This subway library has posters of books and scannable barcodes—zap ‘em with your phone to get a 10-page preview while you ride!
Via http://fuckyeahbookarts.tumblr.com
The Medium is the Massage
Marshall McLuhan at 100
Cry of the Hawk Mixes
Rewind Podcast: Project 59: The Beats
A look at the beat generation from 1959. Inspired by Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg and William S. Burroughs, the Beats changed the tone of music, poetry and set the stage for the counterculture movement of the 60s.
Rewind- April 15, 2011- The Beat Generation
Corn has ears and can float
I am looking for everyone discovering her hands and camera
that said they inhabit you - fossils - because you exist and blood floods the banks called boa
and might like to swallow your entire body of land and water - oooh, I do seem to see it and I’m going very fast
then slower - I know you your accent is on me / your teletype -
You must feel, after all, this affordable new scene - best modern turn-on better than cash - it’s not what you might think, kitten - it’s not the usual stuff and listen: it happens and you should too…everywhere the works promise fuel for the flame in the heart car nation
salvation / spiral tape loop
here her radiates somehow once ignored
branching mingled tongue
and groove sawtooth
and groove sawtooth
to perfect circle
always looking for clues
in the last lines of handwritten notes
pretty toenails bellies and trees dancing
feeling more free so
don’t stop sampling music
cause words show off music with ease
embrace the american turntable
on the jazz
rise happy teeth
Lethologica
Lethologica
36th Summer Writing Program Magazine
The Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics
Editors:
Michael D. Edwards
Annie Maier
Bradley Sands
Book Design: Bradley Sands and Michael D. Edwards
Cover Design: Michael D. Edwards
2010, Naropa Press
Boulder, Colorado
Poetry: Renee Zepeda, Chris Weige
Photos: Chiai Matsumoto
The Pulchritudinous Review No. 2
The Pulchritudinous Review is an arts magazine with an emphasis on avant garde poetry and graphic art. Renee Zepeda edited and compiled it using a rare & highly desirable scarlet letterpress cover printed with sea-blue ink by Ken Mikolowski in Ann Arbor, Michigan. The cover paper is handmade from Nepal; the red thread is archival. This issue is handbound with a Japanese binding and is approximately 75 pages. Poetry comprises the majority of the content, but there are also short stories, photography, and colorful paintings.
Featured writers and artists include: Anne Waldman, Alice Notley, Ann Mikolowski, Elizabeth Robinson, Roberto Tejada, Christine Hume, Matthew Rohrer, Timothy Callaghan, Nicola Pinder, and Chris Weige, among others.
As a bonus one original handmade postcard from a collection of only 500 will accompany the magazine.
Sold Out
Librarian Girl
He the lecturer, he the Glasgow guy
Playing the piano drunk while encouraging the ultra rich.
Ion 1934 ~ Dr. Ed Draw Wards was awarded a team of people well-fit, a hand fit with a well, and a plank from which many jumped, having lit their purses and suits afire. Evening gowns had already retired and adapted to higher altitudes. You too may have found yourself in a matinee picture show or lesser rib. The Lowlands, you notice, become much more fertile.
With his piano playing Dr. Wards attacked conspicuous childhood diseases. To acquire knowledge he shared his body with immigrant populations. Children began growing up without always being a body resembling a spine resembling ease. The doctor also discovered that Texas is the shape of advantage when the goin gets taut.
To this extent, Dr. Ed Draw Wards had defined a naturalized individual and collective genetic adaptation.
With strong sunshine, body heat, in one hand and out the other;
To La Paz in a few weeks; the natural resistance of a population climbs the peak ever-claimed because Heat is contagious.
They're all in the garden with way-out maps
I. Temporary,
like a hotel room; it really is. Very few places or people ever truly feel like home. In the meantime, culture proceeds on the back of such a sensitive, youthful nation. Is anything certain then?
II. A hundred strong
strung-out high heels hurting: “You can keep the cash. It isn't worth it. " They’re not dumb. They’re not out of the loop. They have their own personal wishes and dreams, and particular things they like to eat (usually water and peas). People plead, “Stop singing, please! You’re ruining the music.” But they go on singing anyway, and in doing so give kickoff to new edges who turn on restless hubs truly in It. After word dances dance and ever do they daydream clock-less suspension bridges for words in mouths so deep the nipple tickles the tonsils and leaks. The alluring smell cresting the air is not the New Dumb or flicker glint of tanned legs bearing only crumbs and colorless sand. No, this is sort of fun, being in the New York Post in the time at hand getting free with all our lips hips and hands swooning, spiraling, becoming Grand.
What body will be? What will the body be? What be the body will? And is sogo.
III. Whilst smearing lipstick on strange statuettes
all in a row I had a feeling they could see me but I couldn’t see them. Like stars, their nipples and eyes. Ah, what thoughts in dancers reborn: We speak telepathically in photographs and undressed words, Alternate definitions and daydream dialects in a strange land America with stirring moles and ear handles farther back, down-field or interior where we are The Eye. It is so tragic and simultaneously so indescribably great that I am obliged to stop now and then and laugh in Its face.
Chris Weige | California, TX. | Sagacity 08
Smoking Toes
My face is stretched pale, my armor rusty;
All screams have vacated by morning got lost somewhere in sinister imaginings/ Gone!
Gone with fearless lips seductive silhouettes dipping the wall period red with words
And worlds co-existing effortlessly, without even the mind of vast consciousness in the upper regions:
A slow-motion kiss, a long-distance connection in a head-on collision;
Sex and love forever at war together in pieces down my throat with strange pulses
And mystery births, extraordinary Spanish feet cutting conversation in two and riding
Me into the living room/Barcelona!
Everybody is in Barcelona for the time being what we can, our souls in euphoria caressed
By the infinite pores and scent of something foreign: Legs, rubber, creeping chromosomes –
Isn’t it home moan? Isn’t it eureka?
The tiles begin to reshape past the walk; they sway and rat out old constellations from an autumn wall
Made to touch made to become a galaxy of faint freckles, a perpetual habit the rim of her smile her nostrils her teeth, which never seem to fit.
Out the den window is an orchard with the same sloping neck good morning.
Chris Weige | Austin, TX.
Sanyo just
your billing statements
the people who watch the catalog company record
who play 52-pick-up with rhetorical questions
who sign your name tinderella of oh
the shopping channel cons and sweep-stakes
the funny numbered culture
next
they
call
you
that
thing
that
gentle
sock
or last wild horse to break
so wake out of it
snap up
get yr galoshes and paint
think for change
think for change
i’m not even kidding
please n’ thank you
–a waterproof overshoe
….
…
..
.
Chris Weige | California, TX. | Share a key intuit.
Crystal Mountains and Rings
I can float an engineless boat by using a particular expression.
I can smoke a kind of paperless hello while barreling through twice over surf. Primal won the rough stuff and favors, but Etna erupted cream-corn and cavity rock.
Breakers, topside takers, spontaneous talk about sex. I take after those sounds and little fits and starts all to find her name – look in – all to find her name in cool mad-beat persuasions.
Metamorphosis now in the word-farm wake up: heard her reaching through her skin with opinions. Motorcars, day come cross feather bed where she lay. Day do draw shadows down her neck which thinks she’s asleep; day do draw open the lids for her flashy and puckered close-ups.
I am thinking of something dramatic. An earthquake, which makes not a sound, escapes like the weightless taste of strawberries. The important, mumbling book records everlasting undress.
Sogo You
I’m writing You,
And Now you’re reading it;
This is a mid-morning luxury:
The wall, the new empty wall and subway rocket,
Groove lines, syllables and gestures for the funny century,
Joke glyphs amongst primal faces painted.
Smoke words begin to tease candlelight intertwining.
Swift it is again evident, fatter and more plausible every time;
Tender and thinner and more sleek and toned;
You have done good things but you don’t hear it.
You have been in danger and have miraculously survived,
So Go You with your daring point of view –
Getcher mission on, er, pursue it and its massive ALL.
Lock those arms around it. Everyone just wants to laugh.
The young illuminate defiant acts. This is a connection you can achieve Now: Thinkers, having grown, having experimented, are relaxed.
It’s a rough road; it beats your face vacant but if you get past it your eyes begin to glow and, you know, you recover…it’s a simple intricate, again a course a yogi away:
Him reading a list of Her terms;
Him smoking;
Him utterly unique.
Quelly's Contemporary Vision
With everyone, and this is the world. The New World is about new forms of communication and experience. You may be downloading abstract space. An ambitious mindset lies at the foundation of society. It’s On-On business; there are lifestyle choices; and letting go. Actual living occurs – Embrace it! That is the key place. In the abstract space tell the computer to shake off the shackles. Reverberate Present Time. Kiss someone you know is there perpetually. Chris Weige | Austin, TX. | Share a key intuit
Serious Street Cred
Afloat an ecstatic whisper from long ago
Your feet feel the flood, the shaken sea: the embargo.
You are delicately unearthed and identified.
You and me tonight just the wild-mouth mystery
Drive with handsome signs n’ remote moon-eye;
We re-route the fisherman and grow windowed rooms
This side East where there are crevices and in those crevices
Clues: Wing, fin, or infinity? Will you and so-and-so do a guest spot?
You are so fast forward you knock a song off balance.
You become real by using your own face and kissing reverie.
You are the whole image bank.
A splash a drippy star Syrah
Cooking up the interstate doo-wop:
The storied buzz of our genitals,
Better elastic beats and bones;
A splash a drippy star Syrah
Memorizing hurried eyes and pulses:
Consummated charms and fevered flaws;
An erotic riot, no – even higher:
A Punany dream inspired.
So come on.
Chris Weige | Austin, TX.
Basquiat at Gagosian Gallery NYC
