Via Eirean Bradley:
In the interest of staying open and honest with our community: Tonight during the slam, The pointy house (where Eirean, Robyn, Brian, and Bryan live) was broken into and robbed. Thankfully no one was hurt and the lovely house that we call a home was not vandalized or damaged. The big deal is that the portland poetry slam fund was stolen as well as every laptop in the house. That is over $7000 dollars.
We will be putting up a kickstarter page in the next 24 hrs. Please help us continue the work and community we have fostered. It takes more than one person to break us, we have hundreds to build us back up.
Dear Pipe Dreamers,
The Portland Poetry Slam community has been my haven. I owe so much to these beautiful, talented, and giving individuals. Please show your support and love in this time of dire need. I will keep you all updated on the kickstarter page.
Again, share this message with your friends and help this community.
(Because L.R. Dalby sux dix.)
(And is on school crunch time.)
(And has procrastinated. A lot.)
(So you should check out PD’s archives, because, man oh my oh man, there is some talent up in there.)
(PD will be back up soon, never fear. Das finals week is rearing its ugly head, but I shall slay the beast!)
FELINO A. SORIANO
elongated rendition a
smallish diversion excavated
climbed as the vine interprets winged commotion
speed of complex blurred thread
architected smoke twirl of the motional debate:
dance within an against
stance of multilingual understanding these arms and wooden minds
erupting into tangents of structural undulations.
Distant aptitude heard
scare of thunder’s ululation
soil-tone-covered example of burgeon
silk the woven shadow
web of the spider’s articulating patterns
spectrum of mesomorphic motility
hybrid of space and recursive demonstration
tackling of pound with bivalent fistfuls of
Crystallization the glass’ fractals (retaining distinguished curls of spiking color)
rhythm of river’s
desired flow this
occultation of dexterous competition—
of or when
certainty of effort coalesces across face of the listening’s
serial collaboration with sound and devout
foundation of spatial transcending.
Felino A. Soriano has authored 50 collections of poetry, including Of oscillating fathoms these nonverbal chants (Argotist Ebooks, 2012) and Analyzed Depictions (white sky books, 2012). He publishes the online endeavors Counterexample Poetics and Differentia Press. His work finds foundation in philosophical studies and connection to various idioms of jazz music. He lives in California with his wife and family and is a case manager and advocate for adults with developmental and physical disabilities.
For further information, please visit www.felinoasoriano.info
(The devil dolls were singing
about Françoise Dorleac lying amongst the midnight
flowers fondling her memories
after the Renault pyre.)
She and I hid in our room
we watched as
her face described sumptuous
polychromed interiors where
she had reveled in public disgrace.
She made a statement:
“I have a surprise for you!”
(“We’re not going to leave this room at all, are we?”)
A faraway voice begs:
“Make a sacrifice: a halo or a disembodied heart.”
Symmetry will be
a desire we no longer need:
a woman’s torso bent, slightly warm.
We watch each other
while she watches us;
always a caustic comment etched in plaster,
crackling with sensibility.
(Vandals were guilty:
wanton, wide open, oversexed,
and they took photographs, while speaking of
the functions of a verb.)
Leaking fluid out of a warm window,
into a cul-de-sac
always licking puddles,
shot from behind. She smiles.
She will sit and warm
herself with the fire
from the pews.
(She licks quivering lips as
female bats discuss flight.)
These wounds seem right
as a door of significance.
She left them to be entered and catalogued
in the museum collection,
we strolled outside,
feeling so relaxed
and slept in the grass,
while listening to the passionate moans
that were emitted from the practitioners
that are attracted to
the current social order.
“Make a sacrifice: a halo or a tarot card.”
The snow, slight and cold,
opened her eyes:
A specific reflex. A pure form
devoid of people.
Her silver cluster became the air
as we needed and we removed
desires with a higher image
this was in their design
a trip to sin island for
a sticky, brown paste,
enjoying the morphine curves
of any woman’s body
an empty feeling
it was almost destruction
the TV ordered us
instructions stuttered reminiscing about
those prescription days.
She stopped filling that
prescription days ago
images sliding in
a shooting gallery
sulfur and smoke
so much that she has trouble breathing.
the overhead fluorescent
has a smell of skin
those prescription days
she strokes her fur
feeling the shock
something new for her fingers
a magic number
on a gurney sliding
a treacherous dance
at the end of the white hall
the tiny people are waiting
descending horns slowing down
she touches time’s spiked collar
something new for her fingers
for a pain exercise around the corner
to stop the transmission we opted to walk
she cried because she was stammering.
Peter Marra lives in Williamsburg Brooklyn. Among his many influences are Arthur Rimbaud, Tristan Tzara, Paul Eluard, European art films, Edgar Allan Poe, Russ Meyer, and Roger Corman.
He has been published in amphibi.us, Yes,Poetry, Maintenant 4, Beatnik, Crash, Danse Macabre, Caper Literary Journal, and Clutching At Straws. He is working on his first collection of poems.
DANIEL J. CALFO
It’s where all my big ideas come from, dreaming.
Their heads were slightly bowed but not so much as to hide their eyes. All the feelings of fog and rain but nothing of the weather. No setting; it’s not missing, just pale in comparison, frightened with the weight of it all. They knew that I knew. I was getting up from something. I’d been fighting something the way somebody fights something quietly, sitting, in clothes clean and pressed and they remain that way through the dirt and scraping and that eventual first breath, which happened to be, for me, this dream.
They kept knowing, growing with it, knowing I wanted them to know desperately we were friends and they knew; us, copies of each other discovering the fact. They became more me, I more them, the result a balance, symmetry, precision.
It was looking into a dozen mirrors, it’s all one person, he’s a stranger, blink, she’s the quiet girl with the glasses in the back of English class blink he’s the pastor you admired as a man, hated as a theology blink she’s mom blink the first dead person you ever saw blink she says I Love You, you say nothing and the back of your eyelids are no longer black; they called it seeing the light.
They stare back. Think about how well you have been able to go through the motions of living until this point, the audacity of the love it took for these versions of you to watch you kick around, so blind. How they waited for you to look around, living with you, so closely.
Daniel Calfo writes out of Portland, OR. Daniel was a member of The Sparrow Ghost Collective’s first Slam Poetry Team of 2011and competed with the team in Portland’s Northwest Regional Slam. In the coming months, Daniel will help represent Lewis and Clark College at both the ACUI Regional Slam in Portland, OR, as well as at the College Union Poetry Slam Invitational, this year held in Los Angles, CA.Daniel has been a featured poet in the Portland Poetry Slam’s Encyclopedia Show and in Portland’s staple poetry open-mic, Word Out! A Poetry Open Mic. Some of his work is published in print in The Sparrow Ghost Collective’s first anthology of poetry and digitally via Pipe Dream Publishing. Some of the author’s other work, including original photographs, appear at (http://danielcalfo.tumblr.com), while the majority will be available in his first collection to be printed in the coming months. For questions or comments, address notes to DanielCalfo@Lclark.edu.
ZACK N. LOPICCOLO
With a red rusted Honda civic
and house that both had leaks
when it rained and neighbors
that would impulsively fight
loud enough to break diamonds
and bleed-out ears that made
him too scared to call the police.
There was a car-crash look
in his eyes when he attempted
to confront the festively-plump boss.
Sweat rolled down his forehead
all slicked up shiver rainbow drops.
There were two pens in his front pocket,
a red one and a blue, both Bic
and a surveillance camera above
his mouse-squeak desk whose sound
made him quiver every minute of every day
to the point he would freeze like Otter-Pops
waiting for the last thud of the clock.
Zack Nelson Lopiccolo is a recent graduate of California State University, Long Beach where he stole a B.A in Creative Writing and Literature. He is one head of the Cerberus that runs Bank-Heavy Press and owns a poem farm to help lessen the country’s reliance on fossil fuels. This is in hope to make poetry a high demand alternative fuel. His work can be seen in Indigo Rising Magazine, ¡Vaya!zine, Short, Fast, and Deadly, Crack the Spine and forthcoming in Contemporary American Voices. He currently resides in Long Beach, CA and works as a Drywall Hanger and Taper. He also loves canned green beans.
More of his thoughts may be perused at rejectionnotice.tumblr.com
Dawn displays the obvious perfection of a world where only humanity feels incomplete.
Androids of impulse our two eyes often separate the one vision from another.
Running the opposite direction the globe is spinning pursued by ghosts of defeat.
Who clings to its mind like a starving child still clings to the body of its dead mother.
Michael Allen is a local Portland poet.
Living life as a guinea pig in
a 3-headed dead-pressing
touting the leather clothing,
a disease with the appearance
of a dagger most comprehensive.
Patent leather reprisals
split them in two
deeper into relaxation
deeper into silence
they stared at each of us
voyeurs hounded by a street light
as we passed by,
an exposure ignited then detonated
not sure when
automatic knives flavored the evening.
That clicking sound was repeated over and over
it made us feel guilty
friction — assess the material when needed —
inject the eggs without any scientific basis
we never spoke at the dinner table just yells and tears
torn from the headlines: I drink your blood I eat your skin.
We sought after such instruments of pleasure by legislation
fungus-like or a characteristic more realistic
than real: extremely rare fermented juices
the human use of a slender blade
tapering to a rapid dispersal more sexual
than the angel that it punishes.
Peter Marra lives in Williamsburg Brooklyn. Among his many influences are Arthur Rimbaud, Tristan Tzara, Paul Eluard, European art films, Edgar Allan Poe, Russ Meyer, and Roger Corman. He has over 100 poems published in print or online and is working on his first collection of poems.
I’ve included a link in the side bar to the space in the internet where I used to write about cool things for about a week and then just started reblogging funny pictures, Doctor Who, and Sherlock. It’s under “l.r. dalby reblogs and rambles”. Once in a blue moon I put deep shit on it. But usually it is dedicated to the BBC, animals wrapped in blankets so they look like burritos, and food shaped like not-food.
There is nothing wrong with me.
It’s like if my mind had a glove box where you shove all the little things that will make it embarrassing and difficult to find your vehicle registration information when an officer of the law pulls you over…that would be this.
This is an effort to give you the chance to get to know me (or at least my obsessions), and if you have personal bawgz you’d like me to check out you should put them in my ask box. I have the good fortune of being part of a wonderfully close knit community of slam poets, writers, and artists here in Portland. I’d like to extend that spirit of camaraderie to the PIPE DREAM internet community. Sharing our art is one of the finer things, and sharing stupid funny memes, jokes, and pictures of obese pugs makes it just a little bit sweeter.
PIPE DREAM will remain unsullied by said dumb crap that I love oh-so-much, don’t worry. But hey, let’s get to know each other a little better, eh?
Also, here is a joke that my girl, Becca, told me:
Q: What do you call an alligator in a vest?
A: An investigator!
In instant retrospect, clicking “create post” is probably a bad idea, because a bunch of you probably think I’m rad and artsy and shit. Whoops.
I regret nothing,