Recently Received

Simon Pettet- 5oo Postcard Project

Farfalla Press, Brooklyn NY, 2010

First 10 hand-made postcards of 400 to date-

Boston Poetry Marathon 2003 Postcard Set, 

Boog City, New York NY, Border by Hedi Sorger

60 sets 26 of which are signed, this set being set R.

Contributers: Jim Behle, Dan Bouchard, Lisa Bourbeau, Lee Ann Brown, Maxine Chernoff, Sean Cole, Donna de la Perriere, Jocelyn Emerson, Thomas Fink, Joanna Fuhrman, Johannes Goransson, Paul Hoover, David Kirschenbaum, Tanya Larkin, Ruth Lepson, Lori Lubeski, Michael Magee, Wanda Phipps, Peter Richards, Douglas Rothschild, Linda Russo, David Shapiro and Diane Wald 

Introduction to America, a History in Verse

Volume 3 (1962-1970) by Edward Sanders

Boog City, New York NY, 2001

Cover and inside art by E. Sanders

Layout by D. Kirschenbaum

Poem for Elizabeth Who in a Bar Mentioned a Horse

by David A. Kirschenbaum

Boog City, New York NY

Street Magic

By Grant D. McLeman

Spiritus Mundi Press 2009  

Worthington, Mass.

The Recluse 5: Homage to George Schneeman

The Poetry Project at St Marks Church, Ltd. , June 2009

Front cover and inserts by George Schneeman

Edited by Stacy Szymaszek, Corrine Fitzpatrick and Arlo Quint

Contributors: Elio Schneeman, Michael Lally, Maureen Owen, Will Yackulic, Sandy Berrigan, Pamela Lawton, Vincent Katz, Elinor Nauen, Anselm Berrigan, Todd Colby, Lisa Birman, Steven Hall, Edmund Berrigan, Gary Parrish and Cliff Fyman

.

Three Poems by Chris Ide

David Cope writes, Garage clean-up find: Chris Ide chapbook left while he was living with me 

and kicking methadone (1992). About 100 poems circa 7-11-87 to 10-11-92.

inscription to a journal beginning 7/1/87

That future boys & girls might read

these days I drag-ass through & feel

a bit less lonely fear, I send back

my love, a confused hungover thing now,

nonetheless, take heed, my heart swells for you

from whatever foreign city state

or body I now inhabit,

I pray to touch you.

7/1/87

The way it works

If you are a poet

there will be days when you'll move to sing

& your lungs will fill with mud,

or

    if you are a shoemaker

there will be times when you will sit

sole-less,

if

    you're a mortician

there'll be periods when you're certain

that every damn man will live

      forever,

& you will be

        wrong.

    One day you'll awaken

napping, in the very middle of the moon--

one day, you'll awaken

quite not at all.

3/3/86

Every Breath an Epiphany . . . 

Some days I find an old friend in the mail box

all pals scattered 'cross country w/ their hangups;

helplessly in love, hopeless broken-hearted,

strung-out unk hungover or engaged

poets/writers all waiting for their literature

that one consolation for living which

is song, cuz love-pomes outlive love

& elegies might be immortal, mere

everyday details existing as one vast footnote--

If only we could live out our lives

in that single lucid stanza,

every breath an epiphany!

Instead time exits as a parasite, wristwatch

clinbs to arm like a blood-thirsty leech

tired years to drown it in liquor found

no poison strong enough instead

the liver swells up hatefull, brain

pickled in eternity of 2 am's

w/ shaky hands & no sleep, genitals

purple from self-abuse, the heart

refusing even to break, thumping out

its requiem beat from behind a cage of bones . . .

Angels of Satiety, I write you into existence,

come breathe life in & out my body

be done & leave me to a common grave;

let my corpse be a feast for scavengers

bind up my spirit hardcover, fingers

rattle my bones, this page will yellow

into dust intermingling w/ air that feeds

the lungs of a future beloved damned

to a life-span Earthling Poet . . . 

Summer '89