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  • - * 13 DOORS OF X* *Meeah Williams* The Barking Cat Press * 2015 Brooklyn, NY * Seattle, WA copyright 2015 Meeah Williams/The Barking Cat...

Thursday, May 28, 2015

=Autopsychography by Fernando Pessoa=

The poet's a clever bastard
faking a hurt
to show us the sore
he cannot show you.

You read what he's written
and you feel—not what he feels— 
but some imagined pain
that no one really feels.

And that's all words are—
a track laid down
to entertain our minds
around which runs in circles
the little toy train 
we call our heart.

—Fernando Pessoa (1888-1935)

"translated" by Meeah Williams


There have been many translations of this poem originally written in Pessoa's native Portuguese. Thirteen more, including the original, can be found here:  http://disquiet.com/thirteen.html

=Fernando Pessoa=

Be plural like the universe.

=envelope art=


=To the War Dead=

Much to our surprise
the Brooklyn Public Library
is closed all weekend.
We stand side by side
in front of the sign
as if we can’t believe our eyes
as if the longer we look
there’s a chance the words
will surrender a friendlier meaning.
Nope. There it is; inexorable
as a graveyard plaque:
Closed for Memorial Day Weekend.
Shit, what a bummer!
Somewhere inside
on a dark shelf
Joe Brainard is safe
between his covers.
I’ll just have to raid his tomb
another day,
that’s all.
You won’t escape me forever
Joe Brainard. You either,
Franz Wright.
Elaine Equi, I’m coming
back for you!
Sharon Mesmer: consider yourself
READ!
Denied books, we stop
at a fruit market.
There’s a woman
crossing the street.
She’s wearing dirty bib overalls and a pair
of long grizzled braids.
She looks like she’s just come in from hoeing potatoes
in Arkansas
or whatever it is you do with potatoes
wherever it is you do it.
She’s walking two dogs,
looking mighty satisfied with herself.
I wish I were that satisfied with my self
just one afternoon of my life.
I feel like shouting, “you go, girl! Rock
those stained overalls, those gnarly braids,
that little paunch,
those grinning, tongue-lolling dogs."
Back home, we’ll sit
at the kitchen table
and split an orange.
I’ll eat my half bitter skin and all.
It’ll be delicious.

=grimoire 26=


Wednesday, May 27, 2015

=2 etegami=



=from Moan Lisa=


=from Keith Chambers=


=megumi d'morte=


=The Chinese Lunatics=

This story is pure action, a thrill-a-minute. Unfortunately, it centers on the absolute pointlessness of human life. The setting is pretty depressing: a Chinese lunatic asylum. That's where we meet our hero, an old surgeon, well past his prime, a committed nihilist who lost his license to practice in the United States. Why bother to give him a name if he's the first one to assert that there's no point to anything? No one really expects patients in a mental hospital to get better so the Chinese lunatics don't suffer too much from his negative attitude. The real problem is the economy. Like so many things, including mental illness, it's outside the reach of human control, though no one likes to admit it. So how do things happen? Who's really pulling the strings? From our perspective, they would seem like beings from a magical race outside the laws of cause and effect. Why is it so hard for us to accept this? What is the difference between not believing this and being a nihilist? That evening the surgeon writes in his journal: "Half the people here think they're Satan; the other half think they're Christ. In effect, it's Armageddon every day." In effect, at that very moment, they were burning the place to the ground. The surgeon would have to shoot his way out of the parking lot when his shift ended. He kept his eye on the clock, waiting for quitting time. He writes in his journal: "It never arrives."