Where

eagles
dare
paul ebenkamp
"#$% &'() "'*&)$)+, -'+*& &'() ./"")+



I saw a natuie uocumentaiy about natuie in geneial calleu
"# $%&'()*+,- ",.( /, 0,#+,+)&1+2/. 3/')41 56) $.1&7*&'&8

inset with kneecaps shatteieu by an email - these aie the iisks
we take.
Wake up!

It's Tuesuay, I uon't know what uay it is, holu that thought,
on seconu thought uon't -

Light uilates so that it contiacts somewheie else.
"Walk us thiough it," the auuience begs the uieaming speech.

Aie lungs consiueieu guts.
Is an eai a uigit oi a limb.

I'm sitting heie in sweatpants, fuseu to the piesent
but not to its tense, in allowance anu effoit's sanguine lack;

theie may be lots to toggle back
anu foith about
but come to think of it.

"Though the species is in me, I am neutial" (Stephen Rouefei).
Such flex!

POEM



Between boredom and shock we oscillate
gods and I
lodged inside the phrase end to end
with attraction and resistance
suppositions and same pages
a glowing green exit sign busy at its frigid vigil
posits through another sort of pointlessly
gorgeous coastal afternoon, music by James Ferraro
blinkered and ratchety from a lifetime of NorCal cannabis
and the lame doom of state school student debt

excesses of ellipses distinguish
you whose drones opened
wide a mouth to whisper this
boxing phonemes from hot cogitations
licked insanely by daylight
through senile and skin-tight distances
the finest life is turned into insipid fiction pretty quickly
cloudless blue upper place wherein sun disappears everywhere
the universe is fine it has its place is all I!m saying
a piece of coffee linking me to sleep
(this tender heart)
by brittany billmeyer-finn

1.

as my tongue breaks through the rim different objects gather a field of meaning the same
field of meaning or how things matter more writing what I think might be healing this
participation & this work to meet & to be charming my own combination of insight &
awkwardness toxic approaches makers of objects obsessing about this & then suddenly
unsuspecting an impulse some stopping

I call out for the Subject

the tattered couch facing the mantel painted a light grey the fabric blinds & the TV in the
corner our heads at either side our feet touching in the middle

whirling chance becomes visible & then material & then heavy this ownership of thought
a weapon against a sea of transparent forms or just bodies & might my body have been
there?

translucent form the interplay with the ground
neither a place nor an activity
nor a body of work
something seemingly indistinguishable
until it is in the streets
afield from the origins no combination adheres identities to the cramped feeling amidst
the materials of the object




















2.

a bundle of mugwort from a friend
a stick of sage from an altar
a broken crystal from my pocket
& three tarot cards: 1. for letting go 2. for validation 3. for reaching towards

directed towards myself I fuck up again & again
& in some way this is affirming
a value system of my emotional state
of the political gain of intuitive practice
that small rituals hold the space & me

I blame the moon for everything these small details of everyday life what interference feels
like an erasure a catharsis hollowed out language stark under the rubbing the stain of it
on the ridge of my hand the surrounding possibilities for touch a series of hauntings or
perhaps a systematic haunting

my childhood home was grey each brick the walls the tattered couch the fabric blinds
warm in my mothers tongue
how I mold around her skin
it is almost that

invisible traces the new spaces of retreat of assemblage when this identifier draws a blank
reiterates a hierarchy engulfs a refusal I ask what can I prevent?

but because we have the conversation again being indecisive this willing flatness or we
stand together simply 2 bodies in a space alongside the other we are compatible our
compatibility begins apart we are incompatible our incompatibility begins together


















3.

& how I told you that your poetry reminds me of something Lyn Hejinian writes in her
essay Rejection of Closure how Lyn Hejinian once held open a door for me my hands
were full & her essay was folded up in my back pocket I did not tell her but we laughed
about something else

I make a bullet point list marking my response to your project & I hand it over to you &
wonder where the body went why it seemed to disappear or escape

perhaps we will be closer after I dig for this

reading this book it begins with failure

the question does not come to mind it just sits among the muted state until some
sounds come through the window I may or may not be alone again to pull on my
reluctance to allow it to show itself here how vulnerable it is to remember how much this
never changes

unspoiled I wait for it to turn



























4.

there is a sound as the avocados fall from the tree & hit the pavement I would have heard
it if the wind hadnt been so strong the rotting avocados roll along the slopes of the
parking lot of my apartment on 33
rd
St. in Oakland

& sometimes I try & go back to the same place towards the objects towards a field
towards simpler terms towards the limits of gathering

I do not see it
the field

to be invited into these rooms
to turn my back to these rooms
wanting to run out of these rooms
to charm these rooms
to empathize with these rooms
to dig a hole for these rooms

facing each other I suggest an orientation taking some & not others I must ask you to
imagine this & where do you find yourself I turn back & the reconfiguration settles
the previous object present in my hands I dont ever remember using it
my memory fails me the failure of the whole story

one has occasion to make an imprint a series of crisscrossing or dotted lines in varying
widths fully in the pattern of each of its parts perhaps that of herbs of trees of leaves of
wood of rocks of minds of roads & rivers the sense of wonder sometimes called the elastic
skin possessed by the Subject which is particularly bewildering that attempt to discover
some way of preserving it too changeable to appear to any large extent in the earthly
hand

Chill Pill
obey nada
pile drive
supersize
a black baseball
hop a fence
dig the shindig
kill off the i
no algorithm
for lightning
crossunder appeal
hands of
the fur clock
metallic wind
war whore
get bent
on religion
abstract cat
a construct
dropped call
dialectical silence
sure coach
past lives
garage sale songs
mistake soul
for style
streaming tape
math slut
power move
Donkey Kong Jr.
bridal tide
sand in the suit
mental sunburn
crazy sex
with context
we are starting
to fall
for one
another
sampson starkweather
In the shower, in my mind, I was writing a sprawling, intellectual but sincere and at its core, humanistic essay
on RoboCop, called On RoboCop in which, letting down my paranoid guard about writing any definitive or
critical prose rooted in time, anything un-liquid, I explain my obsession or constant return to RoboCop as a
metaphor, especially for ( ) Poetry(ies). RoboCop is on par with Shakespeare in its scope and in being of its
time, and I suppose in its field, it examinesI hate that wordit enacts, or reveals death (mortality), HOPE
both a paradoxical faith in technology (future) but also suspicion and frightening reliance on>>>> politics,
class, corruption, culture, violence, the self, techno-spirituality, love, honor, loyalty and dissent or I guess what
Im getting at is more the double edged metaphors of money, drugs, family, the city (infinitesimally), power,
freedom, will, and I dont know a better word for itaction, which metaphor cant touch, there is truth to the
saying that the camera (an invention intended to replicate the human eye) loves action: movement: physics:
transformation, a form of narrative, tension, an opposite re-action its human nature, the thing is I hate action
movies, but in RoboCop action has meaning, depth, consequences, most of all, and this is perhaps why I love
RoboCop as a default metaphor for poetry, or the possibility of poetry, is that it implies a certain intention, a
certain AIM, and that is what defines poetry or art, or at least is the property that jumps out to me as its
distinguishing quality, as if everything else around it is carved away, allowing it to take the form it must. On
another level of course, as the exhaustive list above attests, its the comprehensiveness, the universality of life
that the themes and subjects suggest, much like an interview, or maybe it was a poem, in which Dana Ward was
explaining poetry through an anecdote in his book, where he finds himself in the dreaded airplane situation or
scenario where the person next to you finds out you are a poet (or writer, but fuck that!), and asks what do you
write about, or better yet, whats your poetry about or like, (which even I am guilty of, sorry but coming from
another poet this turns from a nightmare into one of the most profound and beautiful questions ever posed),
anyway, the point is Dana explains how his answer is of course a kind of bait, he says, love, death, politics,
fucking, friendship, guilt, pain, joy, loss, forgiveness, etc., you get the picture, or at least thats what hes hoping
the dope he just met on the plane will get, hell blurt out, oh I get it, its like LIFE, therein enacting the inverse
of the title of his book, This Cant Be Life, stolen from Jay Z only naturally, which maybe only now I
understand, as the title is like the dope on the plane, who even after having it all laid out (in life) (by the poet)
(in real time) he still doesnt get it, he doesnt, couldnt distinguish (Zizek quote here) the fine line between the
poetry on the one hand and the life of the poet on the other (are attached to the same fucking body!!), anyway,
my point is, in the shower, in my mind, the essay Im writing about RoboCop is really about beauty, and not
even Im sure I know what is meant by beauty when I say it, but thats why I dont write essays, and fuck it, I
dont write poems either, I write poetry. Dead or alive, youre coming with me.
ROBOCOP
dan fisher
From BODY WORK
Brenda Iijima



If you were tantalized by that sex interplay

symbolisms not always present but erections are
erections the bolder experiment takes
to overcome this experiment, the basic premise of bare life
drudgery of animal existence when converted to human
terminated either by touch or verbally
the Ganzfeld Effectdeprivation of stimuli
stare-glare, white wall possible edifice effect (museum, prison)
they escorted me into the deep thicket of the forest
and tied me to an ancient pine treemy wrists were bond as well as my
ankles and a confining necklace of vertebral arteries, vines and veins
parasympathetically though this resembled torture
as I was left to fend in the night air of inner sanctum
roaming creatures in the space of being and event
they thought of themselves that way until engulfed in the conditions
of the forest, matted enteric, metabolic convergences

Not every titillation results in orgasm polysexual foray through underbrush

raptors under pressure, fatal feelthere are 150 pairs

movementmarking out/making marks/not indelible, lucidly fluidly charged
proximal to a generative survival motifidentity suspension
outside the semiotics of human languageself-apotheosis

jangle the tendon
plume fuck foam
single celled netherside
bicameral then bioengineering
the problem of evil and the symptomatics of the site

yet when approached by the lawn there is awe
the sacred enclosure of property
standing here waiting to be handled

cant mastermind the everything

then to try and fuck the stick

bark hardship

this sentence is for someone specific

you speak of responsibility

we wrote a planet of that

no want of worry

Walk again to Veterans Memorial on Brown Street
body rigor mortis
changes in the muscle tissue after deathcells deprived of oxygen
rigidify symptomatically as cognitive dissonance informs posture
there is an invisible kennel around my body
what industrial farms use to house animals
bars grow into skin, sure death
I lie prone like an oversized hormone saturated sow about to
be tased farrowing crates/gestation crates
cannot turn throughout lifespan
artificially inseminated
deprived of sunlight/grass to roam around on
eco-terrorist if one were to film this scenario and care
pitiful and pathetic who
cars pass as usual, as per usual
their directional seem uni

Having walked from Site K where 55, 000 gallon drums
of the substance was unloaded onto the land
to this memorial past Hillside Cemetery
contemplating toxicity and extroverted cruelty

On one side against gravel and the fumes of emissions
heels locked into L shaped spikes
the neck is thick and no longer malleable
belly up and twisted into painful knot
needed this time to relinquish all claims
dogs were upon me, as were the dead
now is time to roll over if the restraints permit
to be tasted on the heels of death, mortifying ambience

Tough meat, tough to relive the tensions and locked position
night is coming on and the old folks will need me evermore
still being this hog in bondage while staring at stone structures
a squirrel climbs a last elm in the grove by the 19
th
century markers
tough to meet the meanings like this lingering and becoming
the choreography was merely the complex of excavating time to the scene
making way, recording in cellular proximity
a dinner plated corporeal form is not audience
now and again consumed

the remediation site is down this road called Brown Street
brown premeditating brownfield and/or superfund
brown of flourishing microbial life, falcons wings, tree trunks
brown of
intelligence evidently diminishes
in contact with aromatics such as these
seriously, Monsanto, how much crap do you make
the companys first product was the artificial sweetener
saccharine

Brandon Browns poem where he dtourned genetically modified corn
to the bone of the crop so that we morph briefly into a gestation phase
taken by new substances a preparatory act of war of which corn is always
implicated

2013: Monsanto purchased San Francisco-based Climate Corp for $930 million

timed to bowel movements, you dont want to be off
TIME
Spit up, sit up, endless
terror and frontier
of the body unfolding, sun
and bone, bubbling
forth, affront
to all things steady, he thinks
hell skip
crawling. Hes falling.
Its -25F and hes
standing on the radiator
looking at the snow-buried
cars, nobody holding
him, it, this
body that keeps
growing like a turnip
all winter, turning
milk into the root
of all thats sudden
and lurches
past ecstasy
into despair and back. Pause
for a breath people in a hurry
cant feel. Four front
teeth like a cartoon beaver
collapsing
toward the cats tail. Maybe
its time to child
proof, to scrub winters
black mold from the cracks
in the wainscot, time
to pull the anthologies
off the bottom
shelf. But does he get bigger
or does the world shrink
before him? I mean we keep
taking it away. On
his nine-month birthday he eats
bright orange pieces
of shredded cheese, chokes
on a clementine, snow
falling, lling
in the path from the back door
to the garage. Its -40F
with the wind
chill the morning
chris martin
he nally
crawls, lured across
the nursery by a neon monster
pencil top, the kind you win
with skee-ball tickets.
All week we
surround him in the wonky
quadrilateral of our
outstretched legs, feet
touching, forming
the enclosure where he falls
back and forth, you
to me and me
to you. We secretly fear
he likes the falling
down dance too much, so much
hell never walk, but I love
how he practices
collapse. Unfolding, bubbling
crawling, falling, standing, looking
holding, growing, collapsing
taking, lling, falling
forming I there
and you here and the nucleus
our desires strewn
over the difference, which is now
a person. Let him fall
and fall in this leg-sheltered eld
where we too stumble
and learn freely, forage
song from tragedy, light
from loss, fall
into evening, morning, the next
day, mercy. A person.
kate robinson
david brazil
lindsey boldt
!"## %"&'"(
)'*"+#",*)-'# )' *." )/0&##"
who watched boxcars boxcars boxcars sliding through restaurants
toward lonesome electric port in expansionist nights

who watched hanjin hanjin capital K line through firepits and jazz fog
toward exponential domain data information,

who drank gin and tonics, whiskey sodas in landlocked boats and waterfront hotels stranded
amongst concrete freeways,

who whipped kink on Jack Londons landlock dock in the 880,

who sniffed blow, tied heroin, weighed bricks for rent, moved weed for cash,

who worked corners and admired purses, who held company for security,

where underground economy holds things in pressure lock, props up whats left without, sucks
back some money that the structure sucks out,

where cash is the hustle in economy white out imperial wasted on credit, using hand to mouth to
scrape griddles, scrape bikes, scrap trucks, scrap tin,

where cacti blush in lawns linked in metal fence,

where crab grass catch rose bushes,

who ride BART, red lights, bus, and bikes,

who drive information, who group-play the game, who upset the set-up,

who fucks wit it, who tag, who murals, who writes history,

when students walk out, take over intersections, snap shots of cops locking their school gates,

where demands for security are revolutionary against the state that swoons for an economy
globalized by hanjin hanjin capital K, Clorox, shotspotter, Ceasefire, ATF, FBI, ICE, zarsion
holdings LLC

count on you me we to activate
our bodies covered in skins scaled with histories
spilling from our mouths towards
ears spread wide between
our eyes steady with the beating
of our many-chambered hearts

as they demand thru the megaphone real safety means no collaboration with immigration and
customs enforcement, means better schools, real jobs. we demand. we demand. fuck the gang
injunctions, fuck fuck the gang injunctions

PHILIP SEYMOUR HOFFMAN
when an artist dies
everything becomes so
likeless. Lake light
a big drag, the rain
annoying although we
we were parched. Three
farmers shake their heads
wimple down on hay
stalks sad, even their
cabbages have teary
layers. Its the year
of the horse not the
worm but so far
this year has swallowed
artists like an orca gulps
down ten chum in one
gob. Somebody won the
Super Bowl, they jump up
and down, go home, sleep
to wake, my veins
hurt, lithe but a little
lifeless, blue as Kool Aid
whats easy to forget
is that athletic competitions
like poetry were invented
to war against death
against the death of
how anybodys name
means anything, its best
to do this with a helmet on
poetry I mean
was invented as a log
of leased ass, everyone
brandon brown
in the world knows
the name Shamu
the Seahawks know it
the Broncos know it
Philip Seymour Hoffman knew it
and it is for this reason
orca cum is thick
and salty heroin of cums.
philip seymour hoffmann
DRESS
You go out
Have all the fun
I will be here
Having none
elaine kahn
laurence jones
"He tried to kiss me after eating my booty. Man you got a potty mouth."
Selections are honey. from After Sappho
im moving in two directions
a sauna in ux
grasping at the body
eeing up in the air
a rope w/ no causal tie
an agent un loosened
in limb & skin
what do i do o matrix
to keep on living in this junkyard
i am a goat
i have become a goat
Anaktoria
sara larsen
for Alli Warren
Aphrodite deathless of poly-crown consciousness
Zeus-daughter, wiles weaver, I beg you:
do not break me like a horse
Oh lady. My heart.
but come here, if ever you
caught my voice (many) and caved,
and came, shuttering behind you your dads
palace gold
steering your stallion chariot Helen-esque sparrows (such cologne)
quick whirred you over black earth
whip-wings down heaven
through mid-air
and made it. But you. Oh blissful,
smile on your never-dying face
saying whats up with me this time and why
this time again suffering do i call out
and what do i most of all want to happen
in my desiring heart. Who am I to persuade this time
to lead her back to your love? Who, oh Sappho,
wrongs you?
If she never responds, soon she will correspond.
If she rejects your tender body, soon she will covet you voraciously.
If she does not love, soon she will love you
-even against her will.
Come now, goddess: unleash me from bitter
care and all my heart beats
to accomplish, accomplish. You yourself
be my Ally.
for Lindsey Boldt
here to me from Crete to this holy coven
this apple secret where we meet a grove
of like-i-said apple trees alters smoking with what you brought from 40
th
street
Ancient Ways Larrys house.
frankincense
cold water babbles through apple boughs and sublime stink of rose es its
quite dark with the sky all shaded out like this and among simmer ing leaves
enchantment drops upon
there is an oak land where drews ponies brew among us here bloom out
springtime owers breeze
honey-like drips us
there, Aphrodite, take pour grace fully
nectar mingled with parties
for Laura Woltag
too you i white goat

drench wine
march 8, 2014