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Contributing Writers

Matvei Yankelevich

Yuko Otomo

Michael Andre

John Reed

Bruce Weber

Jeffrey Cyphers Wright

Steve Dalachinsky

Robert C. Morgan

Brenda Iijima

Issue Two

c o n t e N t s

Live Poem Bruce Weber

Excerpt from a Philosopher Yuko Otomo

From Bestiary Brenda Iijima

Poem Matvei Yankelevich

Lower Broadway Robert C. Morgan

Information Bob Heman

Billie Holiday… Steve Dalachinsky

Ms Goose John Reed

Three poems Michael Andre

Finally Jeffrey Cyphers Wright


We grew out of poetry into

reason, and now poetry

is the backlash against

history, for we can only

know what we have

made. And so we unmake

by making automatic

in order to return to

Providence, R.I. where

we hope to find

the savage imagination

called mom.

Matvei Yankelevich

Ms Goose

The name of the Goose

Maestro, please.
Violins, a hint of flute. The springtime of life. Blare! The trumpets. A child is born, a child laughs. Her hair sways from the top of her head as her Dadda holds her up by one foot, and tickles her.
“Who is this goose?” he asks, “let us examine this goose.”
He swings her over his shoulder, and whirls her through the air onto his other shoulder. She is laughing, saying, “again, again.”
These are the happy days of childhood that few remember. The bubbly joy of dumbness, of life not as obstacle but as lark. The carefree hour when exhaustion is settled by a simple pairing of words, “Mamma, nurse,” and joy is postponed only by haphazard slumbers, limbs strewn across hay piles, or tossed bedding, or the loving lap of a parent.
She was “Goose, silly goose,” and if she knew her name, her family, her toys, her home, the woods behind the brook, she knew that she was first and foremost of the land of Goosedom, where silliness was as natural to life as food, as sleep, where all of learning was a laugh, a giggle, and another laugh.
How wretched, how unfair, that all of us should lose that.
Flash forward: it is many years later and our girl is desponding, broken hearted. Not because she should be—that wretch wasn’t in her league—but because she is a sensitive, deserving girl, who could not help but chase the gingerbread man. He was amusing, and she couldn’t resist the button eyes. Trouble, indeed, in the wee hours of the morning, but oh those sugar lips.
Since then, a dalliance with Jack Sprat. She knew better than to strum heartstrings with the married ones, but Jack was devilishly handsome in an all skin and bones way, with large eyes and hands so big they could encircle her waist—thumb to thumb, index finger to index finger.
Of course, her disappointment had not exactly been the one she expected. As it turned out, Jack and his wife were swingers who shared everything. Good enough in some ways, but, alas, confusing in others. Miss Goose, after unraveling the intricacies of their tangled web, was forced to put an end to the whole affair.
And now?
Miss Moffet, though reliable-ish when it came to perennials and foreign exchange rates, could hardly be trusted with such a charge as finding a man to with whom to enjoy everlasting bliss. Especially in the sense that Miss Moffet hadn’t managed a successful rendezvous since her tennis instructor had moved to the Northfork, and was likely to nab any of the more favorable specimens, or, frankly, frighten them away. Nevertheless, Moffet had fixed Goose up with a gander. A prospect by the name of Peter Piper.
Give Peter his due. He was an organic farmer, and wouldn’t hurt a fly on his asparagus.

John Reed

billie holiday singing Night and Day in a bar on rue
the sky so dark night & day are
the place des voges a stark square heart
that repeats truth
the way a calendar begins & disappears
bizarre how the old synagogue
shaped like a torah
repeats with its bearded eyes leaning out the window
the eternal sources
of illuminated vaults
rarely open to the public

day & night
are low slung clouds that rush by
whispering “no more spring to
drink from”
here a koran filled with sacred warnings unravels
breath held wide
open & embryonic

& from the
bottom of a chasm where night meets day
& mystery is the only light to
read by –
i look into torn works parlor games & the rubber
rooms that hold my
thirst in check

proclaim to myself
quoting an out of season

“Behold I am alive …” a “surplus

of existence is
welling up in my

where Night and Day
become one.

Steve Dalachinsky
Paris 1/18/07

Excerpt from a Philosopher

moon, water, thoughts—

they are all the same,

a noble reflection

of our own fragile senses

of (im)mortality

two major

one minor

& one diminished

“Where does it begin


where does it end?”


“Where does it begin


where does it end?”

(repeat again)

“Where does it begin


where does it end?”

-Yuko Otomo


She looks at him because she thinks he is looking at her
but he wasn’t until it seemed she was looking at him
and he would look at her to see if she was looking
at him which of course confirmed what she had thought.

-Bob Heman


this is a live poem
a poem in real time real space
laughing with buddha
shining with the inner light of confucius
dancing in the moonlight with venus
this is a live poem
spitting our sulphur
cutting to the quick in the mirror
diving into the x-po-factos
this is a live poem
a love poem
a loafer’s poem
a poem split asunder
a poem spreading its tentacles like a black widow spider
a poem demanding a fair human wage
a poem jumping over jack
a poem sailing above clouds
a poem discovering the middle ground of the rocky mountains

-Bruce Weber-written nov 8, 2006 -9:30 pm

Lower Broadway

I got your telematique!

nimble, ecstatic, terse

another sewn collage

another rupture from

the pulse of Tamarind

the postmediocre after

math, the final surrogate

without bias or taste

n’er to invade the years—

pink golf-hat, quanderous

knickers bragging high

(some mindless sentiment

fondling a nosebleed, upon

our newsboy’s flatulence)

O savory sweetness amid

the pleasant din of down

town traffic, another hint,

another recall, ma cheri--

alas, our crumbling castle,

our Heidelberg romance

Robert C. Morgan


What old tune? Who you kidding?
Old age begins too soon.

Humbled, we begin to mumble
And know we will not heal.

How you feel? No cure
For age can long endure.

Love the young. Noisily
Off-key, in no new

Harmony, they outlive you.
Who can sing along?


To worry is to fear the worst.
A bad marriage is a joint disease.

Arab horseman with his sword
Mounts a jet plane, flies

Slashes the Twin Towers.
Spare the rod; whet the knife

Slit the skin, flay the child:Sacrifice Isaac to Allah.


Confined to bed
Better off dead.

Often a bed¢s
A coffin.

-Michael Andre

beast entomology

opisthokonts where to shit, fuck, sleep—the shit loads of garbage we send in a barge down river or pay off another country to take

we (humans) are the sister group of the choanoflagellates

cross-modal transfer: hello, innervations from the brain to the larynx”caterpillars, king kong disney-fied big mice

mummies kaapa

when neck is stretched out pig out the word that the brain focuses on: natural, naturalistic”complex motor tendencies

prehominid days

pretext for aggression

anthropod vector “in the evolutionary perspective, then, society and genetic programming imply each other.” mary midgley, from beast and man

cochineal insects “foul owl on the prowl”

hyracotherium [eohippus] ssp., the dog-sized ancestors of the horse

what is the nature of the question

tro-don-descended sapient

rib cage, cortex, thorax

epidemiological data tankers

see how shamo makes his living


spring hill mine disaster crop that top of hill

Brenda Iijima


There was nothing left to say.
Your mouth was a bucket
of hurt. Throngs of diphthongs
stole through your brain
like thieves in a dark
abandoned lot where you
looked for your keys
metonymically speaking
And for this a black sheep
they want to brand you!?
Greetings, good looking.
I know where you can park
your heart and count to three.
You can be a captive of glee.

Jeffrey Cyphers Wright

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