SF&D | FEB 2012 [Black Market] by Deadly Chaps Press

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SF&D | Short, Fast, and Deadly February 2012 | [Black Market]

Joseph A. W. Quintela | Senior Editor Sarah Long | Poetry Editor Chris Vola | Chapbook Reviewer

Published by Deadly Chaps Press www.deadlychaps.com www.shortfastanddeadly.com DCsf&d2012 | 2

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Chris Vola | Review of DADA by Craig Scott

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Joseph A. W. Quintela | Note from the Editor

How much do you love those words? Do you love ‘em enough to steal ‘em and make ‘em yours? With such questions, [Black Market] introduces a brand new section of stolen words to SF&D. The many manifestations of appropriated text include erasure, re-mix, cut-up, (re-)(de)contextualization, and mash-up. As contemporary as these forms may seem, the lineage of “poetic theft” can be traced back to the beginning of the 20th century, running from Tristan Tzara to T.S. Eliot to William S. Burroughs. Then and now, the question remains: is it writing or is it just stealing? Each of the works in our theme section was assembled entirely from previously published texts. A works cited list is provided for each, though you may have to do some reading to find out exactly what is who. That’s part of the fun. Also, we’ve extended the constraint to 100 words for this kind of work, presenting it with the hope that you’ll find it interesting enough to take a swipe at it yourself and send us the results. We plan to make [Black Market] a permanent addition to the SF&D Roster. After you hit the [Black Market], we have another conceptual treat for you with a full section of blazing mash-up and word art from the inimitable Eryk Wenziak. So don your ski masks and your cat suits. Cuz it’s short, fast, and thievery time, my darlings. Got lock picks? Good. Now go read. New York | February 2012

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Joseph A. W. Quintela | The Art of the Future

The Art of the Future is the elements of style The Art of the Future is a toolbox for living The Art of the Future is Art that suits your values The Art of the Future is how the future dresses The Art of the Future is beauty in hyperpracticality The Art of the Future is Art in the absolute The Art of the Future is Made for All

//with words excerpted from Uniqlo ad (fall, 2011) and titular word substitutions from The Art of the Future by Richard Wagner//

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Maude Larke | Wrestling

It has become that time of evening when people sit, look at the crystal moon, at the red branch of a dream within a dream. Emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes â&#x20AC;&#x201C; her splendid hair seemed to shine; her cheek and chin, her singular yet placid cast of beauty, and the thrilling brow, so soft, so calm, yet eloquent, the smiles â&#x20AC;&#x201C; waves of anger and fear circulate over the bright jutted stars and shout into the ridges of the wind. Here's much to do with hate, but more with love.

//with words excerpted from Knoxville: Summer of 1915 by James Agee, If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda, A Dream Within a Dream by Edgar Allen Poe, A Clear Midnight by Walt Whitman, The Bostonians by Henry James, Ligeia by Edgar Allen Poe, She Walks in Beauty Lord Byron, September 1, 1939 by W. H. Auden, The Taxi by Amy Lowell, and Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare//

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J.N. Mulcahy-King | Manna is real; I’ve tasted it in the home of a psychologist.

Then said the LORD unto Moses, Behold, I will vain bread from heaven for you; and the people shall go out and gather a certain rate every day, that I may prove them, whether they will walk in my law or no. And when the dew that lay was gone up, behold, upon the face of the wilderness there, as small as the hoar frost on the ground. And when the children of Israel saw if, they said one to another It is manna: for they wist not what it was. And Moses said unto them, “Let a hundred flowers bloom, let a hundred schools of thought contend”. This is the bread that the Lord hath given you to eat.“ Let’s face it everyone who uses your toilet is secretly judging it, so don’t let your rim block’s germy cage lower your score.”

//with words excerpted fom Mao Tse-Tung’s little red book, The Bible, and a sublime mystical haunt encased in ooze shine black plastic//

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J.N. Mulcahy-King | The Rub

‘It is useless to dream of revolution through content, useless to dream of a revelation through form, because the medium and the real are now in a single nebula whose truth is indecipherable…’ (Jean Baudrillard, 1981) ‘…the signified and the referent are now abolished to the sole profit of the play of signifiers, of a generalized formalization where the code no longer refers back to any subjective or objective ‘reality,’ but to its own logic. The signifier becomes its own referent and the use value of the sign disappears to the profit only of its commutation and exchange value. The sign no longer designates anything at all. It approaches in its truth its structural limit which is to refer back only to’…* (ibid) (*SOME TEXT MISSING DUE TO FETISHISTIC GUIDELINES; see note).

//* This poem is ‘…precipitated by nothing more sophisticated than a CHOCOLATE iPHONE diffuse, exploded CATS and idolatrous vision of the consumption environment…’ and ‘…the conceptual fetish of vulgar social thought, FASCIST ELBOW LUBE WHITEWASH SIMON COWELL'S DISEMBODIED HAIR JUDGING TV SHOW ABOUT A GYNECOLOGICAL PROBE working assiduously towards the expanded reproduction of ideology in the guise of a disturbing VAMPIRE TOAST attack on the system’ (ibid, taken from Jean Baudrillard’s political economic reduction of Marx), or ‘If a mirror looks into a mirror, what is there to see?’ (Andy Warhol) BOLLOCKS//

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Tess Patalano | The Cancer Detection Agency Is For Rent

That's how I know my life is out of touch (fool)

//with words excerpted from Gangsta's Paradise by Coolio//

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Michael Andrew O'Brien | The Young

YOUNGSTER: Listen to me: the way I see it, if there's no sex or violence, that's Walt Disney. YOUNG MAN: No, forget it, it's too risky. I'm through doin' that shit. YOUNGSTER: Ouchh!! (Then lies on the ground, rubbing his chin). YOUNG MAN: yeah, well, the days of me forgittin' are over, and the days of me rememberin' have just begun. YOUNGSTER (Screaming): AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!! YOUNG MAN(smiling): Correct. I got all tonight to quack. YOUNGSTER (Pointing at a billboard): This must be one of them. YOUNG MAN: The point of the story is they robbed the bank with a telephone.

//with words excerpted from Pulp Fiction by Quentin Tarantino, and Sex, Violence and Walt Disney by Teixeira Moita//

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Mark James Andrews | Language

A peels an apple, while B kneels to God Your fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mustache The Marquis de Sade Zoot Sims, Joshua Redman, Billie Holiday, Pete Fountain, Chaucer, Langland, Douglas, Dunbar, With all your brother Anons Never better, mad as a hatter Once the sentence starts its course, Darkening vowels back and forth.

//with words excerpted from A Primer of the Daily Round by Howard Nemerov, The Possessive Case by Lisel Mueller, The Fantastic Names of Jazz by Hayden Carruth, Ode to the Medieval Poets by W.H. Auden, Sweater Weather: A Love SongTo Language by Sharon Bryan, and The Icelandic Language by Bill Holm//

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eaturing

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Eryk Wenziak | Statement

Though continuing to write flash fiction & experimental poetry, my writing has become more conceptual in nature, influenced by bpNichol, Kenneth Goldsmith, Marcel Duchamp, & Kurt Schwitters. Using other mediums & styles (visual poetry, digital art, photography, collage), I attempt to blur the â&#x20AC;&#x153;boundariesâ&#x20AC;? of artistic expression, while continuing to create without a road map.

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Eryk Wenziak | Photograph

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Eryk Wenziak | To the Overwhelming Sense of Other Worldliness

The songs made me laugh out loud. Anyway, I surface at the moment we appear. As best he could, he grasped the glass of water with both hands and brought a year I felt nothing. I didn't know my name. Later he described it to me. To the overwhelming sense of other worldliness, I was experiencing being alone in this huge misty field. We had made some plan, but I had few people around here. I looked at Cleo and for having fallen in love with her language… “Here a tree is seen crying again.” I gave him my handkerchief and he…

//created via Mash-up Program (published in this issue) with words excerpted from return to the city of white donkeys by James Tate and Zygal: A Book of Mysteries and Translations by bpNichol//

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Eryk Wenziak | Mash-up Program

1 | //Pick two books of poetry or prose. |||| 2 | //Designate Book 1 and Book 2, however you choose. |||| 3 | //On ten slips of paper, write any two numbers in this fashion: # / #. The first “#” will represent a page, the second, a line on that page. (“112/7” refers to page 112, line 7 of that page.) The page number must not exceed the number of pages in each of the selected texts. |||| 4 | //Put the slips “into a hat” and pull out one at a time. Note the order picked, as well as the “#/#” written on each slip (see Excel spreadsheet). |||| 5 | //For each book, turn to the page number and corresponding line written on the slip. Type the complete line of text, making sure to preserve all punctuation. Once completed, the result will be twenty lines of text. If there are not enough lines on a given page, go to the next page and continue to count until the appropriate line number is reached. |||| 6 | //Construction options for poem generation: ||||

//continued next page//

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Eryk Wenziak | Mash-up Program (continued)

(a) //OPTION 1: Construct a poem of ten stanzas, two lines per stanza: Arrange the twenty lines in the order they appear in the Excel spreadsheet. Each “pick” will be a separate stanza. |||| (b) //OPTION 2: Construct a poem of two stanzas, ten lines per stanza: Stanza one will consist of the ten lines copied from Book 1 in the order picked. Likewise, stanza two will consist of the ten lines copied from Book 2 in the order picked. Lines may be kept exactly as they were copied (see below), or with additions/deletions made to punctuation as desired, along with any rearrangement of lines within a stanza only. Each line must remain “intact,” exactly as it was copied. Individual lines cannot be broken up, nor can words be added to or deleted from any lines. |||| (c) //OPTION 3: This option allows the most freedom: Lines may be mixed between stanzas & books, punctuation can be changed as desired, and any number of lines can be used to create one or multiple stanzas. Note, as with all options in this program, individual lines must remain “intact,” as explained above. ||||

//Samples of Spreadsheet and Options 1, 2, and 3 follow//

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Eryk Wenziak | Mash-up Program (Sample Spreadsheet)

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Eryk Wenziak | Mash-up Program (Sample//OPTION 1)

lief to a year I felt nothing. I didn't know my name, as best he could the songs made me laugh out loud. Anyway, I LAND e I was experiencing being alone in this huge for having fallen in love with He grasped the glass of water with both hands and brought later he described it to me few people around here. I looked at Cleo and since H=8 & I=9 misty field. We had made some plan, but I had surface at the moment we appear scaled down almost skillfully, considering I SCAPES a to the overwhelming sense of other worldliness her language slave," I said. Loreen Flockerzie's eyes lit up. "You here a tree is seen crying again. I gave him my handkerchief and he

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Eryk Wenziak | Mash-up Program (Sample//OPTION 2)

lief to as best he could LAND e for having fallen in love with later he described it to me since H=8 & I=9 surface at the moment we appear SCAPES a her language here a tree is seen a year I felt nothing. I didn't know my name, the songs made me laugh out loud. Anyway, I I was experiencing being alone in this huge He grasped the glass of water with both hands and brought few people around here. I looked at Cleo and misty field. We had made some plan, but I had scaled down almost skillfully, considering I to the overwhelming sense of other worldliness slave," I said. Loreen Flockerzie's eyes lit up. "You crying again. I gave him my handkerchief and he

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Eryk Wenziak | Mash-up Program (Sample//OPTION 3)

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Eryk Wenziak | P (1)

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Eryk Wenziak | P (2)

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Eryk Wenziak | P (3)

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rose

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J.N. Mulcahy-King | Tissa’s Evil Forest

In hilly grooves, jagged crystal peaks, teeth in sino-optimist smile. Fresh, fecund for birch and bittern life, flight rips out headland husks, pulling back tapered skin, what new beginnings, deep gullies gasp. This earth splayed to arch, long after the velocity of dizzy satellites. Unfolding, inverting chrysalis, abrading dizzy snails, quaky lives, slime victim flashes, bursts of driven life, well kneaded dough, all gaping wide, raw adulterated, landfill beauty. Another altercation, another disaster-love, Tissa, the forest’s first overlord, nature’s darkness locked.

//note: King Devanampiya Tissa of Sri Lanka established one of the world’s earliest wildlife sanctuaries in the 3rd century BC. However, dating back to antiquity there are various cultural practices that equate roughly to the establishment and maintaining of reserved areas for biota including fish, waterfowl and other animals. These would often have a religious underpinning—for example the ‘evil forest’ areas of West Africa were forbidden to humans, who were threatened with spiritual attack if they went there. Sacred areas taboo from human entry are known by many ancient cultures worldwide//

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Neila Mezynski | Hurry Bunny

His coat tail the last light swacking that corner gray his nose perch glasses left behind, could he see and not stumble pell mell her dress still small catching twigs sliding on her apron tumbledore down down he, she hot pursuited contained in a hole falling calling to a run away bunny in top hat glasses left behind for not seeing to where he could would go if he needed to stumbling bumbling scratches on panting blonde.

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Lucia Ahrensdorf | Untitled

If Iris had been scalded alive in boiling water, the odious heinous fumes would be that color. That myriad of moods that I now watch with wondrous eyes. It is near the hour, of the death of the sun, and the world gasps for its last breaths before the war of night. These casualties spew blood onto the clouds and cough their violet organs onto the canvas of the sky. I am all alone in the wilderness.

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Michael K. Gause | Balloon Ride

13 at the park sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s fighting with her brother. Sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hitting him harder than she used to, taking out frustrations that are becoming ideas that inflate and pop. They are precursors to the ones made out of wood, able to bear weight on water, waiting to be carved and set out to see.

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Alex Stolis | Schoolhouse Rock: Three Is a Magic Number

The moon is full. Strike that. The moon is. Strike that. There is no moon. There is a motorcade. Motorcycle cop in full regalia, a little American flag flies stiff in back. The hearse is black, the black of silence; the kind that crowds out light. Squeeze my hand Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m having a premonition. Count the cars with me: one, two, three, a hawk circles. The moon is there after all, perched on a branch ready to fly.

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Alex Stolis | Schoolhouse Rock: Elementary, My Dear

The walls are suffocating, shedding their skin. Reminder that we were not born for permanence. Adam made the decision for us. We are destined to die of exposure in the presence of love. Beauty: the bite of an apple, a flash of white skin, one last breath against a pane of glass. Sin: a constituency of stars, a cabal of angels shuffling on a pin head; a new coat of paint.

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Alex Stolis | Schoolhouse Rock: The Weather Show

No mittens, no boots, no scarf; fifteen feet of pure white snow. Newspaper crumpled in sleeves. Too dark to even see the sky. If there was a God he would know enough not to show up. Relics and incantations; raise your hands and lower your head, one more verse and salvation will come. It is guaranteed. It is foretold. It is a whisper in a quiet room when her husband isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t home.

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Andrew Wieland | Whiskey and Vinyl

I fell over the coffee table and twisted my ankle; well it’s more like a trunk packed with vinyl records. Between anguished screams and pulls off the bottle, I can’t help but notice the current album has reduced itself to a muddled scratching noise. I suppose I’ll just flip the fucker over and lie here. I got a half bottle left and I really like this band.

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Janice D. Soderling | Family

For instance, my sister's husband. If I say brown socks, yellow boxer shorts, fishnet undershirt. If I say plastic bag and two tepid beers. And a voice that glides to falsetto when he: you're a tad too obscene for my taste, Julia, while he tries to light the filter end of his cigarette.

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Parker Tettleton | We Turn On

Ice is living floor insatiable. Races aren’t usually about illustrious horses. Just ask the neighbors if they are. We haven’t changed-we’ve grown tired of each other.

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Parker Tettleton | I’d Ask If You Were Real If Alive Wasn’t More Like It

There’s a Pacific veggie pizza in an America-colored box. A plastic plantation owner with pink liquid up to his thighs. I lie & lay. Did you say because you’re thinking? We’re eight to five without benefits. I’m worth twelve minutes. Since is remember it?

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ord Art

John F. Marok | The Awful Truth

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John F. Marok | The Awful Truth

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oems

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David S. Pointer | Theft

Grotesque teeth and tool marks on the era on the door or barn or body champagne diamonds all around

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David S. Pointer | Prisoners Finish Dinner

you canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t exonerate black chalk yellow tape, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s as if death passed out raven talon toothpicks like new baby cigars to the hit men

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Justin Robinson | Controller

Words glued fingernails to the man inside your mirror ripping in to playgirls their remnants left behind.

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Geraldine O'Kane | Those Who Mourn

I could feed off this creatively for months, strip you of dignity-who would be comforted?

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Shriram Sivaramakrishnan | Unheard

Butterfly! abused by the photographer, flutters away, cursing.

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iews

Chris Vola | Review of DADA by Craig Scott

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Chris Vola | Review of DADA by Craig Scott

In DADA, Craig Scott expels a what’s what of bullet-blast, twoword staccato gems and more than a few rougher stones: “Tastes Jesus. It’s work.” Imagistic wisps of a coupling gone monetary or worse, a tattered fringe of dark rooms and cold blinking screens where “New / dogs sin. Fear. The email. / In sin.” But amidst choppy dystopia, there’s levity. And, man, do we all need funny sometimes: Ever laugh? Have a laugh.”

//DADA is available as a free eBook from the Ten Pages Press. More of Mr. Vola’s weekly chapbook reviews can be found on the SF&D facebook page//

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