Crg Hill's poetry scorecard

I rode the AC Transit bus back to Oakland early, hurrying home for game 3 of the 1989 Bay Bridge World Series. Walking home, the ground shifted, loading door behind the Grand Lake theater rattled, and telephone poles swayed. A block later, one girl laughed hysterically, while her companion cried.

My last will and testament: When my vision fades, I give everything within my reach to transparency, to depth, and I give everything beyond my reach to variation, to vigilance. To everything, near and far, spiritual and material, to you, me, I give one last wink, one last deep breath.

Announcing: Critical e-anthology Centering Around Issues of Race, Ethnicity, & Poetics by Writers of Color

From Jerrold Shiroma, durationpress.com:

I am currently collecting work for a critical e-anthology centering around issues of race, ethnicity, & poetics by writers of color. As with the previous e-anthology, "Towards A Foreign Likeness Bent: Translation", this collection will be available as a free pdf file on the durationpress.com website.

I'm hoping that this new collection will offer a wide variety of views towards how race & ethnicity drives, or doesn't, your work, how racial & ethnic history factors in, or doesn't, your place within a
traditionally "white" experimental poetic history. Of course, these are simple starting points.

Critical essays, statements of poetics, etc., are all welcome. If you have any questions, please let me know. &, of course, please do forward this to anyone whom you may think would be interested.

I'm hoping to have all work received by mid-November.

Hotel Abbey, Jones and Geary. Because I was cute, the manager gave me a couple days grace on rent. When I was pissed, I’d go to the roof, scoop handfuls of pebbles, wait for johns to pull into the parking lot with their hookers, then rain pebbles on their cars.

I asked why KSAN was playing non-stop Beatles. “John Lennon’s dead, he said. “Someone shot him.” I stumbled out of work, graveyeard shift just begun, bought two bottles of wine, sat in my dark, cockroach infested Tenderloin hotel room, and inhaled the wine. Shocked, I couldn’t even get stupid drunk.

Leering, the panda was suffocating me. I tried to shout but was too young for words. Over the panda's shoulder, Raggedy Ann and Andy sat limp, impotent, unable to intervene. When I grew up I learned the painting, in this world, could do nothing, even if it was my dad's.

Word For/Word #12 is Online (Including Tons of Visual Poetry)

Dear Friends,

I'm pleased to announce that Word For/Word #12 is online at

www.wordforword.info

with lots of exciting new work, including a special section (guest edited by
Brian Whitener) of visual and sound poetry from Foro de Escrtores, a
collaborative assembly of writers and artists based in Santiago, Chile.

As always, I'll welcome your comments and feedback. Also, I'm now taking
poetry, visuals, essays and reviews for upcoming issues. I'd love to see
your new work.

Cheers!
Jonathan Minton

Calamari Press is pleased to announce the publication of Vaast Bin by Michael Peters

From Derek White:

Like the vast stellar bin or the blackbody that Michael Peters alludes to in this cosmic fertility myth, the primal “poems” and images that comprise Vaast Bin; n Ephemerisi absorb all impinging radiation (the raw data that Peters' inks into it) and re-radiate an energy that is uniquely characteristic of the glowing body (the book object, and Peters himself). Bristling and oozing with storm petrels, glowvents, mutend probes, hoary tropes and other wild-type organisms, the spectral pattern of words and images is not only unique and characteristic of Michael Peters, but it’s mathematically precise. It’s his genetic kernel reduced to coded language and diagrammatic rhizomes, urgently re-propagated—without restraint—for our detectors (senses) to absorb, ponder and assimilate into our own beings. Vaast Bin is a visceral lexicon that is both mechanical and organic, that grates and augers down to the raw, bubbling cistern of creation.

Original art [ Some striking pieces as seen in the web preview! Crg] from the book is also available for purchase. To check out excerpts, art and a book trailer go here:
http://www.calamaripress.com/vaast_bin.htm

If you’re interested in a review copy, let me know.

Shortest player on the court, I hustled or overcompensated, your pick, pushing, leaping, for loose balls. Landing atop another’s shoe, my foot right-angle to my leg, I drove thirty miles up a steep grade, pitch-dark night, grossly under speed limit, to crawl into our apartment, right ankle broken, ego buckled.

I miss the wrapped bud, pure tight aromatic potential. I miss the first petals opening. I miss arms legs lips eyes tongues opening so excruciatingly, delectably slow. I miss the fully opened, bees buzzing, eternally wide open. I miss all my petals. Drooping, I miss any petals, my last petal.

*****

I dreamt last night my tongue was growing very long hairs, not that my hair was growing tongues. Either condition, of course, would be equally disturbing, but I figured I could trim off the hairs on my tongue. What could I do with thousands of tongues flapping from my head?