Wednesday, July 18, 2018

Rose Knapp, Americas’ Lotus Easters


L’Amour Fou for Daeæscmons Salut 
image by Daniel Y. Harris 




Americas’ Lotus Easters 


Dissociated Dome of the Rock

Seth sets Lokis’ form intoquicksand 
Renaissance melodies masquerade 

Glass pyramids tessellate modality 
Baroqueballroombackhallalleycats 

Silver bracelets hover distorted
On my slightly slit wrists Akiko 

Akhenaten Sakutarō Hagiwara
حج hajj sphinx riddles slip seep 

Gnawing their ways through 
Wastelands theoretical heretical 

Black bone marrow splits open
Clouds have known no Avila

Pietà Jihad domed apparitions 
Jinxed Judith Jupiters’ red moons

Blood Scatting jazz and power 
Pulsing from Mecca mechanically

I catch it in the deserted LA night
Streets gaze at the cube 

Hovering there as if it was a Borgia
I slit one ghostly ghazal 

In its' side admirecutstonemarble
Watch as pieces of Eden

Free fall flittering shards of Mani 


Voltaic Visions

Lightning lashes laconic 
Across LA sky lines [frag 
Ment]cius mists drift down
Sifting over clout cashflows
Running into Hollywood
Data rushing DTLA tar
Split sieves Sycophantic

Cores encapsulated 
By choruses of chaos
Sprawl surrounding
Glazed over teal 
Eyes peering over 
Verbatim Verses 
Peeling petrified 

Latin words out
Of silken air the
Silent stills whisper
Midway lais lapis ruby Isis glares
Catatonic Laüstic cat velaric clāvis
White slashes of piercing castrating noise
Prostrates its’ acrolect ascetic ink dashes in emblazoning altars


Ἡρόδοτος’ ἱστορία Gregorian Antipater patois basilectalization

Hexehedral of Our Lady
Of Angels Thien Hau 
Templeless Mazu sakuras 
Subtle Fragrant tapestries
Of decadent domine decay
Incense burns sentiente é nonsense 

Bisclavret Daeæscmons salut one
An other on In---Concrète 
Slabaths wordsseparating 
Hallowed spaces
Outside Taoist 
Catholic Uni(vision)
Studios temples 

I watch the endless
Blazing pile of books
Blacks and unborn 
(Lucky bastards
And a superstitious 
Black man preaching)
Bête noire noir Alpha 

Et tu wonder at times
Why noir means black
Nègre negative filmstrip 
Lit--//Nile Grime Crime 
Anagram\\Règne Rene

Changeling Dao De Jing Channeling

Pure ecstatic noise
Screeches nails on a Nazis’
Crosswalk straight central
Zeitgeist please don't press Pound 
On a chalk 0...0 outline Ouija
Touché 
Cafe ceremony 

Static bounds only 
Know pathetic Kantian
Reasons Pauline Words
Pulverize themselves into
Perversity for perpetuity 


Evaporates intolerable
Scats as only black
Things can appari
Tion iron lion Leon 
Nonsense nous non
Hope non change non


[Post] Commentary Waste Lands
[Cantos] Chanticleers Changelings

Lamplit night clearcuts tourists diptych past bright red-gold brushed kitsch Shanghai sillsjaded kimonos
Flutter on mannequins gawking in aviators shade 妖怪 spirits harmonized in calligraphicflute notes   
Purity splitting deranged dreamscapes 

Debased borderlines déflorer Decatur florescent
Decanters deconstructing flâneuses 


—Rose Knapp



Tuesday, July 17, 2018

Nathan Spoon & Tom C. Hunley, An Exhalation of Springheads


 Misinformed Genie 
(acrylic and paper on canvas; 8 x 10 inches) 
image by Nathan Spoon



An Exhalation of Springheads

The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed…
                                   ―John Milton

In the beginning, a single cell divides
itself, becoming two cells in symbiosis,
giving a third dimension to words spoken
(once written), like Cerberus with an extra

serpentine pair of eyes gazing into
ambient spaces, until it becomes clear
that three times two is six and two
more is a new plant leafing itself into
a row of jelly bean-colored houses,
along the water running through
Burano, Italy, I can’t get those

figureheads off my bed. Or off
the walls! My forehead has grown
embarrassingly smaller than yours,
whoever you may be. I designed a labyrinth
to thrive inside and I hid the prototype
underneath a stone near my outdoor plants –

also embarrassingly smaller than yours.
Now, from a bottom corner of the canvas,
nymphs are sprinkling leaves on my head
which is secretly hosting a hive of bees.
I’m making honey and a movie trailer.
The honey is sweet, and it sticks to bones.
If you like the trailer, I’ll make the movie,

which will make you love me doubly, love me
two times two divided by our unruly, wayward
children. Fractious, if passages can wind
into abysses blank as frozen zaffer,
as the trees give rise to a hive by leaning,
finally, into Hell. I like being wayward
and drifting drunkenly in a boat copied
and pasted onto the river Styx. This is what

happens after spending more than two hundred
billable hours kicking up extra dopamine with
other runners. Suddenly you are accidental besties
with people who were probably antelopes
in recent lifetimes! Tomorrow I’ll peel
away from work and visit Mansard.
The place is a marsh and isn’t a marsh
mostly as unassuming as Westhaven?
Let’s say I’m a map and you’re “You are here” and someone
else, we don’t know who, is lost and needs our help.

When the planet is sleeping inside
a gigantic piece of Silly Putty,
while Platonic wings emerge on randomized
whims projected from the insides of flowers,
there is something unsayable
(which isn’t being mentioned now) that flashes
from the depths of insentience. It’s beautiful!


―Nathan Spoon & Tom C. Hunley

Thursday, July 5, 2018

Nathan Spoon & Colin Winborn, Unaffected by Strong Force


Democracy of Flower
(acrylic and paper on wood; 11 x 14)
image by Nathan Spoon 



Unaffected by Strong Force


detail

i will accomplish nothing. will

  take in joyfully the glow of

    this maple in nov(a).ember while

      thinking about biscuits.

*

am i the failure i have always

  wanted to be. since nothing

    could be worstward.er let,s

      hope? snow is arriving soon.

*

On the page.
          Stars fell.
From the sky. In the night.
                                        Fell as snow.
A page is our heartbeat. A page is our breath.
                    Our blood.
Look now.
Unmeasure. Now this vale.

*

Under a blanket.
                                        Of snow.
          Of stars.
Carrots grow.
                    In earth. Through which.
Worms whistle.

In sightless unison.


retail

from vessel.   you sieve
                
               within             nothing kept from

tomorrow. doing         a domain

bounded through.  to

                         leptons anointing
                      
               a slave mission

fizzy filigree
         
            snatched quantity. of attic
                  
                   blocks

kleptomania up
                   
        braids your hair    still set

                in
               
                my hands

catacombs
        
        are pets

beloved

               ear canals

              call
         
         my vassal


derail

They are tiny. They are few. They are snowflakes.
Pack a horde together in time to blink
                    the world astray.

*

From a lost future: smoke.
Beneath a stone: a

*

Snake. I put the toe of my shoe

behind its head and, gathering it up

between my child’s forefinger

                                   and thumb,

carry it, like a golden rope, home.

Once over the fence and returned

                              to our back yard,

     I return it eagerly to the vatic

*

And grassy ground. Watch it crawl like

a shoestring of imagination. Put

                    the toe of my
                    shoe again behind
                    its head and reached
                    down into the darkness
                    of its impossible

swivel where it struck my

forefinger with its

babycopperhead fangs.

Here: spliced

                    lance-marks.


tail end

which is.

 limbo

                  sent

                        out

    lying. in

what state

           coppice and  
salty waves   -

        gate,

   way    propped

the snow

             this

   blue

horizoning

          no.

vember

     vestige

allows flesh

        a hostage

intuits   bardo           within

                                 limits
    stinting

at                 the

               meat stash      suffers

stares   down

      the alley/    way   inter

                                  ested

               all night

          a hinge    a pivot     i’ll

swing

          by that


―Nathan Spoon & Colin Winborn



Tuesday, July 3, 2018

Chris Nesti, Memcpy(buffer+nop, shell, strlen(shell))


Memcpy(buffer+nop, shell, strlen(shell)), image by Chris Nesti 




Memcpy(buffer+nop, shell, strlen(shell))


ƨɿɘbluoʜƨ ƨƚi blɘʜɘd I bnɒ ,bɘʞool I bɿɒwqU
ƚɿɒɘʜ ym bɘɔɿɘiq noiƚɒnɿɘƚƨnoɔ ʜƚiw bɒʜ ʜɔiʜW
bɘƚɒnimɿɘƚ yɘllɒv ɘʜƚ ɘɿɘʜw ƚnioq ƚɒʜƚ ƚA

Ƹ ,ƚooʇ ƨ’niɒƚnuom ɒ bɘʜɔɒɘɿ bɒʜ I ɿɘƚʇɒ ƚuᙠ
yɒw ɘuɿƚ ɘʜƚ bɘnobnɒdɒ bɒʜ I ʜɔiʜw nI
ƚnɘmom ɘʜƚ ƚɒ ɿɘdmulƨ ʇo I ƨɒw lluʇ oƧ

bɘɿɘƚnɘ I ɘɿɘʜƚ woʜ ƚɒɘqɘɿ llɘw ƚonnɒɔ I
ɘɿɘʜƚ wɒƨ I ƨǫniʜƚ ɿɘʜƚo ɘʜƚ ʇo I lliw ʞɒɘqƧ
bnuoʇ I ɘɿɘʜƚ ʜɔiʜw ,ƚɒɘɿƚ oƚ booǫ ɘʜƚ ʇo ƚuᙠ

ɘɿom ɘlƚƚil ƨi ʜƚɒɘb ,ƚi ƨi ɿɘƚƚid oƧ
ɿɒɘʇ ɘʜƚ ƨwɘnɘɿ ƚʜǫuoʜƚ yɿɘv ɘʜƚ ni ʜɔiʜW
nɿɘƚƨ bnɒ ,ʜǫuoɿ ,ɘǫɒvɒƨ ƚƨɘɿoʇ ƨiʜƚ ƨɒw ƚɒʜW

yɒƨ oƚ ƨi ƚi ǫniʜƚ ɒ bɿɒʜ woʜ !ɘm ʜA
ƚƨol nɘɘd bɒʜ yɒwʜƚɒq bɿɒwɿoʇƚʜǫiɒɿƚƨ ɘʜƚ ɿoᖷ
ʞɿɒb ƚƨɘɿoʇ ɒ niʜƚiw ʇlɘƨym bnuoʇ I

ɘʇil ɿuo ʇo yɘnɿuoႱ ɘʜƚ noqu YAWᗡIM
ɘniviᗡ ɘvoɘʜƚ ɘmiƚ ƚɒʜw ,ɘɿɘw miʜ ʜƚiw ƚɒʜT
ƨɿɒƚƨ ɘƨoʜƚ ʜƚiw ǫniƚnuom ƨɒw nuƨ ɘʜƚ qu bnA

ǫninɿom ɘʜƚ ʇo ǫninniǫɘd ɘʜƚ ƨɒw ɘmiƚ ɘʜT
bɘnɿuƚ bɒʜ nɿuƚɘɿ oƚ I ƨɘmiƚ ynɒm ƚɒʜT
yɒw ym ʜɔum oƨ ɘbɘqmi bib ɿɘʜƚɒɿ ,yɒИ

ɘɔɒʇ ym ɘɿoʇɘd moɿʇ ɘʜƨ bɘvom ɿɘvɘn bnA
ɿɘ’o bɘɿɘvoɔ ƨɒw niʞƨ bɘƚƚoqƨ ɒ ʜƚiw ʜɔiʜW
ylǫnibɘɘɔxɘ ƚʇiwƨ bnɒ ƚʜǫil ɿɘʜƚnɒq A

nɒǫɘd ƚnɘɔƨɒ ɘʜƚ ɘɿɘʜw ƚƨomlɒ !ol bnA
ɿɘwol ɘʜƚ ƨɒw ɿɘvɘ ƚooʇ mɿiʇ ɘʜƚ ƚɒʜƚ oƧ
ɘqolƨ ƚɿɘƨɘb ɘʜƚ no I bɘmuƨɘɿ yɒw ɘʜT

bɘƚƨɘɿ bɒʜ I ybod yɿɒɘw ym ɿɘƚʇA
ƚʇɘl noƨɿɘq ǫnivil ɒ ƚɘy ɿɘvɘn ʜɔiʜW
ƨƨɒq ɘʜƚ bloʜɘd-ɘɿ oƚ ʞɔɒd ʇlɘƨƚi nɿuT

bɿɒwno ǫniɘɘlʇ ƨɒw lliƚƨ ƚɒʜƚ ,luoƨ ym bib oƧ
ƨɘzɒǫ bnɒ ƨuoliɿɘq ɿɘƚɒw ɘʜƚ oƚ ƨnɿuT
ɘɿoʜƨ ɘʜƚ noqu ɒɘƨ ɘʜƚ moɿʇ bɘuƨƨi ʜƚɿoᖷ

ʜƚɒɘɿd luʇƨƨɘɿƚƨib ʜƚiw ,oʜw ,ɘʜ ƨɒ nɘvɘ bnA
ylƨuoɘƚiq oƨ bɘƨƨɒq bɒʜ I ʜɔiʜw ,ƚʜǫin ɘʜT
ƚuoʜǫuoɿʜƚ bɘɿubnɘ bɒʜ ɘʞɒl ƨ’ƚɿɒɘʜ ym ni ƚɒʜT

bɘƚɘiup ɘlƚƚil ɒ ɿɒɘʇ ɘʜƚ ƨɒw nɘʜT
bɒoɿ yɿɘvɘ yd ƚʜǫiɿ ƨɿɘʜƚo ʜƚɘbɒɘl ʜɔiʜW
ƨyɒɿ ƨ’ƚɘnɒlq ƚɒʜƚ ʜƚiw ybɒɘɿlɒ bɘƚƨɘV


—Chris Nesti