I want to bury my name in you


ALL ROADS. . .But This One is the initial release from Luddite Kingdom Press (Dust Congress house poet klipschutz conceived the volume). As editor, he "picked three worthies far-flung and diverse—of whose talent he is jealous—then, in a nod to Dick Cheney, recommended himself." The limited edition book itself is beautiful. A handcrafted book -- "116 pages printed on French Paper from Michigan!" -- runs a bit more than a mass produced one, but as someone said, it’s "a piece of art, with art inside." Order yours today!

A poem from each poet in the book:

A Seasonal
-- by Jon Cone

Snow wraps the world in swaddling.
I am newly born, putting my nose to the wind,
checking the meaning of all I receive.

Twenty-one huffs later.

My back aches. My knees tremble.
Shovel in hand, I sweat into my woolen hat.
I am building a pyramid at the end of the driveway.

Pines swoon above the frozen pond.

It is the brilliance of snow
that it gracefully converts
to a religion intent on reaching
the paradise of ice.

This is our place, our palace.
This hill,
Beneath these snow-filled boots.

Bob Explains Statistics to Me
-- by Claudia Grinnell

There is really no easier way to say this, I brush
my teeth twice daily, sometimes more if needs
warrant. I thus have a 95 percent chance
of not getting a cavity. And the other five percent
I ask. That’s the price you have to pay for knowing
not truth, but something better—possibility.
I don’t like possibility. There’s always one
that will lose engine power at 30,000 feet, or one
that sends a tsunami my way, or one that collapses
the 30 story building while I ride the elevator
(possibly running with frayed cables) to the 15th
floor, the one where my ovaries are x-rayed, or
the one where nothing, absolutely nothing could
possibly happen because this is the floor of truth.
I get off on this floor, and a surgeon rushes
to amputate both of my legs. Truthfully, there was
no blood and nearly no pain. He explains to me
that a woman in Ecuador now has a 65 percent chance
of conceiving a baby the next time she sleeps
with the man who calls himself Jesus. What do
my legs have to do with anything, I scream.
We all have to make sacrifices for truth to work
out, he helpfully explains. Mostly, though,
it’s the money and how we like the taste of thighs.

The Goo Life
-- by klipschutz

We are living it: all
Our fun & sorrow
Sticking to whatever comes along.
Gravy, we are, Magic, we are. Gum.
Chances blow us but don’t swallow.
Many moons from now, Running Shoe,
When we have all followed
Elvis from the building
& stick to nothing but
Our own elusive selves,
Humankind will still be pounding
Fists on tables
Over what it is and it is not.

Americana
-- by Albert Sgambati

Oklahoma was a hole in the ground. It was like someone who hasn’t learned to love. A puppy squeezed to death. Kansas was a basement where I searched for her again and again. A tongue kiss on the hard ground. Texas, a river. In between I called my mother. “How are you, son?” she asked. “Fine, mama,” I said, while her neck stretched smooth across the Southwest. I sailed by the stars and climbed the stairs barefoot in her dreams. I was quiet and crazy and strong. But in the end I loved her. Like I said I was someone who had never been taught how to love. When I spoke with my mother, she asked, “How are you making out, son?” “Fine, mama,” I said, and kept moving.


--- back Tuesday