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Published by doctorfrankbahr, 2015-11-24 11:26:58

FFR15ZINE

FFR15ZINE

FFR
15


FFR 15

Theo Jansen is alive. He had a

strange encounter with a hubcap
from a Dieter Roth sculpture and
is still not sure where his own
piece has wandered off to, but
beyond that…


2 Poems by

Richard Schnap






●●●

John Southworth, English-

Canadian singer-songwriter, tells

all! Musical greats: gene pitney, bach,

bacharach, hoagy carmichael,
bob dylan, cole porter, judy
garland
Songs that inspire me: Town without

Pity; Promises Promises; Alone

Again (Naturally); Night And Day;

Hong Kong Blues; Tangled Up In

Blue; Wayfaring Stranger

what prompted me to record album on shoebox

recorder: strong desire to bypass conventional
recording methods; subversive engineering desires;
compulsion to record songs the second they were
written; record them as being written; seemed like the
right thing to do at the time …especially when I think
about modern food/agricultural practices, peasant
songs, North American spirit of delusion

●●●


Canada’s best kept
secret”
– Stewart Mason,

Criticalmob
“Will renew your faith
in music”
– Tom Power,

CBC Radio
“A truly, true original”
– Steve Guimond,

The Montreal Hour
“He puts out records
with a terrific sense of
freedom and lack of
self-consciousness”
– Chryde, Blogotheque


P
e


an attempt at salvation

when you saw a widening of sheets
and heeded a call for gasping

wondering
if it tingles
will I turn
or twinge

you’re quieting at the thought


of redemption come mores broached
to keep me reigned in

grasping
if you tied me up
put me to the ground
would I turn
twinge

quiver and stick around?


Sir we're
wondering
if you
know what
we're wondering?

Please say
what
it is
that we're
about to ask you


It's not
what
is a four
letter word
for
tolerance
bolster?

But you
shot
an answer
anyway-
something

silent about

the premium
of ignorance


over
inquiry.

Lot #47
Bulk lot
Assorted nerve endings
Do I open with...
And my paddle
Was assaulting
The air just


Above my head
As though I
Were McCarthy
Trying to keep
Ol' K. Marx
Himself from
Undoing his
Fly seducing
Conflict bidding
Before there was
Even a bid
Before the
Auctioneer
Looked up
From his card
Bulk lot of
Nerve endings


And I was
Backing the
pickup around
As the gavel
Came down

Don’t you know the timing
Can’t you feel the movement
That door’s swinging
And you’re facing the other way


Your hand dismisses your eyes
Your face maintains its compass

While reaching back without regard
You catch the knob in time

Giving syncopation the right
To override your gait

Blind as you stride away
Don’t you know the timing

The dynamic stretch
That stops a lock from engaging

As you pass through escape


Make sure the movement rises

Up and out with an advancing reach
You glide back and around

More fluid than before
You’re ruling a routine

That overrides some need
While facing the other way

Your hand dismisses your eyes
Your feet don’t about face

As the movement slides through
You are the moment


You catch the knob in time
And glide it just shy of in place
Without turning around
You leave the lock floating
Without intention you become your gait
And blind timing takes over escape

No alert will sound as the unaddressed rises
in the middle of this Vietnamese restaurant


as your ginger head pokes at it, smirking to
say, we're not saying something
we're not what we were, and don't know
exactly what to be
and, friend, I think you're still angry

No explanation will slip as the incomplete
looks for a socket to reconnect last year
as my wet frayed lips spark, wondering if the
circuitry remains
if we can go back to the same, if that's the
buzz unspoken
or, if we can build something from broken

So that we can be something new, civil and
silent, without relapses or reunion


as one of us thinks it's dinner and another
tries not to scream comeback

should we check wounds to ignite something
platonic
or, to see if our attraction's more apologetic


New York Spell

Gregg Dotoli

like that forgotten song
that's reheard , sweeter and richer sounding

when leaving NY, the spell goes too
as Manhattan patient and regal rests
like a lady-in-waiting
on return, the awe and freedom falls
on the spirit
the breezy island whispers stay
this is the only place to be
this is the only place to be
this is the only place to be


Gregg Dotoli


Получить хорошую девушку


7 poems by

G

K. K


Deluge of Memory Keeps Me Alive

The notion of my birth seeps into my
thoughts
Offering me respite from unseasonable
moments
That nonetheless comfort my conception
of time.

And as daily schedules lead into evenings
of possibility
I’m continually reminded of people with
whom I superficially engage


In order to support each other’s interests,
responsibilities, ultimate needs.

And when I speak and use effective
vowel-movements,
And as I’m ignored, or spoken over (as I so
often I am),
My perceptions of other’s slightness
inform my infinite ignorance.

And when my palpable impermanence
struggles
To find firm terrain in my subjective
experiences


I renounce ever feeling marginalized,
immobilized, or puny.

And when living instinctually bound by
objective illusions

In either dispirited publics, or depopulated
towns,
Deluge of memory keeps me feeling alive.


Diaspora in Channels of Life

Diaspora in channels of life.

I am always concerned how I will survive
the day,
And the night within the day, and so
forth.

Everyone feels differently garnishing
empty space.


We are all beautifully alone; aging
children, pleasure seekers

And loyalists to creation.


Circuit Breakers

Time alone dragged until now, or then,
Inside one unremitting space continuum
Where children and their parents
Sometimes create great circumstances.
Humans often wage wars incessantly
against their ever changing families

Or, enemies perceived to be worth more
alive than dead,


And with temperance, patience, and
humble actions living in months I’ve
optimistically yielded

I’m taught an elusive sense of tolerance.

Circuit breakers, circuit breakers
protecting this one unremitting space
continuum.


I now recognize the circuit breakers
protecting my lame excuses

Failing to help me assert forbearance in
my association with human rituals

Where fiascos of doubt cyclically
determine my anonymity, existence.

Ultimately defining my reactive and
combative stances.

I'm trying to really change that (In my
own way)


I'm trying to really change that. In my
own way.
I'm trying to really change that. In my
own way.

By what I do and say. By what I've left
undone. I'm trying to really change that.
In my own way.

By what I do and say. I'm trying to really
change that. In my own way. By what I


do and say. I'm trying to really change
that.

By what I've left undone. I'm trying to
really change that. In my own way. By
what I do and say. By what I've left
undone. Or feel I've neglected doing in
the past.

It's hard sometimes to teach positives in a
community and still be aware how
intelligent and gifted people/students are -
and pushed academically - only to find
they are punished for that - or all for


that...I'm trying to really change that. In
my own way. So much so, that to many
observers of the obvious - including all
forms of reality and experience, ("Ball
down!") and among many,

THEY TOO represent quite well, almost
as much as those worthy, who legitimately
receive high markings.


Another Observation

Much of the Italian Renaissance Byzantine
art of Europe seemed to have affected the
forms and formulaic erections of Islamic
art found in Egypt, Turkey, Tunisia, and
Russia – 1100, 1350 AD-1550 AD – and
vice versa simultaneously – the use of the
apse and clover-shaped entrances and exits
of historically heralded structured
architectures such as the Hagia Sophia or
the Cathedral. But where did she come


from? Where has she gone? Her nature,
apparent, seems to emanate from neither

the north nor the south, east or west, but
from out of nowhere.”


COME
AND SEE


The Illusion of Victimization

I am illusion for the world, for my
objective reality and wellbeing.

I am a demolition man right into grace

And beyond the horrible mercy that
awaits me.

In any situation I am victim, or incentive
for the victimization, it seems.


So old to be recognizing victimization,
with a moralist’s tone tapping

On a computer’s duty bound keyboard.


So Real, Something, Sometimes

Furtively we await the expiration of our
pleasantries

Never being able to celebrate patiently
Distracted by obsessions

So ever real, something, sometimes.


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