NADA is pleased to present Contemporary Poetry, a marathon reading by 30

emerging and recognized New York based poets curated by Sam Gordon. The
program will be held on Saturday, May 10th, 2014 12-6pm at NADA New York
in the upstairs lounge. When Frank O'Hara wrote "Having a Coke with You",
poetry and painting walked hand in hand through the streets of New
York. Contemporary Poetry collects a group of poets today, connected by
varying degrees, once again engaged with artists in moments of dialogue and
exchange.
Program: 12pm: Alina Gregorian / Ana Bo!i"evi# / Andrew Durbin / Angelo
Nikolopoulos / Ben Fama 1pm: Billy Merrell / Corrine Fitzpatrick / Daniel
Feinberg / Deanna Havas / Dorothea Lasky 2pm: Elizabeth Reddin / Ed
Spade / Emily Skillings / Hansa Bergwall / Jamie Townsend 3pm: Joseph
Bradshaw / Juliana Huxtable / Karen Lepri / Leopoldine Core / Matt
Longabucco 4pm: Monica McClure / Rickey Laurentiis / Saeed Jones
Simone Kearney / Sophia Le Fraga 5pm: Stephen Motika / Svetlana Kitto / Ted
Dodson / Zachary Pace / Adam Fitzgerald
The series of readings will be accompanied by a Contemporary Poetry zine
scheduled to launch May 9th at Printed Matter at NADA New York. The
publication will feature work from presenting poets and more. Additional
contributors include Bianca Stone, Elaine Kahn, Litia Perta, Paul Legault,
Trisha Low. This program is dedicated in memory of Hudson. Special thanks to
Kevin Killian for his generosity, BOMB magazine for support, and Ed Spade for
inspiration.
Contemporary Poetry is inspired by the following previous generations of
writers and poets whose work also found itself in conversation with the art and
artists of the day. From major literary icons to underground legends this list of
names gathers a range of poets and writers who have influenced each other
and this new generation. Many of them are in direct contact with the poets in
the program. Reading together, publishing each other's work, and mentoring
this next wave of writers, many also write reviews of artist's exhibitions and
collaborate on interdisciplinary projects. This list both acknowledges the past
and contextualizes the present within a lineage of language intersecting with
art history: Kathy Acker, Hilton Als, John Ashbery, Dodie Bellamy, Joe Brainard,
William S. Burroughs, Dennis Cooper, Allen Ginsberg, John Giorno, Robert
Gluck, Kenneth Goldsmith, Barbara Guest, Bruce Hainley, Gary Indiana, Kevin
Killian, Kenneth Koch, Wayne Koestenbaum, Chris Kraus, Steve LaFreniere,
Cookie Muller, Eileen Myles, Frank O'Hara, Rene Ricard, James Schuyler,
Jack Spicer, Gertrude Stein, Lynne Tillman, Laurie Weeks, David Wojnarowicz,
and Linda Yablonsky.

To Be Continued

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@-$( E/%=+,*$0-
I Fell in Love with New Mexico Again
I was doing calculus, minding my own business, when I noticed a crack in the window.
The window faced the garden that grew truck tires. The government planted them in an
effort to reduce truck tire factories. This town is two hundred years old, and if there's
something that distinguishes it from other towns, it's the abundance of truck tire factories
per square mile. It's not worth getting into the details. Just know, that as a citizen, I'm not
fond of this garden outside my window, my window, which, as I mentioned before, is
cracked,

Alina Gregorian
NO FILTER

wow
so debt few job
wow
bad hair soon die
no brand
wow
such life
no time wow
pls halp
much love so real
amaze
wow


Ana Bo!i"evi#
from Spliffy
Before I left New York for Zrich, the poet and artist Madeline Gins, who
proposed in her lifetime a literal and gurative architecture that would reverse
destiny and allow us to live forever, died. Of her poetry, her book What the
President Will Say & Do!! is my favorite. In it, the imperative to do things in
certain ways invokes a power unimaginable in its expansiveness, getting at all to
do all, all the time, all at once, always: ORDER EVERYTHING TO TAKE OUT!
STEP UP THE NUMBER OF REVOLUTIONS PER THOUGHT. There is, in all
this, trouble. In The Nature of Trouble, Madelinewhom I met a few times but
couldnt say I knew because, truly, she never seemed like someone anyone
could really knowwrites: One signicant fact is that when a person is in trouble
a large percentage of him (his make-up) isnt. I felt this to be true of me. She
also writes: Trouble smells just like consciousness or unconsciousness. And:
One method of eradication of this problem is for people and things to stay in as
much as possible; that is, to stay as far in as possible, to tighten up, as tight as a
coil. When things start coming out (words, uids, cancers, arms, teeth,
automobiles, organs, atoms, emotions, bodies, beams, columns, babies, gases),
trouble escapes too like proverbial genii. And also: Look at all the trouble that
trouble has given us even here. And yet it is one of the wonders of nature which
neither my God nor my father would want us to be without. In her writing there is
a romance between the varieties of troubled thinking, all of which hinge on the
central romance in her life with the architect Arakawa, to whom she dedicated the
book which he has helped / to form out of and through / the swamp of
indeterminacy. Indeterminacy is in its nature trouble; it is what power, presidents,
and poets are most troubled by. What separates us from our presidents is that we
are happy to undergo this trouble in order to get at what it conceals, whatever
that might be at the time. In the capital of one of the worlds wealthiest countries,
I felt I had to go, but to where I wasnt sure. There are always the mountains. I
thought, I should go to the mountains. I also thought, I should not go to the
mountains. Generally speaking, I remain xed to the Romantic notion of the
sublime, of an awe at Mont Blanc like Shelleys in which he found there a place
similar to the one Madeline sought, one that overthrows the limits of the dead
and living world, / never to be reclaimed. Shelley, like Gins, does not believe in
death as a state but rather as a modality, one of many, a troubling, and so
knowable, even optional. To never be reclaimed is a state in the indeterminate
swamp that poetry seeks to achieve, to be swamped by it. Or as Shelley says: I
look on high; / Has some unknown omnipotence unfurled / The veil of life and
death? Or do I lie / in dream
Andrew Durbin
TRUE BEAUTYS EASY TO FORGET
When its yourself whos looking
and looked at
a myopic knowing in the morning,
sleep-struck and shocked
this is my face!
Unshareable, one-of-a-kind blandness.
Alone in my apartment
Im the prettiest boy in the room.
So why should you be one, too?
Better-face made better
by the arrangement of unequal things.
A strange beauty so foreign
it makes my heart sting. Jealousy,
a kind of locked-in syndrome.
But in the waiting room where I lurk
for Lasik of the soul,
I believe its a miracle to have been
given a body at all.
Life is a celebration. By neon lights
and cellulite. We are not dead.


Angelo Nikolopoulos

FLANEUR
Ben Fama
Fashion makes me less crazy
it should be looked at
never discussed
it`s an honest joy
to be shocked by beauty
in the 21st century
I was shocked when my lover was caught stealing
from Dean and Deluca
I was thinking of a line
by Robert Hass
the foor manager stopped us
we simply went to a different store
poetry
a requiem for leisure, pleasure, thought
I cannot take your high school friend`s
hoop earrings seriously
and every picture on my phone is obscene
seriously, look at it
all these fucking effetes
boring travel stories
details of somebody`s dreams
champagne condensating
on leather seats
all summer long
I wish I could afford a room
at The Peninsula New York
suites with TV`s above soaking tubs
with city views
and all that sun on Fifth Ave
I live inside it too
I am at Uniqlo
buying underwear
and after I paid
I stayed and shopped again
a surprising second erection
after you`ve just fnished
and you know it`s time
The Stenogiaphei
Nevei minu wheie I was
it was like 6:4S
anu the baitenuei hau gieat haii
I was bieaking apait anu taking notes
I hau to stanu at the veiy enu
anu wave foi my uiinks
coulun't finish my book calleu !"#$% because the canule went out on my table
anu anyway the book was putting me ueepei anu ueepei
into a state wheie I felt like Buuuha
losing my memoiy in a backioom
suiiounueu by thugs
I was thinking of stenogiaphei women who type in couit houses
while eveiyone iages aiounu themit's a life
of listening anu typing
sentences
saiu by othei people
iight now
it seems like no one in this place
wants to mean anything
which is okay
in my heau I'm saying
in Suu+ woius
I'm afiaiu anu veiy hopeful
Bianca Stone
Transmission


I believe in your alien symmetry.
Give me dharma straight to my brain, your Sudden Enlightenment.

I want truth, unarticulated and whole,
like an unjointed bone for the broth.

Conspiracy or prophecy, love tolls beyond airsound.
I nourish myself of your juice math, hundreds of percents,

and watch the garden the way a child in your tribe might,
attaching myself to its fractal splay.


Divinity, I recognize, is the part of infinity
my human eyes cant see.

I'm caught like an animal between the macro- and microscopic,
made to recognize time by leaf bud and being.

I suspect there is no answer to be gleaned,
only beamed.


Do not mistake me: I want to be left among the ruins,
to gnaw the fiber with the rest,

but if there is a way to know, beyond lifetimes, how to pray,
give me the passcode, so I might thank you for these green eyes.


Billy Merrell
New Work for the Desert
Corrine Fitzpatrick
Small Note

Please smooth back his hair
like falling features, learn
to tender. Shoulders
squared
in touch repose
accordance to the thought
for just so long
between you two
a softening

Move away, now forward

The risk is a part
of the rhythm, Edwin Denby
writes in Forms in
Motion and in Thought

Suspending problem for a moment

Here, the light
a spectral space and if
it werent for this wind the
light would be
a garment


Poem for Nada
for hudson
So detached from the lingerie malaise but so attached to interior decoration
of thought and no ideas but in lingering activism. Meditate on the pleasure
that is not profit but the pleasure that is touching, everything in inevitable
obsoletion. I love poetry like I love time and money. Idle with us in Hotel
Louisiane, by which I mean tongue, tongue, tongue. Renunciation puts my
mind in your body. Feelings, weve come so far to still praise imagination
when we could be feeling. The boring afternoon liberation front. Yes, no big
deals; yes, your long gaze is a moment.
So her dysmorphic city, paints and window light, more or less
immediacy ushered an urgency we mostly move on, top or blunder.
Lives, like the day, are so demandered: errands, mysteries, the long
nightlife. But the bathtub inherits the waste we survive and the waste
we glimmer in, another small death not translated, just cool, between
silent and sentient, a false privacy in the half of a body delineated by
another secret horizon myriad in the geometry of tile and limb. Yes,
imagine all the conviction drained from the duty of getting by, and the
tender togethered like a faint gravity falls on chrome tones of relieve.
Love, another wet coffin we found ourselves in.



The Brazilian chairs in humorous exhaustion, even the rupture stays
in the reproduction: consider the gold green parrot, or her hair
everywhere idling in the impossible. Your hotel room in Athens. Dad,
picking her up in a sports car. Much later, I was in the Biscayne Blue,
writing a poem about painting the horizon two to three times a day.
Anarchic in the uncertain, we tried a deregulation of the senses, but
that was just grief lingering over everything like a bank branch in the
new desert. The old desert was cushioned in a modernist ! time. We
were after a simple heart, one thousand lunches in one restaurant
downtown. After the duvet of a tv light to repose in. Faucets, who
wasnt and a fertile laze.


Daniel Feinberg
Excerpts from Actual Person

I cut off all my hair when he left me
I faked pregnancy at my last job to take an extra long vacation!
Why am i even online its not like the love of my life will message me today
I Secretely Watched Someone Jack Off
I Love the Female Body
I just got home from donating bone marrow
I love to Wear Wigs I Love Wigs
I love Kissing
I own a small home theater business
I Have Lost a Child
Why is there some chick in my seat?
I went home with a random guy last night
I am a Scottish TV development producer in Asia looking for the next best thing
I Alway Say im Fine IM Fine
I have CP and Aspergers. Feel free to ask any questions about me
I Enjoy Impressionism Monet
I Am Fascinated By Human Behavior
I Am A Diapered Teen
I Am Amazed At How Many People Were Spanked Growing Up
I Am Horried Of Friends Knowing I Get Spankings
I Am Still Spanked By Mom
I Broke Curfew And Got Spanked
I Deserve More Spankings Than I Get
Deanna Havas
The blue pride, The two blue eyes

The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush Hopkins

He said he loves the movie
With the blue-lined streets
Filmed near where he lives
But if only I could have stayed there with him

The blue-ringing Octopus
Is in the middle of my bed
And I snuggle its soft blue feathers

But no, this is the awful night of blue
With the maniac beings
At my feet

And the blue trucks that sound like nightmares
And the darkness which was once so pale
Now iced in magenta, or so in violet
In his songs that come on so suddenly
In the blue evening
In the blue night air, drained and blank
Ringing with lapis tones

What is future vision
If not blue
Says the blue
To you

I dont know I dont know
But in the midst of real death
I am not me anymore
I am silent

I am blue
And my blue mouth
Sits on the mouthpiece

So blue it is almost not an ocean
A blue estuary
That keeps me in

If I could say what I remember his eyes to be
I would say: Yes, they were blue.
There were two.


The blue eyes
Two wooden on the wall
Tiny hooks in the eyes
More than the eyes
I remember them

Blue estuaries keep me from him
But he made them
He built their boundaries
Seed and sand and stone by stone

If the moon had a way to speak
She would sound like him
She would not sound like me

I speak for the sun
But the sun is not blue
It once was red
Now its pale and it comes and goes
It drags the sea away from him

The sea, but its not blue
It is made of ice and bees
The bees, the bees
And the icy sea

The icy sea
Its made of bees
Its not made of you
Its made of me



Dorothea Lasky




Naiiiage
We've eaten uinnei
in yawn-wiue uusk.
0ui two bouies as familiai as cotton
stackeu foigetful atop one anothei.
But, even now, aftei yeais, lazy
anu uiunk, my tongue finus
youi tongue anu piaise youi exhausteu,
familiai face. Pull me closemy sweet
suie thinganu when I say the woin
woius, you'll sit theie till I'm uone,
my face youi tenuei thione.
Eu Spaue
CPlCk llLLL1
Monlca pukes ouL
Lhe genLlesL fonL
of slck LhaL l have
every seen and
l can have no oLher
LhoughL buL how
Lhe aL whlLe Lops of waves
can have no oLher
LhoughL buL how
We haLe Lhls
freedom, don'L we?
We were young
and l was had
Lo rub my body
on Lhe world's
young eyebrows.
Ccean aps
a canvas LenL.
1o be ln such a sLaLe
of self-possesslon
Lhere can be
no oLher masLer.
?esLerday l planned
on pulllng ouL my halr.
l have known
Lhls fasL Lo culuvaLe
a cerLaln sharpness.
l have known
myself Lo kneel
aL whaL has yeL
forgoL Lo have
no oLher LhoughL
buL how
Lo say Llalne
or Monlca
or Ally
or nlcole
or Clare.
Llalne kahn
Elizabeth Reddin
A FLOWER CHAMBER
Empty and half awake
I met my exchange cousin for the rst time,
found her services to be almost reliable, rode the
Minnesota bride to the very top of feeling.
I came, waited and contemplated almost nothing,
was forced to leave after nobody showed up
to the mouth-to-mouth party.
It was almost an hour ago to the second.
Its like those circulated myths about imperceptibly small
yet incredibly dense objects sinking through
an entire apartment complex, through ve or eight
consecutive living room oors
to hover in the basements single bulb.
Im coming to a curve in this logic.
The line ows itself into a chamber shape
only to swerve, douse my walking project
in ground stimulants, and dissolve.
I walked past the middle class nausea
of patchy, poorly-seeded lawns
walked into the depressed shopping mall
where each individual item
gets its own store, price tag and uniformed
guardian, walked past the woman
who was hurled forever into public, who dies
each day in the same footprints.
I walked and imagined a dock into permission.
I walked up to a building
that advertised a Flower Chamber
of insurmountable beauty on its glass faade.
I looked between my feet and saw a cobblestone
and on that cobblestone there was a small gold placard
and on that small gold placard there was an engraving,
which hinted at the address of the building.
It read:
Here, Right Here
Nowhere Else
This Building
Apartment Building Building
Building Avenue
Bulding Area, New Building
BuildingBuildingBuildingBuildingBuilding

Emily Skillings
MAN MADE THINGS I CANT LIVE WITHOUT
That something can have a name
That it will come when called out.
Pigeons. Once cities
Rise, countrysides lie back in opposition.
Breathable clean air
Our regulation.
The discomfort with forgetting names.
Before man invented blue
As a name to contain a spectrum
Greeks called the sea wine red dark.

In Foucaults panopticon
This rebel unzipped and pissed
Into trafc, an SUVs grill.
It was like he wasnt there
How averted stares erased.
Bankruptcy. Relaxation tracks
Records of the ocean.
Some know its limits
In fathoms, temperature, and sh stocks.
Some know the acreage of horizons
As earths measured curvature.

Identitys rst assumption
That most are one person all their lives.
Soap as longevitys warm isthmus.
Taboo, the circle it made around eating orcas
Or spinning dervish style and nude here. Hansa Bergwell
LOVESEAT
stretched white denim
bending outward into thin lips
the cut on his inner thigh
a clunky Cake track
where all the hidden
parts bounce in cartoon excitement
finding a rhythm among the disarray
MAMA MIA on vinyl
Patrick Nagal
Jessica Rabbit
flat pin-up revisionism of the 80s
over time bodies decay
in an inverse relationship
to their obsession with collectibles
my decisions reflect that fact
i'm always feeling some kinda way
Jamie Townsend
Ghosts
Kenneth Koch, Dana Ward
Cincinnati gets me hard
Cincinnati is so far
From New York City
And Oakland, Cali, where all the poets
Get all weird in their notebooks
All the way down the Golden Coast
All you poets are wannabe ghosts
My name is Joseph Ghost
Bradshaw, bitches, Im holy
Joseph Bradshaw got a sword
A dick so long I cant hoard it
Joseph Ghost slices yall
Like mices yall
Josephs dick ghost wants to make ya
Feel real bad about yall
Every poet in New York City
Can suck on Josephs big ass titties
Joseph Bradshaws big ghost titties
And Joseph Bradshaws other big titties
Joseph says: If youre choking
On small parts, dial 911
Or text me at 503-758-3479
Ill Bradshaw you a good time
Joseph Bradshaw
UNTITLED (FOR STEWART)

I ALWAYS PICKED THE GIRLS WHEN I PLAYED VIDEO GAMES. IF FOR NO OTHER
REASON THAN OUT OF SHEER SPITE AT THE EASE OF IDENTIFICATION THE
BOYS AROUND ME HAD WITH THEIR UN-INTERESTINGLY PHALLIC/
KAMEHAMEHA SUPER-HEROES WITH THE ASSUMPTION THAT THERE WAS
SOME SORT OF INHERENT OR TRAGIC FLAW IN PRINCESS PEACHS MARIO
KART 64 PERFORMANCE. CHUN-LIS ABSURD CURVES AND THE CUNTS MEOW
SCREECHING FROM EVERY TURN OF HER HYPER-PORNOGRAPHIC BODY
FUELED MY RAGE AGAINST BOYHOOD, ALBEIT THROUGH ARGUABLY THE
MOST BOYISH OF MEANS. I DISCOVERED, USING MY VIRTUAL PUSSY TO
STRADDLE THE BEEFY TRAPEZIUSES OF ANTHROPOMORPHIC CYBORG
ATTACKERS, THAT THE AWKWARD SHORTCOMINGS OF PUBESCENT LIFE
COULD BE OVERCOME ONE PELVIC HEAD CRUSH AT A TIME. LIKE MOTOKO
KUSANAGI, MY WOMANHOOD WAS ENTIRELY ARTIFICIAL, SAVE MY MIND AND
THE TINGLING SENSATION IN MY SPINE PRESENT AT THE REVELATION OF A
NEW LEVEL, ESPECIALLY ONE UNLOCKED AS A SECRETEACH TIME MY
ARTIFICIAL LUNGS LIFTED INTO THE AIR AS IF I WAS ON, BRAVELY DENYING
VERTIGO OF ITS AFFECT AS I SPREAD MY AMAZONIAN LEGS AND TOOK IN THE
RAPIDLY MOVING AIR THAT TRACES THE FANTASTICAL SKYSCRAPERS OF
BREGNA. IMMERSED IN A WORLD OF POST-APOCALYPTIC INDUSTRIAL WAR-
ZONES, I ASSUMED THE ETHICAL AND POLITICAL TASK OF FIGHTING OFF THE
TENTACLE AGGRESSION OF HENTAI RAPE AND THE CHUCKLES OF MY PEERS
SIMULTANEOUSLY. I WENT TO EVERY LAN PARTY IN HOPES THAT I COULD
WITNESS THEM LOSE BATTLE AFTER BATTLE TO HYPERBOLIC DEPICTIONS OF
THE SAME FIGURES THEY WOULD LATER JERK OFF TO; THE SAME FEAR-
INSPIRING FEMME FATALES WHO THEY WOULD AT SOME POINT ATTEMPT TO
BATTLE IN THE REAL; THE SAME IMAGINARY CUNTS AND PHANTASTICAL
PUSSIES THAT WOULD (AND STILL DO) TEMPT THEM TO TOUCH AND CONQUER
THE VITAMIN-ENRICHED TUNA OF MY BODY.
Juliana Huxtable
Modernity
!
There is always a black square
and the person leaves picking up the next line
with the leaves lumined canopy tripling the distance
of the sky she walks blanketed beneath
piles of bodies no more her outside
than inside in there without touching.
!
There is always a white square
and the persons dog said enough times
so he becomes her god and she is so upset
at him needling his back with her cracked feet
slow acquisition of myths from between his teeth
she pulls them sucks on them and soon enough sleeps.
!
The red square is only ever between your eye
and the visible flitting fly of red as in throw up
the fly when the wind pushes more light than shape
yet the photo bears its stamp exact where you saw it
on your eye on the right ball as it stands among
everyone and you always red square etcetera
before your tricked-out body stumbles into thing.


Karen Lepri
AND HE IS JUST LIKE ME

I was not praying.
I was reading my poems to myself when god entered.
He was like so many people
who come near me.
He was an old man in a wheelchair
He had a rifle over his knees
And in the same breath he was a
young woman
young like me and watching.

You think Im ridiculous, I said.

No. I think youre cunning. Im crazy about you.

But why? I asked.

Its your thoughts. Your intolerance to heat. Your body complains loudly wherever it
goes.

But why would you love that? I asked.

I dont know, God said. Its what I have
to love.

Then he pointed to a picture of me
in his wallet
There you are suffering, he said. I love your frailty. Its like lace.

And this gave me a dirty feeling
And I looked into the pair of eggs
and the old man peeled away
like a mood
Then god was just an alien with no genitals at all
I love your fragile veins it said
thats the feel of them
guitar strings
I love that you are dying it said with panting nostrils
right now
you are dying
and it gets me
off.


Leopoldine Core
love letter to river

the day you died i have the PEOPLE magazine, i still saved it-- i had never seen anything like you
before: thick bodied, skin browned from the sun and a crew cut, both the cuffs of your jeans and the
sleeves of your white t-shirt rolled up-- remember thinking you looked like me if i was a boy or you
looked like how i wanted to look if i was a boy, or a girl. hadn't felt that before. the stopper of
fights you died by getting knifed while stopping a fight between two guys standing on a line, the
voiceover said, in the movie. chris was your name. a river. i called my stephen that day, the only
lover i could then ever imagine having and thought silently to myself that this was as close as i would
come to understanding my parents talking about MLK, Jr.-- never forgetting where they were, where
i was: in a borrowed 1-bedroom apartment shared between the four of us. Micah and me on a pull
out sofa each night not our own seventh floor apartment but one on the third floor because, my
father offered, things are complicated. it was afternoon, after school, i called your house and you
answered--the "L" of your "hallo" sharp-tongued like right at the tip of where your teeth meet your
gums, given in a point not a rim. the way i liked it. we cried on the phone together even though i
knew you couldn't understand what it was for me this goneness, gone of a moment, gone of a link to
my brother, gone of a beauty, gone of a boy, gone of a boy beauty, gone of a boy beauty i wanted,
gone of a boy beauty i wanted to be--and i bought a PEOPLE magazine to try and save you, save it
but it remains like a colour of sunlight, like a particular afternoon in Washington D.C. in the fall of a
senior year before home would be gone too before i understood that home being gone could be a
good thing before i understood home could never be gone from your insides-- not the bad kind or
the good kind-- and it stays, long past the yellowed pages of the magazine i never read, lodged
somewhere in me a drop of what makes me me death this goneness this taken away in the sunlight
of an autumn, in 1993.

Litia Perta
every crazy person youve ever
known has suffered from fixation
so you try hard not to dramatize your
own life, but as a result have to belittle
everything you care about, to starve
precisely what calls out for nourishment
and its just so much identity, which is
a drag, since youve long known
not interiors but the points of contact
between them change the code that lets
the world mutate with the necessary
vitality into and through the hostile
environment of the futures Being
its not that youre afraid of going crazy
or wouldnt even in a way prefer it
but simply that youre so determined
to pass in full awareness beyond the break
Matt Longabucco
GIRLS ROOM
Ive always lacked volition
I could never choose one over another
Im self taught at being liked
so I dont have to choose who to like
Do you get it? Do you know?
Theres so much affection in me to give
to the person I pity the most
This girl told me
that shes always been intact
Her femininity was a perfect seashell
wearing red cowgirl boots
and dragging a feather boa on the ground
Im skeptical but not altogether
ruling it out
I cant read the signs fast enough
so I dont drive my own car
When Im with a man I feel
like a gay man
When Im with a woman I feel
like a gay man who is into women
And I only feel truly fabulous
in the presence
of someone less girly
This is my romance with gender
I play it with semiotic excess
in long seasons
I silent act and forget sometimes
to come out
Monica McClure
Paul Legault
Sout hern Got hi c



About the dead having available to them
all breeds of knowledge,
some pure, others wicked, especially what is
future, and the history that remains
once the waters recede, revealing the land
that couldnt reject or contain it, and the land
that is not new, is indigo, is ancient, lived
as all the trees that fit and clothe it are lived,
simple pine, oak, grand magnolia, he said
they frighten him, that what they hold in their silences
silences: sometimes a boy will slip
from his climbing, drown but the myth knows why,
sometimes a boy will swing with the leaves.


Rickey Laurentiis
Nocturne: Beheaded
for Thapleo Makutle
All throat now already brighter than the stars.
I could hold you in my song. Sotto voce, tremble
against me: a breeze slips in, cools my blood
to garnet bed stained with stones, cold and nally
useless. I Orpheo, I lyre. Down river, even damned
with hum, there is room for your cry in my mouth. Sweet,
sweet sotto voce, I sang your moan until the machete
swung then I kept singing. I eyeless, I eternal.
The guards hold blades to the sky and cut the dark open.
Do you hear me raining from the wound? My tongue
is a kingdom. You live there.
Saeed Jones
excerpt from Philosophical Inquiries

All is delay. Preparing a salad, thinking if we were epitaphs, obstacles put between a
surrounding space, well-marked, lit by the light of a water glass. But I am in a square box,
tying my shoelaces. I forgot how to do it since childhood. I am waiting for someone else to
check me off the list, or else to let me in. Hey you, defaced blanket, night or day maybe.
Read about evacuated deeply blue pronunciations, almost infrared, rolled-down sounds,
which stand in for your body. All is delay. I am hearing this bird outside the window. I am
canceling all my appointments. I am staying in. A thigh on a chair, could it be partial?
Transparent fixture? I am going vague again, reading the news, getting scuffed up around the
edges. Teal lamp you got at the thrift shop makes a blue light on your face like a subject
hidden in a head you are trying to find again. A sentence that lost its subject. But my mind
wanders over to the thigh. The pink of it subsides like a faulty language one is not at home
in. And like the opposite of a flashback, the eye dishevels its materiality. No symbiosis. Only
tan. I exit the salon. I drink mango juice which Im obsessed with ever since John introduced
me to it. I think of an isolated mind like a kind of pink or tan juice no one wants to drink.
Deep and bloody floody. The periodic and repeating disturbance that moves through a medium
from one location to another, I kept mistaking for a routine fuck, a lousy one, or throat farts.
Swallow sings its song on the roof of the Old Folks Home. The House Of Convalescence.
Now what you see: figment on hill. Makeshift alcoves. Whole seas. The same bird sings. Its
a swallow from the sounds of it. Waves are everywhere lapping against your ear lobe,
bunched peony, bits of world like pulp, sensuous as mid-riff fat, or Roquefort on thumb.
Take this bit of world. Its bit drifts inwards.

Simone Kearney




VERBS OF
AMALGAMATING:

affiliate alternate
amalgamate associate
coalesce coincide compare
confederate confuse conjoin
consolidate contrast
correlate criss-cross engage
entangle entwine harmonize
incorporate integrate
interchange interconnect
interlace interlink interlock
intermingle interrelate
intersperse intertwine
interweave introduce marry
mate muddle oppose pair
rhyme team total unify unite
wed


Sophia Le Fraga
As landscape (in memory of Adrienne Rich)
Earlier this morning I dreamt that a video of me masturbating went viral on the Internet.
The scene was choreographed, some post-pastoral night scene (a landscape) featuring me
humping the grass. Surrounded by dozens of other boys? All out of my touch. What was
this clarity? This rose light? The mint-green night lawn? My taut, unblemished body
before me, before the world. I guess my torso was see-through because I could see my
cock and bush and backside. Visible: the bodys surfaces, the bodys parts. In parallel, in
praxis. I said several monosyllabic words. The realm of the performative and
pornographic equated a dream state. Repetitive, I quivered, ending in the panic and
anxiety of revelation. Does our desire implicate us in the catastrophic endgame of
sociality, the long gazing public? I felt warned away by new words, new visions. The old
sat so well here, that I confused it with life itself. Reminded then: the living crawl
towards illness & death, maybe blindness, so that when we ask to have our favorite books
brought close to us we know well never be able to read them again. They read to us then,
if they care to. The enclosure is surrounded by the world: touch the edge of it through this
thin membrane. People still visit, a parade of something funny, like love, like honor. The
last time was after the rains had arrived. Didnt live to see the end of them. The world
was a quieter, but not gentler, not any calmer, this summer.
-Stephen Motika
TBH
By Svetlana Kitto
today my exgirlfriend wrote me an email in all lower cases
with phrases I never heard her say before like
its v mega right now
you need to stop to be honesting me
and also how are you spending your days?
See, its only glamorous when she does it. Its as if she dashed the email
halfway down a slope in Aspen, and so obviously cant be bothered with a
simple its instead of its. Everything with her is like shes skiing in
sunglasses and Yohji while Im on my period in my hot apartment washing
out my third pair of stained underwear in two days. Watching Seinfeld in
the middle of the day and justifying it to myself as a worthwhile intellectual
endeavor that hashtag-Jews me. Falling asleep on the couch and getting
woken up by the flickering modem that I keep thinking is a fire in the
kitchen. Avoiding the fifth call from Peter the Holocaust survivor who yells
these are very important stories! who I feel too guilty to tell I cant
interview for free. Debating whether to hold onto the purple dick and
harness we bought together that I keep in an old H&M bag in the corner of
my closet because I am too broke to buy a new one and I have a vague
date tonight. Wondering where the smell is coming from while my leftover
tofu lasagna spills all over the gym bag intended for that trip to the gym I
never ended up taking,
today.
!"# %&#'&() !"#$ &'()*+ ,#-)*) *+,-. %/0/123 '45""( 426175".
RANCH. (excerpt)
I myself was empty. I was scarcely even capable of inventing new horrors to fill the
emptiness. I felt powerless and degraded. It was in this uncompliant and indifferent frame
of mind that I followed Madeline outside. Madeline kept me going; nonetheless.
She was not in the least afraid of the American vernacular, the regionality of style
hovering in her mind. Waiting alone at home, -- luxury, right --she firmly believed that
everything her husband was feeling or thinking now, his anguish and distress, was
leading her to a welcome new life. She felt as if her body could melt away with ease and
be transformed to the merest fraction of her in his thought. She over oiled herself but she
didnt believe in butter.
With only his right hand on the French doors the husband began to squander the screen
sideways across his ranch house. But as its edge became entangled with the adobe walled
structure, it was pushed constantly outward by a soft resilience. He pulled the screen
across. It did not come apart as easily as he had expected. He directed the strength of his
whole body into his right hand and pulled again. Citizens fled to the fringe. Suburbia
metastasized with a vengeance.

The pain spread slowly outward from the inner depths until the whole ranch reverberated.
It was like the wild clanging of a bell. The husband could no longer stop himself from
moaning. But by now the screen doors had cut their way through -- its torqued hallways
and decorative porcelain animals spilling across the field. His mind was empty.

Trisha Low
Zachary Pace
ICON
The heros superhuman virtue
is deluded by the idolater
(whose tendency to overpower
desire objectifies its subject
until reduced to mere replica:
a photograph of a photograph of
[adjective noun]) who craves savior
chases the challenge of addiction
intoxicated by the risk of the bluff
called love. The heros exhausted.
Being exalted depletes his identity
(the mirror a means of seeing
not seeing itself). And the mirror
bearerthe idolateris deleted.
ICON II
I.
Lovers who love on loan
who live on credit
behave like consumers
expecting products of
equal/greater value
than their expenditures.
Their shared tendency to
self-valorize
(by monumentalizing what
persistently erodes)
is one defense against death.
II.
Is my self enhanced
or effaced? they ask
the image in a clouded mirror.
They tighten & slacken
their attachment, loving love
almost as much as
they love themselves loving.
Is erotic tension not
one measure of control in this
uncontrollable cosmos,
freedom from dread of death?
Participants: Adam Fitzgerald / Alina Gregorian / Ana Bo!i"evi# / Andrew Durbin
Angelo Nikolopoulos / Ben Fama / Bianca Stone / Billy Merrell / Corrine
Fitzpatrick / Daniel Feinberg / Deanna Havas / Dorothea Lasky / Ed Spade
Elaine Kahn / Elizabeth Reddin / Emily Skillings / Hansa Bergwall / Jamie
Townsend / Joseph Bradshaw / Juliana Huxtable / Karen Lepri / Leopoldine Core
Litia Perta / Matt Longabucco / Monica McClure / Paul Legault / Rickey
Laurentiis / Saeed Jones / Simone Kearney / Sophia Le Fraga / Stephen Motika
Svetlana Kitto / Ted Dodson / Trisha Low / Zachary Pace
Adam Fitzgerald is the author of The Late Parade, his debut collection of poems
from W.W. Nortons Liveright imprint. He is the founding editor of the poetry
journal Maggy and he teaches creative writing and literature at Rutgers
University, The New School and New York University. In August 2014, with poets
Timothy Donnelly and Dorothea Lasky he will direct The Ashbery Home School in
Hudson, New York. He lives in New York City. thelateparade.com
maggymag.com ashberyhomeschool.org
Alina Gregorian is the author of Navigational Clouds, a forthcoming chapbook
from Monk Books, and Flag for Adjectives, a forthcoming chapbook from
Diez. Her poems have appeared in Coconut, Sink Review, Boston Review, and
other journals. She curates a video poetry series on the Huffington Post, co-
curates Triptych Readings, and co-edits the collaboration journal Bridge. She
teaches creative writing at Rutgers University, and lives in Brooklyn, NY.
alinagregorian.tumblr.com
Ana Bo!i"evi#, born in Croatia in 1977, is the author of Stars of the Night
Commute (2009) and Rise in the Fall, Publishers Weeklys top five in poetry for
2013. She is the recipient of the PEN American Center/NYSCA grant for
translating It Was Easy to Set the Snow on Fire by Zvonko Karanovi#. With
Sophia Le Fraga, she performs and creates multimedia work as not_I.
anabozicevic.com
Andrew Durbin is the author of Mature Themes (Nightboat Books, 2014) and
several chapbooks, including Believers (Poor Claudia 2013) and the novella
Spliffy (Snacks Press 2014). His writing has appeared in BOMB, Boston Review,
Fence, Mousse, Triple Canopy, and elsewhere. He is the Talks Curator at the
Poetry Project, co-edits Wonder, and lives in New York. andrew-durbin.com
shitwonder.com
Angelo Nikolopoulos is the author of Obscenely Yours, winner of the 2011
Kinereth Gensler Award and finalist for the 2014 Lambda Literary Award. His
poems have appeared in Best American Poetry 2012, Best New Poets 2011,
Boston Review, Fence, The Los Angeles Review, Tin House, and elsewhere. He
is a winner of the 2011 "Discovery" / Boston Review Poetry Contest and the
founder of the White Swallow Reading Series in Manhattan. He teaches at
Rutgers University, New Brunswick and lives in New York City.
Ben Fama is the author of the artist book Mall Witch, as well as several
chapbooks and pamphlets. In 2015 Ugly Duckling Presse will publish Fantasy,
his first full length book. benfama.com shitwonder.com
Bianca Stone is a poet and visual artist. She is the co-founder and editor of
Monk Books, as well as the author of Someone Elses Wedding Vows (Tin
House/Octopus Books 2014), and Antigonick (New Directions 2012, a
collaboration with Anne Carson). She lives in Brooklyn. poetrycomics.com
Billy Merrell is the author of Talking in the Dark, a poetry memoir (Scholastic,
2003), and co-editor of The Full Spectrum: A New Generation of Writing about
GLBTQ, and Other Identities (Knopf, 2006), which received a Lambda Literary
Award. talkinginthedark.com
Corrine Fitzpatrick is a poet and art writer in Brooklyn. She is the author of two
chapbooks, On Melody Dispatch and Zamboanguea. Her work has been
published and reviewed in Artforum, Bookforum, and The Brooklyn Rail, among
others. Fitzpatrick is the former Program Coordinator of the Poetry Project at St.
Marks Church and co-edited In The Act: A Sprawling Space for Performance
(Hgkvarteret, 2012).
Daniel Feinberg is a poet, artist and publisher. Previous productions included
Soft Targets journal, Semites magazine, and Yitzhak Rabin Gallery. He exhibits
art objects occasionally at galleries and museums; currently a painting is
traveling with Readykeulous by Ridykeulous: This Is What Liberation Feels Like
from the Contemporary Art Museum, St. Louis to the ICA in Philadelphia. His
most recent project is Time Shares, a poetry, art and Tibetan Buddhist philosophy
press: timesharespress.com. Daniel lives in Miami Beach and Brooklyn.
Deanna Havas was born in New York City in 1989, where she currently lives and
works. She received her BFA from the Rhode Island School of Design in 2011.
She recently completed a residency at the LUMA / Westbau as part of the 89+
project in Zrich. Upcoming exhibitions include Reverly at Kunsthalle Bern in
Bern, Switzerland. deannahavas.com
Dorothea Lasky is the author of the forthcoming ROME (W.W.Norton/Liveright)
and Thunderbird, Black Life, and AWE, all from Wave Books. She currently is an
Assistant Professor of Poetry at Columbia University's School of the Arts and
lives in Brooklyn. dorothealasky.tumblr.com
Ed Spade lives in Brooklyn, New York and writes poems. He studied at
University of Florida and currently works in publishing with a focus on ebooks.
Elaine Kahn is an artist living in Oakland, California. She performs music under
the name Horsebladder and is a founding member of the feminist puppetry
collective Oh Behave. A full length collection of her poetry is due out from City
Lights Books in 2015.
Elizabeth Reddin was born in Torrance, California at the Little Company of Mary
Hospital. In 1993 she moved to New York City. She is the author of The Hot
Garment of Love is Insecure (Ugly Duckling Presse), teaches GED, and trains
dogs in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.
Emily Skillings is a dancer poet, poet dancer. Recent poetry can be found in
Elderly, No Dear, The The Poetry, Bone Bouquet, Stonecutter, La Fovea, Birds of
Lace and Maggy. Skillings dances for the A.O. Movement Collective and The
Commons Choir (Daria Fan and Robert Kocik) and presents her own
choreography in New York. She lives in Brooklyn, where she is a member of the
Belladonna* Collaborative, a feminist poetry collective and event series. She
recently co-curated the exhibit John Ashbery Collects: Poet Among Things with
Adam Fitzgerald at Loretta Howard Gallery.
Hansa Bergwall is a poet who writes about the ecstatic in everyday
dreamscapes. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in St. Petersburg Review,
Lodestar Quarterly and Whistling Fire among others. He co-authored a
chapbook, The Thames and Hudson Project, with Timothy Liu. He lives with his
husband in Brooklyn. mirapr.com
Jamie Townsend is an editor for the literary journals Aufgabe and Drunken Boat,
as well as conspirator of Elderly, an emergent hub of ebullience and disgust. He
is author of several chapbooks, most recently PROPOSITIONS (Mondo Bummer,
2014), as well as the forthcoming long-player SHADE (Elis Press, 2014).
Joseph Bradshaw is a poet, educator, and archivist. He is the author of several
chapbooks, as well as the full-length In the Common Dream of George
Oppen (Shearsman Books). He curates a readings series at Berl's Poetry Shop
in Brooklyn called Leslie Flint Presents, and is currently finishing a book about
the afterlife of the New York School. He's a 2014 writer-in-residence for Lower
Manhattan Cultural Council's Process Space.
Juliana Huxtable is a writer, artist and DJ based in New York City. She is a
member of House of Ladosha, a queer artist collective based in Brooklyn, and
creator and resident DJ of SHOCK VALUE. She creates and speaks from the
positions of cyborg, priestess, witch and trans girl simultaneously. She is
originally from Bryan/College Station, TX and graduated from Bard College. Her
writing has appeared and has been referenced in Artforum, Mousse, Maker
Magazine and Garmento. She has read and performed at Envoy Enterprises,
Brooklyn Academy of Music and Artists Space.
Karen Lepri is the author of Incidents of Scattering (Noemi, 2013) and the
chapbook Fig. I (Horse Less Press, 2012). Lepri received the 2012 Noemi Poetry
Pri ze. Her work has appeared i n 6x6, Bost on Revi ew, Chi cago
Review, Conjunctions, Lana Turner, Mandorla, and elsewhere. She teaches
writing at Queens College. karenlepri.com
Leopoldine Core was born and raised in Manhattan. Her poems and fiction have
appeared in Apology, Open City, The Literarian, The Drunken Boat, The Brooklyn
Rail, Big Lucks and elsewhere. Her chapbook Young Friend was published by
Perfect Lovers Press in 2013 and her first full-length book is forthcoming from
Coconut Books.
Litia Perta is a writer and thinker, recently transplanted to Los Angeles from
Brooklyn, still calling both places home. She teaches at the University of
California, Irvine and is still startled at a daily vocabulary that includes words as
varied and strange as commute, taco truck, jacaranda and humming bird. Her
recent work can be found in magazines Capricious, Randy and Parkett and shes
shopping around for a publisher for her manuscript Archival Folds: Effacement,
Erasure, Disappearance.
Matt Longabucco is the author of the chapbook Everybody Suffers: The
Selected Poems of Juan Garca Madero (OClock Press 2014). Other work has
appeared recently in Aufgabe, Parkett, and The Brooklyn Rail. He is the Friday
Night Series coordinator at the Poetry Project.
Monica McClure will publish her debut collection, Tender Data, with Birds, LLC
this year. She is the author of the chapbooks, Mood Swing, from Snacks Press
and Mala, forthcoming from Poor Claudia. Her poems have appeared or are
forthcoming in Tin House, Jubilat, Femce, The Los Angeles Review, The Lit
Review, Lambda Literary Reviews Spotlight Series, The Awl, Spork and
elsewhere. She curates Atlas, a collaboration series of visual artists and poets,
and lives in New York City.
Paul Legault is the author of four books of poetry: The Madeleine Poems
(Omnidawn 2010), The Other Poems (Fence, 2011), The Emily Dickinson Reader
(McSweeney's, 2012), and Self Portrait in a Convex Mirror 2 (Fence, 2015).
Currently, he is a Writer in Residence at Washington University in St. Louis, and
can be found here: theotherpaul.com
Rickey Laurentiis has poems appearing or forthcoming in Boston Review,
Kenyon Review, Fence and Poetry magazine, among other journals. He is the
recipient of a 2012 Ruth Lilly Poetry Fellowship, a 2013 Creative Writing
Fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts, and will travel in summer of
2014 with a fellowship from the Civitella Ranieri Foundation to central Italy. Born
and raised in New Orleans, Louisiana, he currently resides in Brooklyn, New
York.
Saeed Jones is the author of the chapbook When the Only Light is Fire, Sibling
Rivalry Press, 2011 and is a 2013 Pushcart Prize Winner. His first full-length
poetry collection, Prelude To Bruise, will be published fall 2014 by Coffee House
Press. His work has appeared in Guernica, Ebony Magazine, The Rumpus,
Haydens Ferry Review, and West Branchamong other publications. Jones
received his MFA in Creative Writing at Rutgers University. He works as the
editor of Buzzfeed LGBT and lives in Brooklyn. theferocity.tumblr.com
Simone Kearney is a poet and visual artist. Her work has appeared or is
forthcoming in Boston Review, PEN Poetry Series, Stonecutter, Bridge Journal,
Belladonna Chaplet Series, Ragazine, Post Road Magazine, Maggy, and
Supermachine. In 2013, Kearneys poetry chapbook In Threes was published by
Minutes Books and she was artist-in-residence at Josef Albers Foundation and
Ragdale. She was recipient of a 2010 Amy Award from Poets & Writers. She
teaches at Pace University and Ramapo College. Born in Dublin, she lives in
Brooklyn. simonekearney.com
Sophia Le Fraga is the author of I RL, YOU RL (2013) and I DON'T WANT
ANYTHING TO DO WITH THE INTERNET (2012). Her work has been exhibited
in "Poetry Will Be Made By All!" (LUMA/Westbau, Zrich, 2014) where she
completed a residency, "Vorspiel Transmediale" (Berlin, 2014) and "Online/
Offline: Encoding Everyday Life" (Galeria Valle Orti, Valencia, 2012), as well as
at the Brooklyn Museum, New York (2006, 2007) and the Corcoran Gallery,
Washington DC (2006). sophialefraga.com
Stephen Motika is the author of Western Practice (published by Alice James
Books 2012) and is the publisher of Nightboat Books, a literary non-profit
publisher based in New York's Upper Delaware River Valley. He is the editor of
Leland Hickman's Tiresias: The Collected Poems of Leland Hickman (2009), and
the author of the chapbooks, Arrival and At Mono (2007) and In the Madrones
(2011), both published by Sona Books. He is the director of public programs,
exhibitions, and education at Poets House in New York City.
Svetlana Kitto is a writer and oral historian in NYC. Her stories and interviews
have been featured or are forthcoming in the New York Observer, Surface
Magazine, The Believer, Elle.com, Plenitude Magazine and others, and her
essays have been published in the books Occupy (Verso, 2012) and the Who,
the What and the Where (Chronicle Books, 2014). She has contributed
interviews to projects with the Brooklyn Historical Society, the Jewish
Theological Seminary, the Museum of Arts and Design, and the Mashantucket
Pequot Museum.
Ted Dodson is the author of the chapbook Pop! in Spring (Diez, 2013). He is
the editor of The Poetry Project Newsletter and the books editor for Futurepoem.
Trisha Low is committed to wearing a shock collar because she has so many
feelings. She is the author of THE COMPLEAT PURGE (Kenning Editions,
2013). Remote controls are available at Gauss PDF, Against Expression: An
Anthology of Conceptual Writing, TROLL THREAD and others. She lives in New
York City.
Zachary Pace is an editor at Grove Atlantic. His writing has appeared in The
Awl, L Magazine, Huffington Post, Maggy, Stonecutter, La Fovea, Coldfront, The
Rumpus, Painted Bride Quarterly and elsewhere.
Sam Gordon is an artist and curator living and working in Brooklyn, NY; he
holds a BFA in painting from the Rhode Island School of Design. From 1997
through 2013 Gordon's painting, drawing, photography, and video work was
regularly presented in numerous solo and group exhibitions at Feature Inc. His
work is included in the collections of the Museum Of Modern Art, New York and
the Walker Art Center, Minneapolis, MN. In 2001 he was an Artist in Residence
at the Claude Monet Foundation, Giverny, France and wrote about his time there
in an artist book published by Feature Inc. in 2004. Gordon's recent curatorial
projects include Contemporary Dancing, with Cafe Dancer, during NADA New
York 2013 and the upcoming PURPLE STATES for Andrew Edlin Gallery
opening in June. 2014. An exhibition of collaborative work by Fowler/Gordon with
the Los Angeles based Eve Fowler, will open at The Bas Fisher Invitational in
Miami in December 2014.