Ben Pease

to see some of the poems Ben Mirov reads and find some other links to items from the interview. Ben Mirov, Part 1 Ben Mirov, Part 2

Anthropology, publishing houses in elementary school, estrangement, ants conferencing over Frank Zappa. Morgan Parker describes herself as equipped with the eyes of a surrealist, ears of an ethnographer, tongue of a cynical comedian, and heart of a brooding sixteen-year old. _ _ _ Morgan Parker, Part 1 Morgan Parker, Part 2

Sarah Schweig, neighbor to airfields, estrangement, mythology, imagination, opens up about how she came to be a poet of departures. Pardon my inability to pronounce Catullus. Sarah Schweig, Part 1 Sarah Schweig, Part 2

He’s just a west-coast boy, living in New York City, he took the express train to where good poems reside. I must be tired or going insane, but Josh Bettinger is without a doubt on his game in these five poems—five because he claimed they were all shorties, but it’s not long into the interview that we see how stocky these poems are—look at these guys the wrong way and they’ll tear your face off. Josh mentions this movie trailer several times in part 2, he insists you watch it: . Josh Bettinger, Part 1 Josh Bettinger, Part 2

Of course, the first guest on the show to grow up in one of the largest wilderness preserves in the United States, Yosemite National Park, provides me with a photo of herself taken indoors. Dawn Marie Knopf’s poetry feeds off a particularly American mythos: old wives’ tales, Farmer’s Almanacs, the revered stories of American pop heroes before they made it big. Playing both sides of the coin, Knopf enjoys both the extension of these fables to a magical extreme and the reduction of them to a sorry tall tale. Does the ball ultimately land in- or out-of-bounds? Listen to the interview to find out. Dawn Marie Knopf, Part 1 Dawn Marie Knopf, Part 2

I’ve never seen Evan Hansen wear a cowboy hat, but his pensive look in this picture displays the same concern he shows in his poetry for people and the tremendous, unspeakable burdens they carry on a daily basis. While the characters in these poems at times find solace, it is by no means permanent, and Hansen makes us wonder if a lifetime of momentary relief might be the best we can hope for. With that in mind, here’s to the upcoming long weekend providing us all with a little more time to relax our way into the summer. Evan Hansen, Part 1 Evan Hansen, Part 2

The Scattered Rhymes podcast was making itself a home at THEthe. In anticipation of the coming podcast, we are reposting the old episodes from the . Today we’re reposting . Part 1 Part 2

THEATER I dropped down against the mosque wall curled my shoulders in let my feet fall apart tilting toward the rubble-dusted floor tried to still my lashes as rifles came clanging in their muzzles smelling out scent heated off a pulse I was playing dead between the dead a beast caught sight of my breath blew off my face he said: “Now he’s fucking dead” - – - WATER sign of life: can hold a world of fleets at once: requiring a new OCEANOGRAPHY: useful to mimic waves in an assault and hit shore at same time: see also HELICOPTER WAVE: SCHEDULED WAVE: descends from garden hoses to rinse asphalt of brain matter: to rinse body on steel slab prior to shroud: streams on land: in gutters: excellent solvent: ask child you want a toy: then ask you want a grenade: watch him jump and startle: date fronds shaking with [...]

from Welcome to the Future



Posted in tandem with www.scatteredrhymes.com Part 1 [audio:http://www.scatteredrhymes.com/poets/ben%20mirov%201.mp3|bgcolor=0x000000] Part 2 [audio:http://www.scatteredrhymes.com/poets/ben%20mirov%202.mp3|bgcolor=0x000000] Monkey Heart Pick it up. Consider it a machine. Put it down. Remember you need it. Go back to where you left it. Airport terminal, donut shop seventh grade. Are you scared? It’s ok. So am I. Take a wet rag. Put it on your head. Let’s retrace your steps. Do you love your wife? Is she made of dolphins? I love my fucking life. Even my secrets and the terrible things I’ve done. They’re like small smooth stones in a green plastic bottle with no label. What were we doing? Driving down a long dark street? Does it feel exactly right? Little fist that pumps the blood. The flicker in your empty. — WAVE MACHINE We go out for drinks and attack a dumpster. D takes off his pants and tries to have sex with J. My lighter [...]

A missing Pleiades in the viewable cluster of stars cannot deny us motion though we cannot master its name: there is something you are not telling me standing at the standing stone detained neither by chicken wire nor the upright megalith we imagine pulsing and in so thinking feel the earth beneath us breathe: looking at anyone on the strip mall concourse I can imagine pausing in front of a mirror to let down his pony tale with his my hands pulling down her blouse to our waist but the thirst from being 25¢ short for the vending machine and the dull anxiety of strangers coming to speak with me is my own: the land around the standing stone half browning grass half greening turf folds into itself for miles and I don’t know what season it is.