New Voices of New York
I am giving you my books. They mean everything to me, and will give you special powers, and will make you happy (even if you read them later).
Stayed up most of the night looking at your drawings, and writing all about them in a letter to you.
Non-sequiturs suddenly tell the truth. If only within the cross hatches where apertures hold this moment in, listening to some music. Hearing some friends.
A gift is not a gift unless you miss it.
Why was I selecting when I could have more than I want? And why take more than fits desire—seeing you. So much time I’ve spent against myself.
Teenage Love Years
An arm of caresses sending me explosions. The sight
a park with sun and strollers is superimposed
of balconies above people screaming.
the memory of laughing. Envy washes
I’ve never had so much feeling as when I say right now the world moves for me, and when I say right now the world moves for me, I mean right now. My, my against the salt of what’s right to learn, and to believe and to speak and fall and mean everything. And then the passage gave into the clouds, and the clouds to the figure and the figure to the land. And we parted without hands, without this sky, without this song. We meant cipher and things coming done and undone, we meant supine is the position to be in. We meant the only way to long. We meant sticks in the woods, flames on fire, boughs in the sky, and the cliff with its ominous departure.
Justin Marks' first book is A Million in Prizes (New Issues Press). He is also the author of several chapbooks, the most recent being Voir Dire (Rope-a-Dope Press). He is a co-founder of Birds, LLC and lives in Woodside, Queens with his wife and their infant son and daughter.
Jack Spicer on my iPod
The heart, inevitable A mirage
In the days of yore I was a parakeet and my mouth
If I have a true self it is you Blood, slow
If you hold me in your head I will be happy
different Perforated form Sad
from Office Work
The sound of typing sounds busy. The more furious, the more impassioned. I am locked inside a music note, the way-layers strumming my chords from the outside. Isn’t she such a proper-looking phone receiver. Isn’t she just a cute cage full of white teeth. Never mind it’s morning, never mind the copy machine turns inside. We all have paper cups with lids. We don’t even have to look to be able to grab them. I think this may be the year that that poinsettia makes new flowers; its leaves are still so green, still facing up at those florescent bulbs. Sight-reading for reeds lowly rolls along in unison. It feels mostly like a Monday with a little bit of Wednesday thrown in there.
Today we are making signs. I am doctoring emails. I am copying and pasting. They have all this information they want to communicate with you. “The H1N1 is making headlines across the city and the globe.” They have a plan. I am making this information available to you. “Test your Flu IQ.” I am reducing victimhood one flier at a time. Exercising control over the mythic, guards shielding its wealthy population. The task-force has placed handless hand sanitizers in key locations around the university. They will not be had.
The big band plays on down the hall. The offices with windows only turn on their lights when it rains. My once-removed light of sky. I think more clearly in the dark. Clearest when the music is first at its end. We are all here and thus safe. Some mornings the train creeps slowly through the tunnel and I finish the entire “Talk of the Town.” I don’t know anyone who talks about “Talk of the Town” but I think a lot of people I know read it just in case. I say excuse me, excuse me, then let every cute girl go ahead of me. Fuck if I’m not the most patient and chivalrous person I know.
I worry about self-importance, about keeping secrets from yourself. I feel unnerved when office doors are open but no noise comes from inside. Is it simply day-dreaming, is it the men on the scaffolding across the way. Through the window in a 5th floor classroom I once saw a man standing naked inside his apartment across 14th street. I thought how bold to be standing naked there like that without at all thinking, well, it’s his apartment.
Jessica Dessner is a poet and visual artist. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Sal Mimeo, La Petite Zine, The Invisible Stitch, H_NGM_N, Gerry Mulligan, Nowhere, and Maggy and her chapbook, Wit's End with Bric-a-Brac was published in 2006 by Green Zone. Her drawings for Sufjan Stevens/Osso album, Run Rabbit Run, were recently on view at the 92Y Tribeca Gallery. Look for new series of her drawings in June at bird in Williamsburg, NY, and October, at Country Club Gallery, in Cincinnati, OH.
Note to Neil Armstrong
Outside it's like a certificate of proof.
John Deming is Co-Editor of Coldfront Magazine. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Boston Review, Verse Daily, POOL, Parthenon West Review and elsewhere. He teaches at Baruch College and LIM College.
It Starts with a Glad Collision
Next they’re all collisions:
One drawn between mountains
Then provide humans with function,
Steven Karl and Joseph Lappie collaborated on State(s) of Flux (Peptic Robot Press). Steven has chapbooks forthcoming from Flying Guillotine Press and Scantily Clad Press. He lives in New York City and blogs at stevenkarl.blogspot.com.
from Dialect We Wish Wasn’t
we are not free here
we are free everywhere
how the need to help
fueled the hurt
& the need to stop the hurt
leads to more
sometimes I forget what it feels like
the need to help has led to hurt
& no one holds you through this kind of night
the night seemed a simple thing
this thing of caring
to be verb of body
doer of words
from The Film of the Movie of the Film
oregano let's assume it was the hour of dinner & there were two bodies hers leaned into his the stuff of ache dripping from the eyes an eye careening upwards a short appearance of yellow slowly sinking a boy no make it a man trembling with another body trembling against his body the sky salmon-pinked no trees, no leaf, no branch
DJ Dolack's most recent work can be found in Handsome, Fou, and Coldfront Magazines. his chapbook, The Sad Meal, was published by Eye for an Iris Press. He teaches writing at Baruch College and lives in LIC, Queens.
NYC Postcards (From Union Hall)
And whisper here,
In the bar room
The notion is one
that fingers the liquor;
read by the night.
people who don’t
Namaz: Moslem prayer.
Amy King's most recent book is Slaves to Do These Things (Blazevox), and forthcoming, I Want to Make You Safe (Litmus Press). She teaches English and
The Rising Sound of the Sold-Out Class
I squat over pebbles
The Impossible Existence
Yes, I feel aloft. What can I do? I’m sunning myself.
These internal eyes that gobble the flickers
Sean Singer’s first book Discography won the 2001 Yale Series of Younger Poets Prize, selected by W.S. Merwin, and the Norma Farber First Book Award from the Poetry Society of America. He is also the recipient of a Fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts. He is a Ph.D. student in American Studies at Rutgers-Newark. He lives in Harlem, New York City.
Crimson enfilade: a person is wounded by the beribboned arrow.
Her eyes are clothed by laurels circulating around Saturn.
Her mint legs in instrumental fabric, stilled.
Occasional echoes, the lime wrapper of jazz, burning like a bier.
Electric bass, face on the stage; violin, styling its own evening treble air.
Yes, and the coral has the grey beat of female powder and alarms.
Keep Right On Playing Through The Mirror Over The Water
“all losses trigger all previous losses”
With its blurred field, Air—the trio—throws off its slips and cases
We wait to be anesthetized—
Beautiful tablecloths, a porcelain stove, a portable gramophone:
Leather lacquer, damask rose, downy rayon; nailhead trim,
Miles Ross lives in Brooklyn and works early in the morning in Manhattan. He keeps a blog (http://milesjosephross.blogspot.com) of his writing on various topics. He has been published at Muu Muu House and has work forthcoming at bearcreekfeed.
620 on Caton
Rowena Kennedy-Epstein is a PhD candidate in English at the CUNY Graduate Center. She is a 2009 NEA recipient in nonfiction and her poems and essays have appeared in numerous journals. She teaches at Brooklyn College.
The window’s quiet night
The half moon of the window
Above the flight of birds
Count the trees, four kinds of Pine
On the back of a mountain
Violence is the way you tumble down
Mark Lamoureux lives in Astoria, NY. His first full-length collection, Astrometry Orgonon was published by BlazeVOX books in 2008. He is the author of 5 chapbooks: Poem Stripped of Artifice (winner of the New School 2007 Chapbooks Contest), Traceland, 29 Cheeseburgers, Film Poems and City/Temple. Another full-length collection, Spectre, is due out from the Black Radish Books in January 2010. Additionally, his manuscript Sometimes Things Seem Very Dark: Poems For Francesca Woodman was a finalist for the Ahsahta Press 2009 Sawtooth Poetry Prize. His work has been published in print and online in Fence, Mustachioed, miPoesias, Jubilat, Denver Quarterly, Conduit, Lungfull!, Carve Poems, Coconut, GutCult and many others. In 2006 he started Cy Gist Press, a micropress focusing on ekphrastic poetry.
From “Sometimes Things Seem Very Dark: Poems for Francesca Woodman”
Emulsion a lock
Helix-braided wool, chrysaoran
hair a camera grows.
Upright Jack O'
each white like
still sewn to the bad tree
reaches under the house.
So this one eats with death
This one is waiting
forsaken in walls
Remember I was your dream
This one is ready
Where nerves are
This one is going
Harvest the spaces in the net
The air herds trees
Hossannah Asuncion is a Kundiman fellow and received an MFA from Sarah Lawrence College. Her poems have appeared, or are forthcoming, in Calyx, Inc.; Foursquare Journal; Ghoti Magazine; Storyscape Journal and Tuesday; An Art Project.
Prospect Place and Washington Avenue
Prevented from dreaming, the rats were unable to rehearse their survival behaviors.
A bloody bedspread and a chalk outline of him. I lay inside the trace, hand tossed over my head, leg bent awkwardly. I squint—the aura of ceiling light bright behind his head.
Like this, I ask. Like this?
Andrea Baker is author of Like Wind Loves a Window (Slope Editions, 2005)
Leave Applaud the Wind that Tore Them
Tuck me in with a sword. Stoke me. Love yourself
I’m bruising. What’s holy? Chores. Cattle and rats are holy.
It models for God the short like of a cricket.
but I haven’t eaten. One day I’ll live.
fatter than any form of water.
Watch me open my mouth and you’ll know
Stroke me. Or coo.
Sampson Starkweather is a co-founder of Birds, LLC, an independent poetry press. His most recent chapbook is The Heart Is Green from So Much Waiting from Immaculate Disciples Press. Recent or forthcoming work can be found in: Forklift, Ohio, La Petite Zine, Action Yes, SIR!, Anti-, NOö, Pax Americana, No Tell Motel and elsewhere.
My dad made us chorizo,
Let’s not go in. It scares me, this open
The “whitehouse” is what we called it. I had nightmares
Dad, history buff, hailed Hitler’s missing testical,
Another obscene gesture (!@#%$&*) has triumphed. This
Another obscene gesture (!%$#$!) has triumphed, anonymously,
Absurdity, you are purer than pool water.
Ana Božičević emigrated to NYC in 1997. Stars of the Night Commute (Tarpaulin Sky Press, November 2009) is her first book of poems. Her fifth chapbook, Depth Hoar, will be published by Cinematheque Press in 2010. With Amy King, Ana curates The Stain of Poetry reading series in Brooklyn, and is co-editing an anthology, The Urban Poetic, forthcoming from Factory School. She works at the Center for the Humanities of The Graduate Center, CUNY. For more, visit nightcommute.org.
Paris Pride Parade
I don’t know what else to say. Really it’s the middle of the night,
And if tomorrow I jump off, and at the same time
Chris Tonelli co-curates The So and So Series and is the author of four chapbooks, most recently No Theater (Brave Men Press, forthcoming) and For People Who Like Gravity and Other People (Rope-A-Dope Press, forthcoming). New work can be found in LIT, SIR!, Sixth Finch, and the Tusculum Review. He teaches at North Carolina State University in Raleigh, where he lives with his wife Allison.
|Copyright © 2010 by Chris Tonelli, all rights reserved. This text may be used and shared in accordance with the fair-use provisions of U.S. Copyright law, and it may be archived and redistributed in electronic form, provided that the editors are notified and no fee is charged for access. Archiving, redistribution, or republication of this text on other terms, in any medium, requires the notification of the journal and consent of the author.|