Wednesday, March 24, 2010
It's Only Rock n Roll, But We Like It Anyway
Two new chapbooks, one from Eric Baus and the other a collaboration between Matt Hart & Nate Pritts.
Eric Baus' chapbook, Bee-Stung Aviary, is hand-sewn and has a screen-printed cover. The thick board and black ink remind me of old Geraldine Fibber's 7-inches & for some reason the Bee has GBV's Bee-thousand buzzing in my head. The book contains three sections: False Glass, Bee-Stung Aviary and Ohm Opera.
MY SOLO WAS ALSO
The intensity of elephants should continue
beyond the title and merge back into the figure
of mud. This lion is, therefore, like the lion
following a marionette. Here, their passage is
called brother-in-law, and elsewhere, the hand
that distinguishes between rains: My solo was
also, or, The person that that meant. Each
finger implies another flame.
What unvoiced signal does it wake, a
rendering vacuum or rhetorical fold? Out
among the twinned digits, newly invented
medicine, in the shape of dizziness, dropped
across lips. Lest night retell its s, clouds elide
into dots. Painting the king painting the plains
is to feel the sea in sod. His song ends too, an
outbound breath. What is the name of this
gesture? How to read its residues?
The chapbook is limited to 100 and you can pick it up from Further Adventures.
Recently, Matt Hart & Nate Pritts embarked on a reading tour and made a chapbook of collaborative poems. The book is called, Feelings, Assoc. and the back cover list tour dates, or er, reading dates. This collab seamlessly captures Hart's buzz-saw riffs & Pritts' sonic tightness. This book feels punk, d.i.y. like blood guts & lots of love.
ICICLES GLINTING IN SUNLIGHT
Such impossible instructions! But our bodies try harder,
hollow & shivering. There are three states
blocking this me from that one-- sparkly solid in near winter,
O impenetrable ineffable bloom! My fiery face melting
magma tears from the volcanoes chorusing, glacial
mist in this tectonic shifting. This continental drift.
The landscape will change. I know it will.
There's a dream to believe in about not falling down.
I can hold comets in my hand, grab each star out of
your eyes & make new pictures by connecting
those SOS dots & dashes, but the only thing
I can't do is something I haven't done.
Push for one last mile. Don't let the sun pass through.
Hold that light. Hold that light & today I can
fly from November to the heart of winter.
I'm clear empty & dripping. I wish I could feel more
better. I want to November it up. I want to
season the seasons. I want to fall harder.
I want to hang from the rooftops or dangle
from the bumper when you back out of the driveway
& head straight into beatitude. The brightest
words I can think of are grey & lonely.
That reverberating racket, belligerent & battering.
Icicles glinting in sunlight.
You can prolly contact Matt Hart or Nate Pritts to pick up a copy (if there are any left). Here's Gina Meyers talking about Matt Hart.