Football flurry by Lisa Pasold

a rewording of JKD's Flurry

Invisible the crowds expected, nothing like Ezra’s petals on a bough—in this swamp, there’s no metro, wetly rumbling, only helicopters, and below the flowerbursts of weeds growing over broken Grand Teton sidewalks, through air heavy with potential advertising revenue, renewal, tourist onslaught, bracing snow forgotten until that homewards flight Monday, for now it’s simply a bourbon-scented hot dream of a Sunday, bowling out of the morning with no expectations and a somewhat wilted Carnival hat.

On the other hand by Nancy Dzina

After Jennifer K. Dick's poem "Palm Reading" after Cole Swensen’s poem “Fingers: Alignment”

Someone else sees

in their hands our eyes

no longer (ours). This fading’s

not so bad, so long

ago apparent, no need

to rush things, after all

we have light years

before our map carries

much less names.

                           Invisible

petals drop, the flower

bursts to finish, the floor

holds a different notion of

where we are in the story.

The waggle of pages, time

gesture time: gently just-so cast

inner layer tender out then mend

one for another, knowing

and knowing not what hint

of rock may steady then break

any drift of witness. Even

interlocked phalanges

spring from open palms

unbrailled with potential.

When I was a kid, though I never

saw it, I knew the congregation

of the steepled church of hands

could become unpeopled

at the blink of a trigger guard.

Try to disturb my fist.

Good luck with that.

Whown by sean s

After JKD's Who...

After a conversation, who

now

were I as green as a twister's

now

who

sighting

down the roar unfearing northlike

a cat's eye under basement steps

now, a little farther

a little farther

the boreal under my roots

under the steps of my Brooklyn

were I under my own steps

my o'n

turnstiles by Sarah Lariviere

After Jennifer K. Dick's Glint

palm up
in the dug lawn,
bulbs pivot (in-on)
the needlepalm

-- up

this

is in a magazine, the centerfold
jilted sage (sage) SAGE pornography,
into focus, silvergreen

(sentence)collar in the act of being
carried off
filmsticked

mustard in the potting shed

snapshot of the palm

Card Tricks (by Dzina after JKD & Lisa P)

After JKD's "Time These Wars..."

Lucky as a penny, now I can turn 'em
heads or tails you get your wish.
Lacta alea est when it's deadlinetime,
our time's up and I got this circle it's
pretty black & white. Looking
from the outside will cost you
and don't hope for future mes
that stick. The hourglass is cracked,
the sand is down, and I'm all business. Professional
I don't care. I'll tear you apart, defoliate
you, defy your evergreen for green.
My future secure no thanks to the
main channel. God bless my Laundry
Hotel.  I play my cards right,
there won't be no future to rectify.
No need to catch body parts with
a net, once most famous everything's
available on purpose thanks to
breakthroughs in science your eye
can see that make a pretty penny
making pretty one day. I call the
citadel Mall Noir, and all flagship
procedures lead to my Laundry Hotel,
where there's no need to check out
ghosts of architecture past, no archive
to explore, just life as a zen kitty
out of the closet. Meow!

It’s like he said (s)he says

Guinness harpness rumdark (coffee).  More than enough sans tan.  That moth didn’t make it, flirting with that flame in our arroyo. The good news is not all was lost: spider watch, wait, stagnant as patterns like ours. Yummy. A trap unspoken, unspeakably loved to death. I need to finish this game, pin the tail on. Get some lawyers. Eat. Yodle, “Craig has a list that’s broken.”  Hand to trace-lace-bind, center stuff, burlap pokeydead center, look ma no hands. Tattletales don’t exist if yr rich. Whose dropsy keeps our system so blottobloatado? Whatchanow? Whodunnit? (This whore’s in pieces). Bleedwork box leftbehind leaves us dna-denied and blind.. Had she a future past this picture less-than -perfect post-greeting, I would have taken care of her. Uh-huh. Nothing more to do but whine, whinny, whimper, whistle. Trent Reznor’s turn.

It's a Fine Line by Jonathan Regier

after Tones are lickin' under by JKD, Approach Misled (Translation) by Sue Chenette, Distillations by Geo Vance, The Music by JW, The Greyhound

In the city night, it looks like a fine line one hundred kilometers away. It has nothing to do with the laws of perspective: it looks like a fine line up close. A homunculus is riding his bike along the line.

I ask him, "Are you a Virtue, a Cherub, or one of the tribe of Seraphim that hide their multitudinous eyes behind peacock feathers?"

Falling off his bike, he shouts, "Be quiet! I'm not far away. It is a ... 'fickle gulf'!"

When he says, 'fickle gulf', the heavens shake as if a tremendous Scrabble piece had been turned over. I cover my head, running to the shelter of a nearby tree.

The next evening, I understand the situation better. It was indeed one from the class of Virtues that I met last night. They must be so tiny because of the very fine lines that they navigate in the world. The winds doth rattle the hand: one must slide one's finger along the creases of the petal or dangerously lose the sense.

The next evening, I approach him from far away. (Although it's difficult to know when I've gotten close enough, because he doesn't change size.)

I holler, "Orchidblues!" A storm cloud appears beside his head. A yellow bolt of lightening pops from the cloud and shocks his hat, and all the felt and stuffing explode.

He looks up at me with terror. He begins racing along his fine line.

"'Hello-tropic'! 'Hype the love'!" (I'd prepared all of these that morning, noting them on a morsel of graph paper that I folded up in my pocket.) A milk truck flies out of the intersection with its horn running so fast and long that the doppler effect puts a shiver in my spine.

I laugh deeply and bellow, "Thou dost ride thy bike like Job himself!" Then: " 'Please relax', 'Shaft of salad', 'Writing about snow'" . . .

A greyhound--which had been hitherto the stone adornment of an ancient fireplace--springs to life and speeds alongside him.

"The spheres turn and comets whizzz, but nothing can out-pace the greyhound! He is faster than television, he is the fastest of all the arts! He is faster still than even Virtue!"

Approach misled (Translation) by Sue Chenette

After J K D's Approach mislead


Mail me actual captured arabesques: bitter sin-snug scarves,
the hello-tropic marrow bone. Cult or scene? Zigzag
to ask, snag aromatic undulations of pork tenders:
in weather woods, catch trout. Caterwaul purr in oblique
carnal call botany. Slant repair, dew hut, hi-
jack the laugh loom, love, proceeding aweigh with fishers stitched
ten per cent hooch wild, a swim fin the hunch of a need pent
sounddreaming, awakedrumming. Pulsed hop. Stilt alp
or alpen-perch shock a snow storm grain-forage trick
a spin or wheedle on the accused tincturist’s go for gold lime
in a gulf gloom, holiday brought to test integument.
A paisley manatee disc offer, pre-authorized. Waltz roar
satin-sway slipping tiptoe blue? Tones are lickin’ under
the hexed or lost duck blind. Woven inculpable of morning.
xxxxxxx
xxxxxxx

Distillations

after JD's 'approach misled'

by Geo Vance

Daily fractural; it, in cards, holoscopic whats.

Sign through map, volcanic, as in words, out.

Her, the Brittany. Go do. Hype the love. Away fissures!

Represent child. If the ( ), of seed downstreaming, closed, set;

or in acupuncturist’s, a line, a game; a ( ) outta disfigurement,

personality reorganized.

Your shaping to -? A( ), into, next-last. Open of: ( o f).

–––––

Schoenberg in Pieces by JW

After a fragment by JKD and Schoenberg Variations by JW.

Does that bread not exist? Perform one bow
which cannot exist. Which does not fire.

One that can perform bows triangulated
can exist outside. One which leaves and bows
does not not perform that.

The sachel which does not exist
cannot perform the bow that does exist.

Which carrion cannot perform stitched?
Not one. And which stitched cases cannot bow?
Not one stitched case cannot perform bows.

Does reaping that which exists stitched
not perform that which cannot bow?

Does one exist which takes no bows?

Perform. One cannot take flight.

Kneeling

by Sue Chenette after gv, AD, JKD, & BBB


What do I know?
/////
Kneeling in these pages
/////
minstrelsy of crossings
/////
bred bun bow fire
/////
half triangulated
/////
while outside
/////
wind-shuffled leaves
/////

disconnected

by gv after AD,JKD & BBB

know what?

I am in my pages

kneeling of being

crossing minute situations

my knees buzz

^^^^^^^^

Buzz Rustle Shift by AD after JKD's Connected

You know what?
I am getting marks in my pages
kneeling towards a freedom
of being
crossing over situations,
not speaking of minutes
on my knees, listening
to a buzz.

THE MAID'S ROOM by christine herzer [new]

after FOR GV, from JD

Apparition, translated from the english by sean s

after Apparition by JKD

I feel « the mist of what I see in world of piled sentences » places, which we see without knowing by what we see « bypassed, passthrough » and in all directions reduced, equal, fallen, solid, sullen, full of senses. The unknown prod, shape astray and untrue: Skin. How we can't see, the counterpoint of our pain from fire, our here, the same encompassing unkilled current arrives again to howl and again. I am not or empty, weaved inside out in my copy, unreal and what creates me. Seize it, turn it inside out again, tear its clothes off! That was me, again ideal. However you close here, reclose, the only recluse is rain. « This conversation adrift on the water. » The othernot voice, assumed and alone inside the graph of absence, always stepping back. Again, shaking when I might remember. I might have been only this: a branch from the piled world, irrepeatable fabric woven of hesitation, love under the weight of threat: the sound of a voice: syllapilon.

Piece Work (new-ish)

It's not exactly speech, coming back here, but good and tactile. (Lisa Pasold / JKD)
The voice is mine, professed. (JKD)

Only to resuse materials given
Deep in the wings the musty black dimly lit where we each to each just a memory there
The word reuse not recognized
The failure to recognize
Spacing I can’t correct
The characters gazing off into the air or out but not at each other and never exactly off-stage never deep into the wings as if to acknowledge that marked edge of this effort
“I can’t correct” or set
Some words marks made near the present event
Set
Down would have wanted more than anything else to be honest but the static of dream and wish and memory and the desire to appear in a flattering
Only these clothes in each the feel it time and effort someone bent over
Hear the whirring machine as you slip it on wear the clacking machine the hot room fabric dust a brief lunch break and lack lack lack lack
To let the mask as the phrase goes slip
Staring off and speaking each their piece the pieces of their our their our

déshabille-toi! by Lisa Pasold

after Apparition by JKD

Alright the bar doesn't mean just because I was born here. I wish you didn't drink yet here I am with another beer in my hand. It's not exactly speech, coming back here, but good and tactile. god I love to drink, even with the usual wary, tender uncertainty of appearance in a phrasal universe. Yes, all those big words, for you in this parking lot, in this same small town you're haunting. I'm stripped of bearings, again, you ghost you. Syllabic but grounded with sensory inebriation. Where is this touch with its false demarcation? Your opposite of red, your skipping stones, your electric conviction to be judged wanting. Blank as that reproduction of me in-between image, imagined, veiled. Yes, I know the voice outside the window singing off-key Broadway songs, yes, I know, that voice is mine, professed, unmoored. And you, not arriving anywhere near the demographic of departure. The drinking might have been just a phase, if you'd had more time. A phrase, unverifiable. Most literal. So how come I now know all the words to this lyric?

N/O/1

after Jen & Jon by geovance

OH NO! NO-ONE? OH.

NO O? NO 1? OH.

NO-ONE WON? WON NO-1. OH.

NO WON. NOW ON. ON WON (ham). OH.

JON WON? NO, JEN.

NO 1 1.

HO.

onononononononononononononononow1

Not a word by Justine el-Khazen

After Alone, they are a-maze (by JKD), Everyone's having children now by Jonathan Regier, and Everyday Includes Today by Lisa Pasold.


Magnets are the maps,
world smoothed over:
things that settle beyond the GPS.

An aeroplane arrives,
and it’s all over.

Mourning and noon agree blankly.
Night and the numbers:
10, 9, 7, 8.

Blood of the children,
black and level.
Vines map the body
in thick braids and ladders
of blood,
of blood

(children included).

A bridegroom opens the door.

In tunnels by RQ

after Myopic Lines by JKD

They turned against me

in tunnels and pressed

my face into gravelly pools;

I breathed and the pellets

grazed my brain,

whittling my hippocamp

to the shape of a chestnut;

they turn against me I thought

were of my kin, kicking my ankles

each time I try to rise.