In Reviews on February 24, 2015 at 4:11 pm
by Matt Hill
A Review of Marc Vincenz’s This Wasted Land and Its Chymical Illuminations
Gerber, in the eighth century, is known as their principal chymical writer; he is said to have composed five hundred volumes, almost every one of which is lost.
– History of the Moors in Spain
Illusion is the first of all pleasures. – Voltaire
To do a farce, as in to foist deliberate absurdity upon all those in attendance, whether they’re paying attention or not. To have a nine hundred line multilayered epic megaspoof of a love poem farcically foisted, which ostensibly chronicles the pursuit of various succubi, and is elucidated by an Annotator-as-Nemesis, one apparently afflicted by “capricious erudition” and possibly other obscure scholarly symptoms. Well, this then would be the palpable reality of this stunningly annotated poem created and gifted to us by Marc Vincenz and Tom Bradley.
This Wasted Land, bearing the subtitle And Its Chymical Illuminations, is a rendered gestalt of high parody. It is where the sacred and profane coalesce in some bastardly amalgam, chymically turbocharged by the Holy Grail of the feminine mystique. The accomplished, albeit surly, annotator punctuates this book with erudite verses through the episodic traipse, teasingly lifting the veil on Love’s Pursuit, requited or not, through a conjuring of many previously sojourned-in places. This collaboration between Vincenz the Poet and Bradley the Annotator is a “virtuosic feat”, and a worthy parody of much academic pretension.
In Poetry on February 24, 2015 at 4:01 pm
by Paul Siegell
My condolences. Of cutting open to inflict an email clutching.
I am so sorry for your gasp for air.
For how to take him with me. Continue tearing by the serving
fork the urge.
Throw the bones below the broken ankle clutching. My rib and
terror breathing talons begging to attack.
To continue tearing down the torn. Eat eagle lung inflict and
off an email my condolences to you and your I am so sorry.
All the normal gouged out lives.
I pick a person to whom I think I do not belong. Then down
I run the street of thinking how I’ve nothing all to do with
them. And then a verb. Tear out their talons to inflict. Portion
out the meat. Serve the vibrant to the urge.
Eat eagle lung for wing withdrawal. Feathers better the rebel
forces. To serve the urge of cutting open.
To fork it into. Into mouth. To inflict the fancy into the face.
Then pay the bill. Leave the credit card behind.
Paul Siegell is the author of wild life rifle fire (Otoliths Books), jambandbootleg (A-Head Publishing) and Poemergency Room (Otoliths Books). He is a senior editor at Painted Bride Quarterly, and has contributed to Black Warrior Review, Coconut, Redivider, and many other fine journals. In 2015, the Pennsylvania Center for the Book will be featuring Paul in the Public Poetry Project. Kindly find more of his work – and concrete poetry t-shirts – at ReVeLeR @ eYeLeVeL.
Art: Plexiform lesion…, 2007 by bc the path
In Poetry on February 24, 2015 at 3:53 pm
by Nina Puro
You sign a waiver every day
without knowing it by checking
a box on a screen. Once a week
you invoice a tree ring you grew inside,
exhaled from eight to six.
You move a rainstorm from one folder
into another folder. Say numbers reassuringly
into a phone. Talking like using your hands
with wet nail polish. You’ve gotten better with practice,
but you’ll always fuck it up. In the margins
of your to-do list, you calculate
what you’ll have to make to quit. Wait
until it gets dark enough to start pouring
sugar into your blood. The sky rolls back
into your chest. Backwater faces
wink out of black. Their cornfed laughter
a drive-in movie, a tailgate. Cruise slow
along the frontage road. You’re confounded
by how strangers give directions. How baffling
when words become a road, a stockyard,
a backdoor with blue trim.
Nina Puro’s work is forthcoming or recently appeared in BETTER: Culture and Lit, H_ngm_n, Indiana Review, Jellyfish, Prelude, the PEN America Poetry Series, and other places. A chapbook, Two Truths & A Lie, will drop from dancing girl press in 2015. Nina lives in Brooklyn, works in publishing, and is bad at thinking of clever third-person quips to put in places like this.
Photo: counting IIII, 2014 by Martin Fisch