Who owns our myths? If we alter them, do we undo the sacred? Do we show hubris unaccountable? Do we strike down the work of great poets against their will, when they are forever unarmed and can not defend themselves or their honor?
Complications, of course, exist, perhaps even explode on the scene of the first, next and last myth. They were once merely spoken and endlessly passed down from generation to generation, never finding their way onto paper or parchment, never once locked in, set in stone, tamed. And when finally written down, these markings of our cultural, collected soul were often distorted, revised beyond recognition, generally conforming with societal and political norms centuries removed from the oral tradition. . . . Read more. “He Stood Alone”
Spinozablue’s August edition features a new film by Shabnam Piryaei, art by Mark Zlomislic, fiction by E.K. Smith, and poetry by Valentina Cano, Howie Good and Jack Galmitz.
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The story of Cuchulain has me thinking about panthers. Black panthers. Not because they appear in the myths. As far as I remember, none do. Nor do we see lions, leopards or tigers.
Panthers are relatively small and powerful, sleek, taut and coiled, and they explode from what looks deceptively like a relaxed state. They look at ease, always, until they pounce. And then they just look . . . triumphant.
My book ode to fragile was published by Plain View Press in 2010 and my book A Method for Counting Days is forthcoming from Furniture Press Books. I have been awarded the Poets & Writers Amy Award for Poetry and the Transport of the Aim Poetry Prize, as well as grants from the Elizabeth George Foundation, the Northern Manhattan Arts Alliance, and the Barbara Deming Memorial Fund. Most recently I’ve been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. My short films have been screened at film festivals and art galleries internationally.
When I paint, I am taken into a different place that is boundless, without limits and constraints. Paint, brush, canvas or wood mix to reveal what may have been overlooked and left unnoticed. I paint to leave an imprint, a record of my time here. The colours are an archive of memory to be deciphered by others. I blend the poetic word with the mute witness of paint. It records my struggle to keep death away and yet I notice how faithfully it sits next to me, as if to say, I have not seen this before. My art resides in the tension between the eternal and the temporal as I seek to understand what lies before me. . . . Read more. “Mark Zlomislic: After Francis Bacon”
Hyperexcitation makes the mention of conglamourous totally awesome by rope or practice tee. Naturally Bruce Lee doesn’t have a sweet crony. Hypertension is a foolish anomaly and we should never listen. We are the bistrot of concatenated overthrow succeeding to Zeitlichkeit. Fan, therefore, feathers in night. As fragmentautilitarianism please chisel hymn giantly to the gods. Next best, token bibulous goosey fomentors trammeled in gangling mimosas terribly to twang odds. So this is all. The hips and the mods, and so this is a suture. So this is Christlike future appending hollowly to very tombs.
She watches intently as I place my oversized suitcase on the bed and slowly start to unpack. Her deep brown eyes have little stars in them, birthed from the howls of ravenous wolves. Sometimes I forget she is not my daughter, her complexion mimics mine so perfectly. I pull out an old pair of jeans, fold them, and put them in a drawer. She rubs her tiny flat nose with the back of her hand, leaving it lightly glazed and a bit shiny. I put a bra into my laundry bin. She picks at the edges of the black button eyes of the teddy bear she is holding tight against her chest. . . . Read more. “E.K. Smith: The Lion’s Share”
As I lie sleepless in the semidarkness, birds warm up their voices, & it occurs to me that only birds know what birds are saying, just as only you know how to make me crackle & roar like the burning lab of a mad scientist.
THE SUICIDE PROJECT
1 Everyone who knew you knew you loved guns,
& when you pressed the nickel- plated barrel of a favorite under your chin,
the winos drinking in the shadows of the park stumbled,
& a bee zoomed up from the depths of a flower,
a striped spaceship escaping the monotonous gravity of Earth.
2 Death made a black wreath of its red & wrinkled hands,
I’d barely seen him, his body angled like a knife around the hallway, his profile pushing the night back like a flashlight. My voice crystallized and cracked into shards, so when he spoke, I had nothing to say. Sometimes, even now, I still feel like I’m picking up glittering pieces.
Valentina Cano is a student of classical singing who spends whatever free time she has either writing or reading. Her works have appeared in Popshot, Golden Sparrow Literary Review, The Black Fox Literary Magazine, Ontologica, Spinozablue, Congruent Spaces Magazine, and Danse Macabre among numerous others. . . . Read more. “Valentina Cano: The Jagged Edge”