rememboids, by Mark Sonnenfeld



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Mark Sonnenfeld is an experimental writer, collaborator and publisher. He is active in the international small press scene, having to his credit numerous chapbooks, broadsides, give-out sheets and audio sound collage on cassette and compact disc. He is greatly inspired by The Beats and current innovative artforms. His work has appeared in a plethora of underground magazines and in 2006 he was featured in an anthology of avant-garde American poets titled INSIDE THE OUTSIDE. His work is archived at more than a dozen university libraries, as well as sites in Europe and Asia. In a recent article, Eric Greinke of Presa Press said Sonnenfeld embodies the true spirit of the small press movement.

Mark Sonnenfeld
45-08 Old Millstone Drive
East Windsor, NJ 08520 USA

Christmas Jingle Jangle 1991 by Misti Rainwater-Lites

tabasco trick
nylon flicker
sick forage
slick foray
the schtick tomorrow
won't nick smart toes
dug in seaweed sand
does the camera work with double A's?
does the soup taste hot enough?
where is the newest ferret?
don't go snooping in Grandpa's boxer drawer again
you'll find out soon enough
!~hear that mad scamper~!
music to these
sleepy choir ears



Misti Rainwater-Lites is a manufactured non-exempt mermaid potato that does not believe in expiration dates or plastic forks. Find her muchness mythology here.

Corpus Christi by Tim Murray



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Tim Murray (born Oyster Lip Balm in March 1977) is a lifelong resident of Northwest Indiana. Spends most of his time weeding his prized turnip patch or rooting around in local flea markets. Half cafeteria Catholic and half weird unemployable uncle. He maintains an active poetry blog at myspace.com/kidmonk. Listen to him make noises to himself at myspace.com/hewrtysolodildo AND myspace.com/explodingvomit OR snail your love letters and Anthrax (the bacteria, not the band!) collections to P.O. Box 1183 Portage, IN 46368

Breakfasting with Li Po by Bruce Hodder

Breakfasting with Li Po
in half-lotus on the bed.
A bowl of Shreddies in tap water.
Condensation on the window.
One gull high up in the grey sky
heading off to London.



Bruce Hodder is a poet and lazy but sincere Zen Buddhist who lives in the wild hinterland of old England. He has been in a couple of books over the years, notably OTHER VOICES (Cross+Roads) and is the creator of Blue Fred Press, which currently publishes a poetry blog called THE BEATNIK.

golden calf by Noah Kaplowitz

this poem is broken
i lack the skill
to fix it.

it was supposed to
give hope
to rally our hearts.
make our souls leap
from the prison
of our ribs.

but it never will now

as broken as it is
as inept
as i am.

and even if i wrote
to perfection
what would you do?

melt your jewelry down,
form a golden calf
with which to greet me
as i came down
the mountain?


Kaplowitz has several poetry pieces published here and there. He is currently working toward a degree of some sort at a community college where little is expected of him. In his spare time Kaplowitz enjoys outlaw country music, pro wrestling, wool socks and eating chili straight from the can. He currently lives in the Pacific Northwest where it rains almost constantly. Visit his online home.

THE CRUX by Paul Corman-Roberts

By noon, distant rumblings of avalanches
began to sound. Little Jean’s feeble cries
alerted his playmates.
The following year, as a young graduate at
the University of London; there was a terrible
sadness and weariness in him.
In twelve years, he dreamed he had heard
of every fetish...he’ll put them out and rid you of
the burning.
In the last days, the silver locusts turned
about and went home
to live or not live.


Paul Corman-Roberts is the poetry editor for the long running and critically acclaimed e-zine Cherry Bleeds. He is the author of Coming World/Gone World (Howling Dog Press, 2006). Born in Los Angeles, raised in Humboldt County, he now currently resides in Oakland, California with his wife and daughter.

Now, Sedna by Kathy Polenberg

blue black a million times over
aroused by sound
of millions of mussels brought
and beached by the ebbing
water coping
by the eloping moon
the sound it makes

is a soft clustered racket
a clatter like full house
applause sound echo of
standing ovation flippers
slapping waves and hands

clapping ovation of an entire population
and agreement yet unborn
audience for the players

who will play on the turtle back
and play under and to
the fathomless blue bowl
upturned the sun in hollowed
melon rind

a kind moon saved up
and tucked into
the fragrant mossy black
of a cracked nut shell waiting . . .


Kathy Polenberg is an artist and poet living in New Jersey. Her first book of poetry, I'm Your Field Trip is available from Polekat Press. Visit her website or on the boardwalk under a kind moon.

Text Poem Two by Andrew Taylor

Any would be nice
I’ll see you after I’ve
got ironing to do hope
you’re OK

Took a while to
get to sleep but not
been awake long
hope to see you soon

Can you ring nice coat?
It sounds like Moz, help.
Speak to you before I go
Adny

It’s OK morning that
sounds cool contact me
asap please lad hard day
at the office?

Yes

I take it you’re watching
tennis weather good but
not as good as the grass lad

in bed Bootle I’ve just woken up
Do you fancy a bit of sun or a
wander in the garden just as long
as you put corks on your hat

I’m out of credit this is
Greeny’s phone
wish you were there


Andrew Taylor is co-editor and founder of erbacce and erbacce-press is widely published and his most recent collection comes from Sunnyoutside. He recently gained a PhD in Poetry and Poetics.

IF THE DARK IN IT IS by RC Miller

If in the dark
The dark in it is
If the dark in it is
The dark is in it
It is in the dark
If the dark in it is the dark
Dark is the it in the dark
If in the dark it is
Is it the dark if in it is
If in it the dark it is
Is the dark in dark if in it if is
If dark it is it is dark if in it dark is
If the dark in it is
If the dark in it is
If in the dark
The dark in it is if
The dark is in it
If the dark in it is



Born 1974 in Parkersburg, West Virginia, RC Miller currently lives in Astoria, New York. He is author of the chapbook 'Animal Returns' and recent work appears in Brain Box, 63 Channels, Ditch, and Kill Poet. RC Miller may be reached by writing to roadinsect@yahoo.com or by visiting www.myspace.com/rcmiller23.

Action Figures (Excerpt) by Michael Jacobson










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The entire text of Action Figures is available as a free download from Avance Publishing.

Michael Jacobson is a writer and artist from Minneapolis. His works include The Giant's Fence (Barbarian Interior Books, 2006), Action Figures (Avance, 2008), and A Headhunter's Tale (No Press, 2008). He curates The New Post-Literate, an online gallery of asemic writing. His work has been published in Asemic Magazine, dANDelion and in a few online publications. His interview of Tim Gaze is online at The Guild of Outsider Writers. Currently, he is at work on a new book that is influenced by Mayan codices.

The Light that Twilled Two Intended Piles of Broken Glass by Matina L. Stamatakis

immediately a ray of fitted filaments under pressure broken laughter clucked with vultures' midnight in a naked light against parted door of morning with we seated watching artificial light claw the walls through eternity, where is eternity? calm never? in our belly; a place of adornment, with each soaked sigh shaken to signal bodies in the dark the heard skin by chance takes its final tension will be sung in choirs of wasted, small branches [impulses to speak through sieves and so never tire of soliloquy nor dialogue] perhaps the extensions of the cataplasm of the sun traverse across belly; a pain to produce the teeth of lion or violet that shrinks when touched--it takes the sigh from canary; a laudatory echo unto earth brilliance martyred in ardent trees inclined to decrescendos of the mother as she calms her boy to sleep chaos swollen extremity of the bristle to perhaps remove the dust fair heathers consumed or half-eaten when she was fatter of the baby, bald and sterile & fragile underneath the cream it presses spiral leather skin, ellipses between finely-woven filaments romanticizing swollen bough to replace discreet skin in given limits to the meat masks of girl imagined given dissimulation attention between her thighs looks mitral rubber valve, edges, edges [hidden] I touched, ate the glands irresponsive in memories of the overlapping woman each rivet given welcome as the planetary scene of Venus disconcerted, where the fish embeds its head in the sand, nerves the fat with sediment, pebbles, lakes consternation servant of the wing of the curtains of meeting to the vein in a purple-blue cascade the fruit of its breath in the last explosive, painting windowsill a charming mask of the flounder, its brief & forgotten of the skin as we firmly arrest things we know landslide far from our squeeze in the persecution of nakedness of these parts is highly austere in its captivity, to keep, presence of the figure in an exempted dream arrests close detritus momentarily undressed done harped of the ropes then: decorated with all sibilants forms had broken return had left as the night vigils its gyre in turns of hourglass agitation-above of who a tame breast milk to mine milks pale skin where the black color flowed off [now a new language starts in the tongue & outward of the glass eyes, teeth wooden a case of clear bravura constructed pricked particle ice, droplets of speech-- those small human sacrifices I is it who is who is who is [teats dry, salty of sheep meat; a mask of birthmarks, the pressured fat palms in beds of laughter bloated none & none & we do not swear that the primordial past is the affirmation of our existence-- sex completely quivering of & notes permissible expressions felt to flow downward/downward/downward & quelled the moments of vertigo with finger pulled against the grain of illumine is distinguished, I was inhaled in order to hear the vortexes of my body open up to song of the skin that you're to grip bones now? I to weeping prevented us to press, exactly preventing us to bury these twigs they are deep inside waning embers of my eyes will be too bright its blood: green & madness; crunches the shadow of night enveloped into stillness after this scent of the secretions of fear have finally expunged exiting wounds & labium.


Matina L. Stamatakis is in your extended network.

My liberty_ by Jaie Miller

My liberty fell some dim carriageway
Albeit curses fairly grown some carnivorous.
-
Fair to scratch illuminated ships, cutting, carving.
My liberty fell some dim carriageway.
_
Would you like to know what I am doing now?
'How good is she?!'

At an altitude (to chain my liberty fell some dim carriageway)

Fell so dim, so clearly-
Woman to she-A fair regime
Masters to tomb
Yeah but, albeit curses.


The Skinny: The weird British guy. Profoundly influenced by surrealism and hip-hop culture, he produces reams of text at a pace that makes other members of the group suspect there are three of him. An anti-capitalist revolutionary who has devoted considerable energy to smashing the system, while also remaining really quite funky.

Downside: He's British, talks funny and has been arrested several times for stalking Lauryn Hill. He's also into jazz-funk. Read more of Jaie's work here.

The Grammar of Dry Land by Robert Chrysler

Mirage curls on sand. Peacock feather chariots inside her eyes.

Another deconstructed squiggle passes by (it must be the third listening that causes it to sting the air like that), and I light another cigarette in honour of its breathy lexicon. Mechanical hurt, insect jazz in my mouth, the thin sheen of ice beginning to obscure the intricate anomalies that adorn her blue flesh from the soles of her feet to the tip of her bald head.

This patch ahead is all bossa-nova, a midnight sauntering casually through the doorway as if its spasms had never been felt by any of us, its geology soft and mysterious. A gun is drawn and fired randomly into a crowd of vowels outside, their twists and turns animated by whatever is perceived to be credible when the King has finally been swallowed by suggestive glances from ancient ghosts. But, they have not acquired souls yet, so they cannot die. They barely even notice the barrage fired their way.

None of this communicated anything to her spine as she laid there, prostrate on the string of skulls, enjoying her last few moments here on this plane of existence. An imploding sun an unimaginable distance away had freed her molecules, and she relished the thought of something new. She had been assigned here for millennia now, and it was simply time for her to go.

I like the way you've come to bleed into me over the years. I can take you with me, and..." she trails into silence as I place a marble statuette of a scorpion on her paling, red lips.

Her gaze has become a league of criminals, purer and purer with each revealed truth. She licks lasciviously at the scorpion's tail dangling near her mouth, and an array of minor-thirds cascade to life, coming to rest on trees of inference to cheer granite and learn how to proceed righteously without tipping off the army of diamonds who want them back. Iam transformed into a wink, where money and consciousness have become one river, the place where the poor, toiling aquatic classes compete to fellate the grammar of dry land.


Robert Chrysler is an inspired subway-ranter from Toronto, Canada. He enjoys challenging capitalist property relations, trying to figure out what the post-structuralists are going on about, and dreams of someday living in a tree. His work has appeared in Melancholia's Tremulous Dreadlocks, Venereal Kittens, The Concelebratory ShoeHorn Review, The Guild of Outsider Writers, and The City Poetry.

meditation by Bill Drennan

on the mud of the soles
between the cracks of brain
carefully avoiding dogturd
& electronic shrapnel

forgetting for a moment to notice
the spotless sun
the hollywood lunar surface
the gumgrubbing pavement
which sinks beneath the weight of

a mean wind that simply
laps everything up


Bill is part monkey, part space cadet with alien DNA junk. He congratulates himself on his fine, aristocratic beard. You can see that he does a bit of writing. Some of it is poetry, some of it a mixture of (mock-) essaic & poetic prose, satire, stolen mythology, science fiction, personal experience, hysterical political disgust & conspiracy. He has had material published since the mid-90s & blogs here. When he grows up he wants to be an old fart.

COLLABORIATE 1 by Sheila E. Murphy

sur(real)render endpoints dot
comedic foreplay render un
toward (a chicken caesar
search and seizure)

in Zurich, walked cir
cum ference (stance) yet (v)indic(a)tive of
being chosen although
I could not recipro-cave

come hither wash line dulcet
tree(age) bling my halter
topped off by and by your altar
clasp an overcast iron skill (et tu

pro cast (joepat) ex
posay hey hey (barn fred o
kay) delimit how we R
our way 2 paradoxidise

timed tense twofer
on a transit barging in
2 varicose veronica the veil
hailstorms stones tonal triage


Most recent books include Collected Chapbooks (Blue Lion Books, 2008), Permutoria Visual Poems with K.S. Ernst (Luna Bisonte Prods, 2008) and Parsings (Arrum Press - Finland, 2008). Murphy lives in Phoenix, Arizona.

Litany of the Sacred Bubblegum Card by Tim Murray

(best to be sung or vocalized in some way)

Joe plays the drums

Jim has studied in Scotland

Dave was featured on a national T.V. special last season

Wes crusades against the use of drugs

Pete is an accomplished after dinner speaker

Dave was hit by a pitch 13 times in 1964

Pat once rode broncos in rodeos

Ken has a real fireball

Jimmy has a degree in accounting

Bobby was married the day before St. Valentine's day

Jim once pitched to a baseball clown

Ted is a submarine pitcher

Jim is backup first baseman to Hank Aaron

Pat suffered a broken toe in 1969

Jim's career has had frequent interruptions due to military duty

Darold was in the Air Force

Chuck served in the Tennessee National Guard

Phil was an artilleryman in the Army

Sam's hobby is painting

Dave's hobby is playing the piano

Jim's hobby is water skiing

Dave likes to go water skiing

Jack collects baseball cards

Grant likes to work on cars

Doyle enjoys working on cars

Billy's hobby is hunting

Boog likes to go hunting

Leroy's hobby is billiards

Luke's hobby is playing pool

Jerry's hobby is flying

Bobby's hobby is dancing

Sandy enjoys playing dominoes

Dick's hobby is drag racing

Chris collects phonograph records

Merv relaxes by playing badminton

Steve's high school nickname was "Sunshine"

Dave's nickname is "Daisy"

Ray works as a movie extra in the off-season

Bob is a licensed pilot

Dal is an electrical engineer

Dick and his father operate a moving business

In the off-season Tommie is in the motel business

Casey is a willing worker

Don is continuing his education in the off-season

Last winter Clyde opened a sporting goods store

Mike is a Texas rancher in the off-season

Bud is a country-western singer

Don works for a department store in the off-season

Terry is a painter during the off-season

Sal has a radio show in the off-season

Jeff is a real estate salesman in the off-season

Woodie is a tobacco farmer

Jim operates a cattle ranch in the off-season

Mike is a tour guide in the off-season

Dick was ineligible for sports as a high school senior because he was married

And last but certainly not least in the ever expanding universal joy of rainy Sunday afternoons with ballcards scattered on yer bedroom floor…

Ken is allergic to wool uniforms


Tim Murray (born Oyster Lip Balm in March 1977) is a lifelong resident of Northwest Indiana. Spends most of his time weeding his prized turnip patch or rooting around in local flea markets. Half cafeteria Catholic and half weird unemployable uncle. He maintains an active poetry blog at myspace.com/kidmonk. Listen to him make noises to himself at myspace.com/hewrtysolodildo AND myspace.com/explodingvomit OR snail your love letters and Anthrax (the bacteria, not the band!) collections to P.O. Box 1183 Portage, IN 46368

RANT-KU SUTRA by Wayne Mason

Phone, door, mailbox
don’t need to exist
I lie in my bed

Same old noise
all I can write is
‘all is lost’

.........but

If I hear the words
‘neurotic’ or ‘apathy’ again
the typewriter dies

Ha! Neurotic. Blue
apathetic and bluer
‘cause if it ain’t broke


Wayne Mason is a writer and factory worker from central Florida. When he grows up he wants to be Kannon. His work has been published throughout the small press and he is author of four chapbooks, the most recent Waiting For Magic is now available from http://covertpress.com. Check out more of his stuff at Broken Zen.

Pseudo-Isosceles Dadangle by Justynn Tyme

the ace of clubs is not dada
dada is an indefinable, inexhaustible resource!
Is it a block of blond hair?
Is it two tons of crepes?
bent nails are dada
ugly fruits are dada
dada is a pile of wooden manure from a hobby horse!
Is it a shingle flavored tooth paste?
Is it a bag full of wet leeks?
the f note is not dada
a mallard is not dada
dada is made out of bean curd and borax!
flecks of toilet paper are dada
dada is a tasty inedible treat from a distant galaxy!
Dadaism came from the 720th dimension!!
To destroy the definition of the dada
you must remove the corkless cork from Don Sturdy's right boot?


Justynn TymeJustynn Tyme, alien eggplant creature from outerspace, creates bizarre experiments in art because his innards command it. These works of highly intemporal quality can be found strewn around places like The Whimsical Icebox, Dada Yow, and his personal site, and also in anthologies from the inkslingers, The New Absurdist and Bust.