Without Meaning

No one across
these tongues
Seeks to be known

The intention
Behind the reason
The heart breaks
Without meaning

To stop learning
I internalized
An acute appetite for
Open geography

I moved the country
It took ten days

I learned the anxiety
Which disappeared
When we finally reached
A physical relief

In periodic states of
More practical moments
Bound for employment
In some way,
I would prove to be useful.

Milton Callow, 2018

Remixed Work:

The Walls at Yogpar, from Resistance, by Barry Lopez


You are sitting on the dead ice of men and passing through the fog as an actor.
Inspiration is born on stage.
I’m tired of these inept senses and of a soulless species. I wrote only of pain and abortion with constant regulation. I am full of seedless delusions. My autocratic suffering is filled with a strong desire to reveal my unnecessary illnesses (from the conflict of mighty and infernal powers), and my eyes are strange, jealous, internalized, giving more life to those who think on the stage before we must fall than to this ghastly voice – and those struggling in sordid
darkness weep at the sight of these – my eyes.

– He is lost in the shadow of a strangled people. In the throat, the length of the nerve-leg is long. It extends exponentially. And my psychic antenna dream of unconventional changes. Thus, the pressure decreases, and absurdity rests on my finger as an unburdened paradise. It must understand, or I will erase forever these pupils staring into molten glass.

AG Davis, 2018

Remixed work:

The Nerve Meter, by Antonin Artaud

Cento IX

Beat, beat, whirr, thud, in the soft turf
to the little gallery over the gate,
between the towers, making a double

arch, not a patch, not a lost shimmer
of sunlight. They never speak to each
other; for 180 years almost nothing.

Then came the seen, thus the palpable.
Hot wind came from the marshes
in scaled invention or true artistry.

The prefaces, cut clear and hard in
some Wordsworthian, false-pastoral
manner. The limbo of chopped ice &

sawdust rusteth the craft & the crafts-
man, being divided, set out from color.


Mark Young, 2018

Remixed work:

The Cantos, by Ezra Pound

Cento I

I slept in Circe’s ingle. Unburied, unwept,
unwrapped in sepulchre. These many
crowded about me, with shouting. & in

the water, the almond-white swimmers.
Dawn, to our waking, drifts in the green
cool light. The sunlight glitters, glitters

atop forked branch-tips, flaming as if
with lotus, the bride awaiting the god’s
touch. & beneath the jazz a cortex, a

stiffness or stillness. The angle almost
imperceptible, the calm field, the
grass quiet. The house a shade too solid,

a dryness calling for death, knocking at
empty rooms, seeking for buried beauty.


Mark Young, 2018

Remixed work:

The Cantos, by Ezra Pound

Lack of Color



The word colorlessness?

In America?

In white tyrant states?

Whence this passion
towards woven strands
of colorlessness?

Whence this conformity
to the many parts
of being invisible?

Color is.

Diversity is.

Think of what
would happen,

to end by
not a color
but the

Mike Ferguson, 2018

Remixed work:

The Invisible Man, by Ralph Ellison

Desolate Angels

Everything crackled from fire. We knew it was dangerous, but people wouldn’t listen to us. I often see them in dreams now. A black heap of them. Birds have pecked their faces, their hands. It’s better not to look at the faces. I think this might be the future, with lice and filth and the smell of blood. The sky throbs, the ground throbs. Even the trees are crippled. Horses, the clayey colors of earth, fall down dead. Wind stirs their manes.


Doctors in white coats attached electrodes to our heads and told us to sleep, but I couldn’t go back, I just couldn’t. I saw Orion the Hunter shivering above a mutilated landscape of abandoned shopping malls. Out-of- office messages appeared from cracks in the asphalt. Assault rifles, too. I went to the funerals. I went to the homes where they were sitting shiva. I went to the vigils. The scariest part was the silence. Then the silence erupted, and angels were flying about, and even the angels didn’t know what to do.


I had lost two fingers. They were completely gone. The crunching noise, I guess, was teeth scraping against my skull. Painkillers didn’t help. We were getting older, and it was hard work. People had stopped leaving their homes. Many were just skeletons. Floors overflowed with injured and blood. I couldn’t come up with an innocent explanation for this. Although still early, shopkeepers were pulling down the shutters of their shops. I stood there, trying to see in. A scruffy brown dog, come from who knows where, lay down on the sidewalk, just to feel the warmth from the sun.

Howie Good, 2018

Remixed work:

The Unwomanly Face of War, by Svetlana Alexievich

The Halves

Many there.
There were ma.
Many did tha.
Many undid tha.

The undone is.
They are speaking.

There were many who,
meanwhile were many.

Do you manage?
If so why i?

Ordinarily men
seeking wedgies the.
They this.

And that was all a bet
unto the jousting which was.

In Lon just.
In Lon just no

When they and Lon
the bat backer be.

In the backing th
under a cleft
gannets no.

That was a lot
come down th
and lack of
under the store th.
Me like methink i.

The barn.
The big sto.
Gravel on the la
yes that and festoon o

why the
and we’ll never
not two states ev

and no more store no mo
they fly by and take

just make sure to.

Jacquelyn Shah, 2018

Remixed work:

The Haves, by John Ashbery