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Los Angeles, CA
I’m reading this, working my way through it slowly. There are spaces here, places of significance and weight, and it feels good to be weighed down, sometimes, like meters under water, the enormity of an ocean pushing you further into its depths. Struggle is good, I think, forced kicks upward and out, to keep you focused and OK.
"Dearer Atmosphere,Lookit me, 37 years old & I don’t know if life’s half over or halfway begun.”
You should read Torch Ballads (and the rest of his work); I got it on a trade, but perhaps it’s back in stock at Pioneers Press.

good lookin’ out Antartica! it actually will be back in stock with Pioneers THIS WEEKEND. thanks for sharing this, and thanks to everyone who’s given a shit/ given this collection a read/shared thoughts, quotes, photos/reblogged shit/ spread the word. you know who you are. and youre appreciated.a lot of people are into that groundless, surreal kind of “poetry”stuff, and a lot of people who are into “poetry” feel zines are beneath them, but a) fuck them b) my zines are more like people and lives and maybe “Spoon River Anthology death tales” (says Angela). not everybody’s bag, but hey, neither were the Germs, or Winesburg, Ohio. w.w.d.i.s. what are your poems?
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Make Zines &

when you make zines & your gf’s cat jumps on the desk while you’re brewing more coffee and their paw drags through your painted covers.

when you make zines & cut and tape the texts onto a piece of paper and there’s a cat hair stuck in the tape and you don’t have excess money to just scrap it all and start again so the cat hair stays and when you print it the cute damn cat is in every single copy forever. & that’s real.
& that’s as real as it gets. Publishing houses aren’t doing that. 
make zines & that cat is real, as real as those words are to you and your imaginary friends


from Sad and Beautiful World #2, summer 2004
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This made the HELL out of my day. Glad you liked the new record (it’s definitely not for everyone) and I’m always happy to see one of my things next to one of the things I love the most (the Death in a Rifle Garden zine). Great meeting you on tour, as well. I thought the story of you eating the rejection letters was pretty damn excellent. Happy International Zine Month…

lil package from wearepioneerspress arrived safely in the mail on friday & made my day as per usual— posting this here mostly to get it out there that greater mythology blues, the album/zine shown here in orange, is my new favorite record & i haven’t been able to stop playing it on repeat in my car around town. go grab a copy if you’re looking for music that sounds best played real loud past midnight when you’re heading home with all the windows down and the state highway empty in front of you and you can feel the ghosts of the old south & the older south watching you from behind all the billboards. recommended for fans of cicadas, frogs, the blues, ghosts, etc.
in addition to how much i’m enjoying the album, adam (along with everyone else at PP) is one of the good guys— besides having helped out me & a whole legion of other folks with his big motherfuckin’ sad book, i met him at a book reading back in may and he really tactfully kept his cool while i spontaneously told him a story about how i ate one of my college rejection letters (thanks, adam). as always, i LOVE pioneers press and i can’t rep these guys enough, but i’m gonna keep doing it, so: in related news, it’s international zine month, AKA a perfect time to get on the bandwagon of one of the coolest distros i know & try to support them if you can, truly.

hey i completely agree with you about Greater Mythology Blues (the album, haven’t read the zine yet) - it’s so damn good!   been listening to it the entire year so far. “The boy born with 12 fingers, the prophecy, the destroyer…”and thanks for giving that D.i.a.R.G. zine a shot. hope you enjoy
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Preface 18 by Chelsey Minnis

from Bad Bad(Fence Books 2007)

*i hate my shitty camera

White Privilege (Scalps & Spoils)

A decent fucking
Frack accident
Earthquakes mount rush
                                 more presents
                         like a scalping

                        Trickled granite cheek
Doom an orphan’s bob n’ weave
         donkey kong
                              down beneath
Until he trainhops a Thunderline
                     head west in rain
Like ecstatic dance, escaping
                                         police. Last night
 they circled him for defacing property -
             chalk mark on metal
Something man to man
          chickenscratched like:
Fuck Yr Crazy Horse Pointing Too
& maybe a shaky bozo texino beside

                                      you can imagine 
The privileged feeling: slips
Through a heavy fine one death
                                          dry night
& this morning faces
   this murderous site, american burial
          crumbling wild hillside 

Torch Ballads zine in SF


thanks to Breezy at the great DIY shoppe Needles & Pens, my zine Torch Ballads finally has a local home here in San Francisco for the summer. go buy a copy while they last. $4 
16th St. btwn Guerrero & Dolores in the mission


s/o to Breezy for hooking it up. she carries the zine Asswipe here too, 5 issues

A Wolf In Sheep’s Clothing, A Many Pointed Buck Shadow
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Found Painted On The Sidewalk In SOMA
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The Making Of The Horn Spoon by Gary Snyder

from Myths & Texts (Hunting section)
Totem Press, 1960

Pitch Fork

eden   hazard

Us, Thieves


Cousin wonders why

           I don’t
                      return his calls
                      the ex junky, always
calls me to a blonde Jesus
 or some othersuch refusal
to think for oneself. I found Jesus
Arab, moving 
                     from recovery to recovery.
                     From recovery:
a discomfort -
                  buried in stories
half-told. The parts like
                                  stolen jewelry
                  that seem holy
family heirlooms, those rings
            his mom inherited, he pawned.
                                         That Pontiac
his sister lent, he wrecked.
From relapse 
     to relapse it’s never all told
                        & never untold. My cousin
wonders why
                     they won’t forgive his shivs
of their deepest trust in his knotty veins;
              What’s thrust up his nose
will occasionally bleed out
  when his mom wears out
her usual jewelry won’t ever be heirloom;
                           Won’t ever be a car loan
when he’s late for the horse tracks, sister
home with her kids
                   & I don’t return his calls either
                   & I don’t relearn his Jesus
I’m not always there for you Cousin, my blood
reminded of what it is to hide a stolen jewel.
My phone in my hand, buzzing
                           hand buzzing,
                           hand              inalienable
like what it is to wreck a loved one’s
borrowed trust. Moves from relapse to relapse
         existence moves through recovery
and a part
                         move in spite.


Sad She Said 
Am I Priity