MADONNA KABBALAH

She balance is not slightly tipping

But the orders in my seed said

Tears are garbaged, sloven

Wears a pithy meaning in the nose-ring in her

Ring in my tree is pink passer

I feel pity it’s a long high good I do

Rosing better ten injunctions on the past moment

If a sin, a key into a boy if not but waiting kill

Kill song the hunting hound is planted

We are lashed together thru the eyes, I give a powder to you

A clear runs sale on Etna hills.  Push a button to remind the dead

underneath the dead, the underestimated dread repeating

The dead storing in the living’s garbaged tears are rike very rife-rike

Terrifying police b/w my thigh, a brush with

Danger slightly less if you are bound enough, by depleting kill

By too much, the butt of the gun needs kissing

The dreamings’ eyes closing, bolt.

magichelicopter:

So this begins a new series here on this Magic Helicopter tumblr, interviews with our authors—to preview, to review, to catch up and feel happy together once again. 

This whole thing gets walloped first by Carrie Lorig, author of  NODS., MHP’s newest release and the first chapbook in the new Gobble Editions series. Check out what Carrie has to say about what this chapbook means to her, how it developed, and what this book would look like if it were a painting (PLUS MUCH MORE OF COURSE). Then, grab yourself a copy of that wildthing NODS. 

Carrie stoked with NODS. at its first arrival.

1.What is this book? What’s it mean to Carrie Lorig? Why NODS.?

a) This book is an attempt to document and give dark/bright life to the sense of being overwhelmed by the world and by the potential to love in the world. It is the hope that swelling will not be a pushing out or closing off but a productive, necessary spilling. These are the wounds that will not be forced to heal, but will change and overlap with each other. This book is built by the idea that a poem can’t and shouldn’t always hold a poem. It is a gleeful and futile attempt to herd a flood of constant, fragmented emotions and desire. It is a reaction to growing up covered in cows and horses and fur and fields and allergies. It is a vocal register set to female and to you and to I and to intimate and to underground. It is lost down here in cloth and up there in sky and in high temperatures and in pools of unashamed shame. My damage is my joy is my handmade canyon is a growth. I want to be able to reach, and I also want to recognize, in a microscopic/telescopic way, how often reach doesn’t or can’t work. How difficult and present light can still be after that! The bodies of words shake like mine does, like my little does. I wanted to give and give and die and die wrapped in leather and dirt. I wanted to flip off cowboys by putting fireworks in their hands as gently as I couldn’t.

 

b) As soon as I finished writing NODS. for real, I called Jared Joseph, the J who the book is dedicated to, and like…cried while curled up in a ball of a ball of a ball. I was tired of myself, my room, my computer. When I got to the end of the writing, I thought something I could palm would be there. I thought I would walk away with some new tool belt for being a Carrie Lorig and a (trash)human. I expected Werner Herzog to show up with my celebratory beer. This is so contrary to what I stand for poetically (Anne Boyer: I write to undermine perfect confidence). It is so contrary to what I just said above, but nonetheless, I felt oddly displaced and covered in ugly migratory patterns. I don’t mean to linger here so much as to bring us towards a point where I say this book is a documentation of an intense relationship I have with myself re: my relationships with others. Thus, it has to mean everything. However, how it continues to mean and echo and stain glass through me after the fact will go on for a good, long while and at a pace I can’t control. I think, actually, this is how most books mean to us despite our impatient penchant for the quick pay off.

c) Ha! Nick Sturm suggested this title to me like the second or third time we ever talked? ‘Nods’ is something I say on G-chat with startling regularity. IT’S A HABIT. I began typing it as a way to express listening and attentive-ness, which on some level, is poetry’s only ratty bathrobe. And both Nick and Jared, who read a lot of these poems en-route to the slaughterhouse, commented on how strong some of the affirmative emergences of the text were despite the shitty shit that is also there stink waltzing and barfing repeatedly. I hope that can be something a reader can clutch while on the way to Tahiti or the grocery store. Once I had that casual suggestion, I began seeing it everywhere as the only title the book could have. I write by reading out loud, by sound, by mishearing and rehearing and by turning my tongue/ear over and over. So NODS. became an obvious nod to the rhythm and performance that is necessary to engaging with this text. It became the invitation to nod along while I read outloud or while you read to yourself, the reassurance that you won’t be entirely lost in being open to being so lost.

2. What published pieces from the book best illustrate the power and intent of the book?

This is hard. The scatterstate in Everyday Genius, IT CAN’T BE LOVE / IT MUST BE LOVE in Stoked. The cattlehurter in Whiskey Island. You know, this scatter in Jellyfish didn’t end up being in the manuscript, but I still listed it in the acknowledgements because its spirit was therethere, so I’m going to say that one, too. Maim Cattle. Pain holding flowers.

 

Read More

ever have a vantage of the riches, the wealths

cosen him to mandate to you & He’s crumbled

: force. God

the void rubs a vapo

somehow survived tonight’s imagination.

: In signal of his power he will come : a long alliant ar.

of security for your Mister; he will shut your love in

Moses family & of Aaron; the angles have her in their

you as a sign, Waring/waning hug.

shoulders, he told his soldiers : God goes to prove the

with him is thirst : his thirst will not be mine;

alvo drinks the hole of hand) counting herself : hmong

all the rest drank their His thirst.  When the way &

traversed the river the rest exclaimed upon the middle

a numerous ugly trope vanquishes a

eal to Pls Gd.  God’s a condom

soft sugarwater : that you’ll lack the fear temptation.

mystique god.  If they terminate their actions, intone

I know, I know perverser contracts.

like the back room

mouthing, & those secret place makeles below the

opens you, Porres them as they oppress you a

Mister saps the con with coins who fear the Opiteous

within the send a God & it does not appall you, it

manners flocking on your breath an abdomen.  Do it

phases moons well, shar crescents pululate the Fiendish

& the visit to the saints’ places

Mamma rots in circles thru her ovarios, & if that

Don’t share : your wooly heads

where you owe one immolated star of being from your

would inform or waltz razors Rausing some sensation

a whole sickle-bodied Currant, continente this, he’s

savory

wrong & crooked lumps the moon

for women : ‘s ccramps, the possessive leaks tos ay it

a slit in which to enter Pardon : of God highly

Money is indeed an ecstasy, a manor in the otherwise ascetic

crenibues CONSERVED THE MEMORY OF

Mathers & haste men to life today.  Hey, Men, that say

of ghosts that World of guts.  There will have no

Mister, a signature a good part in this World a good

us in the FIRE in the ash mountain of the templ

to g oto them amidsr the TINY BLA BLAS OF

angels, & all the sea commanded all the sees

mortality causes turning unto God.

makes brilliant changes, God favorable, He apprehend this

is for the text that do careen towards the makeles

God atop those [1st. Ed.] on the day of underwear

without telling much about them love.

roundly fascinated like a nation

The deity of the book (The Pent

he truth, to decide among the men’s asses foam the

well, the men don’t pussy to dispute more than they

the evidente surges women threw the

guide to men relieving hazes smile for the truth

to be an object of dispute within permission of the

without heaving : thought sensed the book that

eeded you.  Felt them up now well, the disfraces &

were lacy sockets : the adversity until the hasty

& those believing in him had exxclaimed : When

They ash you : They ask you how it’s necessary

Is he not caring the ox of cirling boustrophedonic

them bend & break, your Ma

there’s a manola, lovely Morello smells but with the

Which kind.  The apple’s whole cohesive knows its

part with the taste of hit to better known be by God, my

& yet you rake & in aversion take upon yourself

which gives a vantage do you like dancing do you

but you don’t know the damages

Lope the sacred moth, stamped war nto this month Tell

a grave : peeking, part yourself from God’s send & relieve

jumbled, high-jumping expulsión from his rectum to

*The temptation of idolatry is worse than

your ripped shoulders are operas

the ether, a son, those men destined to the FIRE

the women, they all on your Brothers.  Good knows to

& that the which does good.  He’ll offbeat you if he

surge the better good

women til they don’t relieve.  A believing slave’s

dolatrous women even when you like her oven.  Don’t

A blowing slave values more than

capitalismo though you hate him more

to the mad floor, proverbially free, so the tread itself

House with shut.

terse my termination ceremonies

tongue, a signature I’ve done

they’ve invited that, limpid stomach

Mister try, define my wet hair dog

i’ve without crushed limping

path unto ourselves, congealed eats him

tremble wet dog blue private shot beets                        

me i touch giraffes. hanging from the margins me

defiling now they’re animal. They’re weird in

they have made of me a pardon

up the valley quotes the life rising

unquote mercy

is an ecstasy in fat

fucking oblate angel-smooth

all the hard on my little before is, un-hard he sources

he screens my head

before he knocks the ball, temple screams

the ash temples quote Tremble, then, to God wet dog End

Quote abrades you in the manner of

mirror in the face or, oaring hole

portmanteau a whole psychology

some prostitutions thought i was

thought me into being

a hot new parted lily futures

parted flower i am love with problems

& preserves, ash straight path, book the crimps

best day arrives a quote, like a sea
Quester, day horrible, house difficult, quothed the bask horrible repeating

repose the bed will not be horrible

on the contrary, corrugated ante is my runoff

horrible ante that man is

that man is shoulders

shoulders cripping crooning

accruing plays my football playing past

that man’s shoulders

past lion

beard

hat

When i was ugly when

wasn’t i? wasn’t i, A dire god

damned sense budding over

Fanta drinks

into me perfect

perfect

like one syllable pa’

no one not alone enough candela

seriously quote you are a better player

than i ever thought i was un

quote beautiful

loin like this cut of

book in states contrary

expresses a sincerity more complex before the feat of its

very irony encompassing, destroying every correct

left-body, lacunae, t-cell molecules a spit of atom ruining brain

ruining brain

ruining brain

& tic i spit

abrades

i hit a globe it was an

i declare autopsy on the table i am naked on

the table can’t believe this naked

my vary phloe

m this very furred pa’ beau

I remember portmanteau of Beau his blue eyes everyone Spoke

hushed how much they hated him they fucked him on the floe

husk of bugs

morning frost that hate of color

was his eyes’ colore

& make a lunch

i remember days days hunger

days after i forgot how much i hunger

him because i didn’t care, my glands were sponsored

posed around the hut

natural in a way hut buried

strata for the archers

who spit like aches

THWIP

i have felt nothing, & i remember fucking it.

i am working time toward feeling a Chinese paper moon

when i poled the moon

pulled in boat & water

quote He looked up in the sky through tiny crack the day green foliage

And he was overcome with wondrous

mosses end quote

How can I successfully

absolute the purposeless body

This very furred beau

these – was the water-lily flower

a strum across a flower

don’t shake

& the body on her beauty

& the body on his beauty

& the bodice on ours, others, pressed

briefly care while, a little further again others pressed

all that is wife

all that is infinite – in the passing hour, it seemed

long & useless elegant gloves

& weren’t all

these careful interests & conditions just eva

I LOVE DICK

Sions of a greater truth, my cunt?

We’re washing my hair to gain

OH EGYPT I AM WASHING THAT

MY HAIR MIGHT GAIN KNOWLEDGE

OF YOU i am rosing

buleria mia

at the corner in wisconsin

the shout gripes some

with flu you shot out

streak was in love

in love with i was talking

love about reading

on the phone THIS morning noise

noise absolute, purposeless beauty

be all the problems all the time

banangolit:

Japanese Red Leaf Maple
by Leif Haven
Love Symbol Press, 2012
50 pages / Free E-chap

REVIEW BY: Jared Joseph
Jared Joseph is a 1st year candidate for the MFA at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop.  His chapbook “Commuting: Have Gone to Ithaca. -Frank Quitely” is available from Varmint Armature press.  More poems & mutts are here.

***

Japanese Red Leaf Maple is a curated series of poem skirmishes based on found ads from the Portland Craigslist free section.  The first poem is eponymous

 Japanese Red Leaf Maple

in the wrong place.

needs a new home.

This bare gorgeous poemish from inception uproots the reader & sets a sort of precedent atmosphere of transplant & homelessness.  The poemish-text on the one hand appears to have been written by anyone in direct reference to (A) the Japanese Red Leaf Maple, a natural object that has needs, a tree with people-needs.  The poemish-text on the other hand appears to have been written by a reader in indirect reference to (B) Japanese Red Leaf Maple, a book based on error & re-appropriation, grammatical issues intact, dealing in issues of tact because it is a plea & also in abstract tactility, the intangible book that, hell who knows in another incarnation would have been made into paper from a Japanese Red Leaf Maple, but is instead coded binary.  Its tangibility is assumed, as is the presumed tangibility of these titles’ unreal needy objects.

Read More

All angel dog gifs go to

heaven’s dynamite parties

made of blooms, blown apart sacred

ravishing monsters : that word has been prostituted

but love rehearses my identity

called eternity.  Called it a drop

system like the beautiful

inspired by gods’ eyes’

gazes causing falls & burning froth

& moths on the ferns

the way all angel dog gifs go to heaven a gif from god.

Heat is hard, inaccessible to reason, reason not snipped

Like a hat uncircumcised.

Adults snipe the crayons off of children

& god He so incredulous.  He damned them

rehearsing eternity

But they say: Our hearts

Are wild anise.

My hair is rinsed with raw & wild

I am made of rain

I take bolts of thunder bolts of ravish bolts of mulch up the ass they say.

I soften it with the they say like

The God of the Jews & the Christians

Looks directly at the model’s burning face

& sees Paris

In a way

They cannot stay this woman.

Nor why should I.

She is my overwhelming wife

Killed by dint of force of wonder

of the moon crime, yellow flowers

& the impact of the collection of them all revealing themselves

To be two partners one an angel inflicted pain roses while wrestling her

Own holy shit, the burning Susquehanna.

I was tagged by Jared Harvey - thanks to him for providing his blog as an outlet for this.

What is the working title of the book?

Esoteric Cults of the American Soul

Where did the idea come from for the book?

It began as my thesis manuscript including poems I wrote while attending the WW, and has begun to incorporate projects including the 25¢ CASH (written non-lineated in a thrift store money ledger Summer 2011) and a suite of poems under the umbrella of Undergraduate Girl Women taking their formal cues from badness, easy rhymes, destitute poetics.

The title of the book was derived from a phrase coined by Allen Tate in the foreword of Hart Crane’s White Buildings I found in the Notes of Crane’s collected (p. 796-797, Library of America, 2006).

What genre does your book fall under?

Hopefully poetry, but that’s no doubt debatable.

What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a movie rendition?

Jennifer Lawrence. Werner Herzog. Zach Galifianakis. Vincent Gallo.

What is the one sentence synopsis of your book?

“It is likely to be appropriated by one of the several esoteric cults of the American soul.”

How long did it take you to write the first draft of the manuscript?

2-3 years

Who or what inspired you to write this book?

Art manifestos, read-only memory, Ft Lauderdale, corporate tombstones, amazon.com, pharmaceuticals, sororities, dream sequels, Jules de Balincourt, casinos, my girlfriend, the handicapped, childhood backyards, 80’s lyrics, the L&M Mighty Shop gas station in Iowa City, The Tennis Court Oath, Pall Mall blues shorts, apartment complex dumpsters, Lucas Arruda, crackberries, Jon Leon, train punks, The Invisible Committee/TIQQUN, glossy magazines, the Roxy Music album Avalon, CGI, colors, 90’s hits, clothing, public library clientele, montages, lakes, Roberto Bolano novels, cognac, tornado warnings, missed calls, text messages, the marginalized, humans in general, white walls, my friends, free concerts, currency, misogyny, the Hamptons, the Aurora massacre, merchandise exchanges, whiskey, my grandfather’s abstract paintings, Woody’s in Cedar Rapids, “undergraduate girl women,” neon, jokes, bestsellers, rhyming, obsolescence, anachronism, laptop TV, vapor-wave, Frederick Seidel, mainstream rave culture (to an extent), the Miami Dolphins, Jeff Griffin poems, abortion clinics, logos, camouflage technology, art museums, etc.

What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

n/a

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

It is available for publication and representation right now, but I’m not going to publish it myself…

My tagged writers for next Wednesday are

Jeff Griffin
Russell Jaffe

Carrie Lorig tagged me & now I tag along

What is the working title of the book?


The Currant

Where did the idea come from for the book?


Present fruits, The Koran, Madonna, Gershom Scholem

What genre does your book fall under?


Bib Lit, bib spittle, Crooners of the 50’s

What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a movie rendition?

Huddie Ledbetter


What is the one sentence synopsis of your book?


God said to Adam: Show Los Angeles the numbers of all beings & when he (adam) had done so, The Mister (aGod) had done so, The Mister said : Didn’t I say I know the secreto f the ceilings & the torso, that which you do to the Light of day & that which you make apoque to hide : As if blind girls glass from me.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of the manuscript?


At the 1 month mark now

Who or what inspired you to write this book?

Irrepressible boredom, date palms.


What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?


Black currants are incredibly rich in phytonutrients and antioxidants having potential health promoting and anti-disease properties. This highly esteemed berry

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?


Please redirect this question to my sty of uncountable lawyers.

My tagged writers for next Wednesday are

Dan Poppick

Jerimee Bloemeke
Jessica Laser

 

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drew on hey faces

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Foot contacts earth

My essence is dogs.

They call fur hair that

Hates rain.

They bite my mandibles

Into hands.

I choke crawfish.

I bark at small childs

I bury myself.

There are three dead witches

They live in the fractured bark

of the city outskirts’ tree by the hideous igneous rock horrible head

Ache horrible as people.

There is a calm place

It is not here

This is eternal.

Every step the electric fence

Says hello

I collapse

Dreams of wolves

Dreams of red

Dreams of result of values and red.

Foot contacts earth

They gnaw off my foot

The other tears the sky

Pink sky, fingers itself

Rosy twilight

Behind my life daffodils

Pissabed and sun

The son cannot hold his bladder.

This daily problem my soul

Gets in my body

Toxic shock

Despite the manifold golden

Catheters I wear

Which wear out.

Smear out that other thing.

Buy me every ipad

i will download the maps

Swear by it

Individually, every territoried

Quadrant of earth

& I will lay over every surface

area of the earth the maps

& if that hummingbird don’t sing

Momma’s gonna buy you a conquering flood.

& if that great flood’s conquering don’t –

From the great monolith obsidian hideous rock horrible head

Ache this problem – contact earth

Lets not live.

you used to wear red clothes.

and i am a blue tunic.

now my hands are cold

now my hands are cold freezing

and cold

you used to wear red clothes

you used to read me Ito

you used to read me Ito

Ito to wear red clothes

closed life

closed life up

closed up life you came back.

you gave me pink clothes for my hands

you came back new blue gloves

and closed pink gloves on my hands

now i wear pink clothes

you used to wear red clothes & I

& i still remember

i still remember nothing.

besides you

when i was bedside

you were bedside too

when i was above you you

absorbed me til your red clothes

turned red, turned me around upside

down my entrails falling down red

and blue bedside

i absorbed you then because

you wanted very much to.

you wanted too much.

i absorbed your wanting too much

it was too much

your wanting too much

i became red clothes

i used to become red clothes

on the phone we are blue clothes

in different cities

reading Hiromi Ito

we are one dead child

i read the playwrights

i read the shamans

i still read hiromi ito because

now i am a ghost.

you once wearing red clothes

is a ghost i absorb wanting too much

i am wanting too much

i want too much

now i am a ghost

my entrails wearing red clothes

your poetry in the sky and suffer

yours live in heaven’s after poetry

rhymes with heavy

rhymes with life

like our footsteps used to carry

the bed reds between us

pushing it out doors

looking for the new home

looking for the old dollar

you used to wear red clothes

now we’ve found a new home

now i am a ghost with red entrails but

waking trails behind you

to find me by my red trails

now i am a ghost

hold, my life is roses.

violets copy right with roses

copyright with ghosts

copulate with other ghosts

hate with other ghosts

now i am the ghost of red clothes

that you were

last i saw you

you used to wear red clothes

last i saw you

you were a picture in black and white

you once wore red clothes

you used to wear red clothes

now i wonder what color

now i am i wonder what color

what color red clothes.

I move this book forward over the corpse of a man

It didn’t put me to laughing.

Father, who had been born as a ghost

He saw the danger in being a heap of being.

He who writes into the void has no use for punctuation

The surface of the cinema

It is all dukkha-birth dukkha

old-age dukkha pain dukkha

death dukkha, dukha-sensations

pain and stiffness

Mental states, like colored cloths

Stick to the heart.

Dash itself against itself again

Be a flash of the entirely new

“sticking to the heart?”  Just look

Awesome sticking power of the gory death.

Always yesterday-haired people

Perhaps terribly stuck in it

Talk to the anger of the gift

Then spend all day studying power.

Which money eats money, the carnivorous way wealth

The dead are lonely.

Corpse, on purpose

Society is the gift

Person that you love is like a pit of gravity

To the dead.

And gone

To a funeral casino are a gift to the dead

Dead first father

Crowds come out from all around

He has to drink only foreign whiskey

Dead first father.

Assembled around the candles and the incense and remembrance

of the un-

In about every instance money is the unspoken

quiet dead

Pick up all the footsteps and the fingerprints he had

causing skillfulness

There is nothing outside the gift.

A set was spilling water spreading merit.  If you are touching them

The State Ghosts

Long must they?  Forever

a quiet, capillary proliferation of

Cowards crowd all around

a strophic violence that breeds

death-effects

Society is the gift.

The world is formless and cheating

Even cheated of their corpses

Pick up all the footsteps and the fingerprints he had.

If you shoot us to death if you kill us we SMILE.

Cough smoke up at heaven.

Bullets stick in them just like us

If you are touching them