Awesome Machine Press: Say, Poem by Adam Robinson

How can poetry compete with error, in this economy of attention?
—Adam Robinson, from SAY, POEM

Say, Poem by Adam Robinson

Say, Poem is divided into two sections– the first, Say, Poem, is a larger, sort of stream of consciousness patter-type poem constructed around a series of other poems/prose pieces. The second section, Say, Joke, is a series of smaller poems in the form of ironic, off-center jokes.

The patter-type poem in Say, Poem takes the form of a poet’s monologue at a poetry reading– both interior and exterior, it seems, as in Say, Thank you–/Thank you–/Then say,/I’m not reading a single line/until I know how much/this is going to get me.

It’s an interesting concept, and got me thinking about context regarding poetry– how differently we see it depending on presentation, as at poetry readings, or what we may have heard beforehand about the poem or the poet. For instance, our appreciation of this particular poem can’t not be affected when it’s presented to us this way:

What shined

Rebecca Loudon has a brainful of 15 Queer-Winged poems posted over at PEEP/SHOW— they are amazing. Shattering. Necessary. Go.

Perfect strange

Andrea Shear

Self-Portrait
Cami Park

Hot and perfect strange.
A blue island of
coral days
fathomed nights

a wreck of desert cities.

Red bull

Randoms.

I have a match-sized piece up at Matchbook, along with a “critical thought,” which isn’t either, really.

Rollerfink‘s amazingly amazing Orlando Innamorato (“Orlando in Love”) was nominated by for every year for the storySouth Million Writers Award, because it’s so fucking awesome, that’s why.  At least, that’s the only reason I can think of.

Lincoln Michel has a new poem at elimae. I’ve liked Lincoln Michel since I published some of his work as poetry editor at Night Train awhiles back. I’ve followed him around since, as he’s launched Gigantic and been busy other ways. I was happy to see poetry from him again.

On fire

PEEP/SHOW is a new poetry publication that, according to its Peepifesto, intends to publish innovative poetry every 5 months and unfold “over the course of time, with a large chunk of serially-minded work by a different poet added every few weeks.”  Their debut issue, 10 Women, is impressive, including substantial work by Kate Schapira and Kimberly Lyons.

We would rather set things on fire than carve them in stone. –Lynn Behrendt and Anne Gorrick, Curators

Red excerpt
Kate Schapira

…freshly presented,
newly created …

…

not disenchanted. If you lay
the red surfaces
together they may regenerate.
They have some give if you
get to them in time,
the siren says. Concern
reddens and tightens
your brow as the siren
passes. What’s going on under
the wrinkles could be any color.

If you lay the surfaces together
you may be startled by pleasure.
May think of frostbite
to calm yourself, your circulation
may return, the siren may …

…

There are nicks in …

I just guess

I am so fucking disgustingly bummed today I can’t stand it. I will die.

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Rejection junction, what’s your function?

I’m not sure if there’s room in the online world for yet another highly competitive lit mag, but the editors of Rejection Digest don’t give a flying teardrop. They want your work, but they’re picky, more than most– you have to PROVE yourself to them– your work has to have been REJECTED, at least once, to have a shot at getting in their precious digest, BUT if you can provide FIVE sufficiently valid/form/humiliating rejection e-mails (not including any from them, I assume), publication is GUARANTEED. As if.

Anyway, good luck. Fuck McSweeney’s, there’s a new game in town.

Redheaded wife

Out of nowhere, the beautiful Chinese girl walked into his life  . . . just as the redheaded wife walked out

Remember when almost every print magazine contained good literature? Me neither, but here is Moon Over Manhattan, by Pearl S. Buck, in McCall’s in 1953. The superb illustration reminds me of what Marty D. Ison does for Smokelong Quarterly today.

Wop bam boom

Song of Solomon 2:5 Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love.

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Ain’t pretty

Tom Humbertsone

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