At the end of her poem “Epithalamium,” Erika Jo Brown writes: “language is not enough / to contain the extreme possibility / of every day togetherness.” She, of course, is correct. In addition to language there are some other things we need to contain the extreme possibilities of togetherness; two of them are an ex-con with an eye patch (1:28) and a wicked sweet motorcycle to drive through a stained glass window (2:09).
Every since I was a young child and I first saw the video for “Safety Dance” on Captain Kangaroo, I’ve always associated pastures with the opening scene in a the Men Without Hats video: Ivan Doroschuk in a brown leather vest and little person in jester garb prancing through an expanse of bright green tallgrass. When in his poem “Pasture,” Joshua Fomon writes, “I could gnaw // I could suckle / your ankles. // Dimember the apostrophe. / I am here. I am meadow. // To bleed shrill,” the bucolic fantasies of my youth turn much darker.
In Joshua R. Helms’s poem “Meat Cute,” the speaker’s lover “asks if I’m attached / to my body. I’m not / sure.”A difficult question, indeed, and certainly more difficult to answer. But, as is the case with most quandaries life presents us with, William Shatner provides us with the best answer: first that the 2:23 mark, then again at the 4:08 mark. Dear god, Mr. Helms, what has happened to us?
At the beginning of her poem “Heavy,” the speaker of Lauren Leavitt’s poem tells us that “it takes one red brick / to alienate everything that is good”; while I’m unsure as to whether or not this bit of wisdom holds true, I do know that there is one red balloon “will take you straight to hell” (0:31). If you don’t believe me, watch the below video.
Before reading Carrie Lorig’s poem “Andrew Wyeth,” I had never heard of Andrew Wyeth; after reading Carrie Lorig’s poem “Andrew Wyeth,” which is beautiful, I had heard of Andrew Wyeth but did know who he was. My friends, Andrew Wyeth is a motherfucking funeral crasher who, no doubt, has “slipped breath / into a red balloon” David Cross follows about town:
The speaker of Gina Myers’s poem “Hold It Down” experiences “frustration in [her] inability / to control [her] environment” and thus engendering a “new feeling [she] lack[s] a name for.” We learn from the poem that the frustration and ambiguity the speaker suffers from stems from the OWS movement and events surrounding it, which my sources tell me is/was an Internet sensation. My sources also tell me that Lana Del Rey is/was an Internet sensation. I would like to be the first to propose that the OWS movement is kind of like Lana Del Rey.
Within issue two of ILK, there are several excerpts from Ted Powers’s poem “Please Light Up.” In the first of these excerpts, the speaker jumps over a fence, which is “a fence / around a strip club.” Soon thereafter, the speaker tells us: “I was bored by the fence / and the strip club.” May I suggest, dear speaker, you were at the wrong strip club? If you want to know where the correct strip club is, ask Ben Gazzara.
There’s something masochistic about the desire “to sleep / for a century of two. At least until // new dinosaurs” arrive; just read Nate Pritts’s poem “Exit Strategy” to find out. I mean, have you ever imagined what it would be like to live with the dinosaurs? Well, if you haven’t, there’s no need to hypothesize: Sid and Marty Krofft let us follow Marshall, Will, and Holly into the center of the earth to find out.
My first inclination after reading the title of Gregory Sherl’s poem “There Is No Fucking In This Poem” was to post a video of two elephants fucking. Who wouldn’t want to pleasure themselves to such a beatific image? And, if Sherl wasn’t going to give us some fucking, the least I could do was give you some fucking. But, after reading through the whole poem, I’m not going to giving you an fucking either. Instead, I’m going to give you that scene of fake-Mulder and Scully almost kissing.
Caribou is an indie band fronted a by dude with a PhD in Mathematics; “Caribou” is a poem by Janey Smith in which the speaker says: “When you are on top of me I spend my time panting.” I feel that same way about the women at the beginning of this video for Caribou’s song “Sun.”
Marcus Speh, in his “Selected Works Of A Hermit Crab Written On Shells, Stones And Scales” writes: “The letters spelled ‘never mind’,” and “Do not publish what you don’t understand.” Nobody understood the lyrics to Nirvana’s Nevermind; “Oh well, whatever, nevermind,” you know you haven’t watched this video since 1991.
Nick Sturm declares: “What A Tremendous Time We’re Having!” I once had a tremendous time; it was at a house party. Kid N Play were at that house party at which I was having a tremendous time. We might have been “stranded on [a] digital archipelago,” but we were all dancing and it was fucking awesome.
“I am bad ass,” says the speaker of Paige Taggart’s poem “Intergalactic Battles”; so much so that she can hold “a real spaceship” in her hands. You know who else was bad ass? Dirk Benedict and Lorene Green commandeering real spaceships in the hit sci-fi television program Battlestar Galactica.
In the Elena Tomorowitz poem “Simulation,” we discover that two lovers “play together like birds / with heavy bodies.” Max Headroom was humanity simulated, but he did not have a body. As his name indicates, the television in which he was encased merely provided head room: no space for a body; he never had to worry about getting “off / the ground without falling.”
Let’s face it, Joshua Ware is a total asshole.