least in our culture, a certain amount of money is needed to attain an arts education or (a more than a nominal/topical) exposure to the arts.
Can you talk a bit about your perceptions of these existing divisions? How would you characterize them? Do you see them as interrelated? How do you think this program addresses those types of divides in a unifying way? Are there any other, additional types of inclusion you’d like to focus on promoting in future years?

R: Poetry is very far from my primary medium, but over the years I seem to have found myself balls deep in poets. Like, to an alarming degree. So, I have been to a lot of readings, and immediately noticed that I was almost always the only not-poet in attendance. And also they were boring. I really love poetry though, and FREE POEMS seemed like a great chance to sort of remove the veil of poet-y mystery. The rest of the arts community, especially in Pittsburgh, sees the literary world as inaccessible and I think both communities suffer because of that mentality. When we first put together the event, it only made sense to try to pull artists from every medium we could find, ask everybody to step outside of their comfort zones, and just sort of see what happened.

M: Poetry is not one of the most popular art forms in the world, and as a poet and an editor/publisher of poetry that makes me a tiny bit sad and really is something I want to see change, and FREE POEMS is, in part, an attempt to shift people’s ideas of poetry away from poetry readings/events as boring. So by bringing all these other art forms and artists into the event, we show that poetry can stand next to those art forms as an equal. In terms of accessibility, I do think that sometimes arts education and events and the participation in those events – not just the attending of them – is perceived as limited to more affluent members of society. Like, to be a “poet” anymore, most people (who want to be poets at least) believe you need not only a BA in Creative Writing but also an MFA, and, increasingly, a PhD in the subject. And those degrees, to one extent or another, require a certain privilege of money and time. FREE POEMS seeks, in its own small way, to break down that idea of the poet as ensconced in the academy.

 

4. I’m curious to know: what’s your favorite and your least favorite aspect, respectively, of organizing, promoting, and executing this kind of event?

M: Favorite: watching people freak the fuck out about poetry and send us absurd/amazing poems about a really stupid topic. Least favorite: Trying to keep everyone involved in the logistics of the event on the same page. We have a lot of people who do work on this event in various ways, and sometimes wires get crossed.

R: Favorite: penis painting. Last year, I asked Cherri Baum, the crankiest queen in the city, to realize one of my lifelong desires: to see a dick get painted into something that’s not a dick, and in a place other than my bedroom. And it’s happening again this year. Hooray.
Least Favorite: trying to navigate the egos of so many artists, and just generally organizing anything. I hate that shit.

 

5. I think it’s a laudable thing that you’ve created a free, inclusive event that both celebrates and promotes creativity and the arts. Are there any challenges to keeping it a free event? Do you guys ever encounter any (individual or institutional) resistance to the concept of this remaining a free event? If so, how do you respond to those influences?

R: There is constant resistance. On every front. The furthest any of those efforts have gotten though, are a conversation between us that goes, “It’s called FREE POEMS.” “YEP.”
Ultimately we just chose to ignore any and all efforts that opportunists might make to tilt the event in their favor. So far not giving a fuck has gone well.

M: I think any time an event is as well-attended and successful as FREE SNAKE POEMS was, people are going to look at that and ask themselves if there is a way they can benefit from it somehow. And I don’t say that to throw anyone under the bus – I think it’s a pretty standard and natural response. I think a lot of the people who want to monetize FREE POEMS genuinely want to help us. I think the thought is that we did it as a free event out of necessity, but that’s simply not the case. We made the very conscious choice to make FREE POEMS what it is when it comes to money, and most of the time when we explain that philosophy, people do understand even if they don’t agree.

 

6. What would you like to see happen with this event in coming years? How do you see it changing or evolving? What would you ideally want the event to look/feel/sound/be like in, say, 2021?

M: I’d like to get greater diversity in our poet lineup, honestly. If I could have anything I wanted, regardless of realism, I’d like to see us take FREE POEMS to another city (though I have no earthly idea how that would work or who would donate whole kegs of beer and trays of cupcakes).

R: More penis painting. Really there’s not much I would change. I just want the event to expand and for more artists to be inspired and pulled in. In 2021, we’ll have jetpacks. FREE JETPACKS. We’ve already grown hugely from where we started, we have filmmakers screening shorts, out of town writers and performers, more music and more kinds of performance art happening at MONSTERS than we had at SNAKES. A continuation of that would be ideal, but really, if this is as big as we get, it’s still pretty fuckin’ big, and very satisfying.

 

Margaret Bashaar writes poems and edits Hyacinth Girl Press and makes an ass of herself on stage when given the chance.

Rachael Deacon is a piece of shit.

And Now You Want Me One More Time

Your mother told me you were out with the stars. I tried to call but you left your phone on the counter. I went outside. The sun was up. I called your name to the sky. I couldn’t see anything but blue. I called out your name until it was dark. Above an audience of diamonds all laughed at me. They laughed until I lost my voice. Then they sent clouds to fill my cup with water.

I found a new boyfriend. He approached me while I watched birds pluck worms out of a rainy field. I asked him why the birds were able to find worms as soon as they landed. He said worms float on water. Then he kissed me. I felt like a worm.

The Open Eyed Dream Meets The Day Moon

There are people who look like my drawings because I drew them. They crawl out when I stare directly at the page but am thinking of something else. They introduce themselves as Ashley to my doorman when they leave. I’ve made a city of Ashleys. Everyone else has moved because the Ashleys took their jobs. I haven’t had to work in years. Instead I chase the dust from room to room. Sometimes an Ashley comes to help me. They call it praying.

She Read How When She Was Just A Girl

My grandmother wouldn’t let me do the dishes. She told me I would learn to orgasm through doing the dishes with my husband. I would put on the radio and every song would be about washing dishes while he dries with two different towels.

Perfect dishes. No specks. No watermarks.

She wouldn’t let me ride a bicycle either. They were too modern. I would break my leg open. Break my head. No boy would want me if I spilled my head. When skateboards fly, she’d say. Thank god it was 2015. I was upside down on my Hover Board. Look Grandma, I said, I can’t fall.

_____________________________________________________________________________

Carabella Sands has already bought her tombstone: 

Author photo courtesy of Matthew Wyndham

 

Jellyfish

There’s no doubt she thinks he’s lost at sea. A smudge of blood on her glasses.

She looks healthy. She wishes he looked healthy. Her weird stare drifts across his

sick face like the shadow of a murder weapon they called love. Her new boyfriend

is a taxi driver. He is a quiet man with at least one tooth missing, so obviously

he’s a paedophile. When their little girl says the new boyfriend’s name her father’s

fingertips go numb; he has visions of the taxi driver’s dismembered corpse

scattered on a cold beach full of baby jellyfish, broken phones, the nights he dies

without her. They share a joint in his parents’ garden, negotiating a future that bites

too hard. Her saliva moist on the filter, he takes the cigarette, inhales, wonders

if this is the last time her spit will touch his lips. The word divorce is sharp,

sound of sirens, fire alarms, flying saucers shining through a nightmare of winter

trees. He stares at her chest, the line of cleavage that may as well be a crack in his

bedroom wall, thinking maybe the sun will explode if he reaches out and touches it,that she might hold his haunted hand tight against her heart until it gets dark, and tell him their marriage was a message that failed to send, and tell him their

daughter is a dream, and tell him to go dig a hole far away from here, as their tears

scatter like silver shrapnel through his mother’s evil flowers and all the sorry

gardens beyond.

 

Odaxelagnia

She told him her new fella can do magic tricks inside her, then slammed a slimy

white rabbit onto the table, spilling cold tea into his crotch and putting him off his

spaghetti. He said, ‘My girlfriend has a tongue like a spinning clock, hurls me back

in time, when childhood sunsets were sugary ghosts and Grandma’s vegetable

soup. She told him her smile is so wide they had to rearrange the furniture because

the corners of her mouth scratched the new sofa and smashed the hallway mirror –

she used the shards to slash their wedding album and their daughter’s favourite

teddy bears. He told her his girlfriend is so good at head she sucks out his skeleton

and spits it onto the windy balcony where it dances the dance of life! She said, ‘Oh

yeah? My fella isn’t a drug addict… He can always get it up!’ He said ‘Oh yeah? My girl drinks a ton of wine, she’s crazy when she’s pissed, she bites my biceps so hard I growl joyful jungle music through my coke-damaged nose as my skin breaks like yesterday and all the days that came before! We use the blood to write shit about you on our parents’ bedroom walls. We use our cum to mask the stench of poems I never truly meant…’ Outside, two half-dead cats were fighting on the toxic lawn. They stopped to watch them awhile, tea-light candles reflecting off their broken fangs as she looked at her phone, and he looked at his phone, both of them pretending to read funny, sexy text messages, when in fact they didn’t have any funny, sexy text messages at all, only low batteries beeping in the absence of real grown-ups to guide them into paradise.

 

Thank You For Swallowing My Cum

I tell cats on the street, ‘Hey kitty, she swallowed my cum!’ I told the shy Indian

woman in the corner shop, ‘Do not be afraid, for she swallowed my cum!’ I even

told my mum but she burned her elbow on the frying pan, then showed me a pile

of depressing bank statements as my dad blew a perfect ring of smoke that broke

like the ghost of a cheap wedding band above the empty fruit bowl. Last week,

while pissing into the sea on a beautiful day in Wales, I cupped my hands around

my stoned smile and yelled, ‘Hey sunset, she swallowed my cum!’ but it shrugged

between misty hills as the tide rolled over my shoes, and my ex hates me. Or she

sometimes hates me. And she never swallowed my cum. What am I doing? Where

am I going? Are you okay? Can I get you anything? I won’t swallow your cum but I could make you a sandwich. I should probably send her a message, make sure it’s

cool to share this with my friends. I don’t want to make her feel awkward;

awkward that I saw myself clean in her company, my blood baptismal water;

awkward that I saw myself happily dying as her fingers scribbled sad stories onto

my pale chest; awkward that I tell cats and nervous Indian women and my stressed

parents and amazing, far out, gore-porn sunsets that Oh Wow! when she swallowedmy cum I forgot how dead I am, because when I’m living inside her mouth I don’t even need to breathe. My stupid life pops right out of my happy mouth, bouncing away like a scruffy old tennis ball under the wheels of the sky and all the things we thought we knew before we knew each other.

_______________________________________

Bobby Parker was born 1982 in Kidderminster, Worcestershire, in the UK.  His publications include the critically acclaimed Ghost Town Music and its equally oddball sequel Comberton (Knives Forks & Spoons Press). His poems, stories, artwork and journalism appear randomly these days (since he is often on the road touring) in places such as The Quietus and other reputable—and not so reputable—print and online magazines. His full-length debut collection of poetry, BLUE MOVIE, is due for release in October from Nine Arches Press.