)(   Unmoveable Feast  )(                                   

.... gives homes to fearless poets and their nearest relatives in the animal world (crickets, vipers, gargoyles, frogs.)  I'm in it for the trapeze act.      - Andrei Codrescu

In this issue: fiction by Kathy Fish, Alison Barker and Jenna Dietzer; essay by Caroline Clough; book review by Jennifer Whitaker; poetry by Rhett Iseman Trull, Mel Coyle, Chris Martin, Nanette Rayman Rivera, Andrew Demcak,  Ray Succre, Dave Brinks, Megan Burns, Donald Illich; featured publisher, Al Brilliant; featured video artists Jacob Ciocci and Tracey Duncan; and featured Theft poets, Andrei Codrescu's poetry class.

                   

sidewalk after the Baton Rouge Spanishtown parade 1/21/09
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                                                              Moth Woman

                                                    by Kathy Fish

     The woman who came to pick up the bags of clothes seemed like she wanted more than clothes from us. That was what I'd told Greg later, that she had hungry eyes and that made him laugh. But she did have hungry eyes and long hair the color of whiskey and a way of touching her face when she talked. And Greg asked later why did we let her in? She came in a beat up Datsun. She probably took those clothes for herself. Why'd we let her in?

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                                                Sonogram On the Way to Earth                                                                                                               by Rhett Iseman Trull  

                                                   One of only two unpregnant at the baby shower, I offer
                                                    my chair to a globe-bellied one, fetch water
                                                    for another who has just begun to show.
                                                   I’ll be in charge of the trash, I volunteer, collecting pastel
                                                   wrappings and ribbons, keeping busy, keeping quiet
                                               

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                                               Where Does Electricity Go?
                                           
   by Chris Martin

                                                               The voice of a writer must meet natural light in the anchorage of
                                                                a tree. Its allies cannot uncover sleep then. To occur, after all,
                                                                is not always the same. Just as to inhibit flees....

                                                                                       

                                                                                                                 Read More...

                                           

                                                                     
                                                                                           
Acts of Seeing
                                                               
   by Alison Barker


          
  “You just don’t see how mean she is to me, Tati,” Jessie stopped. “Oh, my—” She yanked my sweatshirt and I stumbled backward against the Victoria’s Secret display window. “God.” She chewed the inside of her fat cheek. “It’s like she popped up when I said her name. Don’t look,” she hissed. I steadied my eyes on the head of a pink lingerie mannequin with no eyes or mouth.   
            “What, Monday through Friday isn’t enough torture? Now the witch goes to the mall on Friday night?”

                                                  
                                                                                                                        
                                                                                                              Read more...
                                       
       
                                                        a different death

                             
            by Nanette Rayman Rivera


                                                    To let it go, coffee stain on white cotton, purr
                                                    of the fan, peroxide aroma of this apartment when I have energy—
                                                    I don’t. I’m ripening, ready to burst, still—
                                                    how the dream of chasing you through underground tunnels,
                                                    the gray and fluorescent light deciphered as a genre
                                                    of travel, how after you died, after the synagogue
                                                     I hadn’t been to in years, the hold held on,
                                                    how I craved it stark, and hurled the kitten
                                                    heels and little black dress against the door....
                                

                                                                                                                                                              
                                                                                                                                                            Read More....
                                                                        

                                                         Recall

                                                             
        by Jenna Dietzer

This is a public notice: In cooperation with seller's remorse and continual indecisiveness, I am recalling the following items sold at yard sales in front of our home, between the summers of 1982 and 2004:

Item 1: Size 5 pair of Levi's jeans with a hole in the crotch.

Those jeans have been stained, stolen, stripped off and – it goes without saying – sat upon. They have survived an attack from a Miniature schnauzer that mistook my leg for a mighty bone, a Peter, Paul & Mary reunion concert with my father (where the band swore to an audience full of former hippies that "Puff the Magic Dragon" was not about getting high), and three changes of major. They have walked up Central Avenue and down the trails of the Grand Canyon. And they have felt the passing of my grandfather, a time when I discovered solace in the hills behind his home, where the sun wrapped blue and lilac arms around the naked trees.

                                                                                                                        
                                                                                            Read More...      
    

                                                                                                                                                                                      

                                                   

                                                 Veronica Mars
                                                               
by Caroline Clough

Somebody threw a bottle through the window of my car (a blue 1991 Volvo sedan by the name of Lola) at some point after five o'clock Thursday evening and before eleven o'clock Sunday morning.  I discovered the  violation when I climbed into the driver's seat of my car and looked in my rear view mirror to pull out into the narrow alley behind my apartment building. The hole, in my back window, is about the size of an eighteen-month-old baby with jagged, rectangular edges where the glass shattered but did not fall. At first I assumed the hole was a result of the windy, snowy weather we've been having.  Lola is parked under a tree and it wouldn't be impossible for a limb to fall and do some damage. But I found a completely full bottle of Ning Xia Red, a dietary "supplement" drink the color of rust that I've never heard of since I keep my supplements limited to a once-a-day vitamin at bedtime. The bottle was on the floor of my backseat and it, most certainly, doesn't belong to me. Though it could have been, the weather was not responsible for my car's gaping wound instead it was, in all probability, a human being. 
                                                                                                                                                                                       

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 The Piercing by Christine Garren
                                           Louisiana State University Press, 2006. $16.95

by Jennifer Whitaker
               
        In The Piercing, Christine Garren’s stunning third book, we find ourselves encountering the shocks of         everyday life—the neighbor who dies, the suddenness of autumn’s first falling leaves, the dead fish in the pond—in
way that is neither heavy-handed nor melodramatic. This is a book of ordinary events meted out through extraordinary vision. These poems reach toward Emily Dickinson and Louise Glück’s The Wild Iris, and like both these poets, Garren crafts poems with an interiority that makes them feel like they are ours. But unlike Dickinson and Glück, Garren rarely calls on abstract concepts (e.g., love, hate, death) explicitly, rather finding power in allowing the reader to hone in on a subject through her concision, laying new vision and meaning over our expectations. To say these poems are quiet is inexact; they are controlled to the point that they can feel hushed, but it’s the hush of a burning fire—filled with continual and constantly changing crackles, flashes and sparks.

                                                                                                                                                                 Read More....

Featured Publisher: Here is a video of Al Brilliant, who runs Unicorn Press.

This video is at least 20 years old. Al has published such greats as Philip Levine, Gary Snyder, Robert Bly and Leonard Cohen. He still publishes poetry books, handmade, and teaches book-making classes in Greensboro, NC. Here is a great interview with Al.

  
            
                                                    

                                 MADEIRA M'DEAR




view from outside of Funchal



                                                   VIDEO ART

Here's a few new children's animations, from the series, "Problem Solvers," "Give Pizza A Chance" and "Dewey's Bike Ride" by my friend and once colleague, Jacob Ciocci of the Paperrad art collective.


and here is a video concerning one Ms. Tracey Duncan

(Other notables include writer and NPR commentator Andrei Codrescu, Andrei's new assistant at The Exquisite Corpse, poet-humorist Dewitt Brinson, pop-country singer-songwriter Kristen Foster of Polly Pry, fiction writer Alison Barker, poet Eric Elliot, poet Jordan Soyka.)