Tim Keane- “Senator Cox and Joe Strummer Duet, Tompkins Square Park”

That decision for FM was the most cheap, jerk, like 1853
Cold what?
Don’t baby me, post office, or President Drag-the-Paper
We serve the merchant’s sophistication
So Ohio this vocal, seen-career!
Up the clocks
Working united for the awful Kong
Chief, and for one ring!
Rise y’self, think back
And do what?
Don’t go to Statesmen
If it’s boogalo you’re after
Gimme 1855, party, rules
Weather the mind, say opposed residents
Such a slow lot!
Even Lincoln influenced critics
Movie in, it’s used.
Family hours
And never my place
Take out Clement, the phony Vallandigham
Get to knuckle work, strongly elected dollars
Gimme civil connections say Ohioans
Learn Eskimo dollars, face the last editor, economic Columbus
Party in the Indian sun and stop the crazy English ambassador
Pounding power and pence and bringing, especially, slow war

Erick Piller- “A Normal Feeling Comes”

Lately I have always felt so happy about my feelings.

My mental life resembles an impressive tower

and below it a thicket and a bulging knoll. Every

tragedy of late seems only half wrought. I tell myself,

Dear Diary, I have many important feelings

and would like to express them. Then a gnome

appears on the grassy knoll and waves to me.

The wind literally kisses my hair. I say, Yes, gnome?

Which artifacts, it asks, from your mental life

would you like placed in the September

11th Memorial Museum? Before I can answer,

the wind rushes through the thicket. Papers

loosened from the branches blow over

my vast domain. The sun has begun to go down.

The princess upon her mattresses cannot sleep

because the sleeping pill lodged several mattresses

below disturbs her delicate back.



Molly Weigel- Translations of Oliverio Girondo

Oliverio Girondo has to be one of the most baffling poets of twentieth-century Latin American modernism. Among English readers, his works do not have the name recognition of Neruda, Borges, Vallejo, Paz, or Martí. Yet this Argentine word-slinger
provides some intoxicating abstractions in a language that resembles an alien life-form bursting out of vaguely Spanish words. This is especially the case in his 1957 collection  En la masmédula where his Frankensteinian practice of lexical vivisection reaches it apex. So contorted are some of these poems that the book was long left untouched by translators even after decades of Americans “discovering” Latino@ writers. Recently, however, there has been glimmers of interest in this neglected poet. Two years ago, translator Joseph Mulligan and myself had a dialogue on one of the poems from En la masmédula and what kinds of possibilites it offers translation: https://jwmulligan.wordpress.com/2011/03/04/plexilioplexile-a-translation-dialogue/.

However, neither Mulligan (who is currently working on a collection of Vallejo’s non-poetry corpus) nor myself has delved further into the mysteries of Girondo. That work has been bravely done by Molly Weigel who will be publishing In the Moremarrow, her translations of En la masmédula, this April: http://www.actionbooks.org/. Weigel generously offers the Bug a sampler of her translations:


At the gravitating turning

In the begging

in the being

in the psyches

in the xes

in the exquisiphthisical replies

in the enmoonments

in the erect for the abcessed excesses of erofriction et cetera

or in the exhausted dreamencore of the “gimme take it give in all the way to the very

nape of your so desire”

in the unfaith that ruminates

in the vivisecond the dry psychic prospecting the metaphyserrata in elfabridgements

of the cosmic egogorgo

in each gesture graft

in any sunken polidented brrokenpurrpose flush with facing subrrubble exother


hearthless houndless coveless diveless headless storyless


by the mobile embryos of the gravitating turning under the starry itch

next to the lianamuses pulpy poresuckers and the no less polyp children of swamp


volunteers of the miasma

so violated

trampled among bad eggs nevers and admonitory hooks

one pit at a time nongoing swimming in the face of only too wandering fodders of final

flood-gates that inundate hope

with my graymite the sporious

the leopard yawns the daft babble

on the sore spot

at the deployment of the blood without midget introits in the ample plicoitus with each

sleepless dream and each wagered specter


I would lace

in the offspawned spring



More boorish daily threshold



lunatic fate

mobile carnivores’ driest thirst

and magic rapt cajolery of alb albatross aurora

most sacred flesh lay of hyperhoneyed vibratile pubescents order of sextomb gondola

in the gullet of the gully out of the fertile mother of godcome

although postedium stretches its crayfish beds out to eunuch oblivion

more mute limp psalms

hands lunar roads beauty marks

drinks of wings

more bitch of a blind hunt after truth volatile ineternal extraharlotree

more jaguars longing

prolix terraqueous liquidations in collapse extreme pansurrender from the bony fide

boughs to the panicky cornea

to each lodger dream of pre-not-to-be waning

to each stony hope

love-lorn gaudy born

taut swoon meeting over tibias oboes with sidekick spasms

since even the grease interulcerates the dry masticuline mammaries

and the very floor spilled is a preverse fetus foretold if mused in flight

most sacred sick bellyful pregnant with pap rich rhyme so much featherless

parrotgibbonish vaticrap

but truncated hyperhours unthought acephalous dubifetuses and impacts of total disgust

although the quotedium sugarsulphurs its packs of hounds absorbent airholes of yawns

Iain Britton- “blue on black”

they live in walls

announce their intentions

set themselves up as domestic servants

movie-star       rejects

sickness beneficiaries

they infiltrate my loosely-veined philosophy

hands       hang from the ceiling

smooth /          calloused



an oiliness

softens the touch

to protect the archival value

of two people moving in unison


seagulls shit            dump froth

bamboozle onlookers  with their frolicking

they pull back  heads               your head

to a sky       rotating

blue on black


variety is in a conurbation

pouring concrete /       solidifying us in motion

and from it

small voices have their say

guess?     I ask / I stammer

someone is hammering /          breaking us up

we have our uses

we cooperate for one session only

and hands wipe hands

and then comes the signal for me to speak

“Empty Drawings”- A Collaboration Betwixt Linda Lynch and Heller Levinson



tantamounts                talk


[bracket orphans


lush audibility


plus              flush


r   e   m   a   i   n   s


drawing empty:    drawing out, withdrawal

, extrude

empty drawing:   a pull in(halation),   an invitation


muffled lace

Neil Ellman- “Suprematism. Soccer Player in the Fourth Dimension”

(after the painting by Kazimir Malevich)
in the second
then third
nothing of a star
//nobody//    //no one//
keeping goal
for a minor team
in a minor constellation
deep black holes
swallow themselves
becoming squares       rectangles
angular flight
intent on its own

in the fourth
then     fifth     sixth     seventh
redeems itself
shapes flatten
colors purify
in extra time
salvation sings