by Will Alexander
“The mind, systematically scattered during our current phase of late Democracy has been presented to itself as unquestioned design imbued with itself as being no more than a partially functioning fragment. A fragment that has reached crucial amplification as fragment understanding that its higher nature has been disgorged living as a corrupted mechanism that now merges with itself via the arc of pervasive confusion. This being none other than suppressed evolutionary tension, having long now inhabited this terminal phase by continuing to explore its current housing as it exists within a neurological question mark. Thus, the individual is suffused with basic distraction due to allegiance to its own negation.”
Edition of 50.
$6 + $3 shipping.
by Nicholas DeBoer
Edition of 50
“for yrs i punched at prediction
greasing the bolts of some residual future
where the sand quartz’s nuclear waste
crawls path in pentacle swarms”
$8 + $3 shipping
by Ben Roylance
Long poem by the editor of Apport Editions.
“I know you from somewhere
An accident? a rite, in black cloud, a waving card
In a waving cloud, accessible only by the smell
Or light, blasted out into an accidental face
Complete, an act of basis, blue until waiting’s blue
Exact in its production but wasteful in its hap-
Opening strangely, waning costume, heavy mask,
Your balances, your clone, almost heavy overnight,
Column and wind, a saturation across hermit’s door
As an abiding structure, an abandoning mile of bell’s wind,
Combing a sun through a bottle, lacking a bandit, the planet
Cast and pinched into prayer, all along, spearmint’s beetle
Spittle cute, resting on a clean bit of bark, carpooled into
A certain someone’s gradation of culture, what culture…”
Edition of 50
$5 + $3 shipping
by Thom Donovan
Edition of 50. Winter 2018.
“Originally intended as the beginning of a collaboration with another writer, Meatyard, My Neighbor was composed when I first arrived in Manhattan in the fall of 2005, and has been edited and worked over many different times in the past decade, often as part of unpublished poetry manuscripts. During that time I was steeped in the work of the Lebanese writer and artist Jalal Toufic and his many theoretical and aesthetic reference points that I shared an interest in, including the Kentuckian photographer, Ralph Eugene Meatyard. Meatyard’s work appealed to me since it seemed to use photography as a means of visualizing the metaphysical, therefore making the ‘otherworldly’ available as an ensemble of “aesthetic facts” (Toufic’s phrase). Like other poems I was writing during this time, it also became a way of mediating—albeit obliquely—ongoing geo/political crises, such as the USAmerican wars in the Middle East, and widespread racism against Arab subjects. Much of the poem is ekphrastic—a relationship anyone can see who is familiar with Meatyard’s photographs—but with something else in the mix both highly speculative and oddly New York Schoolish (see Hannah Weiner’s The Magritte Poems, for instance) in excess of the verbal description of works of visual art (ekphrasis). Like other poems I was writing in the mid-2000s, it also embodied a melancholy attempt to understand my encounters with the world as a Bardo or state of transmigration. Since the poem has been in a transmigratory state itself for quite some time now, I’m relieved that it has finally found rest in print.”
– Thom Donovan, 11/2017
by Clark Coolidge
It’s Giordano Bluto! is a wild read and a humdinger of a book. It’s bright and dark and everything in between. Always a welcome event to have a new work by Clark Coolidge.
— Peter Gizzi, author of Archeophonics
A Window In Time
Waterchew it was but we were too late
quite open even to torment desire to notch
I was older then and listening to stories
put that boot down we’ve been bad together
the only way it can be held? God’s leaky desk?
made me marry on stilts a tiny mother!
but there’s a lull in my politics what’s to understand?
the weather is terrible in here it’s like peeing
through a shotgun neither can the player
sound like a theremin or the opening of an umbrella
and I’ve seen some bad sulfur the hillsides going
skulls appearing why I’ll be a wrecker of linens
try the aft port that’s how these stories come out
the Japanese word for dream is gone
Edition of 50, hand numbered
$8 +$3 shipping.
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Poems: of the occult, of the strange, of the confusing places. Sequences, series, roots and rhizomes. See our published or forthcoming titles for an idea about whether your poems are right for us. We don’t want to waste anyone’s time.
Prose: of the occult; adept and initiated essays or magical journals. Histories, treatises, workings or reflections. Serious occultisms.