Editors:  Ken Harris, Jim Leftwich

Poets: Charles Ardinger, Chris Daniels, Peter Ganick, Cheryl Burket, Theo Lorenc, John M. Bennett, Dan Raphael, Tom Taylor
||||||||||||||||||||||||| PETER GANICK from SONNET WHAT what lost a balmy name resumes an attachment that coded inputs release as favored intensity foreign nomenclatures with plastic resonation from pleasure nothing less than those few whose plasma overturns new music presences formed in the landscape such event an evident form with the one spatial impression of defined time after all that workmanship no speech is necessary for rappers to go downtown on some fleeting reality ||||| CHERYL BURKET VACANCY Walking down the town. A dead voice staring out from under a girl's skirt. Fireflies congregate by. Haze over my memories. Coming back with larger versions of what had been before the. Just such a thing as untitled. Left town before they took away. All my spells. ||||| THEO LORENC AMERICAN BLEND Since the woodland is now a Baudelairean sludge of random propositions and the unchecked domination of the species 'glory-of-underpass' does not threaten, rather includes itself in, the alcoholic twilights of certain identifiable factors tending towards our wanky porcelain, it is commendable in those who seek to transcribe the exhaust-roar naivety and all- too-simple Lamarckianism of billboard kamikaze, or at least a nebulous poignance of accent. ||||| PETER GANICK from SONNET WHAT now as nothing is expected of you rules display agreeable tones called twelves and sevens for at once recreation curls destination previous entrapment from perfect lies tether down the ferment understood as fabulous unit roles a severity would define as notice reports invert collars that simplicity careens with through isolation and a message of coincidence in hotel rooms occupied laborers whose primacy regulates obedience into a smaller derision by water by land ||||| CHARLES ARDINGER I'LL BE HOME LATE He wrapped his fist around the doorknob, turned: nothing. Funny: he never locked the door, but fumbled for a key in the rubble in his pocket while the big empty night buzzed around him. Key found and forced into narrow hole and turned: nothing. Then all the gestures he learned from old movies: rattle key, shake doorknob, pound with fist at eye level, et cetera until he got tired. Unexpected as a ghost in your bed a spark leapt across a synapse in his head to light the fuse to reach the amateur time bomb (alarm clock, two big sausages of dynamite) buried there, which bellowed: YOU FOOL. YOU LEFT YEARS AGO. Walked away blinking like a pigeon full of Alka-Seltzer, wondering where he actually lives. ** GREATGRANDUNCLE EDGAR or ANOTHER CRISIS And when the buildings turned their backs he cowered, alley-ridden, gawked at a big white future stretched before him -- him in bed attached with strips of canvas to its guardrails; him in the room hearing only his breath; him among furniture -- & begged the hooded skeleton for its word. It gave none. ** MINORITY Barely heard. Voice of termite. Emaciated heir. Garret-starved. Burning right. Margin scribbler. Arctic purity. Speaker to shadows. Curdled prophecy. Scarcely human. ||||| PETER GANICK from SONNET WHAT capably organizing one two three situations for largely punitive manners cannot fuel thought or relationships wide as other information is scheduled reverse distances trammel the once thrown away flowchart a dense fabric of illusory life without the handshake of copied namesakes hammer a truth where oceans less culpable rehearse dimensions that create language and sound of such rope snake harmonies taught by swamis nearby handgrenades of opposing views narrowly miss the heading to space ||||| JOHN M. BENNETT BRUISE or RESPIRATION (nails collision)) tap taps combine, I was sinking "vasto de agua" but my tummy boiled slid my face against that clear would nothing's wall, condensed release top flown matter flattened looked outside reflect was "all" I saw BRUISE or RESPIRATION sawn lastings lective pout looked I, "patterned" after, sketched my arms' blown reach ("condensed") all slouching in the glass's corner ("clean" not so "place") planed boils in my sleep's vague aguada clinking, worn tape ("aligned the boards" ||||| THEO LORENC 'The poems' Faded perfection of Austrian leverage, hopeful dog-eyes nighttime in sweated historical inferiors, jackboot suburb, only the literary groan-type resonance and (since vigils haven't called revised list superman into tenement aroma, it seems restorative unkempt apply) or even colours of Psalmist - that is, rebarbative homebrew strolling for exceptions, habitual occurrence "which proves" hardly desirable doorman inclined to cannibalism or directive, it hardly matters - of course its luminous positioned was punctuate in divorce, otherwise juxtapose the general schema and aeroplane deterioration would, abbreviated, tempestuous although dominant seventh perceived in spite des Willens, it's half a crossword simulation needing Vedic reshuffle and malice of bracketed number. ||||| PETER GANICK from SONNET WHAT reasons for the wall of light a wall sound cannot fade for because the life of caroms their indelible wallop rides on turned skies and results gender flexibility as the risen diver comes full circuit for a whether or not situation always okays topmost renegades who barge in on veracity all data frozen in banana republics no hoorah that a scare has been resisted any other fluid would bemoan silence talk and the reconstitution of talk one wearing thin of result with responsibility growing thin early out ||||| CHERYL BURKET TRUCKER Bob-tail, 18 wheeler. Red grin & cowboy boots worn to the ground. When he thinks of his heartbeat, he writes several pieces into a landscape of black crickets passing the vines. Pulls jeans jacket tighter. Because at the edge of things is instinct. He wants to believe in a true horizon. In the white geography of his truck map ---------- Up in his cab headed into a background 20 hours West. Drives by backyards of white rope clothesline. Vacant train tracks. Wired animals &. His sixth sense of their location &. Their road's prehistoric name. Speeding under the bridge. The archway of invoked ghosts. Heading into apparent horizon ---------- Pulls off I-80. He eats orange hibiscus flowers & waits for dusk. For his animals to come out. For their red eyes to come. Black silhouette of the forest behind them. A forest with small fires. A place he can return to ||||| CHRIS DANIELS THE SPHERE (autumn 1981) to the spirit of LEONARDO FIBONACCI and my dear friend DANIEL STRONGIN because they wrote it for me ************************************************** _exulting in solitary equipoise_ ************************************************** and the winding up the way is all ways all works one work **** HEARD call it wind seen call it light tasted call it salt drown felt smelled call it rain mist drown making one or many of one unknowing **** PEARL NOT PRODUCT of mollusc or god goddess white or black this point _still point_ holds galaxies sand in a goblet can't be spoken _word with no sound_ metaphor simile _poor recourse_ when speech fails song song without speech is neither poetry nor rhetoric call it death **** PROTEUS -- for andrew joron, 15 years later beaked and shaggy clawed small he was scaled below the waist while seals thronged cringing we wrestled first no surprises what old books told he did fire and ice water and steam lizard bear atom but suddenly mantichora _which doth loathe its like_ the woman the blinding child in a rivulet we rolled _fra banc to banc_ he told it is gone forgetfulness the deepest evil **** WHITE NOISE SINGS IT i die before i finish no end to it act on it its stream is too quick for thought it stands still in view and you debating _tickle points of niceness_ if it touched me now alone with four doorless walls and shuttered windows i could not help but sing **** DUMB senses know know them know _grain of sand palm of hand_ an hour and not confuse knowledge gotten with knowledge given or eupepsia with love **** SPEND THE ODD DAY grinning an idiot uttering **** _QUESTIONS ALIVE become answers_ O FEEL THE WINDING DOWN ||||| DAN RAPHAEL trailer court roof top major arterial dark wood clamps open, dark town turned into itself on a lathe of traffic, turning around the vein of momentum, blood blue as asphalt surging with sludge against scarred, graffitied walls, fluorescent paint in languages not invented yet, graphic languages attempting to capture an image larger than thought-- one can of spray paint is worth how many pictures, worth 6 months in juvie, two years probation, a crew with decent houses to hang in--mom works night shift or dad's in the garage with some pounders the trees seem closer tonight, tree pulses like the vein in my wrist, my tongue dry as plywood, dry as half a joint of cheap mexican and a couple glugs of warm Old English. the street is curved like the top of a giant culvert, pockmarked from a diet of coke, doritos, corn dogs, combustible birthday cakes, butane lighters angry as hornets, angry as a drunk facing a beerless frij and an empty cigarette pack 10 minutes after the corner market's closed the dancing flames of a dozen grease fires spontane from the scalp of a used car lot the mobile homes have circled like covered wagons firing coat hanger arrows tipped with used pampers to keep the kids away from the gravel, bottle shards, burbling rivulets of oil and antifreeze stray dogs, possums, squirrels warily approach, unaware of the wildlife ranger red-eyed on the garage roof, trying to tell what kind of car each pair of stars are the headlights of, not wanting to hunt neighbors out of season, wanting to preserve the tree with so many names carved in it like the bible of a family never together more than waiting for a bus with the seats removed, the windows replaced with plywood no one wants to drive through urine corroded streets, streets soft with bags and boxes, shiny with cans and glass teeth, glass mountains challenging daredevil ants banished outdoors by territorial roaches cats juggle to earn chicken bones fried so deep they explode like forest fires with sudden blinding light clogging the nostrils like a time machine awakens memories of other lives, other species lost in karmic elevators where up and down, where numbers are obscured in the blizzard of possibilities, a blizzard of low income housing where each dim hallway, each unpainted door opens with a quick shoulder, shoulder a menagerie of seeds shells bits of glass and metal a leaf for the body's periodic table past the simple gases of cloth and skin, the core metals of bone and organs to the rare earths of insights awe unity shattered by the quick halflifes of manmade relationships ingredients places no water flows or tree puts down roots ||||| THOMAS LOWE TAYLOR THIS WOULD BE HERE Nor move beyond other times have swept your own signs along. This is the neon spasm, or furthered hours my own song. Here's my detail in your airs, go to later spires, but holding here is soon enough a name for you to call your own. I'd sorted things out, but not belonged exactly into the roomer calms; a softer skin is held by sign and line your own airs removed. But still, here is the newer life you called aside as yours, and met your own beloved in the shorter lights, these at the anchor hours. * What's not? The pleasured hours remain at still remiss--as you are forward or headed in, these specific shots are still one after the other, but not reminded at all, nor held nor moved. In the sailor hour, the sheeper spread reflects and holds aside. This is the nomenclature of what was said. The door. The other moon, but still holding in the less internal hours, your own anchor another room aside and floundered out, spun aside and fortuned or sailed away. A smooth surface resides here, and in other times, the also-ran holds his own reputation up for view, for vision, maybe. A lamer spoke, a floundered pier. Shots for one particular school or for a newer guise. * In advance of what, you might ask. Is it over or is it the tale told by the man who holds the check for dinner? Post-modern what? That's what I ask. In the folds of your cloak, it is always now, and you can't be post-now, it's rather like buying your future with the arms race, give me a break! I shudder to ask, nor even to smell the roses in their own habitat. It's eclat , you might say, in line with the tale told by another. Maybe you're the idiot. Well, I wouldn't wonder, with things the way that they are now, you know. Shifted spasms, no epistemological bullshit stuffed or suffered--no, it's too darned associative or maybe reflective to be imagistic or even magnetic. Why fool around with disclaimers? It's not too late to take a stand. On something. * Morning. Move over, baby, you're lying across the entire bed. Not too late now to watch the clock in the non-hours when you don't have to get up. Just try not to remember, anything at all, sailing down the looner dunes in particular density, saying nothing at all and removing doubt from your own movie. Techno shorts are sailed away, poetry a line into the future, or something like that. Stay soft, I'll bring you to life. No, it's a rotor claim shedding out the later calm. In no space but here is the dragon laid to rest in his otherness denied nor said from here to there, it's a fortune in the desert in unclaimed diamonds, but not too soon to say "This is not the movie I paid to see, you know, paid good money," or something like that. Not prose, exactly. Nor voices in the gloom. It's the free fall from one room to another that spells the cosmic fruit to fall uncoincided in the temple of your own lobes, and here's some real shit. * Flux betide, a foam, a cancellation or remiss strutter--she's aloft and flying, here you are your own doom, flooding sense with dotted light and flame. I'm a doubt, you're the sky. ******************** * This would be here, or not. I'm a spasm and not tolled nor shaled cliff to say you are the one in between me and darker hours we won't mention again. Nor death nor calm deliberation stills the motive in your own light, and as you are called ahead into your own life, you might get off your ass and try a little courage or experimentation, not just the cool revival of dusk in its own sentiments. That's far too removed, you might say, to be considered beyond something to just, uh, spend your time on. On. * Not a sharp line. Here is the skiller realm, but shorted outlines are slow or fast, according to nothing. Pure consciousness in its descriptions would bely prose its familiarity, its willingness to discontent in the pose of accuracy, its familial destiny or posture. They knock the giants off the map and go on into the world serious. Hear the other hours say "Now is the time!" and utter the wooden screams of the people on your front porch, still wearing polyester suits, moonies of the spiritual fold, collecting quarters into silver bags and heaving your implosions into the other sphere with measured gestures, the rehearsed implications of the drone, the robotic folder of shirts at the laundry; but here's your friend in spine, the latter in her folded mists.... * The non-bind music floats your anchored hours into the mental space of light itself. It's a good day for saying before you speak at all, the mooner mists are good enough for me, but not no dew on the flasks of the never moon. A darkened sky, but still your eyes ahead of me, sailing into the ether darke, a flooder in her songs and tales, moving me more deeply into what we share between us. I've no more data than that, but you hold aside for more, always asking for more, as if there were. * Nowhere calls the day aside or outer. It is still now, not post-now. You're not that smart, nor sensitive, I might add. But let's not argue. You spoke slowly or not at all. It was cold, but I don't remember. Not too far along the way, there was an obstruction, a pinnacle of undiscovered light or density, not not even a concept. An alteration, perhaps. But not some single thing you might spell out like astrology, or dust. I'm not going on with this anymore, you can tell that. * It's a spasm or a doubt, either. What's syntax, even, but a measure of thought performing its specific gravity, like style. Flash and funk, you say, shrugging it off, but give it a try. Chicken? An attitude or love's own shore, faulting your own penetrations of the lighted sphere without sensation or pity. Or criticism. It's not the mind you manner, but the seance of the thing itself, looming out of the dark you forgot to describe, waiting for a guy in a coffee shop for a paint job you don't really want to do in the first place, you just want to see what the old guy came up with for, uh, work. I'm not here, just pretending. It's my time and I'll do with it what I want. * It's shore and fault no other in the dusk, a simpler hour describes the hours between us. Light fills the room, in your own shapes made simple, made against the shore and fault itself again, leaning out into the lines you said describe will or its alien friend, love in the midst of plenty, singing against the tune for all it's worth, shaling and spinning.... *************** SONNET WHAT, by Peter Ganick, is available from Marshall Creek Press, Matt Hill, editor, P. O. Box 305, Ben Lomond, CA 95005