Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Volume 1: Issue 3
VELCOMEN
Poetry to be to you to straightforward for likes and dislikes; not friend likes, but soul-tasting love-flicking likes. Or, patoowie, walking around the horse dislikement and delinking and decrepit embankment and flavorless underdevelopmint. THis has been checked for errOrs. How badly do you to feel for us all of us then? OUr now being so fragile as to be nincompooped by our own rugged slog. But yet you read on. This is called trudgery and will not be held on top to you in a court of flaw or you to be held under thin-like so many pounds of brick in a muddry puddle so deep as to call it a pit of centerother-sidesmanship. Eat from these plates and filibust your glasses with the grape of no reentrance. Be with us all, as we with you after a hardly no at all time. In whole and in parts. You like this. -- E.Z.
POEMS
Volume 1
issue 3
pg. 2
TABLEAU
POEMS
They are speaking to a shredded-jeans demigod, Tufted chin smug as if he'd had sex for breakfast. They all glimmer in the morning of the sweatpants.
With a thin
Blood-throated voice
You call out aloud
Trying to wake up
Millions of millions
Of trees and rocks
Of last
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winter
Spring
the first tendrils poke through the frozen soil like the first fully-formed tentacles of a nautilus, a squid. unlike the squid, however, there will be no larger body emerging, no dishpan-eyed monster doomed to crawl into the house and eat from the trashcan. tiny feelers of perfect emerald emerge as well, also not attached to a body, no subterranean monster determined to lay eggs in my children's flesh. when flowers unfurl, I expect only death. by Holly Day Word by Steven Kuhn I dreamt of a new word last night. Refreshing, in 3 or 4 syllables: like honeydewdrop, or applesnap, It was a joy to write on lined paper. 7 A perfect word, it encompassed something beautiful. It popped like apoplectic. A dignified, but sweet fruit, like aplomb. It sat atop a poem, the best Ive ever written. But 4 lines in, I realized I was sleeping, and I wrote the word on my hand, knowing that dreams fade on waking. When I woke, there was nothing written on my hand.
Its Andrews undulations And gifted benches Its concessions And traces of the Barry Burn Its sculpted driftwood And Sanko lines Make this picture Almost perfect Children play And venom spews From the caterwaul pair
Those odd looking mates Casting smiles With arrested despair Settling pot shots Swiping bugs Dipping And darting As photo men And muscles And long neck seabirds Make their turn The hunched hoody And sorted sidekick Get their fill Of moss and rubble Chubby and kelp Nice to meet your acquaintance The pho man would say An odd drop And ironic turn To those horrific corners Of timeless desperation Down by cannon bridge Harbor seals And carriage horse Are fronted by Ravens shade Jolly tides 8
Pause In quiet bays With curious looters And nob pickers Sand merchants And field totems All streamed by light Cirrus strands Blanket the Outer rim Hovering craft And shimmering willows Bolt the evening frame Blood orange And tethered With a filtered glare Dusky dolphins And seabirds And shifting tides Are all settling in For the long night stay
Money Farm
Life is a money farm and we sit like so many rows of sun baked vegetables growing fat on nutrient rich inactivity pale, weak and well behaved We sway in unison as amber waves of money shitting humans, once breaking our own backs with rough calloused hands, now too soft to bear the weight of realization We simply mutter squish and rot silently in Ras embrace
by Nicholas Brower
Catfish Mitchell
Ya ever reached down deep into an upright bass and ripped out a thick, wriggling, joyful F; or a wet, floppy trout of an E? I mean, just grabbed it, right at that hot moment, as the guitarist yanks the chord from his fists of strings, as the horn players' backs arch, pressing their metal into the smoky air. Oh, man.
See these hands? My right one is bigger than my left. They've got hair on the knuckles. Raw fingertips covered by brown blisters spackled with calluses, peeling at the edges. On a good night, I can touch the moon with these hands. On a regular night, I can touch Savannah. I see these interviews in the shiny mags, guys saying "it's my job to make you happy, you folks in the front row, back row, at the bar." 10
Man, they sell records with that, and it's nice, but I tell you what it really is. I hit that note for me. Reaching down into that bass, pulling up a big stinking fish of a note, getting that joy, that's for me, that's what my job is, and if you guys in the seats feel it too, well I hope you get just drunk and forget your wallet in the tip jar.
by John Phillips
For all the beauty I can appreciate in their songs, I cannot speak the language of the birds.
by Steven Kuhn
Feather
by Changming Yuan A white fluffy plume From an unknown bird Happening to fly by Drifts around, falling down Slowly as if to wipe out All the dust at dusk With its invisible fingers
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wants to hear why I killed his brother, that's fine. Joey can come in and lie beside me, here, beneath the stiff white sheets of the prison cot, and I'll tell him about how the world sounds when your ears are full of blood, and how even songbirds sound suspicious when you've just killed a man.
by Holly Day
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Treehouse
We didnt want the three Maywood boys in the club in the treehouse in the forest, but they were always bugging us, no tormenting us, to let them join. One night Glenny and me were up there necking, way after dark and there was nothing but darkness around us, and the leaves above were starting to drip.
I feel sorry for them, I said, I remember when they had a father and then he disappeared. Their mother is useless and always complaining about what she doesnt have. And she thinks hes coming back.
Yvonne, you are so dumb and so young. I can remember my dad hiding the paper, even though I could barely breathe. Doug Maywood will be coming back in two years. On parole. He assaulted a cop when he was being arrested. Stole a lot of money to please that silly woman. She drinks all the time now. He was a lawyer and he was sent up the river for fraud.
14
Where the hell is that rope ladder they use? I heard Dougie Maywood mutter. Richie, I think they put it halfway up and twisted it. Youre gonna have to climb up and get it free.
The ladder wasnt halfway up; it was all the way up, a handmade deal that Stuart and Jill had made from stuff leftover from her fathers boat and added on to. It was curled on the open side of the structure like a tired old snake.
Shit, why me? Richie grumbled. Why doesnt Les ever have to do this stuff? Why cant we go home and watch TV, be comfortable?
Look, weve made it this far. Those snobs are such idiots. Or maybe we could just booby trap the trail.
I could feel my nose starting to itch and I knew that in a minute or two I was going to sneeze. I pressed my face into Glens shirt and he pulled me close, figuring out what was happening. Oh, God, his mother used that cheap detergent my mom wouldnt even have in the house because I was so allergic. His mother had used too much bleach and smelled like straight chlorine, which was why I couldnt swim in the Hawleys pool.
I dont think we should do this, Les whispered. I heard something in the bushes. Maybe a rat.
Theres nothing there, Richie said, and I could tell he was glad he had someone to pick on. Youre as chicken as the new preachers wife.
I didnt like her much, either, not because she was afraid of everything. She disapproved of everything, including thirteen year old girls going steady.
Ouch, you pushed me, Les said. I twisted my ankle. 15
We could hear him rubbing it, and they continued to fight, all of them getting more cranky. Lets go home and you can soak it or something, Richie suggested. You wanna go home and face the lush?
I was about to sneeze again, and Glen passed me a rumpled tissue. We could see the light flickering down the path again. The wind was up and I could tell it was going to rain soon. We climbed down and went the opposite way on the path. There was lightning, too close, and we ran, stumbling out to the playing fields. We were soaked and cold by the time we got to my house, and the rain kept up until after midnight.
The next day we went back to the treehouse, but it was gone. There was only a blackened leafless, bare black trunk, standing there like a charred finger.
Treehouse
by Lucile Barker
16
17
you said nothing nothing walked out on you they were treated as importantly as things like nothing, absolutely, maybe and something you said something something hung around ought to be
lead by absolutely by Louis Marvin maybe, something and nothing walked bravely into the big, scary world 18
Grease fillets for sale grease fillets for sale come one come all grease fillets
II.] Think in light. Be the camera and record only light. Now record shadows. Think in shadows. The double fractal tree limbs reflect in the bus stop windows. Be a mirror, now reflect light and seek shadows. Now ice it, soak it in Plexiglas, dip this reflection in plastic, wax or ice and watch the shadows sink, the light fades. Now become the glass of this jar, you're the fern. Now look on the oaks with lights and shadows for eyes.
[I.] Washing threads in my teeth again, the cloth is simple green going through with stapled edge and dynamite staples, the needle it is the entrance maker. Thank God. This jar is making sense with gold and light and crystal light and shoe string glows before the black and white photograph. The separate entrance comes into play from the ceiling, very nice slippers for my mouse are hidden under the books, so taught in the threads of this jar. A carpet A flashbulb window for her little wall. She's sleeping. Shhhhhhhh. An ancient typewriter for her husband. A small camera with bedding for their child. The kitty cat sniffing at a lock, picks up the mucus, the odor and moves on like every night. The jar makes sense in fluids. Green aluminum light filters in for the dinner table. I'm washing threads in my teeth again. one poem by Zachary Scott Hamilton
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Credits
Holly Day is a housewife and mother
of two living in Minneapolis, Minnesota who teaches needlepoint classes in the Minneapolis school district. Her poetry has recently appeared in Hawai'i Pacific Review, The Oxford American, and Slipstream, and she is a recent recipient of the Sam Ragan Poetry Prize from Barton College. Her book publications include Music Composition for Dummies, Guitar-Allin-One for Dummies, and Music Theory forDummies, which has recently been translated into French, Dutch, German,
including Temple of Sinew, The Orchestra of Machines, Wallet of Hexagons and HAIR LAND (named Zine of the month by the Independent Publishing Resource Center). His work appears in various magazines including: Ignavia Press (issue 4.1), Otiliths (a journal of many e-things), Sein und Werden and Karawane magazine. He Recently went on tour with the band Holy! Holy! Holy! And installed artwork with partner Molly Pettit for a photo series, which appears online at his website: WWW. Blackmonsterzine.weebly.com. His book, The Teacup of Innity will be released in February of 2012 By The Black magic LSD sex cult.
Paul Hostovsky is the author of three books of poetry, Bending the Notes, Dear Truth, and A Little in Love a Lot. His poems have won a Pushcart Prize and been featured on Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, The Writer's Almanac, and Best of the Net 2008 and 2009.
Louis Marvin mildly boasts: burbank conception, desert fired, island life teach, coach, soldier, champion with Chinese food and girls published slowly but surely www.louismarvinlives.com
possums in the hills of that fair state, and a strange man for the job. I am a magician in my spare time and believe that all art is the art of illusion. I perform feats of sleight-ofhand with objects, words, sounds, and emotions. I believe that the best poems and stories cast two or more shadows. I have written my entire life, and lost much of it to cruel revision.
The Bat Shat Vol. 1, Issue 3 by www.thebatshat.us is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercialNoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. xx
Editors Note
Dont trend on me. I am having a hard time making flags that dont have snakes or private parts on them. Enri Zoltz
False starts and false promises. Not even hard deadlines could force us to put a journal-child, a magazine-baby, into this world that wasn't filled with what we knew had to be the best of the best. Why, this best of best? Why pause after just why? Because this a conversation. A conversation with who we are and why we are. A conversation with who our readers are and who we think they are and who they need to be for us to be who we say we are. There's a lot of guessing. There's a lot of game playing. In this tinder-age of man and man's dominance over that which is most un-person, there is still beauty in searching out the fine detail of a well executed circle; be it from coffee mug or child's crayon. Be it phony or calculated in authenticity, on x and y axis points perhaps, it is comforting to us at our very center to have these circles both exist and to have them constantly be recreated. Either way, as we assimilate in our cities, making them the cyclical living graves of steamy all-the-timeness, we also retreat into the woods and folded earth-creases that show us our smallness, our most intimate roundness when faced with the vantage of no-more-to-seeness. All of this rich experience must go into the recipe for being alive; and, xxi using words to make this point emphatic is at once vital and seemingly unimportant. The goal for The Bat Shat, thus far, has been to focus on the small streams that make break in the landscape; reminding us to be at once alive in the system of streamness and also aware of the embankment, the grand noise that surrounds us.