Sponsors

Donate

Without your support, Drunken Boat could not exist.

Please donate today.

Upcoming Events

Calls for Submissions

We are currently accepting submissions for the Affrilachian Arts folio.

Radha Says

The final collection by award-winning poet Reetika Vazirani, published by Drunken Boat.

Excerpt | Purchase | Review

Hide-and-Seek-Muse

Annotations of contemporary poetry edited by Lisa Russ Spaar, published by Drunken Boat.

Purchase

Follow drunken_boat on Twitter



Subscribe to our mailing list

Search

tanythberkely

After a brief absence due to technical difficulties… Vintage Drunken Boat is back!

A collection of images out of DB 13 is the vintage pick on this sunny Throwback Thursday afternoon. Tanyth Berkely’s “The Field” is a series of seemingly-candid portraits of city dwellers in Atlanta and NYC combined with intriguing shots of the cities themselves.

Tanyth Berkely’s work has been collected by the Guggenheim Museum and the Museum of Modern Art and was featured in the 2010 exhibition, “Pictures by Women: A History of Modern Photography.” She has taught at NYU, Columbia University and SVA. In 2009, her work was showcased in a film about young American photographers entitled PEOPLE * LOVE * PHOTOS.

Click to view selections from “The Field”

Bookmark and Share

Published Jul 10, 2014 - Comments Off

Samantha Giles’s brilliant, scary Deadfalls and Snares (Futurepoem) maps military detention from various inside-outs, constructing registers of alien phenomenology through exacting, deformative forms. The grammar of self-violence and self-mutilation she invents in the first section to re-present torture at Abu Ghraib (and its internal drive to spectacle) is riveting, as are the creepy truncations of appropriated discourse on hunting and skinning animals in the second section, shot through with sinisterly contentless redacted phone conversations. The book’s final section syncopates grids of curiously blanked photograph descriptions with critique of the Western subject-perpetrator’s crushingly de-ethicized gaze. Each of these parts is prefaced by recombinant, revelatory writing-through of Moby-Dick’s “The Whiteness of the Whale” chapter: these pieces discordantly jam together phrases containing “white” for an oversaturated white-out, activating the contradictions immanent to Melville’s commentary on the many angled symbolic violence of whiteness, particularly its capacity to void. This book is right on time as Iraq re-enters cataclysm (if ever it left).

 

What a pleasure is Rodney Koeneke’s Etruria (Wave)… In an era of content frenzy, this book’s restrained, personal range of reference is refreshing and real. Koeneke’s expert command of certain prose and poetic styles – and his unabashed literary flourish in a number of different registers – is set off by his own hallmark tendency to elongate sentences, phrase for luscious phrase, into labyrinths whose every corridor brims with wit and forbearing. The resulting parallel Etruscan universe is learned, wise, and obliquely melancholy while also light and funny, its idiom from the precisely historical to the precisely contemporary by turns natural, savvy, and camp. Here is a preternatural social sensibility that remains poignant even as it confronts what today passes for the sentimental; here is an elegant figural technique that never disappoints. In the opening bravura poem, Koeneke notes sidelong, “I am no O’Hara” – but to tell the truth, I’m not so sure.

 

Holly Melgard’s Friends & Family (bon aire projects) archives Joey Yearous-Algozin’s verbatim transcription of three years of voicemail addressed to his partner Holly Melgard. Catching hold of the ultimate ephemera, this compulsively readable act of medium translation is also a virtuosic performance of genre-bending that runs the gamut of conceptualism, confessional lyric, documentary, life-writing, novella… HMFF not only flaunts its intimacy, but tenderly weaponizes it, the reader entrapped as solicited eavesdropper in an all-too-familiar contemporary circuit of oversharing as the text movingly exhibits white, working class precarity, bringing Melgard’s own complex class affinities and more especially her affective labor as daughter into relief. The book knows itself inserted into that economy of affect: the flipside of its macho propriety over Melgard’s messages, its gendered debasement of the love object in abject disclosure, is Yearous-Algozin’s over-identification with his lover. One can’t help but imagine that such a listening to and (word-) processing of her messages enacts a therapeutic commoning and lessening of their burdens.

 

Inter Arma (Fence), Lauren Shufran’s neo-Ovidian masterpiece (this term used advisedly), ingeniously retrofits Amores’s tropology and metrics for the twenty-first century, reinventing the stress position to bear on neoliberalism’s brutal muting of the law.  Through the metaphoric vortices that swirl around the duck-cum-detainee-cum-soldier she conscripts as lyric subject, Shufran piteously and wickedly compresses the cruel cages of factory farming, indefinite detention, and military masculinity – her audacity and wit convincingly moving her speaker beyond bathos. Here burns an homological alchemy of desire, hate, fear, and murderous aggression that reveals the complex intersections of homophobic, genocidal, and carnivorous urges: Shufran’s an anti-Aesop of geese on hunger strike, of a Private macho to get fucked in barracks in his Gaga-drag, of sheep fallen so far past pastoral they’re water-boarded in a wishing well, knitting Afghans of their own wool.  A superplus tour de force that rigorously reconceives all border zones, the human/animal to the proper/figural to the Western/Arab.

 

Lastly, I make note of Hervé Guibert’s The Mausoleum of Lovers: Journals 1976 – 1991, trans. Nathanaël (Nightboat). I have just begun this long book (its length hardly the reason one would note the unobtrusive heroism of Nathanaël’s gorgeous, vigilant translation) and am completely hooked, turning the pages slowly as though that could make it last longer. What stands out already is Guibert’s extreme fluidity as a writer – capture of nuances of thought and feeling – his sense of relation, his compassionate interest in himself and his self-knowledge (especially his sense of his younger selves), his care for the flesh of the world, his constant awareness of the mortality of all bodies…

 

Bookmark and Share

Published Jul 09, 2014 - Comments Off

 

So, you want to travel between worlds. You want to go, but you’re not sure how and maybe psychedelics aren’t for you, and maybe you’re concerned that if you go, you won’t be able to come back. Not to worry, let’s talk about it.

You think maybe you’ve already been, maybe just for a moment in the space of a day dream or one of your nightly ventures, maybe a nap jolted you out of your body and suddenly back in again and you wouldn’t have known you were out but for the strange rushing sensation, the sound of a jet engine revving in your ears the shuddering and shaking of your body on the couch.

You’re a poet and you find yourself in various states of reverie. How stereotypical of you. Perhaps you find yourself feeling floaty and wonky a little more than you’d like and want to know how to return to solid form. You’d like to know how to go, wherever it is you go, and come back safely to your own sweet little physical body. Don’t worry; you don’t have to explain yourself. Not to me. Not to anyone.

You listen to “Dopesmoker” by Sleep or “Metamorphosis” by Philip Glass or whatever it is you listen to and you have an experience. You nod out or nod along until you are soothed and with eyes closed you watch the light, or whatever it is, play across your eyelids and the dark gets darker and while you can tell you’re still breathing, maybe you forget about it, or maybe it’s your breath that takes you to this dark, quiet place, somewhere inside your chest or back behind your eyes. This place is both comforting in its closeness and bewildering in its expansiveness, like the interior of a vast cathedral with all the lights turned out. A thrum reverberates through it and through you. Maybe you hear it as soft static or a single tone. Maybe you see the darkness shift around you as if in waves. Maybe those waves have hints of color. Maybe bursts of blue light appear and fade, letting you know the spirits, or whatever they are, have arrived.

What happens here? What is this place for? If you can go here, there must be a use for it, but use can be a bit of a burden. Still, you wonder what you might DO here.

What have you already tried? What potential do you feel pulsing at your temples, in the palms of your hands? What questions do you have?

Maybe you feel drawn to borders, margins and crossroads. As a poet, you’ve found ways to use words to travel backwards and forwards in time, to disrupt the seemingly solid meanings of words and show their mutable natures, so maybe words can help you here too. Maybe you want to call someone for help. Hecate, Goddess of the crossroads, Persephone’s guide through the underworld.

Maybe Persephone herself could be your guide. She has plenty of experience going down and coming back up.

In the Vodou tradition, at the beginning of every ritual, the priestess or priest calls Legba, the Haitian loa who acts as intermediary between the loa and humanity. He opens and closes the door and decides if you are ready to cross the threshold.

Still, whether we are granted permission or not, we don’t leap across the threshold, we create a tether and we reach across. We create a protective circle, and we learn to reach across its boundary. What we find outside the circle, some might find frightening, monstrous, corrupting, dangerous, and that’s why when we go outside the circle (past the castle gates, leaving our body, our community behind) we become monstrous, corrupted, infected, a little dangerous and ultimately transformed. A professor of mine at The Evergreen State College, Marianne Bailey, described this process and called the person who travels between worlds, who crosses boundaries, a “Monstre Sacre” Sacred Monster. When the Sacred Monster returns to the circle, they share what they’ve learned and infect others with new information, transforming the group as a whole. This is big talk, maybe, but real too, I think. What else are we (poets) here to do if not to bend and shape consciousness, starting with our own, according to a desired effect (will) aka to do MAGIC?

We (poets) tend to push our own boundaries, sometimes to the point of masochism (right?) so it is necessary to learn how to do cross our boundaries with care. There’s no need to bully your self. Really. Stop that.

One way to play with your own boundaries in a safe way is to trance. Everyone has the ability to trance and chances are you already do it. When you “space-out”, you’re entering a light meditative state or trance. When you find yourself twenty miles down the road and don’t remember driving that distance (highway hypnosis) that’s a form of trance. I’m sure you can think of tons of other examples.

Everyone will experience a trance differently, all depending on which of your senses you’re most tuned into and which sense you use most when communicating with your intuition. For example, you get goose bumps when a friend tells you about an uncanny experience or vivid mental images appear when you sense danger. Some people are very visual and will experience their whole trance as if inside a movie, but you may also hear sounds, feel physical sensations or strong emotions with or without any visual content. If you’re very language orientated, like many of us poets, you may find that your trance manifests more like overdubbed narration (James Earl Jones, maybe?). There is no wrong or better way to experience a trance. Honestly.

If you’re like me and fall asleep easily, you might try pre-recording the trance induction to play for yourself or have a buddy lead you down and back up. It’s totally fine to fall asleep, but you just might not want to do it every time. Important subconscious work goes on while we’re asleep, but if you’re hoping to write about your experience you’ll have a tough time remembering much if you doze off. Try sitting up if you think you might fall asleep. It turns out that I like sleeping so much that I can fall asleep sitting up while trancing, but, again, that’s not so bad, just something to be aware of.

Here’s an easy trance induction I learned recently called “The Rainbow Induction”. You can use it for any trance and adapt it to your own purposes. Set aside 20 minutes to half an hour to do this. Take your time with it. Usually when someone leads you in a trance, they take time to pause between prompts so you can let images or sensations come to you. Be patient with yourself.

1. Before you begin, try setting an intention for the trance. What is the purpose of the trance? What do you want to learn or understand? What do you want to see or find? Setting an intention will help focus your trance and give you something to do while you’re there. Trancing without an intention tends to feel pretty aimless and a little bewildering, but it can be a good way just to get to know your own inner landscape. There are a lot of reasons you might want to trance; you might want to revisit a recent dream that you want to know more about or meet a guide or ally who could help you with a question. You might look for a tool that could help you with a problem you’re dealing with in your regular waking life. If you’re feeling stuck with a creative project, you might set out with a question about your project. For this trance though, I think we should look for your Place of Power, somewhere you can visit when you need to recharge, ask questions or just play around in your own head. This was the first trance I did and I think it’s a good place to start.

2. To begin, get comfortable sitting or laying down. You probably want to wear something comfortable, but yoga gear is not required. It’s good to be cozy, but not so cozy that you’ll fall asleep, and it’s best to trance inside to avoid being disturbed. If you like, you can play some droney, music to help get you in the mood. I don’t have any recommendations, but I bet you know someone who does.

3. Take a few breaths. Notice how your body feels, sitting or laying where you are. Feel what it feels like to be in your particular body, in this room, in this city, exactly right where you are. Notice if you have any aches or pains. With each breath relax a little more, as if you are melting into the floor beneath you. Feel yourself connect with the ground, with the earth under the floor. You are grounded and perfectly safe in this room. Your body will be completely safe while you go on your trance journey.

4. Close your eyes and continue to take relaxing breaths. You are fully relaxed now. Begin to visualize a red mist swirling around you. You reach out your hands and notice that it is cool to the touch. You breathe in the red mist and breathe it out. What does the mist taste like? Does it have a smell? It is your favorite color of red. The red mist begins to fade and is replaced by bright orange. What does this mist feel like? Does it have a taste or smell? You breathe the orange mist in and breathe it out. The orange lightens to a yellow and you feel it brush past you, against your cheeks and hands, breathing the yellow mist in and breathing it back out. Now the yellow darkens to a rich green, your favorite shade of green. How does this green feel? Does it make a sound as it swirls around you? How does it make you feel? You breathe it in and breathe it back out. And the green shifts again to blue. Take a moment to notice the way the blue is different from the green and breathe in the blue and breathe it back out. Now the blue darkens to a rich indigo that swirls around your feet and up your legs. Notice how this indigo feels against your skin. Is it cool or warm? Is it a gentle breeze or a more forceful one? You breathe in the indigo and breathe it out. Now the indigo shifts to violet. Notice the gradation of color, how it moves in waves around you, blanketing your shoulders, swirling around your neck like a scarf. Breathe in the violet and breathe it back out. And now the violet begins to lighten and lighten to a bright and gleaming silvery white fog, almost too bright to look at and as this silvery mist begins to part, you begin to make out a landscape in front of you. You are now in your Place of Power.

5. Now that you’re here, have a look around. What do you sense? What do you hear? Are there any smells in the air? Can you reach out and touch anything? How does it feel to be here?

6. Take a few steps forward in your place of power. and begin to explore.

7. Turn to face East. When you travel East, what do you find? Take a few breaths and notice what the air feels like, smells like, tastes like as you breathe it in and breathe it back out. Think about what you might be able to cut away, to let go of, to make yourself lighter, clearer, more focused. Are you alone or are there are other people or animals? You may want to stop and talk with them. Do they have a message for you? Is there something there that you want to take with you? Say thank you and goodbye to the East.

8. Now turn to the South. When you travel South, what do you find? Who or what lives in the South? How do you feel here? Is there something that you want? Feel that desire inside your body as if it is a flame that you can feed until it fills you with warmth. Does someone or something have a message for you? Look around for something to bring back with you. Say thank you and goodbye to the South.

9. Turn to the West. When you travel to the West, what do you find? How do you feel in the West? Notice how your emotions shift and change, moving through you like water. Notice how your emotions effect how you feel in your body. Notice how your emotions effect your breath. Is there a message for you here in the West? Is there something here that you want to take with you? Say thank you and goodbye to the West.

10. Now turn to the North. As you travel North, what do you find? What does the ground feel like beneath your feet? How does your body feel here? Try sitting down on the ground and noticing how it feels. What plants or animals live in the North? Is there a message for you here? What do you want to bring back with you? Say thank you and goodbye to the North.

11. Now go back to where you started, to your original Place of Power. Take a few breaths here and remember the messages you gathered. Notice the things that you’re bringing back with you. Notice how it feels to be here in this place that is specifically for you. You can come here anytime. Make a note to yourself to come back. Say thank you and goodbye to your Place of Power.

12. Now you notice that a fog is rolling in, a bright white silvery fog. (Repeat the rainbow induction, this time in reverse: Violet, Indigo, Blue, Green, Yellow, Orange, Red).

13. As the red mist parts, notice that you are back in your room in your city, in your very own particular body. Feel how the ground feels beneath you. Notice how your arms and legs and back feel. Begin to move your fingers and toes. Begin to open your eyes. You have arrived safely back where you started.

14. If you’re still feeling a bit groggy, or a little reluctant to fully return to human form, pat yourself on your arms and legs, scratch your scalp and stamp your feet. Say your name out loud to yourself 3 times. Remember what you had for breakfast today. You are back in the physical world and it’s good to be here!

15. Take some notes in a notebook. Describe your Place of Power in as much detail as you can muster. Record the messages you were given and the tools or objects you brought back with you from each of the 4 directions. How do you think you might use these in your waking life?

16. Eat something. Seriously. It’s always a good idea to ground your self by having a snack. Otherwise, you might feel floaty and wonky the rest of your day. Honestly. I tend to like that floaty wonky feeling a little too much, so I have to remind myself to eat and get grounded.

17. You’re done! Way to go. Okay, Sacred Monster. How was that? Now take what you’ve learned and use it for the good of all harming none!

 

- LINDSEY BOLDT

Lindsey Boldt is a poet, performer, editor and educator living in Oakland. She is the author of the full-length book, “Overboard”, and the chapbooks, “Oh My, Hell Yes” and “Titties for Lindsey”. With her partner Steve Orth, she co-edits Summer BF Press and writes, directs and performs plays in the style of “Oakland Poetic Realism”. Recent productions include “Dating by Consensus” and “The Reading”. She is also an editor with The Post-Apollo Press.

Bookmark and Share

Published Jul 08, 2014 - Comments Off

Collage 01-Debord

 

The images detached from every aspect of life merge into a common stream in which the unity of that life can no longer be recovered. Fragmented views of reality regroup themselves into a new unity as a separate pseudo-world that can only be looked at. The specialization of images of the world has culminated in a world of autonomized images where even the deceivers are deceived. The Spectacle is a concrete inversion of life, an autonomous movement of the nonliving. – Guy Debord

 

We do not exist, so this is true expression.

 

This spectacular world. The slips of pain in my head are daunting. Fibrous slimy pink hemispheres pulling apart the middle so slowly that I’m feeling every little weave away from me. Wet feet ringing into leather. Sticky, sweaty face.

 

I keep trying to get intimate with this moment, trying to be intimate. I’ve taken too many drugs into my system. I haven’t felt well for years and who is to blame? How much energy will I waste on crap thinking? How much energy not getting involved in the things I care about? I can type ninety words a minute yet still can’t capture my dumb hick voice. I want to talk about Guy Debord’s The Society of the Spectacle and how it fails.

 

It fails because it’s been the only feature in the last ten years of my life that has always been stable. I love the Spectacle because I don’t have to worry. I get it, this invisible layer in our communication. All this ongoing pop-mediation-image complex whatever. Hum in the shower of made up show tunes, pitching early Beatles and Rihanna lyrics 7:15am. I got to stay clean, because I’m afraid to smell. I keep asking people if my room smells because I spend so much time in there, hoping to find a job so I can leave it.

 

A lot of theory has this lazy war tactic, where a term gets defined over and over again as, “this thing is.” It’s a hijacked value, straw poll results. I bet I could string a pretty long line of anal-beads when Debord does it.

 

So, how can I define it. John Courie, my closest adviser, says it’s in the first chapter in SOS. Separation Perfected. But, I think that’s it right there, the title itself. The urgency of desire is need in children. Desire pools until reaction voids the user. The most brilliant advertising campaign for alienation we’ll ever get to watch has always been us.

 

The Spectacle is separation perfected.

 

For example – when I was a kid, I’d punish myself. When I was an adult, I’d punish myself. I wouldn’t do the project or the paper. I’d ground myself for two months. My father’s dead, so I’m grounded for a year. Why do I still think I can save people? You can’t save anyone. I thought “love” could save me, but it’s just the dried whistle of the Spectacle.

 

Love can’t ever save you from yourself. The Spectacle cuts me up, makes me think of ending it for weeks on end and then I pull out for a peek, breathing again. It feels good to get up and walk around and do nothing. I can type out this note thinking it’s, like, not really brilliant, a whole bunch of me saying nothing for nothing. I’m so far back into the past that my hope is buried deep inside a love that can’t exist and won’t exist, that has no heart, hits me, takes me into the parking lot with a crowbar.

 

The post-spectacle, where the raw self negotiates identity.

 

I smoke again and it’s now like 4am and I don’t need it. I’ve got the television on all the time, because I have bad tinnitus in my left ear and it blocks some of the wheezing, but I don’t want those narratives anymore. The narratives where people are little baby gods with credit card payments they never have to worry that they can pay. This fucking money, this stupid has-been that is only money, doesn’t want anything. It barely wants to reproduce anymore. The only escape is through my identity, this is what comes.

 

Collage 02-Wojnarowicz

 

Behind the glitter of spectacular distractions, a tendency toward banalization dominates modern society the world over… Stars (spectacular representations of living human beings) project this general banality into images of permitted roles… The function of these celebrities is to act out various lifestyles or sociopolitical viewpoints in a full, totally free manner. They embody the inaccessible results of social labor by dramatizing the by-products of that labor which are magically projected above it as its ultimate goals: power and vacations — the decision-making and consumption that are at the beginning and the end of a process that is never questioned… But the activities of these stars are not really free and they offer no real choices.

 

Debord wrote The Society of the Spectacle as a 1967 software update to Marx’s pretty little OS from 1867. He was a charter member/non-member in the Situationist International from 1952 in Alba onwards. He built a little bitty world around conquering the arts, theory and finally the government. They were all about conquerers, which they learned from their Moms and Dads during the Dubya Dubya Two and Lenin and Lukács and Lefebvre and Clausewitz and Buddy Holly and Watts Riot, on and on. Our lives, this mass production noise, this accumulation of commodities – like, what are we doing, what are we doing? We big-up production on ourselves and then we mass produce images of ourselves and then those images mass produce themselves into a reality that isn’t even really all here and now. So, this little protocol runs around and around for years, and still runs, but like, I’m so done with this bull. Dog shit on my face, exhaustion coma one million and five.

 

My Dad didn’t believe in the Spectacle. Hell, I tried to explain it to him and he’d be like, “this is over my head,” and he’d feel stupid and I’d feel stupid, be like why can’t I tell him what’s really going on in my mind and if I can’t explain it to him, what can I do? I mean, our conversations around theory and Marx and the proletariat misses over and over again, that the masses must rise up on their own. The play-books are written in such an esoteric nuanced kick-start, that you’d have to eat Derrida Wheaties or something to just be like, I’m not here. Who the fuck are we that we refuse to show everyone, that we leave people behind? Our pride is so gross.

 

If you can’t communicate, you can’t feel good. The streamlined veneer you hear at bars and bus stops about how to call a phony a blank, a blank a dick, a dick a-know-it-all. Names. Tissue, organic movable cogs gussied up and horrified that they too are dumb. Louie says, “Chickens are dumb.” Our governments are dumb. Their holy moment is power, never money. The power to guru the distribution. A kind of telepathy of funds. The individual does not work. The collective does not work. So, the hallmark characteristics of capitalism and socialism are not really working. The shit has a shape that’s too diluted.

 

I mean, what is left? Art and sex and drugs to enhance the art and sex, but drugs aren’t really power-ups or demerits when you add them into the mix for too long or too short. My head is ribbed with dark spots, little puffy air spots underneath the skull. I can feel them when I don’t have sleep behind me and the Spectacle lives in all the spaces that you or I over use. The Spectacle resolves itself in your exhaustion, the places where you thin blood.

 

The relationships I care about feel so tenuous, old rotten chocolate bars, always crumbling. Our bodies are. Network. 1976. We exceed to be the trap.

 

I wake in the morning and I take a shower, so that my body doesn’t stink. Because, stinking is unliked by people. I walk to a car in the sky or under the ground that then drops me at a building where I sit down and type things and then move around and make sure there is enough this or that. I don’t do anything. This is no real experience. This isn’t robotics. It’s how I live. I leave this building and go to another building where I take in a variety of fluids that create a difficulty to just walk around, which is all I can do. My throat choking from poison I’ve never been able to give up on. I stand up to myself in the mirror saying things that only I know hurt. Get home. Cum. I know the way I breathe, the way my body goes limp. I just need it off my back. I want to be so far away from my room. Don’t know where I am. I long for something that isn’t the Spectacle.

 

And yet, I know, I totally know–– that I can live without the SOS whenever I want. Over the course of these 10 yrs, I’ve been trying to be its opposition. I’ve tracked down tons of gestures as an attempt to defeat it in my own life. Be it poetry, or chaos magick, friendships or sexual expression. It’s evasive, it eats away at my body and my body is that organic thing I keep mentioning, this gooey stretch of something, viscous strands of ruby pink brain parts. Everything is true, permitted, everything is purity. Everything around is real and good and has a real hearth to be burnt up in and eaten up and sucked up and I don’t believe in anything. We are a culture of emotional gluttons and slack-jawed Nick DeBoer’s.  I don’t believe in what I say, what I feel, what I do, what this is, what I just said, this actual moment. All I’m trying to do is write simple from complicated memes but I don’t know how the word ‘is’ works.

 

Collage 03-Townsend

 

Workers do not produce themselves, they produce a power independent of themselves. The success of this production, the abundance it generates, is experienced by the producers as an abundance of dispossession. As their alienated products accumulate, all time and space become foreign to them. The spectacle is the map of this new world, a map that is identical to the territory it represents. The forces that have escaped us display themselves to us in all their power.

 

What do I really want cause I’m so hooked the fuck into this. I’m afraid I’ll go homeless the moment I stop trying to reach out for money. But I’m so sick. I hack in the mornings when I shower and I worry that I see blood but I can’t see anything without my glasses on, so I can’t tell, I’m not sure, so I get down on my knees and I’m fine or it is blood or my eyes don’t work.

 

I am the entire world and at the same time I’m nothing. I’ve never been alive. I’ve never never ever been ever never in this whole thing object universe that I can’t really get close to, nor can really imagine or think works. I’m so sleepy. The sleep in my eyes caves in. It’s too much. I get it, the Spectacle, it’s all inside the insider. It’s in the pictures, right there sworn to my face.  When I met Guy Debord I was 23, I thought he could save me. Get me on that guy’s boat, it’ll solve my problems. Oh please, baby world, save my ass from my ass.

 

Collage 04-DeBoer

 

Ideas improve. The meaning of words plays a part in that improvement. Plagiarism is necessary. Progress depends on it. It sticks close to an author’s phrasing, exploits his/her expressions, deletes a false idea, replaces it with the right one.

 

Fuck. It’s in my coffee. It’s in my coffee and so I’m in it as well. I’ve been addicted to so many things for such a long time that I don’t really do any of them now. I need to finish writing this long poem that hates on Ezra Pound. I mean, I certainly can’t imagine reading him again. I wanted to solve the puzzle of his epic, find some Superparadise in it. But it’s all solved by applying anti-semitism to it. What a bummer, what a prick to work-around obscure language in bitter racism, to posit between Confucius and the Eleusinian Mysteries. Fornication rites and the balance. To so grossly speculate.

 

So, I started work on my epic, which would remove the problems of Pound and add the enemies of Debord. Take-down notice of thy vanity or whatever. I do that Dante-goes-down-into-the-shit thing. That’s how I’ll become famous. That’s how I’ll go through my brain and find my imagination within my imagination, to escape from the Spectacle. Find a safe space. I don’t want to feel the slow creak rent open anymore. I can’t. I mean, I just need to get the fuck free. I imagine a long walk – the evolution of the brain where we start to actually feel and register it’s component parts. The epic is the longest memory of imagination, it pulls our story through time.

 

- NICHOLAS DEBOER

Nicholas DeBoer is a poet, collagist, activist, and chaos magician living in NYC.  He is the author of many chapbooks and broadsides, as well as a co-editor for Elderly with Jamie Townsend and Cheer + Hope Press with Geoffrey Olsen.  He also is a member of the Potlatch Discordian Network, a magickal organization operating out of Ridgely, MD. Currently he is prepping “The Singes”, the first in his epic arc “The Slip”, for publication.  He is also also most certainly alive.

Bookmark and Share

Published Jul 01, 2014 - Comments Off

8338

 

You still have time to submit your first book manuscript to Drunken Boat! Our deadline has been extended to July 25. For more details about the book contest, please see below.

Poetry Book Contest

$25.00 USD, $28.00 USD

Drunken Boat Book Contest: Poetry (Hybrid & Translation Welcome)

Judge: Forrest Gander

Deadline: July 25, 2014

Drunken Boat seeks entries for our inaugural book contest in poetry, open to any work of poetry in English (hybrid, multi-authored, and translations into English are welcome). Winner receives publication, $500, 20 author copies, a debut reading at AWP and ads in print and online sources. Though we welcome multi-author and translation projects, we can only afford to pay one honorarium (which may be split as authors / translators prefer). Drunken Boat books are distributed by SPD. Excerpts from all finalists judged in house by the Drunken Boat staff will be featured in a special folio in an issue of Drunken Boat, international online journal of the arts.

Eligibility

Open book competition for all writers with no limitations on the amount of work a writer has published. Manuscripts must be between 30 and 120 pages. Manuscripts are judged anonymously. Manuscripts must be previously unpublished as a whole (including self-publishing), but individual works may have been published.

Colleagues, current and recent students, and close friends of the judge, Forrest Gander, are not eligible. Current Drunken Boat staff and interns are not eligible. Entries must be received by June 25, 2014. Reading fee is $25.

For $3 extra to cover shipping cost, entrants who provide a U.S. mailing address may choose to receive this contest’s winning book or any Drunken Boat book. The winner will be announced to our email list and on our website in September, 2014, and we expect to publish the winning book in April of 2015.

How to Submit

Submit a previously unpublished, full-length poetry manuscript with a table of contents, between 30 and 120 pages. No manuscript will be rejected simply because it’s shorter or longer.

Submit as a single document a cover page with the title of the manuscript only, a table of contents, acknowledgements of previous publications if applicable, and the complete finished paginated manuscript. Do not include any identifying information in the submission, including acknowledgements. (If your name is an integral part of your work, please contact us for guidelines on replacing it with a pseudonym for the purposes of judging the contest). Submittable provides fields to fill in your contact information: name, address, telephone number, and email address.

Individual poems in a contest manuscript may have been previously published in magazines, journals, anthologies, or chapbooks, but the work as a whole must be unpublished. If applicable, include with your manuscript an acknowledgments page for prior publications.

Simultaneous submissions to other publishers or contests are permitted, as long as you notify us promptly if a manuscript is accepted elsewhere.

Multiple submissions are accepted, so long as each submission is accompanied by a separate reading fee.

Upload complete submission, and pay reading fee here.

(We are an independent, nonprofit literary press. Reading fees help with, but do not entirely cover, the cost of reviewing manuscripts, and publishing and publicizing the winner. If for reasons of financial hardship you cannot afford to pay the reading fee, please email us at editor@drunkenboat.com and we will try to help.)

Submit today!

https://drunkenboat.submittable.com/submit/27945

 

Drunken Boat seeks entries for our inaugural book contest in poetry, open to any work of poetry in English (hybrid, multi-authored, and translations into English are welcome). Winner receives publication, $500, 20 author copies, a debut reading at AWP and ads in print and online sources. Though we welcome multi-author and translation projects, we can only afford to pay one honorarium (which may be split as authors / translators prefer). Drunken Boat books are distributed by SPD. Excerpts from all finalists judged in house by the Drunken Boat staff will be featured in a special folio in an issue of Drunken Boat, international online journal of the arts.

Eligibility

Open book competition for all writers with no limitations on the amount of work a writer has published. Manuscripts must be between 30 and 120 pages. Manuscripts are judged anonymously. Manuscripts must be previously unpublished as a whole (including self-publishing), but individual works may have been published.

Colleagues, current and recent students, and close friends of the judge, Forrest Gander, are not eligible. Current Drunken Boat staff and interns are not eligible. Entries must be received by June 25, 2014. Reading fee is $25.

For $3 extra to cover shipping cost, entrants who provide a U.S. mailing address may choose to receive this contest’s winning book or any Drunken Boat book. The winner will be announced to our email list and on our website in September, 2014, and we expect to publish the winning book in April of 2015.

How to Submit

Submit a previously unpublished, full-length poetry manuscript with a table of contents, between 30 and 120 pages. No manuscript will be rejected simply because it’s shorter or longer.

Submit as a single document a cover page with the title of the manuscript only, a table of contents, acknowledgements of previous publications if applicable, and the complete finished paginated manuscript. Do not include any identifying information in the submission, including acknowledgements. (If your name is an integral part of your work, please contact us for guidelines on replacing it with a pseudonym for the purposes of judging the contest). Submittable provides fields to fill in your contact information: name, address, telephone number, and email address.

Individual poems in a contest manuscript may have been previously published in magazines, journals, anthologies, or chapbooks, but the work as a whole must be unpublished. If applicable, include with your manuscript an acknowledgments page for prior publications.

Simultaneous submissions to other publishers or contests are permitted, as long as you notify us promptly if a manuscript is accepted elsewhere.

Multiple submissions are accepted, so long as each submission is accompanied by a separate reading fee.

Upload complete submission, and pay reading fee here.

(We are an independent, nonprofit literary press. Reading fees help with, but do not entirely cover, the cost of reviewing manuscripts, and publishing and publicizing the winner. If for reasons of financial hardship you cannot afford to pay the reading fee, please email us at editor@drunkenboat.com and we will try to help.)

Submit today!

https://drunkenboat.submittable.com/submit/27945

 

Bookmark and Share

Published Jun 26, 2014 - Comments Off

« Go forward into the future

Go further into the past »