THE EXPERIOODICST 17 July 18, 1997 Tim Gaze, Ivan Arguelles, Barry Powell, C.C.Sykes, Matt Powell, John M. Bennett, Harry Polkinhorn, Neeli Cherkovski
MISS CHAOS SAMPLER Tim Gaze "I've written several word manipulation macros in WordBasic, the simple programming language that comes with Word for Windows. I fed four files: the latest issues of Experioddicist and Glossolalia, some haiku by Michel Delville and a recent piece of my own, to my 'Chaos' macro. 'Chaos' randomly grabs slabs of text from random documents in a particular directory and assembles them together. I cleaned up the white space afterwards." Miss Chaos Sampler serial labyrinth of a normally kinetic skin. Finally the endless circle devolves to a montage of previous glass wax head received thought to be a form of hitting which removes the cover of the face, flipping the face and silent BEANS") list the , to his big prolific dick--thoughts and pictures, even beliefs, which have infected us everywhere, The soul of taste or tears' habitual voice. in. Poetry & Prose The Algebra of Repression by Patricia Collins pwd > / writing art itself once a beautiful simulacrum of endless chaos ======================= ====================================== Poetry & Prose The Algebra of Repression by Patricia Collins pwd > /net or lucid streams of oil 'n books ("contusion") oily the rumbustious color of glamorous relationships on the free-floating upper lip the expletives have been deleted! what are those files called. he suggested the in the air no matter where our feet stand what's the pillage in stasis, envision a darkened canyon of books ============== poet assures as childish singularity, characterized by an imaginary alkahest of formal it feels forced. blind. pushing and shoving at with wide breasts disbelief, better sex bottled in a rage of reflected guilt than the narrative of that me repeat. emfatuously benumbered. raw or are we talking ore there or here her hair exclusive of his front right to the printer where our feet stand * the air no matter the perfect pitch of umbilical uncertainty * an plague of life, one with the perfect pitch There was Air. Air had a daughter, Daughter , horsey clasp" contraction (squeezed my instantly or better sums and so on but never without his stand , absent charnel glass of the difficult expulsions, vocative too demotic between the bodies' , individual, fatidic. Only the lyrical slays vents articulate time, nonetheless first word sounds textuality, no convulsive . Daughter floated for seven hundred years, restless. Eventually, a drake flew by, looking for our feet stand ( OF UX 1. The * one with wide breasts the perfect pitch of works blindly stretch poetical hindsight, for years in emergent wonder, somatic books letteral weave, events , horsey clasp" contraction (squeezed my
MEXICO CITY BLUES for Jack Foley Ivan Arguelles South to the land of the Dead you go dont blame yourself if the critics are on fire it's the mescal dont kid yourself dust and the penitential monuments to dust the long unwinding arroyo that wants to become light though all around it is pulverized the mummies with their dry paper flowers bewildered that a map was not offered to them just as you will be rudderless in sleep unable to choose which course goes underground to that dense orchard where the black apples grow and who eats of them KNOWS that eternity has no backside traffic patterns to the contrary you will be afloat in an ether of kinetic cities hallucinating to the radial cactus from which all desire emanates to the land of the Dead you go SOUTH vibrating in the column of air that annihilates time as you know it and speaking backwards to the infinitisimal god of rain whose multiple tongues excoriate history and you will wake in some gorgeous tropic beyond the herculean pillars naked with shaft in hand jade and onyx ornament your eye the prophylactic of doom your emblem totem-wild in your dance on the drum-skin of infinity and heraldic with a nostalgia for preterite worlds SOUTH you go with the dead to the land of the Dead to eat the fruit of the Dead in their holiday of bottomless water and you will survive the Dead the elastic enterprise of poetry which you continually exhaust out of some verbatim sky of menacing thunder and jaguar to eat the fruit of the Dead and taste the corpse of gods! whose vast and melancholy siesta will wrap you and lend you to horrors both sugared and bitter in that irretrievable sleep that exists in the very moment before creation you will have entered the temple the invisible a leaf over each eye and the sun violent and inevitable carving its calendar on your brain the mento mori the dancing skelton of hours you call your life Descend, Friend! and when you return shaking the golden pollen off your body try to remember which was the course that goes underground SOUTH ivan arguelles 6-3-97
2 PIECES BARRY POWELL A LINE, IF A LINE COULD BE DRAWN An interface of this from that and from here, saturation is and there, saturation is not THIS FACE HAS A NAME! it is filter and regulation, but there appears two forces. this side must be severe and surely there, is mercury this is a face of cause and effect. the author did not know the ending at the beginning it breathes we inhale, we exhale it breathes this is reverberation of universe. I see my reflection in the mirror, and i speak back...... I AM. "I sold this birthrite to receive a life of my own, remembering to rebell into saturation as the return trip will swing me higher." i am in here i must be here i must be.... SATURATED!!! 11/21/96 Heaven is indeed a place where nothing happens....its too perfect ,,,, too much oneness...... absolute wholeness... eternal- torment.... of perfection ....and not as much as a mirror to see one's own face......but divided and auctioned from the well of souls, we go on vacation to the badlands, where suffering is prime and mortality is grand......sweet suffering death, what a welcome change for an potential Angel.... The horror of eternity seems like Ghostly stories to the incarnate...hidious faces peering from the dark ... but just on the other side of the darkness is the light, from which one my never return again.... an the closest one might get to incarnation again, may very well be into the mind of the poets of each and every moment as muses illuminate glass....... but come as i will to inspect the house and see to my like-ness ..... I have found humans , more "Just" and have love for even the lowest heart, as i weep in their unholiness....Laughing at the pool and its reflection, the fool sits silent ,,,, as not to be found upon the morning tracks......awakened by the spice and the vision of reflection...... the word is .. and will be again.... Do remember when we started this together ..... knowing millinium would pass before we might start to recognize one-another.....from Peking to Neandertol through the spliting of time, we are just remembering our Royal Roots..... and our children may one day use their real eternal names and know the faces. Vacation land will be filled with peace and harmony... with only the sweetest candy of mortality..... with just enough pain to know your here..... 6/2/97
THREE PIECES C.C. SYKES THE HALL OFF CAMERA crux and rose, risen, is familiar as I, I listening out This flame I glowed into code but is pointed above, spangled, plank and spot I was egg not I of our margins, tumbling of poems, long amiss and in supplied of It four with two In the house of the hall to identity WORLD WITHOUT AND This sedation berries This woman is bursting bluer A sur-face The cough smells for the oath A snapshot stems Up on drizzle Mischievous bacteria shall smile To the sun of her products Where paper is fascinating This belt The entire stretch The summer of a stray precipitating PHYSICS the stage between us like a world the thought of night is blue musicians without trash the salty oranges falling a plumbing truth that one table remembered Pencils are single yelps when the defunct floor-mountains to the bed hammers itself smoke eats paper falls silencer of flies compass of touching bones of a park surprised a tree in dark the opposite nausea
TWO PIECES BY MATT POWELL "Soul Spotting" For all to know They musn't show All the world With Godly veiws But rather the path They will chose Lying lowly At peace with nothing The loss is something Never revealed An orange peeled Left there rotting Gone soul spotting 5-14-97 "Untitled" Why must my world work like this The way others may never exist Into my head and never gone Why my mind must carry on Putting me through a mental hell Into my lovely gone oh wells Confusing why I feel this way Sane to become I never may 6-29-97
3 PIECES John M. Bennett REIGN OF NAILS Before your bed was ever stairs before your steadly hoe was ever//fluted wave, compaction rosters//in my "head" compaction fore the planner crushed be fore your plating ever gleamed beneath the sink's "lost" teeth before your bladder sang before the window fried and glistened to your glandy speech your elbow cuddled in your stomach before the sandy 2X4 the hole your chicken sandwich made the table danced against your face? LAVANDERA Malva slings the "sand" gas less thinner//naked phones// frying matter sandy trees or it it ches shivered pawn or "sandy" book iplease don't complain) flapping on the beach your sanded eyes "detain the wave" just blank (silence) acting sandy but's just clay (spoon or) ropes curving slowly under sand your//setting dawn SHINY BREATH ycur divisor pail, axed the bird for weather, sunken plate. My cornice nail, relaxed and heard your state cf commerce, kinda juicy like a basement and a sausage, or was reverse? like loosely faceless and your leather tossing. My form degrades, your casse- role a backseat driver dormant and your favorite, lastly folded on a stack of sheets: so eye-retained, like mildew in the sunlight ("steam steam!") what I was trained in you like lungs I gleamed...
UNTITLED HARRY POLKINHORN Many souls their Latinisms like a vacuum cleaner Or celestial archer in sandals of lightning bolts Until her description of reading as cocksure Or puerile but in any case chock-full of energy Through a filter in your sleep since no one Could bear the weight until a healing of parts Gives the flavor or merely how it feels in an Evolving wheel that cuts a patch effortlessly Its arms extending to radiate love that Has achieved celebrity status in its common Features no longer strictly speaking a point Of doctrine although if you're so inclined A comeback worked around edges lifted for Scrutiny as fat rolls or your firm touch On plastic buttons as ordered among green Exceptions to Nordic blue or white alternatives Hourly status to keep them alive and guilt-free Down through the generations as a way out Bereft of visual acuity beforehand as fated Because you can't grasp their thrust or Sucking marrow for an infinitesimal twitch Revealing your position so that whichever Penance befalls you your tailored obstacles to A lethargic burning conscience in your Pituitary where broken hormone chains Bridal chamber or machine language Allowable with the right restrictions and Covenants on your permanent grief that wears
GATE for Rod Freebairn-Smith NEELI CHERKOVSKI the first road led nowhere, so we had to drive down, then we went up the right road, the sadness of what we held for one another as we climbed into the hills this liquid light coming up,sound imprisoned in clouds traveling down a name what name? what I dream you will never dream, how I think you'll not bury, to love again, give a leaf outside on the white patio under the protection of rain only rain, not an armada or an army not even a squadron, take the image of a dead cell and run, they tended to disbelieve one hotel, two restaurants three parakeets caged surrounded by cigarette smoke day in and day out, the centuries pile up on top of the birds streets wandering like stray dogs up and down run afoul of history, to rape words that once were like wine, to truncate even the most sacred object, who needs a garden with a fountain vortexing a court of bright leaves and aging footpaths or grain in a granary we entered a formal garden Medieval but well tended one thousand years later reform by advancing pull in the reigns across exhausted hills round gate, round tower, round green, round time as it blasts through the wall our bodies make she was for me a fortress and when I climbed inside I felt the angry heat of a furnace in her eyes touch tragedy's tower in a glance, the sky is a firestorm of colors, a profusion of bird-like clouds gathering as if into a vast palm she was, for me, a sign, on every door I left what I could until memory erred, to find such a gate, to enter and be calmed simple architectural fact mosque, massive walls umber eyes footsteps of the Moor carrying a medical text or seeds to be planted green tower crowned with yellow orb ancient orchard tended by exquisite labor cuando abras los ojos amigo, leaping antelope eyes and sweeping rabbit lips able jaguar door the gate swings up and around, tower, round tower, garden, such sunlight and radiant rainfall captain your spinning needle, soldier, what dawns over the sand? a quilt of many faces, a life cut down in the beginning, and when he said "water" he meant your words flowing much as a river might flow touch the gate give us the blueprints to a cathedral to be built out of synagogue dust, offer a key that fits into a woman's gnarled brow as she passes on a cobbled street until it's coffee time in a wheel of voices: your life, have a match? spare a dime? my name is street, your name I see and confront what I am able to name swan, how many? when" why? who fell to their knees and held a branch up high enough for all to see? come take this house of all houses, the gate is open, you'll find hands and rope, you see children and hope, but what do we do with this water? see, these are words in the amphitheater which we've devised on a stone-wrecked hillside in order to read the leaves and pine needles, in order not to forget from where we came? swan, yes I know this is the name you have taken from the land of the birds, swan on the sidewalk sleeping in doorways, invaded by lice outside of town lone donkey grazing two pine trees catch a breeze and remain in place what name? there's a sweet throat one single note trembling outward beyond the codices and board rooms of the very wealthy, beyond a name and a name, a name and a gate and in that naming