“The list could surely go on, and there is nothing more wonderful than a list, instrument of wondrous hypotyposis.” • Umberto Eco, The Name of the Rose
On daily to-do list: add ‘hypotyposis’ [vivid picturesque description] to long vocabulary list.
I started following Top 40 lists on pop radio stations when I was 8. Some are fascinated by the patterns we see in the stars, some in why autumn leaves turn brown, why love affairs go sour, why males are driven crazy by women’s breasts and why some bet on football games or collect Barbies in their original packaging, I was interested in the order of pop music.
I kept my own lists, ear flush to my red transistor, listening to ABC-AM or the WMCA “Good Guys” waiting for the announcement of the next song, scribbling it down in it’s position in the Top 40 on a lined page with a flashlight propped up on my pillow. I stole 9v batteries from the Acme Super Market to keep the radio going late into the night as if turning it off might mean missing a secret message from the ether about my place in the universe or a mantra that will lead to a level of nirvana accorded only the nerdy among us.
Smiles and Serenity and Other Things
Plumbed from the Depths
by Paul-André Betito
“The Wet Secrets, February 2015”, Copyright © Devin McCawley, 2015
by Edward Anki
review by Mark McCawley
by Edward Anki
BareBackPress, (November 24, 2014)
$8.00 US pbk | $10.06 CDN pbk | £4.97 UK pbk
46 pages, 5.25″ x 8″, Poetry
Remote Life is Edward Anki’s debut poetry collection, published by Hamilton-based independent publisher, BareBackPress, whose aim to publish “writers who aren’t afraid to take off their gloves and bare themselves, giving the world honesty. Truth we may not like, but are forced to accept…providing readers with an entertaining emotional elevator ride.” Read more
by Rebeka Singer
“Untitled Still of Video Poem Project”, Copyright © 2015 Stasja Voluti
Here’s my soul. I’m giving it to you. Do you want it? Will you take it? I don’t care for it much anymore. My soul never gave me much. And now here it is: I’ll curse it out. “Every inch of my tar black soul,” Lana sings. That’s mine. Thank you, Lana, for making tar black souls sound soulful.
I watch a Harry Potter film each night, sometimes two in a row, either the same, or two separate films in the series. I drink champagne and pop Xanax to numb the fear that I might actually be alone, or, worse, I might actually need to be alone.
See, I want to be in love—with my boyfriend or ex-boyfriend, he never really can decide his status, or my ex-husband, whom I left for my phantasm of a boyfriend, or ex-boyfriend. Never can tell. Can’t tell much. Wish I could say, “Can’t tell me nothing” like Kanye West. An ex-friend text me the other day: “Don’t parade your life around Facebook like Kanye West. You’re not a rich, famous rapper— yet.” That’s not verbatim.
Recreating the President’s Brain
from Zapruder’s Home Movie
from Love’s field,
all roads lead to complete synaptic breakdown
at Main and Houston, sharp 90 degree turn for the worse
one block north along Houston to Elm Street
the cheering crowds
traces of love, traces of American actor fallout
Hiroshima, “Ask not…”