David Christopher LaTerre from Issue 7, 2002

This one is also from Issue 7 of Karawane. David informs us that it has been revised several times and asked if he could send an update, but I really wanted to include the one we had originally published.

This one did not have formatting problems. If you have ever heard David read--in Minneapolis, in Seattle, or anywhere on the road--then you know that he reads as he writes: in one huge breath/block of text.

So here is David Christopher LaTerre's Dogme 2000.



DOGME 2000


Interesting people are loners. you can’t meet them. get out! can’t break up their marriages or usurp their secret fire escape lovers. there are none; the walk alone. who produced these individuals? not Madison Avenue or Milan. tattoos, interesting? piercings, interesting? very long hair, very short hair, interesting? vintage clothing; high fashion? interested? interested yet? bisexual? interracial? boho? like on T.V.! not weird enough. who paved the way for identity (not these people). consider the intelligentsia of time: bit thinkers in smoky backrooms. all in ugly suits & ties. members of the Bauhaus, of Dada, private salons & think tanks. outside the university(often); outside the court. creators of the thinking-edge. can’t even read their writing! they looked like narcs! they were uncool. they were very uncool. so square, they’d level the world beyond its shrunken-head tattoos & all its affect. they freaked out. & it freaked people out. like Ulysses & The Rite of Spring. when we rant that ‘it’s just looks’ or ‘all is vanity’, we imply that there is
something else. there may NOT be! What do people care about? look at the pyramid of THINGS, PEOPLE; IDEAS(materialism, Jerry Springer, & original thought) interesting? why did the punk cross the road? he was stapled to a chicken. what do you think skinheads talk about? punk rock? they talk about their families & their jobs. WHAT is interesting? WHO is? what is radical? who made the PROTOTYPE? why copy it? my moral: why copy anything? you want to be unique but first you have to be a true individual: that means no more cliques. no more TEAMS. no more GIRLFRIENDS. no more BOYfriends.
NO MORE PROPS. but see how eventually the underground goes middleground...’Liberal’ sees expensive copper pan at Williams-Sonoma. want-to-buy. forget about grassroots & Marxism. artists& cultural neighborhoods strews with 100lb boys (crystal meth bulimia) entire city of boys & that prop: either a girl, a dog, a cellphone, or snarling or spitting on the street with that ridiculous SWAGGER. where have I seen
that before? oh yeah. EVERYWHERE!(or male couples)...the world is full of E.M. Forster women & Anne Tyler men. the barback is a D.J. Star! your girlfriend’s in a review about temping for Amazon.com. the real horror of the modern city — the unreal city — today is its hypocritical MINDSET: young, hip, plugged into the web & can’t think for itself! wait for it to be DECIDED! so we have corporate-endorsed ravewear
& syndicated prison-issue Hip Hop. all you you won’t be BEAT UP(fashion isn’t as brave as it is fearful). loners are never cool. James Dean was an interpretation. I’m lonely in this place of people only LOOKING or acting weird. they can’t access weirdness, they can only GUESS! they never had it repackaged and run up the flagpole like a trend. they only borrowed it! they just paint it on like ARMOR! I finally REBELLED against cool. they said that I ‘lost’ my cool, that I freaked out (which is VERY uncool & apparently undesirable); I must have felt PASSIONATE about something. cool isn’t dynamic in any way. how did it ever catch on? how could anyone in any century look around & be BORED, or subsequently adopt this as an identity. NOTHING WAS EVER ACCOMPLISHED THROUGH BEING COOL, BUT EVERYTHING WAS ACHIEVED BY FREAKING OUT. INTERESTING PEOPLE ARE LONERS. YOU CAN'T MEET THEM. GET OUT. —not weird enough. it’s not weird enough! when we were out there changing the tide...wanna be lonely? wanna give it a shot? oh, I don’t know; I’m not saying this right. I should ARTICULATE this better...simplify: maybe something...GET OUT!

Art Durkee, Issue 7

reading a life by Art Durkee


by a single lamp
the man standing naked
his skin wrapped in words
swirling in seven languages
rapt in the book he reads
writing himself into lists, one thousand
years old, somehow still new:
"everything indigo is exquisite"
does the flower, the paper, the ink
know he worships them: their vibrancy?
it matters only to the ribs
inflating releasing the words
"lovers" and "hijau" and "spice"
and "arigato"
and "sleep" written in the thighs
the word "golden" in Greek letters
spread across his breast
his arms spiraled with poems
to hymns to mirrors to trains, dark
terrors he had as a boy
now read in books he treasures
a library of intentions, inscriptions,

Two poems by Jim DeWitt ca 1999

These are two poems by Jim DeWitt in Issue 5, 1999, back when we were still Voices From The Well.


Middle Night Courage Needed

Know that there's only one low-watt bulb
crouching up inside my pullchain lamp. How it strains to
chew away some smidgen of surrounding roomdark.

Listening close, you might hear its valiantness-for-its-
size penetrating out into sections of the blackest
speckles swarming in to surround it.

Pressuring shadow morphs that do seem snarly
stubborn. Ever angrily swirling back, determined to
overwhelm my little dim-glo bulb, break its spirit.

And right from the veryinstant of my switching it
on, Bad-Old-Blackness has flexed its long shadowed
other self. Seeming much more than just-somewhat
disturbed out there . . .

After Six Hours Suspension

Something stirs you awake. You rise out of cozy
comforters but sight tells you you are too soon for the
coming sun. Curious, you peek out the blind's chink as if
bent on catching night with one of its secrets.

None are seen moving, so stealth helps to place
your body back in. Sinking beautyrest, it calls on that
same something which woke you to reverse-gear you into
more of that temporary suspension soft . . .

Slamming Poets by Liam Kinbrae

This was published in 1998 in issue 4 of Voices from the Well when we were young as so were the slams in Minneapolis. There was a lot of animosity between the slams and the open mics and this was towards the beginning of that animosity.



Slamming Poets - Post Kerouac


People who don't know each other shuffle scared, proud or crippled into some room...some thinking that

Laureate status is long overdue...some are curious...some bored, some are simply mistaken...and maybe there is even a poet in the midst...or the real potential for one to surface--a delicate heart in the non-participating audience that becomes calm, honest, and insightful once the Slam is done...

But the Event will happen as scheduled...poetic presence or not.

"Judges are selected at random"...the spokesman announces as he selectively scatters smiles around the room...and it really doesn't seem to matterw ho will hold up the point cards:

It's about the mood of the judge...which more often than not is stimulated by something somewhere between superficial humor or sex...with a touch of the bizarre...and the narcissistic rush of power they get when it's time to grab a 5 or a 1...to dangle over someone's vulnerability.

Some gulp beer before it starts...some sip coffee...water--each contestant has a personal preference for liquid courage...and there is more shuffling--and often it feels like Ed McMahon might materialize at any second to claim his status as patron saint of poetry slams.

And the first reader rises to read...and a false hush covers the shallow banter...and someone who wants to be overheard whispers...THIS MIGHT BE ANOTHER YEATS...YA NEVER KNOW...

And the initial reader on stage adjusts the microphone...fumbles through his hastily accrued stack of papers...lets out a frustrated grunt...closes his eyes...picks a crumpled yellow sheet...smiles...and mutters into the microphone with ferocious intensity:

UNTITLED

and reads something like this:

MOON ME, MY MOON!
I WAS WOUNDED BY THE
MOONS MOONING...AND
IT FELT SO CLOSE TO ME
THAT I NEARLY CALLED 911.

(then he tilts his head and says a sweet) Thank you.

And in the semi-circle of once hopeful faces surrounded the reader, one notices the non-verbal reactions:

*an old man lowers his head onto the table--no one knows if he is meditating,
nauseous, or just resting until it's his turn

*someone else clenches a fist

*someone's mouth hangs open

*someone moves quickly through the area--going to pee

21 Scenes by Will Roby

This is from Issue 7, originally published in 2002.


21 Scenes

1 ---

paralyzed, i wouldn't
put
it past you.
Both golden Holy
Arms stuck
standard
and Permanent
to your side.
there's a hole there.

2 ---

gorgeous is
300 lb. redneck
or
everyboy with
blonde hair
Prepping for Proms.
gorgeous = beautiful
dates on thick
chickengrease arms.
beautiful arms
nailed
w/Holy Cross letter
jackets.

3 ---

my Crucifix cried, well
my old lady's
crucifix
cried, but the tears
weren't colored.
as young
Negroes playing in this
sandbox. only
the dirt is Red.
Nails full of dirt.

4 ---

only
outed
couple, gay girls
much pierced, pleasant
"newness of
you"
but
they seem infrequent.
kissing hands
only, the
courting Lesbians.

5 ---

ohhh i could have been
Poem King
of this castle, with
my pen, but
the
little women with thick
necks are all in
BrightWhite.
Pretty Woman, there
must be a Prom.

6 ---

in BeaumontTexas
there's Peroxide rain
cancer
and smoke. how we
ever
have
time to eat or
breathe
i don't know.
but, in America
it rains
and cars slide.

7 ---

grey shirts grow
soon if
buried overnight in Beaumont.
soil, much bled on
and composted
to grow
easy
breezes, someone's wearing
my
grandmother's perfume.
this
to
sniff over coffee.

8 ---

tempted tonight to take
ten lines and
touch Teresias (old
oracle)
and be for a Halloween
the
holy space between
teen toes.
but a shoe
leather w/strap
taints tomorrow the
touching. She sweats.

9 ---

when it's time
abandon this table
and all hope. i'm hungry
but
i'm saving my cents
for books - only kid ever
with
glasses
third
grade
when the other kids
touched tits. i read.

10 ---

admit my mistake,
i
want a cigarette,
and
so
bad my ears ring.
oh, but
you don't smoke.
jesus drank wine
and
my friend Cris went
on a wagon.

11 ---

young kids have
broken
t-shirts and loud stereos
so my
goddamned head
hurts
and
my nose bleeds.
look, a spot of blood
7
on
my
shoelace.
makes red dirt.

12 ---

kid's crowns
are blonde
well
everyone is tuned
to the
same
radio station
and this town's
too
small
for broadband anything.
well.

13 ---

too many people
have too
few raincoats, so
that
if
a week is full of
rain
the fashion rules break.
a twig off
this tree turns
red
in muddy rain.

14 ---

so many new
lies
and the coffee
smells
like
money i flipped out
for a tip
out of
my
wallet once.
all the cars
are
electric blue.

15 ---

we wax cars
and
they stay dirty

16 ---

nouveau
is a difficult French
thing.
as a
concept or a
word
to spell.
art
is similar because
it's a
French complication.
we do it anyway.

17 ---

"Diana's dress"
drags dirt
in
decent
molecules
over the tile. her eyes
with a Red halo
lie
in the center
of her
Face.

18 ---

every man should
own
a pink dress shirt
or at least
a
pink tie.
every man should be
ready
to
look good
and pink.

19 ---

water
hangs in the cups
of Leaves.
it is summer
and there's an awful
wreck.
and i'm off
Balance.

20 ---

and the
car, starting,
splashes her thin
angel gown
in Diana's mud. i
clean it
with my inkpen.
"Are you ready?"

Epilogue ---

"he says he'll
pay
you
back."
"oh
my god, he
owes
me."
she smiles.

Prices and Flesh by James Oliver Smith

This was published in Issue 4, in 1998, when we were still Voices from the Well. There are some indentations that didn't come through onto the blog.


Prices and Flesh


Contact
with someone else
How I would love that
but at what price
what little white lies
would I have to
tell
what favors would I have
to lay out on the
table of my relationships
what balance sheet
would I have to
generate reports on
what body language
acrobatics
would I need to
demonstrate
in order to feel
the touch of flesh
It's all here
within my arms
within my mind
within my thoughts
ready to dispense to
the first taker
Unconditionally
unfiltered
unlimited
unmoderated
but the flesh is hooked to all the
social
Mechanics
of vanity and
industrial
efficiency
so my skin
settles
cold
in the lake of its own
passions

Moonlight by Lyle Daggett

This piece was originally published in Issue 5 in 1999.


Moonlight


a cello fills the room
with its mast and sail
dragonfly wings scratch
the sandpaper of night
vast fields of water
pour over the dam
the island
is swallowed by the river
car headlights at the corner
an empty street
a man sells newspapers
one light on upstairs
a fallen branch in the front yard
a truck has come
to haul it away.