"Jack Nicholson’s mind is possessed. Like my body, my dress."

Head over to Montevidayo to read excerpts from my translation of Sara Tuss Efrik’s “The Night’s Belly,” a long poem of wombs and charred rooms influenced by Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining (1980), the story of Sleeping Beauty (or Thorn Rose; Little Briar Rose), Little Red Riding Hood, and possibly even Polanksi’s Rosemary’s Baby (1968). “There are plots against people, aren’t there?” This is the question a frantic, phone booth-encased Rosemary desperately asked after being cruelly deceived by her husband. In “The Night’s Belly,” Efrik’s female protagonist similarly carries a child of unknown origin. A swelling devil-red child—sometimes described as having pincers, or flapping wings. A throbbingly painful monstrosity. Possibly the child of her husband’s “red mistress” (who later evolves into more of a Macbeth-style witch-mistress), Efrik’s protagonist continuously obsesses over the unfaithful husband’s activities.


[Click] to continue reading

BEWARE OF A HOLY WHORE,  a Troyan / Göransson production

"Channeling a conversation between the ruins of the Cold War with Berlin as the epicenter of erotic destruction and the prostitute as the figure of survival and economic post-war flourishing, ‘BEWARE OF A HOLY WHORE’ is a psychosexual remapping of desire and capital. Using the figures of Fassbinder’s BRD Trilogy and other filmic and cultural sources, the whore becomes a woman to be revered rather than shunned as she presides over a funeral for capitalism and the city, as a future site of freedom and joy.

This performance is a new video and written work created in collaboration by Johannes Goransson and Cassandra Troyan for Word Weekend at the MCA. It will take place on Sunday the 27th at 1PM in the Kanter meeting room on the first floor.”

Ginger Ko reviews Bruce Covey’s Change Machine over at Fanzine: "I mean, everything is a part of the Change Machine world; there is the particularity of molecular lattices, industrial processes, apropos remarks, one-second memories, and they all manage to avoid any twinge of exclusiveness. There is something exciting about the evenly-paced Change Machine. There is no sinister overwhelming, there is Covey to catalogue and curate, to point out the hidden objects in the visual and psychic goulash. Covey’s poems sustain because it is not an apocalyptic piling-on of substances, it is a good-humored acknowledgment of the individual pecks that make up our pointillistic postmodern.”Ginger Ko writes from Wyoming. Her poetry collection MOTHERLOVER is forthcoming from Coconut Books.[Click] to continue reading

Ginger Ko reviews Bruce Covey’s Change Machine over at Fanzine:

"I mean, everything is a part of the Change Machine world; there is the particularity of molecular lattices, industrial processes, apropos remarks, one-second memories, and they all manage to avoid any twinge of exclusiveness. There is something exciting about the evenly-paced Change Machine. There is no sinister overwhelming, there is Covey to catalogue and curate, to point out the hidden objects in the visual and psychic goulash. Covey’s poems sustain because it is not an apocalyptic piling-on of substances, it is a good-humored acknowledgment of the individual pecks that make up our pointillistic postmodern.”




Ginger Ko writes from Wyoming. Her poetry collection MOTHERLOVER is forthcoming from Coconut Books.

[Click] to continue reading

I reviewed Christine Wertheim’s mUtter-bAbel for The Fanzine:“‘waaa unnnnce upon a t t t time th th th’” The insistent pale day of pAge. The ashy, onamatopoeic gradations of Christine Wertheim’s mUtter-bAbel!—the post-hymen song’s exposure to the first light that veers itself into an infant’s eyes! The chaotic baby-babble pile-up of born and unborn betweenings of gender!—of female or male presence?—of what does our future hold? What is the cost of our network of Symbolic relations? What should readers make of this disheveled gash-environment of “s/he” noises persisting from behind a uterine curtain of crayonic impasto? Imperfect, our future? Hell yes! Imposters, future parents? Accusations will soar! (Like our world’s inevitable drone-increase!) Wertheim’s mUtter-bAbel is about our future. Our most current archaeology of knowledge as well as our TBD future-oriented archaeological endeavors.”[Click] to continue reading

I reviewed Christine Wertheim’s mUtter-bAbel for The Fanzine:

“‘waaa unnnnce upon a t t t time th th th’” The insistent pale day of pAge. The ashy, onamatopoeic gradations of Christine Wertheim’s mUtter-bAbel!—the post-hymen song’s exposure to the first light that veers itself into an infant’s eyes! The chaotic baby-babble pile-up of born and unborn betweenings of gender!—of female or male presence?—of what does our future hold? What is the cost of our network of Symbolic relations? What should readers make of this disheveled gash-environment of “s/he” noises persisting from behind a uterine curtain of crayonic impasto? Imperfect, our future? Hell yes! Imposters, future parents? Accusations will soar! (Like our world’s inevitable drone-increase!) Wertheim’s mUtter-bAbel is about our future. Our most current archaeology of knowledge as well as our TBD future-oriented archaeological endeavors.”

[Click] to continue reading

A new excerpt from Johannes Göransson’s The Sugar Book has been featured over at The Fanzine.

A new excerpt from Johannes Göransson’s The Sugar Book has been featured over at The Fanzine.

extended chokes / trunks & palm-swell soft-recoilingThanks to Chris Holdaway and Lauren Strain for publishing an excerpt from One Hundred Acres in the sixth issue of Minarets, the literary magazine of Compound Press.

extended chokes / trunks
& palm-swell

soft-recoiling

Thanks to Chris Holdaway and Lauren Strain for publishing an excerpt from One Hundred Acres in the sixth issue of Minarets, the literary magazine of Compound Press.

"She’ll always be illiterate, since she can’t read the letters of the alphabet, but now she can read one character and knows that the alphabet isn’t the only system of writing in the world," from Yoko Tawada’s Where Europe Begins (Translated by Susan Bernofsky and Yumi Selden)

"REAGAN says RONALD REAGAN a healthier, handsomer hair / in Jeris’ name, we pray: SHAMPOO WHIP! SO ECONOMICAL!"Photo credit: Joyelle McSweeney

"REAGAN says RONALD REAGAN a healthier, handsomer hair / in Jeris’ name, we pray: SHAMPOO WHIP! SO ECONOMICAL!"

Photo credit: Joyelle McSweeney

Trailer I made for Kim Hyesoon’s SORROWTOOTHPASTE MIRRORCREAM—a collection of poems translated by Don Mee Choi.

(Now available from Action Books)

“PQRS is a mess of genre, mixed media, and script; it is both part poem and part critical essay. In his notes, Patrick Durgin explicitly states that sections of this piece were taken from his other works, lifted wholesale and placed after the speaking colon. This is a kind of conceptualism: take the genre and fill it until it exceeds its own boundaries and becomes something else, or something several. 
What does it mean when our work is easily archived, searched, collated, cut apart, pasted back together, quantified, shared, compressed, leaked, and otherwise shifted from one place to another? Its materiality is questioned, since material things aren’t supposed to be that mutable, although maybe that’s naive. Still, what does it mean when our genres are wholly pierced through and bled out? According to PQRS, it means nothing. Or, it means only possibility. In this demi-play, Durgin uses the form of a play’s speaking action to build deep trenches between what is being said, who is doing the speaking, and the origin of those words.”[Click] to read Drew’s full article via Fanzine

PQRS is a mess of genre, mixed media, and script; it is both part poem and part critical essay. In his notes, Patrick Durgin explicitly states that sections of this piece were taken from his other works, lifted wholesale and placed after the speaking colon. This is a kind of conceptualism: take the genre and fill it until it exceeds its own boundaries and becomes something else, or something several.

What does it mean when our work is easily archived, searched, collated, cut apart, pasted back together, quantified, shared, compressed, leaked, and otherwise shifted from one place to another? Its materiality is questioned, since material things aren’t supposed to be that mutable, although maybe that’s naive. Still, what does it mean when our genres are wholly pierced through and bled out? According to PQRS, it means nothing. Or, it means only possibility. In this demi-play, Durgin uses the form of a play’s speaking action to build deep trenches between what is being said, who is doing the speaking, and the origin of those words.”

[Click] to read Drew’s full article via Fanzine

you’re invited. cosmic wolves and poems. and prose.

you’re invited. cosmic wolves and poems. and prose.

"Nobody should need to know whether a poem is important or permanent before allowing him or herself to get renovated by it."[Click] to read the full article

"Nobody should need to know whether a poem is important or permanent before allowing him or herself to get renovated by it."

[Click] to read the full article

Some footage of Ben Fama reading from Cool Memories in Seattle.

"One morning I woke up in the midst of troubled dreams that would not settle, and found myself in the midst of more midst and more troubled dreaminess, into the turbulent verminousness mid-morning of adolescence, well-documented in the Gus Van Sant film, Elephant. Late to school, but alert to World Lit Class, I was handed very few texts that would unsettle me further. But one such drug for unsettlement was The Metamorphosis. 
If The Metamorphosis hits you when you are vulnerable, it lodges like an apple in your dubious carapace, and stays there to shed its rotty apple-effects indefinitely afterward. The Metamorphosis is so massively culturally dispersed that it almost feels like an epic shape you can move inside of, despite its extreme brevity. Or, to re-read it is to move inside a kind of funhouse, with new and familiar (=uncanny) apparitions arising every time (and perhaps you are the wraith haunting The Metamorphosis). Or, when you re-read The Metamorphosis, it becomes a shifting topo-map, the text presenting new clefts and declivities, welling with intensities and sinking away into a diminishment one might choose to view as repose.” -Joyelle McSweeney via Fanzine[Click] to continue reading

"One morning I woke up in the midst of troubled dreams that would not settle, and found myself in the midst of more midst and more troubled dreaminess, into the turbulent verminousness mid-morning of adolescence, well-documented in the Gus Van Sant film, Elephant. Late to school, but alert to World Lit Class, I was handed very few texts that would unsettle me further. But one such drug for unsettlement was The Metamorphosis.

If The Metamorphosis hits you when you are vulnerable, it lodges like an apple in your dubious carapace, and stays there to shed its rotty apple-effects indefinitely afterward. The Metamorphosis is so massively culturally dispersed that it almost feels like an epic shape you can move inside of, despite its extreme brevity. Or, to re-read it is to move inside a kind of funhouse, with new and familiar (=uncanny) apparitions arising every time (and perhaps you are the wraith haunting The Metamorphosis). Or, when you re-read The Metamorphosis, it becomes a shifting topo-map, the text presenting new clefts and declivities, welling with intensities and sinking away into a diminishment one might choose to view as repose.”

-Joyelle McSweeney via Fanzine

[Click] to continue reading