- Albany Poets

Transcription

- Albany Poets

Other:__
VOL. I ISSUE II
AlbanyPoets, Inc. is now accepting submissions for
Volume 1 Issue 3 of Other:____
We will accept simultaneous submissions but reserve the right
to first-publication. Once we have published your submission you
are free to include it in your own collection and/or any other
publication (online or printed).
To be considered for publication in our next issue [say, Augustish 2005 ] please send your electronic submissions (hard copies
not accepted unless prior arrangments are made with the
editors)
to
submissions@albanypoets.com
[complete submission guidelines available at
www.albanypoets.com/about/submit.asp]
The editors of Other:____ reserve the right to edit content
where absolutely necessary; without compromising the integrity
of the art.
Other:____ , the title & symbol combination
&
all of its contents are copyright
©AlbanyPoets, Inc. 2004
Contributors retain all rights, publishing & otherwise, to their
works.
From the Editors
It’s been a trip. Issue #2 of Other:____ sees concurrent
release with our CD, “Didn’t I Hear You Read?”, a collection of
some of Upstate NY’s best poets, recorded to beats and priced to
move. In the past months I’ve changed majors (English to Music)
and creative orientations (poetry to music). The ensuing results
will hopefully bring further interest to our poetry scene,
strange as it is. The CD, a compilation-style mix of some very
different poets, is hopefully a contribution to our scene that
hasn’t been made till now. I think in most cases it delivers
that sweet spot where the poetry isn’t overpowering the music,
rather each sound compliments the other. I’m more than willing
to hear critiques (good and bad) and advice; remember, this is an
amateur experiment, so please feel free to contact me on how it
could’ve been better, or just for an old-fashioned ego stroke, or
better yet both. Send all lip service to bluemacondo@yahoo.com,
under subject “Mr. Gone.”
Coming back to Other:____, I’m excited to offer our first
graphic-lit material in the form of Marcus Kwame Anderson’s
sublime comic/poem narrative and the interview with Layla Lawlor.
Two great artists who strut their stuff in a niche genre that’s
slowly gaining more publicity these days. The current boom of
comic-to-film that’s been relentlessly interrupting our episode
of “The Simpsons” with CGI drenched trailers has probably done
some harm; “Daredevil” is an easy and well-deserving example of
Hollywood’s notorious butchery of competent storytelling. But
then again, those fortunate enough to have seen “Sin City” and/or
been lifelong fans of Frank Miller’s work find ourselves secondguessing the possibilities of the comic form given the movie
treatment.
One of my aspirations for Other:____ has been to promote and
recognize the comic as an art form...I know you local artists are
out there, so give us a yell already. Chances are you’ll find a
copy of this zine at one of the few comic stores in the area.
Not only are submissions cost-free, but this time around we’re
giving you the chance to participate in a contest. Check the
back page for info.
Poetry remains the centerpiece, and many thanks to all who
have submitted this time around. We are proud to feature the
conclusion of A C Everson’s tour guide of open mics, as well as
an excellent assortment of poetry.
We’ll see you at the Wordfest.
-Leonardo FaiermanApril 17th, 2005
-I-
It’s around 4:00pm on Sunday afternoon. The coming weekend
kicks off the 1st annual WordFest bought to you by AlbanyPoets,
Inc., & it’s invaluable consultants, like Mary Panza who sweated
bullets as much as the rest of us (except of course Thom Francis
whose bouts of worried frenzy are not to be outdone by anyone),
in preparation for this anticipated event. Leo, the Editor of
Other:____ (and incidentally, my boyfriend) is on the living room
PC working on various final aspects of the zine as I
simultaneously do the same on the PC in the kitchen. Thom & Dale
& Marcus are doing the same on their respective modes of
electronic equipment. At some point I yell to Leo in the other
room, “you know we’re all alone, we should be having sex not
working on this zine!” (My daughter is at work and my son is at a
friends house). Besides the zine and work and the kids and the
cats and the ferretts, we’ve got our cd release and the wordFest.
So why the f!@#%k am I not having sex instead!
AlbanyPoets, Inc., and all of its related projects are
labors of love for all involved. We do NOT get paid to do this
nor do we have visions of grandeur, moments of delusion perhaps,
but no hopes of ever becoming rich & famous via our efforts here.
We all have children/families, full-time jobs, bills that are
overdue, and relationship issues that fall slightly to the
wayside while we have weekly/monthly meetings, usually at Thom’s
house, where we hammer out what, where, when, and how (the why
evident by the fact that we show up at all). This weekend is one
of the first weekends we’ve had this year where the sun is up and
the weather calls for shorts & open-toed sandals. I can smell
spring wafting through my open kitchen window; But alas! this is
the labor portion of labor of love. My printer sucks, I hate my
Mac, and I’m agonizing over whether I should actually ask my boss
for permission to print copies of the zine at work!
“So, where’s the love?” you ask. You’re holding it in your
hands. We’ve suffered it all because we believe in the magic and
necessity of art, spoken & otherwise. The newspapers &
politicians & corporations will always be harbingers of
dishonesty & deceit; enter art, enter love.
-Emily GonzalezApril 17th, 2005
- II -
Poetry Content:
Listed below you’ll find short poems accompanying an author’s bio, with
directions to read more of their work. All info listed is by the author,
unless denoted by []’s, in which case the words are mine [Leo].
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Space-man
by R.M. Engelhardt
Barbie Vs. Ken
by Dain Brammage
Say it isn’t so, I knew that she was
a slut!
That breast reduction surgery was
just another front
Barbie’s giving Ken the boot oh what
a sad sad day,
They were an institution for my
childhood play.
Alright, I admitted it, I used to
play with dolls,
Making Ken fuck Barbie, in spite of
the names I was called.
Maybe the little gay children had it
apropos,
With Ken down on hands and knees
under G.I. Joe.
***
Dain Brammage is a poet, spoken word
artist, host, executive producer ,
MP3-J and event organizer living in
the Capital Region of New York
State. He is the secretary and
director for Albany Poets
(www.albanypoets.com), on the board
of directors for Prysmatic Dreams
(www.prysmaticdreams.com) as well as
the web master and an event
organizer at The New Word Order
(www.thenewwordorder.com).
Milestones:
Slam Master (host) of Albany Poets
Project Slam and The New Word Order
National; Net Slam; Sacrificial poet
and volunteer at Poetry Slam, Inc.
2005 Individual World Poetry; Slam;
Produces audio poetry for himself
and others; MP3-J for Prysmatic
Dreams Whispered Words Poetry
Mixtape Show Featured at open mics
around Albany.
(see page 25 for Cleanliness Is Next
To Godliness)
- III -
Back when George W.
was a little boy
He told his
Daddy George Sr.
That when he grew
up that he wanted
to be a space-man.
***
The host of Albany's School Of Night
poetry open mic, poet & writer R.M.
Engelhardt is the author of seven books
of poetry and has been published in such
journals & online zines as Poetry
Magazine, Outsider Ink.com, Sure! The
Charles Bukowski Newsletter, Verve,
Mobius, The Georgetown Review and many
others. He is the founder of such poetry
groups as www.AlbanyPoets.org as well as
the The Central Muse Division.
(see page 25 for Noctorum)
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Snack
by Carol Grazer
I want to pop
like a kernel of corn
to let the oily heat seize me
zing me free of these tiny
these hard smooth constraints
to lie burst and salty on your palm
***
Carol Graser is a writer and
performer of poetry living in the
Adirondacks of upstate New York. She's
currently the host of the first Wednesday
of the month poetry series at historic
Caffe Lena in Saratoga Springs. Her work
has appeared in The Lullwater Review, So
to Speak, Southern Poetry Review and The
Worcester Review, among others.
(See page 6 for Reading Loba, The Young
Poet Calls from a Psyche Ward in
Binghamton, and Ecology)
Markers
by Lisa Haviland
Answer: 367
by Lisa Manzi
Numbers, digits
repeating
road after road
Never listen
what you’re told.
Question: How many times
would I have been strung
up from a tree,
***
Lisa Haviland, 28, is currently
published online at AnotherAmerica.org
and in The Pedestal Magazine’s
political anthology, DUFUS #8.2 and #7,
PoetrySuperHighway’s archives and the
Fall 2003 issue of Wicked Alice. Her
poems appear the old-fashioned way in
the Albany, New York-based zine
Other:____ and the international
AnotherAmerica anthology. Her first
play, Mary Contrary, was a finalist in
Theatre Three Productions’ Sixth Annual
Festival of One-Act Plays on Long
Island. Haviland publishes Saloon
Mystic, a poetry zine currently
available in bookstores in Albany,
Galway, Ireland and New Orleans, as
well as by request at
SaloonMystic@hotmail.com.
(see page 23 for Presence)
branded,
shackled,
or burned at the stake
had I been born this woman
two centuries ago?
***
Lisa Manzi is a writer and artist
working in Washington County.
Lisa has lived along the east
coast from New York to
Miami and has recently settled in
the town of Greenwich in the
Battenkill Valley. She has
a degree in fine art from the
Maryland InstituteCollege of Art.
She can be reached at
lisa_manzi@yahoo.com
www.lisamanzi.com
(see page 1 Observation At
Dinner, and Departure)
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Protocol
by Natalie N. Narine
Realization is the missing image from a compact makeup mirror
Wedding ring dermatitis helps to cure the Mrs. fist to face syndrome
Eyes heat hot coffee performing acrobatics to support her children
Revealing pink panties as she uncrosses her legs
Scratch and sniff memos
Ham and cheese sandwiches in a bathroom stall
Jerking off with a paper bag over your head
Wonder bread probability burnt around the edges
***
I am a Visual/Expressive Arts Educator, Radio Personality, and Published
Writer...Introduced to the creative craft by my fathers visions...Nurtured by
inner magic and tormented by the ambitious beast...I create through my 3rd
eye...reaching out to the spectrum of what is beyond plain view...given
glimpses to what supposedly parallels human nature...I am influenced by what
is hidden, forbidden, and raw...some places i’ve been published: Lunatic
Chameleon, Melswebs.com, GayPoetry.com, and Screed.
(see page 3 for Frail and Changes)
- IV -
Afternoon Boomers
by Will Nixon
Erotic Faces Make Cum Too Fast
by Mary Panza
Lightning walks the horizon on crooked
stilts.
Rain grabs my window with runny fingers.
Back up your computers! shouts the
receptionist.
I e-mail the afternoon boomers: Throw out
the clowns!
Juggle those boulders as if you've never
dropped one before
***
So
I
Crossed
My
Eyes
He
Came
Anyway
Will Nixon lives in Woodstock. His poetry
chapbooks are When I Had It Made (Pudding
House Publications) and The Fish Are
Laughing (Pavement Saw Press). His essays
about moving from Manhattan to a Catskills
log cabin are collected at
www.mycabinfever.com. In this region he has
published material in Chronogram, The
Country and Abroad, Prima Materia, and
Hunger.
(see page 20 for Whoring In My Mother’s
Volvo, Registered Pagan, Tackling Dummy)
***
[Mary fucking Panza and shit.
Mary’s one of the first poets I
saw perform in this city, and
the experience stays with you.
I’ve found much of her work to
be the equivalent of a joke the
whole room laughs at, until
several begin to discern where
the crosshairs have landed.
She’s the author of several
chapbooks and I hear she rubs
people for money. She’s
featured at
www.thehiddencity.com.]
(see page 27 for This Is Not An
Angry Poem, I Am Dreaming Of
London, …And You Missed)
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Minutiae
by Michael Rivet
Empty my brain
Of small details
Lest I sink
Into a miasma
Of minutiae –
***
Michael Rivet, age 35, has been writing since high school dabbling in self
publishing, eZines, on-line poetry discussion groups, open mics, and
workshops. However, his work remains frightfully free of urbania and inner
city glum. Working mostly out of Cohoes NY, the author seeks the harmony
of nature and city, man and machine, joy and anger, and the peace of mind
only artists ever truly achieve.
(see page 4 for Encore and Vacation to the Big City)
-V-
Midnight
by Bob Sharkey
White sheets hold
tree limb shadows.
Nerve bundles connect.
New snowflakes reflect
moon and star light.
Synapses spark.
kisses
by Melissa Stafford
seamless and lustful my advancing eyes
my quickening pace sets motion into
pale white skin and i am leaving marks
my lips pressing against their cold
cheeks with a flurry even i did not.
expect.
***
***
As you know, I am actively
involved in the live reading
scene in Albany and the
surrounding area. My poetry
has appeared in many small
press publications including
The Puckerbrush Review,
Quercus Review, Blue Collar
Review, Plainsongs, Barbaric
Yawp and Off The Coast. Other
poems of mine are forthcoming
in Pudding and Main Street
Rag.
My name is Melissa Stafford - a former
Albanian, now living in Hudson, New
York. I work at both the Carrie Haddad
Gallery and the Columbia County Council
on the Arts. I am also a photographer
and have an installation piece on view
(part of the Sixteen Windows of Art
that the Downtown Albany BID has
created) called "CONTAINER" at the
Arcade Building on Broadway in Albany.
I have collaborated with many different
arts organizations in Albany including
Albany Center Galleries, Albany
Underground Artists, Art4Central and
200 Proof Magazine all of which I am
proud to support.
(see page 23 for 57)
(see page 2 for Route 9)
Universal Hymn
by Hollice Danielle Wiles
god drinks
death-black martinis
tonight
the moon
is his only
ice cube
***
I have lived in Albany for five years and have had some small publishings
in the Metroland and 200 Proof as well as
helping out hosting random poetry open mic nights at Professor Java's
Coffee Sanctuary. I am not sure that there is an over all thread in what i
write, but I am inspired by small daily things that we sometimes over look
and take for granted and they seem to become symbols for inner desires or
Byronic struggles. I enjoy playing guitar, painting and sculpting and take
every chance i can get to travel...but poetry is the one thing that seems
to stick with me
(see page 4 for Drying of the Laundry, Our City, and Eggs and Bacon)
- VI -
Longer Stuff
Open Mics by the Dozen Part II
by A C Everson (see page 31)
[See Part 1 in issue 1]:
A hearing impaired poet’s take on 12
open mics attended whilst on a “Grand
Vacation.”
[This is the goods, straight from the
smash-artist’s mouth. We are proud
to present the final six open mics
reviewed on her voyage.]
A C Everson is a home grown poet,
sculptor and performance artist who
has performed and shown in the Albany
area and abroad since 1994. In 1995
A C started Breaking My Art where her
poetry and pinatas are combined in
what has been described as “awesome”
performances. She has three selfpublished chap books of poetry,
Sister to Sister, Love A C
Style, and Soap Box and My
Two Cents and two selfproduced CDs, Words With and
Idi Annine and the Mamas, her
poetry backed up by some of
the Albany areas best
musicians. A C is currently
developing a web site:
Breakingmyart.com, a place
where she hopes to showcase
her poetry and pinatas, and
also have related links and
info.
**Back to Alaska (see
by Leonardo Faierman
page 10)
Layla Lawlor currently scribes
and illustrates several comic
series’, including Raven’s
Children and her online works
Kismet and Freebird. A
newspaper layout designer by
day, she somehow finds the time
to self-publish these complex,
articulately imaginative and
sometimes violent tales from her
homebase in Alaska. After much
deliberation (on both our
parts), I was able to pick her
brain on such varied subjects as
homeschooling, hippie jokes, and
foot-in-mouth disease. You can
preview her work and find
purchasing info at
www.laylalawlor.com, and she is
a featured artist on the
jampacked www.girlamatic.com.
- VII -
Thanks in part to her
generosity, Other:____ is
organizing a contest for
interested comic artists. See
the back of this issue for more
info.
***
[leo’s bio: Born in Argentina,
raised in The City, and worked
crap jobs half my life. It’s
been about four years since I
moved to Upstate, NY, the first
town where I’ve ever read
poetry onstage. I’m currently
enrolled as a Music Major at
SUNY and can’t wait to get out
of college and apply my wellearned knowledge by becoming
one of a hundred thousand
office clerks.]
*Untitled Love
(see page
by Marcus Kwame Anderson
38)
We’re proud to present our first lengthy comic offering,
courtesy of Albany’s resident hat juggler Mr. Anderson.
[note to everyone: WE WANT MORE COMICS!]
***
Marcus Anderson is a 25 year old poet/visual artist who was born
in Kingston Jamaica. He has lived in the Capital Region since
the age of 2, and has been involved in some form of the arts for
as long as he can remember.
Marcus has been a featured reader at “Alchemy of the Word,” at
the Lionheart Cafe, and Changing Spaces art gallery. He also
doesn’t like to write bios about himself... he really doesn’t...
the poems are the bios.
- VIII -
Lisa Manzi
Observation at Dinner
My work is like your steak:
bloody
rare
beaten tender
marbled with hidden gristle
both necessary and inhumane
and
cut
from a dumb cow.
despite appearances, this is the one thing I never doubt.
Departure
The scent lingers beyond the act.
It evaporates and seals off my walls
leaving behind a constant reminder,
nagging me to live,
to leave this bed
and every man ever been in it.
Slam and lock the doors behind you,
says the mantra to my twisted feet walking.
My last words drop like a spider
from the thread of silk and spit at my lips,
seeping in and spinning out
every pore webbed, contained,
dragging me over
and over my own freshly laid down edges.
-1-
Melissa Stafford
Route 9
I breathed
purple
heavy
calm
candlelight
last night
words
dripped
lightly
from my
lips
summer steam
the air
was
vaporous
languid
like your stare
like the sky
like the room
and time
slipped by
effortlessly
casual taste of
chocolate stars
and the moon hung
contentment
strung like
pearls
along the shore
the gentlest
kiss
I ever received
came from your patient
lips
and
soft
and
slow
like water talks to land
hypnotic
stripped
and
bare
white nights
call for nothing more
than the buzz
-2-
from a fan
and
sleep
like
dreaming
fish
swaying
to
the
rhythm
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Natalie N. Narine
Frail
Five tormenting nights
Seduction
Mounting blatant obsession
Eyes won't obstruct
Writhing bed a battlefield
Torrid for dark and sinful
Attaining new finagled stature
Recreational strength
Subservient on scraped knees
Mouth ample
Forcing you in
Muffling moans
Swallowing greedily
The aftermath
Shaken, tears shameful
Vanishing rapidly
Angrily tossing plates
I must obtain another chocolate cake.
Changes
My pursed lips tugging the silver umbilical
cord through your navel
Each inch stimulating like a vibrator
on a virgins clit
Exposing secrets along a life line
Each inch wrapping itself like a
turban around my crown
Squeezing the consciousness
Each inch suffocating like playing
sadomasochistic huff games
Blacking out from reality
Peanut butter and jelly may taste
exquisite together, but still a meal
in a child's lunch box
Realizing I'm holding jump rope
instead of the lining to a cloud
The school bell warns two mins.
to recess
Shedding a constricting uniform
Look upon my rebellious,naked flesh
I regain flight.
-3-
Michael Rivet
Vacation to the Big City
Encore
She liked to pretend she lived
there
Pine St. lined with elms
a sea of crowded
To shed mundane living
space
yellow waving hands
In foreign ports of call –
awaiting an encore
A temporary neighbor.
In corner stores,
bakeries, cafes
on green grass
A stool in the local pub
raked away
in the cold and wet
Here she finds her
vacation
of Halloween.
Costumed in the customs.
Hollice Danielle Wiles
Drying of the Laundry
barren alleyways full of city laundry
like expressionless pieces of skin colored by the sunset
pristine and pinned in place
i am strung out like clothing wire between houses
here....where the evening day dyes
white towels into shades of red and purple
i watch an airplane disappear behind a pair of drying socks
a bird's flight seems to crash into a gathered parade of
faded panties
my window is the window to the world
and the hanging laundry like the movie screen of our torrid
lives
somewhere visions of you pressed hard against me dance
like french film clips across the neighbors' dangling bed
-4-
sheets
so hard and ardent our love was
like wet memories rung out
and dripping into the streets below
i watch the color drip down from the ravels
onto the heads of little children playing ball below
they look up in disbelief and wonder
Our City
a train is chased by a storm into the dusk
and the city pulls her children in
like chicks beneath the scurry of a hen
thin and sweet...the voice of a women
raises above the clammer of traffic
whispering...."stay with me"
in a broken flat a man curls his body around a bottle
listens intently to the rain compete
with the train upon the tracks
the whole world is hushed though an open window
as a mother lulls her child to sleep
an old house still lives
tucked between sky scrapers
in the curve of his dreaming wife
a husband finds sudden comfort
woken from a childhood memory that he long forgot
the whole world revolves with the ceiling fan
the dream is yours and the lips are mine
the miracle ours:
how we still find each other in the night
Eggs and Bacon
last night: i (only) dreamed a dream of passion
like the seeded raw insides of red ripen fruit
today i make your breakfast....fading dreams in my faded
pj's
sagging away with the dying elastic waistbands
-5-
i take such caring pleasure to hold up each cold
smooth white egg in the warmth of my half dreaming hands
my head in the clouds
like each fragile egg is brought down sharply
brained on the metal side of the bowl in a smack
scrambled and broken into the death black of a cast iron
skillet
sometimes i relish that sudden cold meeting sudden hot
the sizzle of eggs in bacon grease
across the table as we eat
i tell you of my perfect dreams
you mumble back with food in your mouth
"you burnt the bacon again and got shell in the eggs"
sometimes i (guiltily) wish
you would choke on your bacon
but most times..... i just wished you'd say
thank you
Carol Grazer
Reading Loba
With pearled lids she curled
under the days small limbs
beings of sand soon to be
whipped up by any number
of fierce natural winds
She licked at her dreams
as he licked drops of white dew
from prune sweet nipples
The day shone like a dull black sun
she must will into unshadow
What could she sprout from thin
yellow air, from specks of dust
from the cinnamon flavored dental floss
of her sanity/strength
-6-
She scooped up handfuls of rock
heaped it golden on their plates
She shook tears into
winnie-the-pooh cups
Her cunt smooth as pots of paint
the wet, primary colors
The day sat on her head
seconds trickled in drips down
her face, tongue catching
the sweaty drops
The day like a puzzle she
turns her back on, solves from a
vague reflection
Falling into the dark sun curve
the thrashing throes it takes
to defy grace and pajamas
Starlight kisses
bed strewn with them all
beach ocean sky
The Young Poet Calls From
A Psyche Ward in Binghamton
Hauled in by police, he battled the bed sheets, deflected
like a goalie the doctor’s attempts. His rapid words
skittered lost into thick fog, could not be called home
Concern wound close around him, plane rides
phone calls, someone placed their cool palm
against his cheek, smoothed his revolution hair
Days later he woke
from this jagged rock dream, began nodding
to doctors believably, swallowed advice like clockwork
began to speak in thoughts whole as apples
Soon, he’ll climb into his mother’s car, drive south
form the city that tangled him. This precipice summer
he might watch all day TV, lie down under khaki blankets
pulled up to his tearless eyes. He might learn to swim
clean dripping strokes, his body sluicing through sunlight
on water. Or he might pace like a maze these sweltering
sidewalks, shout verses into the hot tar streets
that will never embrace him
-7-
Ecology
I keep the baby’s white towel stained now
with arcs of gray; the fear that clung like
cobwebs, the cloying black mesh
volcanic ash I scrubbed into sooty foam
wiped from the trembling floors
I keep widowed socks, pile them
in basket heaps, beseech them
to find some new one to roll up against
to side by side cover our striding feet
I keep his name when all else of him
is thinner than mist. His name
I keep like historic jewelry
wear it hidden against my throat
I keep old jars, peanut butter and
mayonnaise line kitchen shelves
with their clear, expectant rows
their lidless wonder
I keep the spatula
whose plastic handle
broke off, use holding
by the shorter metal
I flip closer to the pan
I keep tangles of ribbons
toss them in boxes marked crayons
or glitter, pull them out for child projects
they’re never right for, use them
in snips of glue and thread
bag the remainder
I keep the student dresser
she and I quarreled over, $20
bottoms threaten to drop
but every day the drawers open
I lost his ring because
it unnerved my finger, it
lives hidden in my bedroom
like a thriving escaped hamster
I keep the afghan she knitted
trace the snaking cables like
the maze of her Irish past, keep it
through their complaints
at the stiff acrylic
-8-
I keep the plastic bucket his
sympathy fruit came in, load
play-dough toys colored like
oranges and bananas into the
cracking cylinder
I keep pictures
of my relatives that have died
in an envelope wedged at the top
of three rough shelves. When the
morbid letter is finished, my demise
is mailed, package I’ve waited for
have practiced opening
I lost the flea market watch
she gave me, slipped it off
my wrist clicking through
these rooms, held it up
with a flip until I could feel
the vanish
I keep standing at the edge
of a globe of beating golden
threads, pulse my own life
into the thick of it
I keep records filed in buckets
of compost, heap the varied rot
into questionable piles
turn the black food into this gardens
eager plots. When called on
for an accounting I cook dinner
I keep the black cat because
she cried at my new door
tenacious gypsy hunting a fatter life
Her thickened paw questions my pen
I keep spiders, halloween bugs
all manner of six legged and crunchy
they creep into my rooms as part
of the landscape
I keep angels, a catholic habit
they seep into paper moments
compelling me to write angel
angel, to breathe their blue and white
to imagine a benevolence that even now
is plotting interventions
-9-
*Leonardo Faierman
Back to Alaska
I interviewed the very amicable Layla Lawlor, and present
for you here the bulk of both online discussions. The
first section was conducted at around 2:00am and is
therefore a little less...cohesive? Lucid? Readable? I
include it here for the sake of completion. For the second
part of this interview, we were both a bit more mentally
prepared, and I think the resultant Q&A proves that.
Freebird: Prologue, page 2 (2005) – Layla’s most recent series, available for free on
her website. Her first gesture at autobiographical comix.
Other:____: First of all...so you're giving RC a proper ending to the
arc?
Layla Lawlor: Yes. It didn't feel right leaving it hanging, especially
since it may be years before I pick it back up again.
O: The last issue would be a weird place to pause, but I found the
seasonal chapter format and art very effective.
LL: Well, I was going to give it a bit more of a ... well, an ending -I was going to add a few pages at the end, not a resolution but a sense
of looking ahead to future events. I wasn't happy with it, though. See,
that issue -- #12 -- was a bridge between the earlier part of the story
and the "ending" part. I'm still shortening up the ending more than it
was going to be...dropping a few subplots, trimming out some scenes I
wanted to keep (sniff!) and the like.
O: two-part question: I'm guessing you originally printed your work in
minicomic form due to production costs. Is there some artistic value
beyond that that you find in working with the minicomic form? It's got
a lot of history. Would you jump at the chance to put RC in 8 1/2 x 11
full color?
- 10 -
LL: The short answer to both those questions is “yes and no.” I have a
love/hate relationship with minicomics. In some ways, I find them very
frustrating. The actual act of physically creating them (copying,
folding, stapling) is like Chinese water torture for me. I know some
minicomics artists who like it. It's like meditation or something for
them. Lucky people! I loathe the process of making them. I also have a
lot of trouble getting the final product to look the way I want it to
look. I'm a perfectionist and I end up re-stapling things because the
staples went in crooked, or folding and flattening one page at a time.
On the last couple issues, I gave up in disgust and had the copy shop
fold it for me. Actually I think I've been doing that since about #9.
It's not nearly as flat as I like, but MUCH less work for me, and they
trim the edge, which is another thing that bugged me about minis -- the
uneven edges, especially on a thicker book.
O: I think the minicomic form is something special. Like you said, it
takes elbow grease. Otherwise, it reminds me of poetry chapbooks.
LL: Yes, I said it was a "love-hate" relationship, and what I realized
was this: I'm not using it to its full advantage with RC. I'm trying to
do RC like a print comic. The mini form is not part of the concept or
design. The minis I really, truly love are the ones that take
advantage of the form. For example, some people have cool hand-screened
covers, or the paper is folded in a neat and interesting way. RC is
not like that. The mini form is just the cheapest way I could find to
get it out in print form.
O: Speaking of forms, Kismet is a completely different ballpark. Your
work naturally inspired me to get my Girlamatic on, and I'm glad I did.
LL: Oh, I'm glad!
O: The internet comics come out in a kind of scrolled story.
LL: I like that.
O: You seem to experiment some with layout and form using these
mechanics. Like, each section's area differs, and you tailor the word
bubbles to correspond to the scrolling.
LL: I like the freedom of the Internet compared to print. You're not
stuck with a certain size or number of pages. [considering your
comment,] I sort of do. Kismet is still designed one approximately
comic-sized page at a time. But I also consider the scrolling process
as the reader reads down the page. I'll sometimes break it up, for
example, and move a panel farther down so you have to scroll to reach
it.
O: There's computer coloring and all kinds of technical goodies at work
there too.
LL: Oooh yeah, computer coloring…I admit that it's also something I
have a bit of a love-hate relationship with it -- I enjoy it and I like
the results, but it's really easy to let the computer be a crutch. For
example, to just find clip art for backgrounds, that kind of thing. A
lot of the backgrounds in Kismet are very lazy, compared to RC.
O: You seem to be your own worst critic...no Wizard of Oz curtain.
LL: Always! I'm pretty open about how I do my work and how I feel about
it.
O: Thermopylae [a Kismet story arc], I must say, is displaying some of
your best black and white art yet.
LL: Thank you! You know what's really funny about that, though? (Here I
go again.) The art in Reckless is very fast compared to how I normally
work. There's a sketchy quality to it. Ironically, it comes out
looking nicer than the RC art where I can spend hours doing one panel.
I'm getting better at doing bold blacks. I think I was very frightened
of blacks in the beginning for some reason.
O: Ok don't freak out but it's inspirations time. Some people hate
this stuff...who were some of your big influences?
- 11 -
LL: Oh THAT question... I think I give different answers every time
someone asks me this...I've been influenced by a whole lot of stuff
both outside and within the field of comics. Probably the two really
big ones, which both hit when I was about 10 years old, were Elfquest
and Japanese animation. That was the mid '80s [Layla is 28]. This was
way before anime was a fad and scads of young people were drawing anime
style. (Listen to me doing my old fart impression.)
O: I'm with you on the anime fad critique and it is old-fartish but
morbidly true.
LL: Anyway, I had loved both comics and animation, but I was starting
to feel too old for it, because everything seemed to be aimed at
little kids. Then Elfquest and Robotech did this one-two number on my
brain. I wouldn't even say I consciously emulated them -- although I
can see the influence very heavily in my art, especially my early
art. They just opened my eyes to what was possible to do with comics
and animation. Besides that ... I read voraciously, all kinds of
things. I really loved sprawling, complicated, epic stories. For
example, Zelazny's "Amber" series.
O: Woah Zelazny...I'm stepping away from the car…
LL: Amber is very good. A weird fusion of fantasy, fairy tale and
science fiction, with kind of a modern bent to it, if that makes any
sense at all.
[At this point we digress into a lot of fiction blather]
O: there was something I wanted to ask you...see, I don't read “Wizard”
[a monthly comic mag, probably the equivalent of “Entertainment
Tonight” for comics] anymore. I did when I was like 12.
LL: Sorry, we DID go down a tangent!
O: Anyway, “Wizard” gave you big ups, so in my 12 year old mind, comic
artist/writers that get big ups from “Wizard” are like getting the
Hollywood treatment for all of fifteen minutes...I don't have the issue
that mentions you, I would have no idea how to find it...
LL: Ha! Well, sort of.
O: Can you tell me a little story from this auspicious occasion? I
don't know, Greek masseurs at your door, Four Seasons hotels, fantastic
parties.
LL: It was actually “Wizard Edge.” About twice a year, “Wizard” does an
independent-creator-themed issue; it's called “Wizard Edge.” At that
time, I knew someone who wrote for it. Jen Contino. Very nice person.
She put in a very nice mention of me. On glossy four-color paper, no
less! So it's not really “Wizard.” But very nearly. When I did the
cover for the TPB [Trade Paperback], I dropped the "Edge" and just put
“Wizard.”
O: That's marvelous!
LL: If I did it now, I probably wouldn't, because it is a bit
misleading, and I actually feel sort of guilty about it.
O: You shouldn't that’s great!
LL: I'm too honest for my own good. I would be a horrible used car
salesman.
O: Maybe so but I'm sure it sold at least a few TPBs.
LL: It did make people notice it. So did Carla Speed McNeil's name on
the cover - I'm surprised how many people's attention was gotten
just from that! Retailers, even.
O: And it was the reverse for me, your book got me into finding her
work just cuz I was looking for something comparable to RC
LL: That's actually weird and cool, I should tell her that.
O: Please do. Finder is just some whole other planet. And I definitely
have you to thank for finding it.
LL: You're welcome! Finder is really mind-blowing. At least I think it
is. Carla, in person, is about like you would think she'd be ... her
brain is just full of trivia and ideas.
- 12 -
O: I needled my girlfriend into reading it and now she wants to fuck
Jaeger.
LL: Ha! Everybody does!
O: So, you ever go to these big comic expos and get cold-shouldered?
One of my fondest memories was being 12 at my first comic show thing
and getting yelled at by Mike Grell.
LL: In general, I have acute asshole-ometry and have managed to avoid
most of the big jerks in the industry ... or, I should say, those I've
heard were jerks second-hand; I wouldn't know. Most of my
experiences with pros have been very, very positive. Even when I was
suffering from a massive case of foot-in-mouth disease, as was the case
when I met Neil Gaiman (Sandman, etc), mispronounced his name and
generally
acted like a total blithering idiot. He was very nice to me anyway.
Probably, he's seen worse. Hell, even Dave Sim was nice to me, and
he's famous for being a jerk. But he was still very pleasant the one
time I met him. I fluster easily and I think I've accidentally
insulted people quite frequently just from being shy and not knowing
what to say…what I feel worst about is when I am accidentally rude to
people who are buying my books. And sometimes I am. Usually it's
stupid stuff like forgetting people's faces and trying to sell them the
same book twice. I am
really terrible about
that. It is highly
embarrassing to sell
someone something on day
1 of the con and then on
day 3, to start giving
them your spiel and
they're like, "No, I
bought that already" and
you just want to sink
through the floor...
[the official interview]
O: "There are no
innocent bystanders.
Just people lurking
suspiciously in the
wrong place at the wrong
time" [from Kismet].
Kismet is dark,
dystopic-future
material. What do you
feel are the messages in
Raven’s Children Issue #1, page 3 (2001), - Jained
this kind of science
digs out a piece of kuru. This image is from the
fiction, and are you
“redux” version of Raven’s Children; Layla’s gone back
trying to communicate
to the early pages of her series and slightly updated
the art.
any sweeping critiques
with this story?
LL: Kismet, believe it or not, is (or originally WAS) my dumping ground
for all my ideas and characters too wacked out, disjointed or bizarre
to put into a more "serious" story. It wasn't supposed to make sense.
It wasn't supposed to have a coherent plot. It was just supposed to be
for playing around in. In some ways it still is. I have a
transvestite mobster and an evil clone (hasn't shown up yet). However,
as I built their future universe, constructed its history and laid my
ground rules for it (no aliens, no time travel, no psychic powers...) I
got to be very interested in exploring ideas and controversies from the
- 13 -
contemporary world in an SF setting. The current story, Hunter’s Moon,
is about those conflicts that drag on through the generations until
everyone's forgotten what they're fighting about. One generation's
freedom fighters are the next generation's terrorists. One idea I
haven't explored in HM as thoroughly as I'd like is the way that wars
are forgotten by everyone else when they're no longer hot news, even
though they're still going on. Think about how quickly it happens. The
tsunami in Asia, for example -- it's not in the news anymore, who
thinks about it? Even though a staggering number of people, a number we
cannot comprehend, are homeless, injured, sick, dying, dead.
O: along with that, you have a very clever line: "Revolutions become
part of the decor."
LL: And that quote is part of that. 50 years ago there was a
revolution. Today's kids (in Kismet 2476) don't have any clue…it's
really more topical now than ever. I first wrote Hunter’s Moon in 1995
and it was a different world back then. I actually launched the
webcomic right after 9/11 and I was a little nervous about how people
would react to my somewhat ambiguous terrorists. Er, I guess about a
year after 9/11, actually. But it was still very much on people's
minds. When I wrote in 1995 about foreign terrorists blowing up
shuttles and buildings (an aspect I've downplayed somewhat in the
modern version) it wasn't such a hot-button topic as it is now.
O: Have you gotten any negative criticism to this effect yet?
LL: Actually, none at all. Usually the things I think will tick people
off, don't even raise a ripple. The things that bother them are things
that I never even thought about, like the profanity and slang in the
early RC. I got a lot of negative comments on that!
O: I think science fiction has the capacity to cut through present day
politics in a somewhat safer, imagined setting. Consider the rampaging
Spider in Transmetropolitan...
LL: You hit the nail on the head! That is perhaps SF's greatest
strength. And fantasy/allegory too. George Orwell was a master of it.
O: I personally love the dialogue in Raven's Children, and in Kismet. I
have to say it's one of the best features of your narratives.
LL: Thank you very much! I love writing dialogue. Of the whole
process, it's my favorite part by far.
O: Do you practice this heavily before putting the words together? I
think I once read that Bendis spends a lot of time talking to himself
or others to see what sounds natural in his stuff, which is definitely
dialogue heavy.
LL: Er, sort of. I have tons of dialogue snippets that never make it
into the story. I have whole conversations that I just write -- the
characters aren't even characters in any of my stories. I just like to
make people talk. I've gotten a lot better since the early RC at some
of the nuances of dialogue...making the characters sound natural,
having different people talk differently, that kind of thing. I think
the dialogue in Hunter’s Moon is paced much better than the first few
issues of RC. I've learned so much. For characters like Fleetwood, who
toss off one-liners, I have lots and lots of random Fleetwood-isms
waiting in the wings to be used.
O: Your own worst critic. The conversations between Rohnen and Jained
early on in RC prove you knew what you were doing. You didn't even
need the word balloons.
LL: I think I'm harder on myself in general terms than when I actually
go back and LOOK at the early issues. There is a lot that I like about
the first issues. And a lot I don't like.
O: What's really seemed to develop the most in RC as time passed is the
artwork.
LL: Oh, hell yes. It's hardly recognizable as the same hand drawing
anymore. The style changes gradually over time. The only big shift is
- 14 -
the addition of gray tones, which starts in #11, I think. I really
badly want to go back and re-draw the early issues, but I won't. I
don't think I ever will.
O: Issue #7 was very well done. Since a lot of time had passed since I
had finished the TPB and got your individual issues, I was really
intrigued at how far you'd come between 6 and 7…the split-page
narrative came off very well.
LL: I'm glad it worked. A couple people told me it was hard to follow,
but I've had more positive than negative comments on it. The problem I
had, from a storytelling perspective, was that the issue had two
utterly separate storylines in it. I dealt with it by splitting the
page.
O: You gonna elaborate at all on what's possibly revealed in #11?
LL: [thinks desperately back to #11] You mean the shape-changing dog,
tunnel and all of that?
O: uh huh
LL: That actually plays a critical part in the current, and last,
issue, #13. And is explained a little better too. (Though you still
have to read between the lines somewhat.) One aspect of my crappy
artwork in the early issues is that I dropped clues that are
unrecognizable. I always drew the dog with a circuit-board pattern on
its face, but you generally can't see it well enough to tell.
O: Honestly I didn't, no.
LL: No one did! Because I didn't draw it well enough! Considering that
I had the whole ancient-technology thing planned out from the
beginning, I could have foreshadowed it a lot better.
O: Let's take a break from RC and discuss Alaska and your mysterious
need for those colder climates...
LL: Oh, okay.
O: You just had to go back, right?
LL: Yes. It really WAS a need, too. I can't explain it better than
that. I love it up here. Now that I'm back, I love it more with each
passing day.
O: Can you tell me a little bit about your childhood there? (there was
one, right? I can't fathom the love otherwise, my brain'll explode)
LL: Ohboy. This is going to take a little while to type. Heh, what’ll
you hear this. I'm going to start before I was born. It will make
sense eventually. My grandparents moved to Alaska in 1959, the year of
statehood. They drove up the Alcan (Alaska-Canada highway) with all
their worldly possessions and two young girls (my mom and aunt). They
bought a homestead, 160 acres, that was accessible only via railroad
and then a long walk through the swamp. That's where my mom grew up.
She only lived in town for a few years when she was a teenager. And
that was during the 60s, so she went deep, deep, deep into the hippie
back-to-nature philosophy. My dad came up to Alaska in the military in
about '69 or so. After he got out, he stayed. He was a folk musician.
My parents traveled around Alaska for several years ... mostly, they
stayed with friends or house-sat for people, always moving farther out
from civilization. They acquired a dog team and that was their sole
form of transportation -- I don't think they ever owned a car. They
got interested in buying land and they found this spot...to get there,
you fly 30 miles in a small plane. The nearest place the plane can land
is about 3 miles away. It was just total wilderness then. They picked
their way up creeks and such, and found a 5-acre parcel that they
leased from the state. A year later, I was born there. THERE,
literally. At that time they were living in a cabin about 10x15 feet
large, with a blanket for a door. I saw a doctor for the first time
when I was a few months old. I didn't have a birth certificate until
they enrolled me in school. (Homeschooled naturally, for all 12 years.)
I also have a brother and a sister ... same deal, home birth,
- 15 -
homeschooled. We had no close neighbors and there were no other kids
out there anywhere near our age. We didn't have a TV until I was 8 or a
computer until I was about 16. Books. Art. Woods. That was my whole
world. I loved it beyond anything else. Hang on. I'm getting chilly.
I'm gonna go put on a sweater and get a glass of wine. I hope I'm not
boring you?
O: It’ll play well in Albany, trust me, and it's interesting and a bit
strange. Homeschooling bugs me out.
LL: Homeschooling depends totally on the people who are doing it. Now
I should back up and point out that it wasn't exactly what you're
probably thinking of.
O: I'm of the camp who had a shittyass time in the New York City public
school system and thank them for it. I wouldn't be able to deal with a
lot of life's bullshit without the hard knocks I got there, and I
sadistically wish it on most kids. Sorry if that sounds sick.
LL: No, I understand, because I kinda went through it in college.
College, for me socially, was like a hyper-accelerated junior high
through high school. It wasn't as hard as I thought it would be -- not
nearly. But it wasn't easy. Anyway, about the homeschooling...It
depends hugely on who's doing it. Many people homeschool their kids for
scary, scary reasons. And you wonder what the hell those kids are
learning. In the state of Alaska, you cannot homeschool your kids by
yourself (i.e. with no lesson plans or anything) if you aren't a
certified teacher. There was a curriculum. The state sent us books,
lessons and standardized tests. We did them and sent them back. It's
called "guided independent study." The parents are more guides than
teachers. In the modern era, I understand they use interactive computer
programs and even satellite TV hookups to give rural kids more of a
"classroom" experience.
O: Woah.
LL: It's a huge problem in Alaska, you see, because there are so many
people off the road system. So there is this infrastructure to deal
with it. We were not the only ones, not by any means. Elsewhere, most
parents homeschool because of personal choice. When I have kids, I may,
at least when they're young. But in this state, many people don't have
a choice. There are simply no schools nearby. So home schooling -guided home schooling -- is funded by tax dollars, as part of the
public school system. Incidentally, it was the only thing we EVER got
out of our property taxes, that I know of.Roads, garbage collection,
etc. was obviously not an issue for us.
O: I bet...it was probably all woven into a kind of garbage yarn that
you guys knitted clothing out of...big joke i'm sorry.
LL: *snort* If there had been a way to do that, we probably would have.
O: I can't help it. I keep hippie jokes under a hair trigger but they
mean no harm.
LL: I like hippies, but it's an awfully easy lifestyle to take shots
at. I understand that. We were stunningly poor. If we'd lived in town,
we would have been homeless. The only thing saving us was that our cost
of living was rock bottom and we got a lot of stuff from the land.
O: I recently went to a hippie party in the middle of nowhere in
upstate NY. They homeschool. The woman who threw the party is a poet
around here I really respect...At that party I was at, I was smoking
with someone (I find it weird that hippies smoke pot around kids, dunno
why I just do) Anyway, the woman's husband told me about these chickens
in back, and I swear he was fucking with me. I'm like "yeah chickens."
He assured me he wasn't but I couldn't tell...So I took a walk back and
saw a homemade coop.
LL: This was in town?
O: I dunno if it’s a town. There're not many street signs, I think
that means its not. We got lost on the way, freaked in the car like we
- 16 -
were in one of those redneck horror films. Anyway, the good thing
about those kinds of parties is that there tends to be a bonfire which
is always a good thing. My main note about homeschooled kids though,
is that one of the poet's resident youngsters, I think she's like 5 or
so, she's standing next to me, I'm drinking and zoning out into the
fire, and I tell this sad story, like, to whoevers next to me. It was
something that happened to someone I know. When I'm done with the
story, the little girl turns to me and says, with a somber face and
genuine sorrow, "that's a really sad story," and I was shocked. Why?
Cuz the kids I know are mostly city kids, and they aren't listening to
what adults say, let alone feeling it. All of a sudden I realized that
she had listened intently, and understood the whole story.
LL: heh, so cute. Most hippie kids are used to being around adults.
They're used to talking to adults and being talked to like adults. At
least that's how it was for us and for the kids of our parents'
friends.
O: I like that aspect of it. Those kids are completely different than,
say, my friend’s daughter, obsessed with some Barbie-type thing called
Bratz, staring at TV half the day.
LL: You know it's actually really neat for me to hear that such things
still go on in 2005 in New York State. Living in Illinois gave me a
slightly warped idea of what the "Lower 48" is like, and not a very
positive idea either. I make a lousy Midwesterner.
O: I want to get back to Alaska, and how you lovingly incorporate it
into RC.
LL: Ah, that! I think I wrote RC partly because there is so little
genre fiction that takes place in the Arctic. Writing of any kind,
really, aside from travelogues and lost-in-the-wilderness adventures.
And I did it as a comic partly because I could do something that had
never been done before -- an Arctic fantasy comic. I don't think there
are any others.
O: Neither do I.
LL: What really annoyed me is that I didn't start working on it in
earnest until the year I moved away. Literally -- I started drawing
issue #1 the month after getting to Illinois. And all of a sudden, I
needed a lot of visual reference that formerly would be all around me,
and suddenly I didn't have anymore! Another big irony is that I wanted
to debunk a lot of myths about the Arctic. I wanted to depict it as it
really is, not in the stereotyped way it often appears in books and
films. And, of course, I set my story during the winter and did the
same damn cliches ... blizzards and such. Freebird, my new project, is
really my attempt to do it RIGHT ... I put it on hold to finish RC.
- 17 -
There's about 12
pages total.
Freebird is
probably the first
thing I've written
that has no
supernatural or SF
elements at all.
It's set in modernday Alaska.
Fairbanks. I plan
to use a lot of
photos in drawing
it.
O: Semiautobiographical?
LL: In some
superficial ways.
It is actually more
drawn from the
experiences of
people I know than
from my own. It's
also the first time
I've deliberately
based characters on
real life people -though they're so
changed they
probably wouldn't
recognize
themselves. There
is one character
who has a
background similar
to mine, but she's
a minor character.
O: Sounds like
quite a shift from
your other work.
LL: It is very
different from what
I've done before. I
think in a lot of
ways, it's something that I didn't have the skill to pull off before.
It's going to be almost wholly driven by dialogue, character
interaction and the strength of the setting. In some ways, it's kinda
like a love song to Alaska. Hopefully framed in a way that won't bore
people. One of the things that annoys me the most about very many
comics is that they have no sense of place.
O: I agree. It's all anywhere U.S.A. Coffeeshopland, America
LL: They could take place anywhere. And that's very often not a bad
thing at all, but there is a sense that the characters are freefloating in space. It’s like they don't want to alienate readers by
mentioning someplace specific. Similar to how characters rarely have a
specified religion, or ethnic background, unless it's part of the
storyline.
O: Exactly.
Kismet: Reckless In Thermopylae - Nightfall In The Hall Of
Ancestors, page 5 (2005) – Layla experiments with black. This
is one of many stories set in the Kismet universe.
- 18 -
LL: So "Freebird" is very much about setting. It couldn't really happen
anywhere else. Or at least, it would be a very different story.
O: Will it be entirely online?
LL: Yes, at least at first. Eventually there may be print versions. But
it will be online, and it will be free. It's a "stranger comes to
town" story, as many stories about Alaska (and other exotic places)
tend to be. But it's really more about the people who already live
there than it is about the newcomer...as is often also the case.
O: The newcomer is always a great story element.
LL: There is a theory that all stories ever told consist of one of two
types. One type is "Stranger comes to town" ... and damned if I can
remember the other one just now.
O: I'll be sure to print that paragraph its brilliant
LL: Makes me think of the old joke ... There are three types of people,
those who can count and those who can't.
O: In journalism I hear it’s "Bob's Debut" "Bob's Back" "Bob's Decline"
LL: I think I've heard that. It's classic.
O: The last thing I'd like to get into in this interview...is the role
of women in comics, both in terms of characters and gender roles, and
women as comic creators. Do you ever feel the need to craft what
you're working on to serve or critique female stereotypes?
LL: You mean of myself, or my characters? Or both?
O: Well specifically there I'm asking about your characters
LL: The answer would be ... not women specifically. I think I haven't
done my job as a writer if I write stereotypes of any kind unless it's
done consciously for effect (Frank for example, the mobster in Kismet,
who is at least two mutually exclusive stereotypes grafted together for
fun). All my characters should be fully realized people. If they're not
then why am I bothering to write them? I also don't feel as if I have
to maintain some kind of gender balance in my writing. There is a
perception, I think, sort of a cockeyed form of sexism because I think
it's mostly WOMEN who feel this way -- that a woman who writes has some
kind of responsibility to portray her own sex well, to write about the
female experience. Bullshit. Same thing if you're black or gay or
whatever -- like you should be writing about your "own kind" instead of
something else. Bullshit! And I can't blame this on some kind of
dominant-culture bogeyman because it's mostly in the subculture that
you get it. The majority of my main characters, for some reason, are
men. I didn't plan it that way and I don't think I've been brainwashed
by random faceless sexists to do it. It's just that's how I see the
characters. I hope that made sense.
O: "because it’s mostly in the subculture you get it" Can you elaborate
on that?
LL: Oh. I mean ... if you're a woman writer, or a gay writer, or
whatever, it's others in your "group" who expect you to spend your
writing talents elaborating upon their condition. I don't think the
culture in general expects you to -- maybe it does in subtle ways, but
I think if you don't, it's the others of your gender/race/orientation
whatever who will criticize you for selling out. I'm not saying this
has happened to me. It hasn't really, not very much. But I've seen it
happen to other people.
O: Do you have any last words for the interview? I think we're done.
LL: Hang on, I'll see if I can pull something out of my ass...Actually,
I mainly want to thank you for doing this interview! In spite of having
to email me multiple times to get a response, in spite of me forgetting
you like an idiot, in spite of having trouble hooking up for the chat,
you still did it and I really, really appreciate it. (And that was
sincere, not pulled out of my ass.)
O: It was fun and a definite honor.
- 19 -
[Layla Lawlor’s bio from Girlamatic.com:]
I was born in a log cabin and home-schooled in the Alaskan wilderness.
Currently I live about 12 miles north of Fairbanks, Alaska, in a log
house on 10 semi-rural acres off the highway. By day, I'm the layout
supervisor at Fairbank's daily newspaper, the News-Miner, with a
circulation of about 16,000. By night, I draw comics. Kismet: Hunter's
Moon is only one of many stories in the Kismet universe, both comics
and short stories, more of which can be found on the Kismet homepage
[http://kismet.laylalawlor.com/]; I also self-publish Raven's Children,
an Arctic fantasy, and more stories are waiting in the wings.
Will Nixon
Whoring In My Mother’s Volvo
“They call this porno?” spat Squazzi,
ushering us past knees at the Sono Cinema,
while the Stewardess groaned discretely low
in the captain's seat with her spike heels raised
for us to see, spearing out from the screen in 3-D,
a cheesy effect that made this art house crowd chuckle.
We dropped our cardboard glasses in the collection box,
walked out to the parking lot known for stolen radios
& last month's mugging. Should I be driving
my mother's Volvo in South Norwalk?
She thought I was at the Woody Allen in Darien.
But Squazzi directed me to a street of ranch houses
with buzzcut hedges & double garages,
driveways jammed with Country Squire wagons,
tricycles & trailers holding boats.
Unlike the ghetto I expected
South Norwalk had lawn flamingos & Bambis.
“Slow down,” Squazzi snapped,
“hookers can't walk this fast.”
Riding my brakes, I wondered if these suburban
ranches could honestly be whorehouses,
but, sure enough, I lured a woman out
from a shadow van. At first tippy on spike heels,
then stocky & secure, she sashayed in leather hot pants
flashing buttery reflections under the yellow street lamps.
She planted her elbows on my window
& nodded with cornrows loaded so heavy with beads
she swished like a curtain.
“What's with that dirt smell?” she said.
“You farmers? Some shit like that?”
Her lips glistened with Vaseline.
- 20 -
I explained my mother's absent-mindedness,
her nursery plants forgotten in the rear.
Plus a bag of mulch. Maybe two.
“Tomatoes?” she asked. “I'm growing me some peppers,
you don't even want to know....”
“How much for a blow?” Squazzi said.
“We're talking here, Mr. Impatient,” she glared.
“Actually, they're geraniums,” I answered.
“My mother doesn't have much luck with vegetables.
We think we've got the smartest woodchuck
in the neighborhood.”
“That right?” she said.
“How much for round-the-world?” Squazzi said.
“Thirty bucks, but a boy like you?
I'm not sure you could go that far.”
“What's an around-the-world?” I asked.
“Honey,” she smiled, then stopped.
“You tell your mother, woodchucks are nothing to fret
if you've got the right gun. It's the slugs
can steal your garden right under your nose.”
“Save it,” said Squazzi. “Let's go to Augie's
& catch the Yankees late night at Seattle.”
Registered Pagan
I repealed clocks & voted for campfire sparks
flocking to replenish the stars.
I wrote my Representative oak,
asking if his second century was as good as the first.
Yes, he replied, but don't let squirrels
annoy you beyond reason.
I studied the constitution of streams,
so gentle on sunny afternoons
water striders danced on calm eddies,
yet so furious after storms
- 21 -
fallen trunks rode over rapids
with roots raised like warrior paddles.
I nominated chickadees
for the Happiness Committee.
I paid the Authorities a compliment:
“You're 98 percent chimpanzee genes.”
Perhaps they were insulted.
They haven't climbed into the trees.
Tackling Dummy
Flat on my back,
smelling grass, yard line lime,
cringing at coach's whistle,
yet sitting up & reaching down my ankle,
crooked as a tent stake.
The hospital has a white triangular block
for supporting a loose foot like mine.
Sleepy on the operating table,
I reassure my mother
she can faint if she likes.
She just told the nurse she might.
At school all the girls love to sign casts.
The Fastest Draw in Truckee, California
Nobody rode horses, yet the wooden sidewalks
had strap railings as if for Westerns.
Antique shops sold authentic gold pans
in windows draped with spurs & burlap sacks.
The night I ate magic mushrooms
& marched the sidewalk planks,
digging my heels with the authority of ax blows
like Clint Eastwood, hero of heroes,
I beat the traffic light to the draw every time,
but couldn't stop snickering
at pretending to defend justice,
blowing bullet smoke off my finger.
- 22 -
Lisa Haviland
Presence
rhythms once reveled,
You got it
or you don’t
know me
the way you wanted
to have me hands and
knees to please,
a fantasy even you
could never believe
But you can talk it
till I grow too
tired to care
that I rush right by
before the record
star-ted
scratch-ing
bad grooves,
lone dudes
and wo-men
I didn’t care
to live up to.
Bob Sharkey
57
How to sum up a year like this?
March 17th compared to same last year.
Despair disgust replaced by
oh fuck it death goes on what
can I do about it got my own problems.
The people on the street any city street
the one we’re on now
going to or from work
standing at the bus stops
coming out of or going into
restaurants
bars
shops
grocery stores
coming out scratching for escape
in the distance the war proceeds
towards the next 17th of March.
The men lined up to sign up
their brown body parts flew into the air
our armored troops tanks arrived
to reconnoiter secure the area
again
into the air flew the dark body parts
of men who’d lined up to sign up
for the cleanup the cameras
and again
the bodies of men who lined up to sign up
were blown into the walls the street
- 23 -
to cordon off the area.
Where was the will to change to manage
for our armored troops tanks to arrive
before the men lined up to sign up
so only dust of the desert blew into the air?
Did anyone call congress on their behalf?
I didn’t. Did you?
We had our own problems worries
and plenty of them
let me tell you.
Happiness too.
Early spring along the Willamette.
Our son got married in August.
He aged away from any draft. Won’t go anyway.
How about them Red Sox!!?
And Beslan was only a nightmare
we quickly forgot, right?
One love won’t read the paper anymore
another hits the flashback before anchors
can say the “raq” in “today in Iraq…”
If our leader is like Hitler
then who are we?
So it ends even worse here
and in the distance, much worse.
I’ll proceed as a twittering fool
go out at night among the shadows
of children in far away places
friends loves lives long gone missed
promises desires possibilities lost faded
specters of myself also gone
or perhaps to come
post notices looking for those met once
who might have found the answer:
We met on the midnight bus out of Albany.
It was 1976.
You were a paralegal. I was a laundry worker.
In Buffalo, you got the next bus to Toronto;
I the one bound for Detroit.
I didn’t find a job there, had the best fried chicken
in the Cleveland Greyhound station on the way back,
found someone that looked like you
in the 25th Anniversary edition of Playboy,
pretty much led a charmed life,
never found the answer.
Did you?
- 24 -
R.M. Engelhardt
Noctorum
You live in Noctorum, somewhere between the cities of reality &
pretentious bullshit. Nowhere near the mid-west or Nebraska, the land
of sheep fuckers & republicans where religion oversees reason, where
superstition oversees truth.
Welcome.
There is a painting by Georgia O'Keefe on the wall & a plasma TV that
takes up most of the room. Pictures by Ansel Adams overtake the small
dwelling that your shadow inhabits. Today is Tuesday. After they arrest
you call your attorney pretending that you are somebody else. At work
the staff was left in shock, you were such a hard worker and always
eager to help. You handled the accounts & took care of all the mail.
Your attorney breathes out a long sigh over the phone and sounds like
a distant train off in the distance leaving for a place far away.
Disappointment seems to be the driving motif in your life. Not
depression or anger, not movies or mom. They found the bits of flesh &
spatters of blood in your living room, they found the young girl's head
in the freezer and as evidence took your TV. You're fucked one billion
times one thousand & ten, more than all those cowards who just hid
everything, their desires, their wants & needs. As a teenager you used
to like to travel. Europe, America the world your oyster and hunting at
night in the clubs. Vampires live, vampires exist, and so do demons,
devils & gods. And among them, you were the shit, the king shit of the
scene, all of the rest of them...fakes. Screw Hannibal Lechter, screw
Dahmer & the rest of them, because you are the real thing. The police
take you away in cuffs as if you were a common criminal a lucid
expression upon your face. You live in Noctorum, you live in the
suburbs, you live in yourself and when they pull the plug on you &
your sorry ass you think that hell will be a festival like Halloween,
as your lawyer mumbles under his breathe
"Poor, stupid son of a bitch...he'll fry".
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Dain Brammage
Cleanliness vs Godliness
Cleanliness is next to Godliness?
Who thought up this little jewel?
One of the puritans no doubt.
I want to relate this to
Bathroom policies and practices,
Specifically the washing of hands.
First, I am all for employees having to was their hands
Before returning to work,
Especially in the food service industry.
I am not too sure about housekeeping though
Because their hands are always in some type
Of industrial cleaner, they are lucky to still have skin.
- 25 -
But you know, food services people
Do have to wear those plastic gloves now,
So maybe they could forego the hand washing
And get back to making my meal sooner.
Because I’m am usually pretty hungry,
And hunger begets impatience.
But in my eyes, all of you people
Who wash your hands and then exit the bathroom by Opening
the door with the paper towel are freaks!
I bet you really spaz-out when
All they have are those blow dryers.
Because you know the last person to leave
The bathroom did not wash their hands,
And now you have to grab that filthy handle.
But you know, as long as you do not pee on yourself,
Or bust through the toilet paper as you wipe,
The germs are not really that big of deal.
You know what the say,
That which does not kill us, makes us stronger.
And living in that protective bubble
Actually makes you more susceptible to disease.
I worked with this woman who had a real elaborate plan
For going to the bathroom at work,
She was such a neat-freak that
She was actually proud of herself for this.
She would open the door to the single occupancy bathroom,
Immediately reach in and advance some paper towels
With her sleeve covered forearm.
Tear it off and turn on the light,
Then she would step in, lock the door
And Advance another much longer strip of paper towel
And let it lay in wait.
Turn on the water,
So far she has not come in direct contact with anything.
Then she would hover over the toilet,
When done she would wash her hands
After wasting countless gallons of water,
Turn around and rip the new paper towel,
Dry her hands, turn off the water
Leave the room using the paper towel to open the door.
Now, can you say freak?
Man!
Hey, do people actually jump out of bed or off the kitchen
Counter and into the shower after having sex?
- 26 -
The reason I ask is that sex is pretty slimy business.
All of those bodily fluids flowing all over the place
Hands and mouths on genitalia.
You know, part where the pee comes from.
We must sanitize our hands after touching there
When we use the bathroom,
But after sex we just roll over and go to sleep.
Well, the guys do anyway.
Hell, I don’t even go into the bathroom after
Making love to my wife.
Well, maybe to gargle,
If I have a pubic hair stuck in my throat.
But that is a comfort issue,
It is hard to fall asleep going (clearing your throat
noise),
Not at all related to cleanliness.
And what about all the people who into ass play?
They are messing with some pretty nasty stuff.
I bet a good portion of those people
Do go clean up after sex,
But not all of them.
So, cleanliness is next to godliness?
Maybe if you are priest,
But I bet even they do not wash up after sex.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Mary Panza
This is not an angry poem
This is a poem about Liberation: Mine from you
An actor once said “There is a fine line between being a
perfectionist
and a
cunt” You my friend have taken your
Enlightenment
And became a
Cunt
Butt
This is not a three page, first thing in the morning poem
If I did three pages first thing in the morning
I’d have a Urinary Tract Infection
This, my boy is the poem I have been trying to write for
Weeks
- 27 -
The reason I wouldn’t touch your penis
Wasn’t because I was abused
It was because every time you opened your mouth
I stopped being interested
Butt
This is my liberation from people like you
People who are too good, too enlightened, too humorless
To say hi in cafes, who preach poetry and spoken word
Hell, even charge a fee for a literary colonic
Butt
Your poetic ass slams shut when a gay man speaks of his
Queer
fantasies
Or some great looking girl with a classic Renaissance
figure and
fantastic
shoes
Likes to say Fuck
A lot
What the hell is this?
Don’t ask don’t tell
Butt
If I hated you that would make me you
Screw that
I can’t think of anything worse except
War, poverty, pain, suffering, death
You know, thing that really matter
Not you
You are not the fight
You are the gum on the shoe of the fight
This is not that angry, fuck filled poem you expect
This is my joy
I don’t ever have to be with people like you again
You are never wrong
Your shrink told you so
The world sucks for all of us
There just are varying degrees
It doesn’t owe us, we owe it
Thank You
This is a Thank you poem
Thank God I am not going to end up with someone like you
This is not an angry, rage filled, fuck you
This is a joyous, bathed in the pink light of love
B almost a C cup, small waist
- 28 -
Full, full hipped
Fuck You
This is just a poem
The one I have been trying to write for weeks
I Am Dreaming of London
And the saddest music ever
I dream of the city in Wim Wenders
Perfect
Black and White
Angels in Long Black Coats
Accents
Listening to my thoughts
I am walking past pubs and cafes
Long Black Coat
Looking Overhearing
My opinion of
Volvos has changed
I no longer think they are very
Safe
Cars
Long Black Coats
Cigarettes
The Resurrection
Only a few days away
He will suffer
Die
Be Buried
And on the Third Day
I will be walking on a London Street
Away from everything
Seeing things in Wim Wenders
Perfect Black and White
Until I her say
“It is Spring”
And only then do I
See
Color
Depth
Texture
I take off the
Long Black Coat
The Armor
I don’t need it on the streets of
London
- 29 -
I am alone
Always
Alone
In the dream
Walking the talk
Past pubs and cafes
Longing Restless
Looking for something someone to fill the space
Between
Cement it closed to keep out things
It shouldn’t want
Trouble Desperation
Sad princes and their tales of
Woe
Be easy I say
There is nothing worth stealing in here
I will gladly give it up without a fight or fuss
All hope and agenda
While waiting for the light to change
Long Black Coat
In Wim Wenders
Perfect Black and White
...And You Missed
I have seen that face before
Many many years ago
It was your voice that first made me remember
Sweet talk Tears
Appealing to my ever Fragile sense of Vanity
I Love that
I find it
Beautiful
Laying on my side Post-Coital
For that moment Captured
I was at peace
Wanting for nothing
Restlessness gone
The space between full of Promise
Not for a next time Butt of going the distance
Done
I Close my eyes and dream
Anguish of unreturned phone calls
The word
BULLSHIT
Has not crossed my lips for hours
It was enough for now that I have seen you like
This
- 30 -
That face You’re broken Whiney Heart Resembling
Meat
You defend her honor like Brando
She is a noble soul
BULLSHIT
Finally makes its way into the conversation
Boiled
I have a testicle collection I tell him
I was that girl before I was cold and calculating and
wrong nd I did
it
anyway
I am not an innocent or a victim
And Neither is she
I am a ball breaker Trying to find redemption And a sense
of home
How could you
It says
I did it anyway I have preyed on the hearts
Of weak weak men
I Am Only Selectively Sorry
A C Everson
Open Mics By The Dozen Part II
7.
at the Globe Cafe
153 14th Ave
Seattle
My seventh open mic was at the Globe Cafe and is called The
Red Sky Poetry Theater. It’s hosted by Diane Westergaard
and has been held almost every Sunday night for 19 years.
Being that it’s almost every Sunday it might be a good idea
to check ahead. There’s a $3 cover and a featured poet.
The feature the night I was there was Morris Stegesauris.
It’s a nice cafe with booths along the side walls, tables
down the center, with a small stage by the door. You get 5
minutes. Enough time for me to do 3 poems and a pinata.
It was actually a rare night for me, where I was able to
hear most of the poets that night. Coincidentally, one of
the poets there had lived in Albany, NY (home to me and
many) and had brought 2 poems he had written there (here)
long ago to read that night. I gave him a Love A C Style.
I traded one of those with Morris for one of his mixed up
chap books. It’s mixed up due to the pages not being in
order. Another poet there, who I had shoved another Love A
C Style at (his poems sounded like he was of a like
- 31 -
romantic mind as mine) mentioned an open mic in Bellingham.
Oddly enough I was planning on being in Bellingham the next
night. It was a nice group of friendly folks there that I
felt fortunate to meet. I recommend this one to anyone.
8. Stuarts Coffee House
1302 Bay Stt.
Bellingham WA
360-752-2024
My eight open mic was at Stuarts Coffee House in Bellingham
WA. A gent named Bob hosts the open mic there every Monday
night. I’m afraid my memory is foggy and the journal lacks
the info on the sign up and start times, but I can say for
sure that the list and rooom fills up fast, so get there
early. Amongst the standing room only crowd were two poets
I had met the night before in Seattle. One was an
excellent poet of Boston slam fame, Jack McCarthy. The
other was Morris Stegasauris and he was the feature that
night as well. Jack asked if I had another pinata. I told
him I did and apologized that it was the same one. Morris
fortunately did a slightly different set which he started
in a bunny costume. The open mic started with Bob letting
all know that you have 3 minutes, and that he wasn’t
interested in stories about poems or poets. Just do the
poems in 3 minutes so that he might not have to cut anyone
from the end of the sign up list. With that in mind I did
the fastest “what’s Breaking My Art” spiel and run through
I Just Know, smashing the pinata and throwing the
stuffing’s that I have ever done and will likely do. It
was my last pinata to break at an open mic, and seemed like
the last open mic I was likely to hit on this trip (my next
stop was the Viva Las Vegas Rockabilly Fest and the next
trip was to the New Orleans Jazz fest. I didn’t intend to
do more than dance and party at either of those places).
It was a good place to finish the state side open mic tour.
It was the largest in space (three rooms and a balcony) and
the largest crowd of all 12 open mics during the Grand
Vacation. I had a good time there swapping books with Jack
(his stuff is good, check it out) and shoving chap books
and cd’s at the people I was sitting with.
Washington links and sites
one worldbeat.org
poets.org/cal/allcals.cfm
bima.com
- 32 -
9. Poetry Club
Poetry Cafe
22 Betterton St.
London WC2h 9BX
0207-420-9887
Convent Garden area of London
My ninth open mic was at the Poetry Cafe in London. Carl
Dhiman hosts the open mic every Tuesday night. It’s a 6pm
sign up and 7:30 start. The first night I went by the
Poetry Cafe to check ahead about the open mic, there was a
Haiku event happening on the 2nd floor. The cafe itself is
on the first floor and the open mic, I later found, happens
in the basement. According to the flyer in the window, I
was informed that to insure a spot on the sign up list to
get there early. It was a good and accurate tip that I was
glad to have. I didn’t stay for the Haiku thing. I might
have accidentally written one, but for some reason they are
something that I have yet been able to do when I try.
Being the anxious sort of gal that I am and especially as
the open mic was on my last night in London, and not
wanting to miss doing my poetic bit at an open mic in that
fine city (I had been striking out with my list of other
open mics to check out due to their being on different
nights or in unknown locations), I arrived at the cafe at
about 5:30, a half hour early for the sign up, 2 hours
early for the start time. I’m glad I did. The cafe itself
is a smallish space, that sits about 30. When I got there
I was able to grab a seat at an empty table and order up a
pot of tea (man I love London for many reasons, the tea is
towards the top of the list). By 6pm, the cafe was packed,
the other seats taken at my table and many eyes looking for
the sign up to start. It’s not a “sign your name aside a
number” sort of sign up. Instead it’s like a raffle where
you put your name on a ticket that’s put into a hat.
You’re given a ticket with a corresponding number (a small
rectangle of paper). I think the numbers are only for the
host to keep track of how many sign up and the only other
significance to me and all, was to have an affirmation that
“yes, our names are in that hat.” I need to make a
confession here. Before the open mic got started, whilst
all were gathered in the cafe, I had a punk moment. Where
I copped an attitude when I shouldn’t have. A gent came
through going table to table with chap books that he was
asking a pound for ($2 American, in other words not that
much). When he reached the table I was at (in the back by
the counter next to a rack of chap books including the one
he had and a bunch of other info) I mistakenly thought he
might be like a few other poets I’ve met along the way.
Very absorbed with their own work with no interest in
anyone else’s living or present. With that in mind when he
- 33 -
made his pitch, I countered with a “would you buy one of
mine.” When he hesitated in his response, I changed my
offer to trade mine for his instead. After a moments
thought he agreed. Unfortunately the other poet at the
table, when asked if he would purchase The Polka Dot
Ceiling, responded the same way I had. I looked, I hope,
slightly ashamed when I apologized stating that I hadn’t
meant to get that started. Later back in the Hostel I
discovered that the chap book is comprised of many poets
poems and that he does indeed support other people’s
poetry. I owe that man a pound. Carl, in a loud carnival
barkers voice let everyone know the open mic was to start
in 5 minutes. Not true, but it was a good idea to grab a
seat in the downstairs room. It was set up with folding
chairs set as close together as humanly possible for an
adult to fit. To enable as many possible to sit, I coun
ted about 40, with a few folks standing in the back. The
place was packed by the start time which was closer to 8
than 7:30. Carl started the open mic with asimilar spiel
as Bob had at Stuarts, with a “You have 5 minutes, if you
tell a story or explain or whatever, it’s all a part of the
5 minutes. Be considerate of the time, I want to get
everyone signed up, up.” Then he explained how the hat
worked. Each poet up picked from the hat for the next poet
up. It turned out to be a rare night for me for three
reasons. First, with me copping an attitude, I haven’t
done that much in my sober adult life. Secondly because I
could actually hear all but one of the poets (I love loud
people), lastly because most of the poets rhymed. I’ve
become used to being one of the few rhyming poets at the
open mics I’ve been going to for the past decade. It was a
good feeling being in the majority. Being hearing
impaired, I admit there might have been many other nights
where most of the poets rhymed, but I was too deaf to know
it at the time. All in all I gotta say it’s a good open
mic. Carl is a fine host with a good sense of humor and
patient when dealing with distracting audience members.
The Poetry Cafe is a good place for info on poetic
happenings in the area and worth a stop by even if you
can’t make the open mic.
London links:
Poetrysociety.org.uk/
10. ABC Tree House
Voetboogstraat 11
020-535-2537
Amsterdam Netherlands
Treehouse.abc.nl
- 34 -
My tenth open mic was at the ABC Tree House which
happens there on the last Friday of the month in the
beautiful city that is Amsterdam. I can honestly recommend
Amsterdam to anyone. Just watch out for the bicycles.
There’s more than a half million of them peddling around
any given day and they tend to have little patience for
tourists strolling in the bike paths.
The ABC Tree House is an art gallery that reminded me
of our now sadly missed Changing Spaces. The lay out was
different, in that ABC had alcove spaces and is shaped like
a squared off C. Its common ground with Changing Spaces
was more the atmosphere, events the venue hosts and the
art. I spotted who I figured to be the host and asked
about the sign up. In the process of signing up I was told
that although it wasn’t necessary that it was a good idea
to sign up on the ABC web site. It was further explained
that it gave the host info about the performer ahead of
time so that she could present whoever better and help her
mix the poets and musicians in a more cohesive manner. In
retrospect, I would recommend the web sign up. I was the
second person to sign up on site and the second to last
person up after the second smoke break. I can’t say for
sure that signing up on the web would’ve gotten me up
sooner, but it’s a possibility. The poetry that night was
spoken in a mix of Dutch and English. Being hearing
impaired I don’t think that I missed more than I usually
would if it was all in my own language. The music was
ranged form a woman playing clarinet doing jazz standards,
a due doing Jethro Tull covers, to a gal singing along to a
boom box playing Celene Dion. The atmosphere was friendly
and supportive. It would’ve been a good place for a
pinata. Maybe next time.
11. Sapphos
Vijzelstraat 103
Amsterdam Netherlands
Sappho.nl
The open mic at Sapphos is listed to be on Tuesdays at
7pm. It’s actually closer to 9. It was also listed at the
time to be a poet-friendly open mic. Apparently it had
been, but not so with the new host. I was very lucky to
have my friend Amy (whom I was also very lucky to be
staying with) with me there that night. Amy is an
excellent song writer, singer and musician who had played
the open mics when she moved there a couple of years ago.
She had been to Sapphos back then and was willing to check
it out with me while I was there. When we arrived at
Sapphos at the listed time, the bartender/proprietor was
the only person there. I saw that it was cozy bar/cafe
kind of place and hoped the open mic was happening. She
- 35 -
let us know that it was, and that it wasn’t due to start
for an hour or so. We went a couple blocks down the straat
to an excellent Italian restuarant for dinner to fill the
time. When we got back to Sapphos things were underway.
Amy spotted the host. He was someone whose band had played
a gig together with Amy’s a year or so before. When Amy
was talking to him about signing up and referring to me as
the poet I am, she hit resistance. The host explained that
there was another open mic night for poets, and his was
not. Amy (goddess bless her) did some quick talking,
saying that I was hoping to have some music backing me up
if anyone there was willing. The host thought for a moment
and then said sure, that he would back me up with his harp
and that I could have 5 minutes. He’d let me know when.
Harp, wow, okay. I’ve never performed with a harpist
before. I got to hinking, what of my stuff would go with a
harp? The music started and most of the participants
before “my time” played upb eat popish, rockish kind of
tunes. When the host called me up, he was saying how he’d
really liked all the jolly songs, and thought jolly in
general was great. I wasn’t going to do a jolly piece. As
the host tuned up his harp, I told the audience that even
though I had jolly poems, that I didn’t think they would go
as well with the harp as the one I had chosen to do, and
proceeded to do “I Just Know.” A piece about what I don’t
know. I’ve got to say that, aside from the version of that
on Idi Annine and the Mama’s that I thought it sounded
about the best it ever has with harp. The compliments I
received from the other folks there, I think, back me up on
that thought too. I also think in retrospect that the host
might be the only person I gave Idi Annine and the Mama’s
to that might not like a damn thing on it. I could be
wrong. I was, however, grateful to Amy for making my
participation possible. I’d like to play with a harpist
again some time.
Other Amsterdam link
wordsinhere.com
12. The Cumberland Arms
James Place Street
(off Byker Bank)
The Ouseburn
New Castle-Upon-Tyne
VE6ILD
0191-265-6151
the cumberlandarms.co.uk
My twelfth and final open mic was at The Cumberland
Arms and called the Dharma Banana and is held every Sunday
night. It starts at 8:30 pm and it’s recommended to get
- 36 -
there early to secure a spot. It was my second friend
named Ruth that I stayed with on my “Grand Vacation” that
told me about this open mic. Like with the first Ruth, it
turned out to be one of the best. This Ruth went one step
further than the telling and accompanying me. She had go
on the phone to her friends and generated what was to be
about half the crowd there to cheer me on. I’ll get into
that more in a moment. The Cumberland Arms is an “old
style” New Castle pub with bars on two floors. On Sunday
nights both floors have open mics of sorts. The first
floor hosts an open blues jam, the second floor is home to
the Dharma Banana open mic hosted by Aiden and open to
musicians and poets. You get to do 2 pieces. On the night
I was there, there was only one other poet along with the
musicians and of course the crowd of Ruth’s friends, a
boisterous group of area artists, Annie’s new man, Ruth’s
stepdaughter and her boyfriend; the largest and friendliest
group I’ve ever attended anything with. The musicians
performed mostly folk style m usic that was excellent. The
other poet was too soft spoken for me to know what style of
poetry he was doing. I had decided to do “I Just Know,”
having told the harp story on the way there, and “Cupid is
a Bastard,” which is my one sure-as-shooting crowd pleaser.
I was right. Before I got 4 steps from the stage I was to
receive my, I think, first ever encore requested by the
host, not the horde I was with who were indeed hooting and
cheering me back up to the stage. I did “The Beast.” It
was also the first time I was ever called brilliant. I
soaked it up like a sponge. I know I’m good, I also know
that I’m not brilliant, but it was very nice to be told so
anyhow. The evening ended with Aiden calling each of the
participants up to do one more. I ended with “Where the
We.” Afterwards just about everyone made a point to speak
with me and swap compliments and to welcome me back
anytime. I’ve said it before and I’ll no doubt say it
again, that is about the best thing I can hope for is the
warm hearted and honest knowledge that I would indeed be
welcome back. I hope to be ack, like I also said before, I
just don’t know when. It was the perfect ending to my open
mic tour abroad. I have the wonderfully talented Ruth
Gowland to thank for it.
- 37 -
Untitled Love
part 1
a comic/poem
by
marcus
anderson
SURREAL...
PAINFUL...
WONDERFUL...
FRIDAY, 6:25 PM
EVERY TYPE OF ’FUL
THERE IS
THE LAST SIX HOURS
HAVE BEEN...
THE LAST SIX HOURS HAVE FELT
LIKE A DREAM...
SO I DO WHAT I DO WHENEVER LIFE
DOESN’T MAKE SENSE...
I WRITE.
WRITERS SOMETIMES GIVE BIRTH TO
STORIES THAT ARE BEYOND TITLE...
BUT I’VE NEVER BEEN
MORE AWAKE
STORIES THAT CANNOT BE
CONTAINED.
THIS IS DEFINITELY ONE OF
THOSE STORIES.
puzzled
she stumbles
back to her rest,
the world is a whirlwind
spinning intense
nothing makes sense
he’s gone...
no number
no address
to reconnect
re - connect
re
re
wind
rewind
connect
rewind... back to the beginning
descending on a city park
the episode starts:
FRIDAY, 12:30 PM
THE KIDS IN THE PARK ARE
“CHARMING” AS ALWAYS...
I’LL HAVE TO REMEMBER TO TAKE
THE LONG WAY AROUND THE PARK
NEXT TIME
THEY CAN’T ACTUALLY THINK ANY
OF THOSE LINES WILL EVER WORK
ON AN ACTUAL HUMAN BEING...
I KNOW YOU MUST
BE THINKING...
THEY CAN’T ACTUALLY
THINK ANY OF THOSE LINES WILL
EVER WORK ON AN ACTUAL
HUMAN BEING.
CAN THEY?
AND HOW DO I KNOW THAT
YOU’RE NOT JUST LIKE THEM,
BUT WITH SMOOTHER GAME?
she let her timeless smile
bubble past
the strong stern mask
that she had been forced to
mold at the age of 13
when her breast size had
multiplied before her eyes and
SMOOTH? GAME?
the boys
began to
flock
THERE’S NO LINE
SMOOTH ENOUGH TO DO
YOU JUSTICE...
flocking boys holding toys...
the story of her life
another story
for another day
on the day at hand
BUT IF YOU’D
DO ME THE HONOR
OF ENGAGING ME IN
CONVERSATION, I’D
FEEL LIKE THE MOST
FORTUNATE BROTHER
ALIVE.
her smile blossomed
as did his
upon her
nonverbal confirmation
WHAT AM I DOING? I NEVER DO
STUFF LIKE THIS! I GUESS IT CAN’T
HURT TO SEE WHAT HE’S ABOUT.
he was transfixed with her dark eyes
drawn in by her chocolate skin
and the warmth of her essence
she swam in his eyes as well,
they were soft
and she could tell
this brother had shed many a tear
there was something easy about his eyes
something that betrayed his hard exterior
“so what are you writing?”
“a poem... a poem for someone.”
“so do you have a name, mr poet?”
“malik, malik jackson.”
“hello malik. i’m charlene.”
“do i detect a west indian accent
charlene?”
“very observant. most people don’t
notice it because i’ve been in the
states for so long. my family is from
montego bay.”
“montego, eh. my family
and i moved here, from
st. elizabeth, 10 years ago.”
“...i’m a social worker.”
she played with
one of her dreadlocks
as they began to walk through
one another’s worlds
through words
“...i work with children too.”
“i was engaged for a year...”
I HAVE TO TELL YOU
MALIK... FOR ME,
IT SEEMS FOREIGN
TO BE SMILING IN
THE PRESENCE OF A
MAN.
“RONALD”
I’M SORRY
BABE. WE
ALL MAKE
MISTAKES,
RIGHT?
GIMME
ANOTHER
CHANCE.
I NEVER
MEANT TO
HURT YOU.
BUT YOU REALLY
DO SEEM
DIFFERENT.
I HAVE STITCHES
FROM THE LAST
CHANCE I GAVE
YOU, RONALD.
I’VE PACKED
THE FEW
THINGS IN THIS
APARTMENT
THAT BELONG
TO YOU.
HAVE A NICE LIFE.
I MOST DEFINITELY
WON’T BE A PART
OF IT.
“AFTER
RONALD I
MET ANGEL”.
DIFFERENT FROM
THE REST.
DIFFERENT FROM
RONALD...
“HE REALLY
WAS DIFFERENT.”
“WE WERE ENGAGED
FOR TWO MONTHS...’
“BEFORE HE WAS
STOLEN FROM ME.”
ONE NIGHT ANGEL
AND I WENT OUT TO
THE CLUB.
HE HATED THE CLUBS
BUT HE WENT TO BE
WITH ME.
HE WAS ACTUALLY
HAVING A GOOD
TIME UNTIL...
YOU KNOW IT’S NOT
TOO LATE IF YOU STILL
WANT A REAL MAN.
RONALD, IT’S
BEEN A YEAR
AND A HALF!
MOVE
ON!
CHARLENE!!
DON’T TELL ME
WHAT TO DO, YOU
STUCK UP BITCH.
“ANGEL WAS
SUCH A PEACEFUL, KIND SOUL...
BUT HE COULDN’T
STAND TO SEE ME
DISRESPECTED.
RONALD KILLED
HIM IN COLD
BLOOD.”
RONALD WAS SENTENCED
WITH 25 TO LIFE. HE WAS
KILLED IN THE MESS HALL HIS
FIRST WEEK IN PRISON.
I’M SORRY FOR
YOUR LOSS,
CHARLENE...
BUT YOU SHOULD KNOW
THAT ANGEL IS HAPPY
NOW... HE LOVES YOU
VERY MUCH, BUT HE IS
TRULY AT PEACE
SOMETHING HAPPENED
TO ME... AND I CAN SEE THINGS NOW...
THINGS I COULDN’T BEFORE. HE WANTS
YOU TO KNOW THAT HE IS WELL. I KNOW
THIS ALL SOUNDS STRANGE, BUT IT’S TRUE.
AND MORE THAN ANYTHING HE WANTS
YOU TO KEEP LIVING.
AS MUCH AS I HATED RONALD—HIS DEATH DID NOTHING FOR ME.
HE JUST BECAME YET ANOTHER GHOST IN MY LIFE. THEY SEEM TO FOLLOW ME.
MY INITIAL REACTION
IS ANGER...
WHO DOES HE THINK HE IS?
HE DOESN’T KNOW MY ANGEL!
HOW DARE HE...
BUT THERE IS SOMETHING
IN HIS EYES SO PIERCING
THAT IT STOPS ME DEAD IN
MY TRACKS...
somehow whatever it was that she saw in his eyes let her know that it was all true...
her angel really was at peace
this stranger truly could see things
and somehow this stranger wasn’t all that strange to her
THANK YOU, MALIK.
all of the unsettled emotions
which had haunted her since
the loss of her angel loosened
their grip on her chest
and she could breathe again
for the first time
in a long time
as he continued to speak she felt more and more at ease... they slipped back into gentle conversation...
and tears trailed off paving the way for smiles to surface once again
OH GOD... I’M
SMILING TOO
MUCH
WHAT DID SIS SAY?
LOOK CHARLIE, I KNOW YOU’VE BEEN
THROUGH A LOT, AND YOU HAVE TO KEEP
YOUR GUARD UP... BUT THERE ARE STILL SOME
GOOD MEN OUT THERE... AT LEAST A FEW.
I JUST HOPE THAT IF AND WHEN YOU
COME ACROSS ONE, YOU CAN KEEP
AN OPEN MIND. SOMETIMES YOU
JUST HAVE TO TAKE CHANCES.
“AND IT WOULDN’T KILL YOU
TO SMILE AT A BROTHER
EVERY NOW AND THEN!”
MALIK...
THERE’S
SOMETHING...
SOMETHING
FAMILIAR ABOUT YOU.
THIS ISN’T THE FIRST
TIME OUR PATHS HAVE
CROSSED, IS IT?
OUR PATH’S ARE
MEANT TO CROSS,
CHARLIE.
THIS IS GETTING A LITTLE TOO “TWILIGHT ZONE.” BUT IT’S STRANGELY OKAY.
WHY DID YOU CALL ME CHARLIE? HOW DID
YOU KNOW THAT WAS MY NICKNAME?
ONLY MY FAMILY CALLS ME THAT!
they spoke on life...
I DON’T KNOW.... I JUST KNOW.
love...
they spoke rivers
on the park bench, afternoon became evening...
yet they had no thoughts of leaving
they spoke like old friends—ageless friends—so quickly and so naturally.
almost too quickly and too naturally. she hadn’t let her wall down yet...
A WEEK AGO
but brick by brick...
CHARLENE,
I SAW YOU
LAST WEEK.
he told her he had seen her last week on lark street...
the tides began to shift
but she had disappeared before
he could voice his heartbeat
YOU KNOW THIS
SISTREN, MALIK?
I DID... I MEAN... I
DON’T KNOW
HER
NAME
WAS...
ADAMA
TODAY
WHAT DID
YOU CALL ME,
MALIK?
UHH... NOTHING.
LISTEN CHARLENE...
THIS IS GOING TO
SOUND COMPLETELY
CRAZY TO YOU...
BUT I DON’T HAVE A LOT
OF TIME HERE... I HAVE
TO LEAVE SOON...
I’M HERE TO TELL YOU
THAT I LOVE YOU.
I HOPE THIS DOESN’T
FRIGHTEN YOU...
sometimes in the span of moments...
moments become immeasurable...
inside of frozen time one can see things...
see things with a higher clarity
and time freezes
and with this
higher clarity
in his eyes she saw
sincerity
“and
LOOK CHA, I KNOW YOU’VE BEEN
THROUGH A LOT AND YOU
HAVE TO KEEP YOUR
GUARD UP...
BUT I DON’T HAVE A
LOT OF TIME HERE... I
HAVE TO LEAVE SOON...
it
wouldnʼt
she noticed that his left eye
was lazy
and a scar traced
that side of his face
tragically...
SOMETIMES YOU
JUST HAVE TO TAKE CHANCES.
I’M HERE TO TELL YOU
THAT I LOVE YOU.
kill you
to smile...”
I’M HERE TO TELL YOU THAT I LOVE YOU. I’M HERE TO
TELL YOU THAT I LOVE YOU. I’M HERE TO TELL YOU
THAT I LOVE YOU. I’M HERE TO TELL YOU THAT I
LOVE YOU. I’M HERE TO TELL YOU THAT I LOVE YOU.
she wanted to know all of his pain
she wanted to end it
send it
where it could never again
touch him
his voice trailed off...
and his eyes dropped
as he said he would know
no peace because
he could never know her touch
due to forces beyond his control
not understanding him,
her brow furrowed
and in the next moment
somewhere in the park
a
gun
sparked!!!
children
screamed
and a lonely basketball abandoned
bounced amidst the chaos
when it all cleared
her new love was nowhere to be found
and lovers walked and children played
as if nothing had just happened
had
it
happened?
To Be Continued...
Other:____
Comic Contest Rules & Prizes:
Guidelines: We’ll select either an assortment of comic
strips or a longer comic narrative (preferably the latter).
The entries need to be in black and white, and we’ll
accept both electronic and snail mailed submissions.
Maximum 2 submissions per person, and they will not be
returned, so don’t send master copies.
E-mail submissions to: submissions@albanypoets.com , under
the subject heading “Comic Contest.”
Snail mail submissions to:
Albany Poets
84 South Pine Ave.
Albany, NY 12208
Prize: The First Raven’s Children TPB, minicomic issues #7,
8, 10, 11, & 12 of the running series, and a 6 month gift
subscription to Girlamatic.com . The best entries will be
published, along with the winning submission, in issue #3
of Other:____.
*Untitled Love, including all of its contents and images, are the
sole property of Marcus Kwame Anderson. Any reproductions in
part or in whole are prohibited without the express permission
Marcus Kwame Anderson.
Please contact the editors of Other:____ for permissions &
details.
**Back to Alaska, the interview, including all of its contents,
are the sole property of Other:____. Any reproductions, in part
or in whole, are prohibited without the express permission of its
editors.
The images used for the interview are the sole property of Layla
Lawlor. Please contact Ms. Lawlor for permissions & details.
Who are we?
The conception and creation of Other:_______ is made
available to the public by the Board of Directors of
AlbanyPoets, Inc., whose mission and purpose it is to
increase awareness and activity of the art of poetry
and spoken word in the Albany, NY area (see
albanypoets.com for a complete mission statement).
We are happy to offer copies of the zine in coffee
shops, libraries, schools, and pretty much anywhere
willing to carry it at no cost. Subscriptions and
multiple copies are also available by mail: 2$ each
for individual copies, 1$ each for 6 or more. Please
email your request to leo@albanypoets.com And just in case
you were interested:
The AlbanyPoets, Inc., Board of Directors:
Thom Francis, President/Chairman
Dale Walker, Secretary/Director
John Tripp, Treasurer/Director
Emily Gonzalez, Communications Director, AlbanyPoets, Inc.
& Assistant Editor of Other:______
Leo, Director, AlbanyPoets, Inc. & Editor of Other:______
Special Thanks to:
Mary Panza, AlbanyPoets resident consulting Diva for her
outstanding efforts and support in preparation for The
Albany WordFest.
Don Levy, resident consulting Diva II, for the same.
Marcus Anderson for contributing our very 1st comic piece
and for allowing us to use his artwork for our cd cover.
The Lark Street Book Shop for always supporting us & the
arts
community in general (BUY THEIR BOOKS!)
And to all those who submitted we are ever-grateful for
your works. Keep ‘em coming!
Lest we forget anyone, our heartfelt appreciation to anyone
& everyone who has helped in any way
whatsoever in the realization of Other:_____
Finally:
Donations gladly, gratefully, and desperately accepted!
Please visit the website for guidelines.
©AlbanyPoets,Inc. 2004
www.albanypoets.com

- Albany Poets

Transcription

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