Ralph found a book and saw words: “Abandon your past to drown and dry.”
Ralph was not old. Ralph saw: “Don’t look down for a walk backwards has no floor.”
Ralph was young and strong. But Ralph was bald. Ralph had a bathroom. Motor sounds from that bathroom would annoy Ralph. So Ralph sang words from that book Ralph found, “Among rats you’ll forward through narrow, half-loop turns as you walk backwards.”
“What a funny book,” Ralph thought. Ralph lost control. A tumor burst from Ralph’s hand. Glands would now pop around Ralph. Odd odors would now float about Ralph’s body.
Ralph’s bathroom was stuffy. Would Ralph catch a flu?
Ralph was rung by Samantha.
“Hago,” Ralph told Samantha.
“What you up to?” Samantha told Ralph.
“A funny book,” Ralph told Samantha.
“Funny, ha ha? Or funny, blah?” Samantha told Ralph.
“Funny, boom boom,” Ralph told Samantha.
“Happy Boss Day!” Samantha told Ralph.
“Boss Day?” Ralph told Samantha.
Ralph had no job. Ralph was poor. Ralph told Samantha, “You cannot succumb to worry. That’ll snuff your walk.”
“Book words,” Ralph thought.
Samantha told Ralph, “Too much hurt. Can’t. Can’t. Want to. But can’t. Amor…”
Ralph thought Samantha dumb.
Why?
Grounds: Ralph wants Samantha. Ralph wants to fuck Samantha. Samantha won’t fuck Ralph. But Samantha always calls Ralph up.
Ralph told Samantha, “An actor holds your hand and bombs you at dark as you walk backwards.”
“Shut up!” Samantha told Ralph. “Rotard’s a good boy.”
“Booooor…Boooooor….Booooordom,” Ralph told Samantha.
“Rotard’s fun,” Samantha told Ralph.
“Funny book, ha ha,” Ralph told Samantha. “Ugly top. Says, ‘Don’t fall for stock. Bunk facts cloud and brush away all that’s gold.’”
“How’s your tumor?” Samantha told Ralph.
“Burst-boom,” Ralph told Samantha.
“Oh, no! So sorry!” Samantha told Ralph.
“Flaunt your walk,” Ralph told Samantha.
“My stomach hurts now,” Samantha told Ralph.
Everything around me has caught fire
Unedited, new Platitudes song, “Everything around me has caught fire.”
Download this episode (right click and save)
Missed Connections and Casual Encounters
My latest poetry collection, Missed Connections & Casual Encounters, will be published as en eBook at Read Some Words.
Read a review by David Fishkind HERE.
New poem, “Plena en Old San Juan,” published at Gutter Eloquence. Check that out HERE.
Argentinian Artists
My proofer for the to-Spanish translations I do, Marina Reyes, studies art curating in Argentina. Sometime soon, she will be bringing some of these artists to Puerto Rico.
Check them out:
Itamar Hartavi
Ramiro Oller
Valeria Vilar
Nicolas Ozuna
Mario Scorzelli
New Translations!
Cuarto oscuro
Somos animales y
cuando los animales pasan meses en un cuarto oscuro
se les olvida el hambre
y solamente se rien
derramando gérmenes sobre
el estuco.
- Translated from English by Andy Riverbed with proofs by Marina Reyes Franco
Dark Room
We're animals and
when animals spend months in a dark room
they forget their hunger
and just laugh
spilling germs on the face
of the stucco.
- Joseph Goosey
***UPDATE***
After being accessed by David Leavitt on the legalities of publishing translations of deceased authors without permission, and out of fear of legal retributions, I have decided to temporarily (hopefully) delete all translations of José María Lima's work on the Instruction Manual until I have official permission to do so.
Sorry for the inconvenience.
- AR 4/26/10
esta mujer nueva
emite noventa palabras
por cada cinco de las tuyas:
la mayoría son
el eco de calidad inferior
de un pajaro carpintero.
casi te gustaría
sonarle la cabeza
con un gran par de cimbales.
la sala
de su casa
esta decorada
con grabados orientales
hay un
pequeño cuenco lleno de disquitos de canela
sobre la mesa ratona de bambú.
esta tarde
ella parlotea sobre
su ansiedad severa antes de examenes
cuando estaba en la universidad.
asientas con la cabeza
en momentos apropiados
y te comes los disquitos de canela
como un castor sufriendo de un desorden de obsesion compulsivo
en lo que tu dialogo interno
corre una lazada corta:
¿qué carajo haces aquí?
¿qué carajo haces aquí?
esto no es una opción viable a largo plazo
¿qué carajo haces aquí?
—y después ella te maniobra
—se vivaquea al lado tuyo
—corre sus uñas
a lo largo de tu brazo.
te la tiras
sobre tu hombro
y subes
hacia su cuarto
donde las paredes
estan pintadas de rojo sangre.
alguna noches
se besan
por horas sin fin
hasta que el rastrojo
de tu barbilla
frota cruda su piel.
ella es el
mejor canto de culo
que has tenido en una decada.
esto probablemente
terminará mal.
- Translated from English by Andy Riverbed with proofs by Marina Reyes Franco
this new woman
emits ninety words
to every five of yours:
most of it
substandard echo
of the woodpecker.
you'd half like to
clang a large pair of cymbals
over her head.
the living room
of her townhouse
is decorated
in oriental prints
there is
a little bowl of cinnamon disks
on the
bamboo coffee-table.
this evening
she prattles on
about her severe test anxiety
while in college:
you nod
at appropriate junctures
and work the cinnamon disks
like a beaver with ocd
as your internal dialog
runs on a short loop:
what the fuck are you doing here?
what the fuck are you doing here?
this is not a viable long term option
what the fuck are you doing here?
- then she maneuvers
- bivouacs beside you
- runs her fingernails
up the length of your arm.
toss her
over your shoulders
upstairs
to her bedroom
where the walls
are painted blood red.
some nights
you kiss
hours on end
until the stubble
on your chin
rubs her skin raw.
she's the
best piece of ass
you've had in a decade.
this will
end badly.
- Justin Hyde
Showing posts with label Translations. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Translations. Show all posts
Friday, September 25, 2009
Monday, August 10, 2009
How to know when it’s all over (or how to meditate)
"the day 'oxycontin' was introduced to my vocabulary."
it started out as a cure. maybe not a cure but a workaround, a band-aid, a relief, a coping mechanism.
"take one of these every 8-12 hours," said the vietnamese doctor in the white jacket.
"sure doc. no problem," I replied.
the day was hot. time is always hot in Orange County. the sun penetrates, smothers, suffocates a person. the sun never dies. despite sorrow, death, emptiness, worthlessness, any horrible emotion or event a person can endure, the sun suffers through, slowing everything down, illuminating frailties. a desperate type of glow.
agony becomes the day.
i left little saigon with prescription in hand not knowing in a few hours my chemical makeup would change forever.
- jereme dean
Madore
PH Madore has a chapbook, YOUR, coming out from Publishing Genius Press soon. Check him out HERE.
Online Radio Speech
I was invited by Newamba Flamingo to read and talk shit on his BlogTalkRadio Check that out HERE.
Comprehensive Review of “Russia” by the Mystery Books
David Fishkind wrote a review of the Mystery Book’s “Russia.” Check that out HERE.
ZCB Full-Length
Zachary C. Bush has his first full-length collection has been released. Check that out HERE.
I like Bush’s stuff a lot. So much that I've even done a "cover" of him. You check that out in this video:
CircoCirco Shows
the junkward w/ sexy crimes(richmond), ex-boogeymen, honest arrow, cop shades aug 15
wayward council w/ didimao (san francisco), magic and the johnsons (orlando), diamonds guns gold aug 22
the kickstand w/ tubers, alligator sept 12
trash bash at the kickstand oct 3
New Translations!
***UPDATE***
After being accessed by David Leavitt on the legalities of publishing translations of deceased authors without permission, and out of fear of legal retributions, I have decided to temporarily (hopefully) delete all translations of José María Lima's work on the Instruction Manual until I have official permission to do so.
Sorry for the inconvenience.
- AR 4/26/10
dennis 36 años
la primera cosa que noté
sobre el hombre
que vino a arreglar mi
trituradora de basura
fue la etiqueta con su nombre:
dennis 36 años.
sin decir una palabra
se desplazó hacía mi cocina
con un cubo blanco de cinco galones
haciéndole de caja de herramientas
agarrado en su mano izquierda.
del cubo
sacó una toalla vieja
y la puso sobre el piso
debajo del lavamano
y se arrodilló.
estoy fascinado
y horrorizado
por el tipo de persona
quien trabaja 36 años
en el mismo empleo.
personalmente
nunca he durado
más de un año y medio
en cualquiera.
sentado en la esquina de la cama
en mi apartamentito
pretendí leer
una colección de cuentos cortos
por chekhov
pero lo que hice fue observarlo trabajar
quisiendo saber
qué clase de pensamientos
corrían por su mente
diariamente.
como sherwood anderson
estoy intrigado por lo
grotesco
pero si prestas
atención a esta vida
sabrás que esas preguntas
no se hacen abiertamente
al tipo de persona
que ha trabajado 36 años
en el mismo empleo.
escuché su llave inglesa
caer al piso.
murciélago del infierno,
dijo
y siguió trabajando.
par de minutos luego
puso la toalla
en el cubo
y se paró.
aguantará presión,
dijo
y me pasó por el lado
y salió.
esa noche
estaba borracho
bebiendo crown and seven
haciéndome el payaso
para mi primer
amiga con privilegios en diez años
y me di un golpe en el dedito del pie
contra el pilar de la cama.
murciélago del infierno,
dije
cojeando del dolor.
qué acabas de decir?
llamó ella desde la cama
donde estaba sentada con las piernas cruzadas
y sus trenzas
pintándose
las uñas de negro.
murciélago del infierno
no son mis palabras
me las robé
de dennis 36 años,
dije
mirando hacia abajo
para asegurame
que no haya esquilado
el dedo de mi pie.
ah?
olvídate,
dije
y me le trepé a la cama correctamente
y coloqué el esmalte sobre la mesita de noche
y le descarge
toda mi presíon encima.
- Translated from English by Andy Riverbed with proofs by Marina Reyes Franco
dennis 36 years
first thing i noticed
about the man
who came to fix my
garbage disposal
was his name tag:
dennis 36 years.
without saying a word
he made his way to my kitchen
white five-gallon bucket
in his left hand
serving as a tool-box.
he pulled an old blanket
out of the bucket
spread it on the floor
beneath the sink
and crouched down.
i'm fascinated
and appalled
by the kind of people
who work 36 years
at the same job.
personally
i've never lasted
more than a year and a half
at any turn.
sitting on the edge of the bed
in my efficiency apt
i pretended to read
a book of short stories
by chekhov
but i watched him work
wanting to know
what kind of thoughts
ran through his mind
on a daily basis.
like sherwood anderson
i’m intrigued by the
grotesques
but if you pay
any kind of attention in this life
you know you don’t
ask those kinds of questions outright
to the type of people
who work 36 years
at the same job.
i heard his wrench
drop to the floor.
bat-full of hell,
he said
and kept working.
a few minutes later
he put the towel
in the bucket
and stood up.
she'll take the full load,
he said
and walked past me
and let himself out.
that night
i was sideways
on crown and seven
playing the clown
for my first
fuck-buddy in ten years
and i stubbed my little toe
on her bedpost.
bat-full of hell,
i said
limping it off.
what'd you just say?
she called from the bed
where she sat cross-legged
in pigtails
painting her
fingernails black.
bat-full of hell
it's not my line
i stole it
from dennis 36 years,
i said
looking down there
to make sure
i hadn’t sheared off
the toe.
wha?
never mind,
i said
and got up there properly
and set the polish on the bed-stand
and gave her
the full load.
- Justin Hyde
Maniquís que sudan tinta negra y nunca se divierten
Cazo mariposas con un arco miniatura hecho de ramitas y flechas elaboradas de las arrugas de tu cara, que representan todos los ceños fruncidos que has hecho en tu vida.
Quisiera ser la imagen que creaste de mí porque así me amarías y nunca me dejarías ir.
Estoy en una casa de retirados y estoy durmiendo debajo de la cama de un viejo que no sabe quién es y piensa que su familia ha desparecido.
Le sigo diciendo, “Tic, toc, tic, toc, nadie te quiere y no te aguantaré la mano cuando te mueras.”
Si pones un Twizzler dentro de tu oido parece como si tu oido estuviese vomitando sangre.
Si algun día tengo hijos, será un grave error y le pediré perdón al mayor número de personas que quiera escucharme.
Acuéstate. Es hora de caminar sobre ti y decir que eres un puente que ya no necesitaré.
Amo a todos los que lean esto.
- Translated from English by Andy Riverbed with proofs by Marina Reyes Franco
Mannequins that sweat black ink and never have any fun
I hunt butterflies with a miniature bow made of twigs and arrows fashioned from the creases in your face that represent every frown you've ever made.
I wish I were your made-up image of myself because then you'd love me and never let me go.
I am in a retirement home and am sleeping underneath the bed of an old man who doesn't know who he is anymore and who thinks his family has disappeared.
I keep saying "Tick tock tick tock, nobody loves you and I won't hold your hand when you die."
If you put a Twizzler in your ear it looks like your ear is vomiting blood.
If I ever have kids it will be a mistake and I will apologize to the largest number of people willing to listen.
Lie down. It is time for me to walk over you and call you a bridge I no longer need.
I love everyone who reads this.
- Sam Pink
it started out as a cure. maybe not a cure but a workaround, a band-aid, a relief, a coping mechanism.
"take one of these every 8-12 hours," said the vietnamese doctor in the white jacket.
"sure doc. no problem," I replied.
the day was hot. time is always hot in Orange County. the sun penetrates, smothers, suffocates a person. the sun never dies. despite sorrow, death, emptiness, worthlessness, any horrible emotion or event a person can endure, the sun suffers through, slowing everything down, illuminating frailties. a desperate type of glow.
agony becomes the day.
i left little saigon with prescription in hand not knowing in a few hours my chemical makeup would change forever.
- jereme dean
Madore
PH Madore has a chapbook, YOUR, coming out from Publishing Genius Press soon. Check him out HERE.
Online Radio Speech
I was invited by Newamba Flamingo to read and talk shit on his BlogTalkRadio Check that out HERE.
Comprehensive Review of “Russia” by the Mystery Books
David Fishkind wrote a review of the Mystery Book’s “Russia.” Check that out HERE.
ZCB Full-Length
Zachary C. Bush has his first full-length collection has been released. Check that out HERE.
I like Bush’s stuff a lot. So much that I've even done a "cover" of him. You check that out in this video:
CircoCirco Shows
the junkward w/ sexy crimes(richmond), ex-boogeymen, honest arrow, cop shades aug 15
wayward council w/ didimao (san francisco), magic and the johnsons (orlando), diamonds guns gold aug 22
the kickstand w/ tubers, alligator sept 12
trash bash at the kickstand oct 3
New Translations!
***UPDATE***
After being accessed by David Leavitt on the legalities of publishing translations of deceased authors without permission, and out of fear of legal retributions, I have decided to temporarily (hopefully) delete all translations of José María Lima's work on the Instruction Manual until I have official permission to do so.
Sorry for the inconvenience.
- AR 4/26/10
dennis 36 años
la primera cosa que noté
sobre el hombre
que vino a arreglar mi
trituradora de basura
fue la etiqueta con su nombre:
dennis 36 años.
sin decir una palabra
se desplazó hacía mi cocina
con un cubo blanco de cinco galones
haciéndole de caja de herramientas
agarrado en su mano izquierda.
del cubo
sacó una toalla vieja
y la puso sobre el piso
debajo del lavamano
y se arrodilló.
estoy fascinado
y horrorizado
por el tipo de persona
quien trabaja 36 años
en el mismo empleo.
personalmente
nunca he durado
más de un año y medio
en cualquiera.
sentado en la esquina de la cama
en mi apartamentito
pretendí leer
una colección de cuentos cortos
por chekhov
pero lo que hice fue observarlo trabajar
quisiendo saber
qué clase de pensamientos
corrían por su mente
diariamente.
como sherwood anderson
estoy intrigado por lo
grotesco
pero si prestas
atención a esta vida
sabrás que esas preguntas
no se hacen abiertamente
al tipo de persona
que ha trabajado 36 años
en el mismo empleo.
escuché su llave inglesa
caer al piso.
murciélago del infierno,
dijo
y siguió trabajando.
par de minutos luego
puso la toalla
en el cubo
y se paró.
aguantará presión,
dijo
y me pasó por el lado
y salió.
esa noche
estaba borracho
bebiendo crown and seven
haciéndome el payaso
para mi primer
amiga con privilegios en diez años
y me di un golpe en el dedito del pie
contra el pilar de la cama.
murciélago del infierno,
dije
cojeando del dolor.
qué acabas de decir?
llamó ella desde la cama
donde estaba sentada con las piernas cruzadas
y sus trenzas
pintándose
las uñas de negro.
murciélago del infierno
no son mis palabras
me las robé
de dennis 36 años,
dije
mirando hacia abajo
para asegurame
que no haya esquilado
el dedo de mi pie.
ah?
olvídate,
dije
y me le trepé a la cama correctamente
y coloqué el esmalte sobre la mesita de noche
y le descarge
toda mi presíon encima.
- Translated from English by Andy Riverbed with proofs by Marina Reyes Franco
dennis 36 years
first thing i noticed
about the man
who came to fix my
garbage disposal
was his name tag:
dennis 36 years.
without saying a word
he made his way to my kitchen
white five-gallon bucket
in his left hand
serving as a tool-box.
he pulled an old blanket
out of the bucket
spread it on the floor
beneath the sink
and crouched down.
i'm fascinated
and appalled
by the kind of people
who work 36 years
at the same job.
personally
i've never lasted
more than a year and a half
at any turn.
sitting on the edge of the bed
in my efficiency apt
i pretended to read
a book of short stories
by chekhov
but i watched him work
wanting to know
what kind of thoughts
ran through his mind
on a daily basis.
like sherwood anderson
i’m intrigued by the
grotesques
but if you pay
any kind of attention in this life
you know you don’t
ask those kinds of questions outright
to the type of people
who work 36 years
at the same job.
i heard his wrench
drop to the floor.
bat-full of hell,
he said
and kept working.
a few minutes later
he put the towel
in the bucket
and stood up.
she'll take the full load,
he said
and walked past me
and let himself out.
that night
i was sideways
on crown and seven
playing the clown
for my first
fuck-buddy in ten years
and i stubbed my little toe
on her bedpost.
bat-full of hell,
i said
limping it off.
what'd you just say?
she called from the bed
where she sat cross-legged
in pigtails
painting her
fingernails black.
bat-full of hell
it's not my line
i stole it
from dennis 36 years,
i said
looking down there
to make sure
i hadn’t sheared off
the toe.
wha?
never mind,
i said
and got up there properly
and set the polish on the bed-stand
and gave her
the full load.
- Justin Hyde
Maniquís que sudan tinta negra y nunca se divierten
Cazo mariposas con un arco miniatura hecho de ramitas y flechas elaboradas de las arrugas de tu cara, que representan todos los ceños fruncidos que has hecho en tu vida.
Quisiera ser la imagen que creaste de mí porque así me amarías y nunca me dejarías ir.
Estoy en una casa de retirados y estoy durmiendo debajo de la cama de un viejo que no sabe quién es y piensa que su familia ha desparecido.
Le sigo diciendo, “Tic, toc, tic, toc, nadie te quiere y no te aguantaré la mano cuando te mueras.”
Si pones un Twizzler dentro de tu oido parece como si tu oido estuviese vomitando sangre.
Si algun día tengo hijos, será un grave error y le pediré perdón al mayor número de personas que quiera escucharme.
Acuéstate. Es hora de caminar sobre ti y decir que eres un puente que ya no necesitaré.
Amo a todos los que lean esto.
- Translated from English by Andy Riverbed with proofs by Marina Reyes Franco
Mannequins that sweat black ink and never have any fun
I hunt butterflies with a miniature bow made of twigs and arrows fashioned from the creases in your face that represent every frown you've ever made.
I wish I were your made-up image of myself because then you'd love me and never let me go.
I am in a retirement home and am sleeping underneath the bed of an old man who doesn't know who he is anymore and who thinks his family has disappeared.
I keep saying "Tick tock tick tock, nobody loves you and I won't hold your hand when you die."
If you put a Twizzler in your ear it looks like your ear is vomiting blood.
If I ever have kids it will be a mistake and I will apologize to the largest number of people willing to listen.
Lie down. It is time for me to walk over you and call you a bridge I no longer need.
I love everyone who reads this.
- Sam Pink
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
How to Catch the Fishes of the Sea
***UPDATE***
After being accessed by David Leavitt on the legalities of publishing translations of deceased authors without permission, and out of fear of legal retributions, I have decided to temporarily (hopefully) delete all translations of José María Lima's work on the Instruction Manual until I have official permission to do so.
Sorry for the inconvenience.
- AR 4/26/10
José María Lima was a poet, mathematics professor, and painter born in Ceiba (1934-2009), a place he speaks of as, “What impacted me the most was that my ancestors owned the lands of Roosevelt Roads and those lands were taken away from me." He was raised in an evangelical family but considered himself an atheist.
The journal, Universidad, edited by Juan Ramón Jiménez, published María Lima’s first poems in 1954. Ramón Jiménez wrote as the heading of María Lima’s first poetry collection, “José María Lima, you are a true poet and I am pleasured to have come to this realization for myself.”
José María Lima, poeta, profesor de matemáticas y pintór, nació en Ceiba (1934-2009), lugar sobre el cual comenta: “Lo que más me marcó es que mis antepasados eran dueños de los terrenos de Roosevelt Roads, y me los quitaron.” Crece en el núcleo de una familia evangélica, pero se considera ateo.
En el 1954, publica sus primeros poemas en la revista Universidad, a cargo de Juan Ramón Jiménez, quien le escribe las líneas que luego fungen como epígrafe al poemario: “José María Lima, es usted un verdadero poeta, y me alegro de haberlo sabido por mí mismo.”
Joseph Moore
CircoCirco’s drummer got a poem published. He is a man of many names, so to avoid confusion, you decide who he is. Check out his poem at Muumuu House HERE.
Damaged Review
New review of the Andy Riverbed poetry collection by J.A. Tyler published on Mudluscious. Check that out HERE.
La Cara Oculta
New Cara Oculta tape, Dee Dee Ramone, is out. Contact them HERE for details.
Check out “Señor Eaglebauer”
Amoricide
New blog documenting the interaction between Rey Andújar and Andy Riverbed as they little by little get Andújar’s latest story collection published in the Riverbed’s English translation. Check out that site, Amoricide, HERE.
Radiation Newsletter Issue #2
Coming Soon!
Copies of Issue #1 still available featuring coverage on Wall-Attacks 1 through 2, an interview with the Culprits, 1-800-RAMONES, How to Wheat Paste, and French Poets attacking the walls back in the day.
Check it out HERE.
New Translations!
Siete versions de la misma cosa
1
Ayer en el autobus estuve sentado al lado de un viejo. Nuestras piernas se tocaban. Por millas nos mantuvimos quietos sin hablar. En una parada, una muchacha nos pasó por el lado. El viejo la observo y me hizo gestos para que yo la mirara también.
“¿Diablo, que jevota, ah?” dijo y me viró la cara y me sonrió vivazmente.
Traté de pensar en algo que decirle.
“Sí,” le dije. “Me encantaría mordele las cejas y pegármelas sobre los labíos. Siempre he querido un bigote.”
El viejo se reacomodó en su asiento y nos mantuvimos con las mirada hacia delante por lo que nos quedaba del camino.
2
La muchacha pasó y el viejo me dió un codazo, invitándome a mirarla.
“¿Y eso, nene? ¿Qué piensas?” dijo.
Le sonreí y le asentí con la cabeza. Después le dije en alta voz, “Sí, estoy de acuerdo contigo y con lo que estás sugiriendo. Quisiera tener sexo con esa muchacha. No sé quién es pero creo que los dos podemos acordar que deberíamos pensar en su cuerpo y en chingarla. Estoy bien bellaco. ¿Y usted, está bellaco? Vamos a juntarnos y pensar en qué le haríamos.”
3
La muchacha nos pasó por el lado y el hombre se aguantó la cabeza con las manos. Su cabeza rebotaba de su falda con cada curva posterior que tomó el autobus durante el viaje.
4
La muchacha nos pasó por el lado. En lo que que ella nos pasaba, temporeramente me bloqueó la vista de la ventana y ya no podia ver el campo que había afuera. Me molesté porque recordé que estaba en un autobus rumbo a algún lugar y ese lugar probablemente requeriría algo de mí que yo podría saber o no saber qué hacer con ese algo, y quien estuviera ahi, aunque solo fuera yo mismo, me juzagaría capaz o incapaz.
5
La muchacha me pasa y se desmonta del autobus y baja por la carretera y nunca la veo de nuevo. Ella nunca pensará en mi en lo que camina millones de caminos en los cuales nunca coincidimos.
6
Estoy casi dormido cuando el autobus hace una curva y la luz del sol se dispara por la ventana. El hombre sentado al lado mio se vuelve rígido. Apunta con el dedo a la luz de forma cúbica sobre mi camiseta.
“¡Mierda! ¡Que jodienda! ¡Quítatelo! ¡Rápido!” me grita y se inclina hacia atrás apuntando. La luz sobre mi camiseta crece. “¡Quítatelo! ¡Está encima de ti! ¡Que hostia!”
Retrocedo para evitar la luz del sol. Pierdo vista de él porque la luz del sol cúbico me cubre la cara.
“¡Te tiene cubierto! ¡Muévete, por favor!”
Sus gritos se vuelven más como quejas patéticas y sus quejas se vuelven mojadas entre los tartamudos de los músculos de su garganta.
La muchacha pasando es solo una parte de un sinnúmero de cosas.
7
Ignoro al viejo y a la muchacha. Siento un timbre, un rintintín, comenzar dentro de mis oídos. Estoy conciente de este timbre. Es lo único que siento y percibo. Este sonido hace que no pueda escuchar mis pasos cuando me desmonto del autobus. De alguna manera sé que he llegado a mi parada. Camino hacia mi casa. De alguna manera conozco el camino. Alguien me persige a treinta pies de distancia. Tengo miedo, pero no debería. Nadie me quiere asesinar. Trato de abrir la puerta rápidamente. Mi apartamento esta oscuro. Me siento en mi sofa y me preocupo de cosas que no están presentes. Dejo que todos mis deberes giren por dentro de mi cabeza, pero en fin no hago nada. Me siento cansado y por fin listo para dormir. Voy a mi cuarto y cierro la puerta. A mitad de la noche me despierto. No me vuelvo a dormir. En vez, observo con ojos entre abiertos como la ventana en mi cuarto se aclara. Ya es casi tiempo de volver a montarme en el autobús.
- Translated by Andy Riverbed with proofs done by Marina Reyes Franco
Seven versions of the same version
1
I sat next to an old man on the bus yesterday. Our legs touched. We sat still and silent for miles. A girl walked by us at a stop. The old man watched her pass and then nudged me. He motioned for me to look too.
"Whew! Huh?" he turned and smiled at me, face alive.
I tried to think of something to say.
"Yeah I know," I replied. "I'd sure love to bite off one her eyebrows and glue it to my upper-lip. I've always wanted a moustache."
He readjusted himself in his seat and we sat staring forward for the remainder of the ride.
2
The girl passed by and the old man elbowed me hard. Entreating me to look.
"Man, how bout it huh?" he said.
I smiled and nodded. Then I spoke loudly. "Yes I agree with what I think you are suggesting. I would love to have sex with that girl. I don't know who she is but I think we can both agree that we should think about her body and having sex with it. I am aroused. How about you? Are you aroused sir? Let's think about what we'd do. Let's think together."
3
The girl passed us and the man put his head in his hands. His head bounced in his lap with each subsequent turn and bump in the road.
4
The girl passed us. As she passed, she temporarily blocked the window I was looking at, and the field outside. I became angry because I remembered that I was on a bus going somewhere and that somewhere would probably require something of me and I would either know or not know how to do that something and whoever was there if even just me would judge me capable or incapable.
5
The girl passes and leaves the bus and walks down the street and I never see her again. She will not think about me as she walks down the street into the millions of paths we never choose in accord.
6
I am almost asleep when the bus rounds a corner and sunlight shoots through the window. The man next to me becomes rigid. He points to the cube-shaped piece of light on my shirt.
"Shit. Oh shit. Get it off. Quick!" he screams and leans back, pointing. The cube on my shirt grows. "Get it off--it's on you--get it off. Oh shit!"
He crawls backwards to avoid the sunlight. I lose sight of him as the cube covers my face.
"It's all over you--move! Please!"
His yells become more like pathetic whining and the whining gets wet between the stuttering muscles of his throat.
The girl walking by is just one part of an endless number of things.
7
I ignore the old man and the girl. I feel a steady ringing begin in my ears. I am conscious of the ringing. It is all I can sense. It quiets my steps as I get off the bus. Somehow I know it is my stop. I walk home. Somehow I know the steps. Someone is walking thirty feet behind me. I am afraid. But I shouldn't be. No one would want to kill me. I try to put the keys in my door quickly. The apartment is dark. I sit on my couch and worry about things that are not present. I let revolve in my head all the things I have to do, ultimately doing none of them until I begin to feel sleepy. I go to my room and lock the door. Halfway through the night I wake up. I do not fall back asleep. Instead, I watch with eyes half-closed as the window in my room becomes lighter. It is almost time to get back on the bus.
- Sam Pink
After being accessed by David Leavitt on the legalities of publishing translations of deceased authors without permission, and out of fear of legal retributions, I have decided to temporarily (hopefully) delete all translations of José María Lima's work on the Instruction Manual until I have official permission to do so.
Sorry for the inconvenience.
- AR 4/26/10
José María Lima was a poet, mathematics professor, and painter born in Ceiba (1934-2009), a place he speaks of as, “What impacted me the most was that my ancestors owned the lands of Roosevelt Roads and those lands were taken away from me." He was raised in an evangelical family but considered himself an atheist.
The journal, Universidad, edited by Juan Ramón Jiménez, published María Lima’s first poems in 1954. Ramón Jiménez wrote as the heading of María Lima’s first poetry collection, “José María Lima, you are a true poet and I am pleasured to have come to this realization for myself.”
José María Lima, poeta, profesor de matemáticas y pintór, nació en Ceiba (1934-2009), lugar sobre el cual comenta: “Lo que más me marcó es que mis antepasados eran dueños de los terrenos de Roosevelt Roads, y me los quitaron.” Crece en el núcleo de una familia evangélica, pero se considera ateo.
En el 1954, publica sus primeros poemas en la revista Universidad, a cargo de Juan Ramón Jiménez, quien le escribe las líneas que luego fungen como epígrafe al poemario: “José María Lima, es usted un verdadero poeta, y me alegro de haberlo sabido por mí mismo.”
Joseph Moore
CircoCirco’s drummer got a poem published. He is a man of many names, so to avoid confusion, you decide who he is. Check out his poem at Muumuu House HERE.
Damaged Review
New review of the Andy Riverbed poetry collection by J.A. Tyler published on Mudluscious. Check that out HERE.
La Cara Oculta
New Cara Oculta tape, Dee Dee Ramone, is out. Contact them HERE for details.
Check out “Señor Eaglebauer”
Amoricide
New blog documenting the interaction between Rey Andújar and Andy Riverbed as they little by little get Andújar’s latest story collection published in the Riverbed’s English translation. Check out that site, Amoricide, HERE.
Radiation Newsletter Issue #2
Coming Soon!
Copies of Issue #1 still available featuring coverage on Wall-Attacks 1 through 2, an interview with the Culprits, 1-800-RAMONES, How to Wheat Paste, and French Poets attacking the walls back in the day.
Check it out HERE.
New Translations!
Siete versions de la misma cosa
1
Ayer en el autobus estuve sentado al lado de un viejo. Nuestras piernas se tocaban. Por millas nos mantuvimos quietos sin hablar. En una parada, una muchacha nos pasó por el lado. El viejo la observo y me hizo gestos para que yo la mirara también.
“¿Diablo, que jevota, ah?” dijo y me viró la cara y me sonrió vivazmente.
Traté de pensar en algo que decirle.
“Sí,” le dije. “Me encantaría mordele las cejas y pegármelas sobre los labíos. Siempre he querido un bigote.”
El viejo se reacomodó en su asiento y nos mantuvimos con las mirada hacia delante por lo que nos quedaba del camino.
2
La muchacha pasó y el viejo me dió un codazo, invitándome a mirarla.
“¿Y eso, nene? ¿Qué piensas?” dijo.
Le sonreí y le asentí con la cabeza. Después le dije en alta voz, “Sí, estoy de acuerdo contigo y con lo que estás sugiriendo. Quisiera tener sexo con esa muchacha. No sé quién es pero creo que los dos podemos acordar que deberíamos pensar en su cuerpo y en chingarla. Estoy bien bellaco. ¿Y usted, está bellaco? Vamos a juntarnos y pensar en qué le haríamos.”
3
La muchacha nos pasó por el lado y el hombre se aguantó la cabeza con las manos. Su cabeza rebotaba de su falda con cada curva posterior que tomó el autobus durante el viaje.
4
La muchacha nos pasó por el lado. En lo que que ella nos pasaba, temporeramente me bloqueó la vista de la ventana y ya no podia ver el campo que había afuera. Me molesté porque recordé que estaba en un autobus rumbo a algún lugar y ese lugar probablemente requeriría algo de mí que yo podría saber o no saber qué hacer con ese algo, y quien estuviera ahi, aunque solo fuera yo mismo, me juzagaría capaz o incapaz.
5
La muchacha me pasa y se desmonta del autobus y baja por la carretera y nunca la veo de nuevo. Ella nunca pensará en mi en lo que camina millones de caminos en los cuales nunca coincidimos.
6
Estoy casi dormido cuando el autobus hace una curva y la luz del sol se dispara por la ventana. El hombre sentado al lado mio se vuelve rígido. Apunta con el dedo a la luz de forma cúbica sobre mi camiseta.
“¡Mierda! ¡Que jodienda! ¡Quítatelo! ¡Rápido!” me grita y se inclina hacia atrás apuntando. La luz sobre mi camiseta crece. “¡Quítatelo! ¡Está encima de ti! ¡Que hostia!”
Retrocedo para evitar la luz del sol. Pierdo vista de él porque la luz del sol cúbico me cubre la cara.
“¡Te tiene cubierto! ¡Muévete, por favor!”
Sus gritos se vuelven más como quejas patéticas y sus quejas se vuelven mojadas entre los tartamudos de los músculos de su garganta.
La muchacha pasando es solo una parte de un sinnúmero de cosas.
7
Ignoro al viejo y a la muchacha. Siento un timbre, un rintintín, comenzar dentro de mis oídos. Estoy conciente de este timbre. Es lo único que siento y percibo. Este sonido hace que no pueda escuchar mis pasos cuando me desmonto del autobus. De alguna manera sé que he llegado a mi parada. Camino hacia mi casa. De alguna manera conozco el camino. Alguien me persige a treinta pies de distancia. Tengo miedo, pero no debería. Nadie me quiere asesinar. Trato de abrir la puerta rápidamente. Mi apartamento esta oscuro. Me siento en mi sofa y me preocupo de cosas que no están presentes. Dejo que todos mis deberes giren por dentro de mi cabeza, pero en fin no hago nada. Me siento cansado y por fin listo para dormir. Voy a mi cuarto y cierro la puerta. A mitad de la noche me despierto. No me vuelvo a dormir. En vez, observo con ojos entre abiertos como la ventana en mi cuarto se aclara. Ya es casi tiempo de volver a montarme en el autobús.
- Translated by Andy Riverbed with proofs done by Marina Reyes Franco
Seven versions of the same version
1
I sat next to an old man on the bus yesterday. Our legs touched. We sat still and silent for miles. A girl walked by us at a stop. The old man watched her pass and then nudged me. He motioned for me to look too.
"Whew! Huh?" he turned and smiled at me, face alive.
I tried to think of something to say.
"Yeah I know," I replied. "I'd sure love to bite off one her eyebrows and glue it to my upper-lip. I've always wanted a moustache."
He readjusted himself in his seat and we sat staring forward for the remainder of the ride.
2
The girl passed by and the old man elbowed me hard. Entreating me to look.
"Man, how bout it huh?" he said.
I smiled and nodded. Then I spoke loudly. "Yes I agree with what I think you are suggesting. I would love to have sex with that girl. I don't know who she is but I think we can both agree that we should think about her body and having sex with it. I am aroused. How about you? Are you aroused sir? Let's think about what we'd do. Let's think together."
3
The girl passed us and the man put his head in his hands. His head bounced in his lap with each subsequent turn and bump in the road.
4
The girl passed us. As she passed, she temporarily blocked the window I was looking at, and the field outside. I became angry because I remembered that I was on a bus going somewhere and that somewhere would probably require something of me and I would either know or not know how to do that something and whoever was there if even just me would judge me capable or incapable.
5
The girl passes and leaves the bus and walks down the street and I never see her again. She will not think about me as she walks down the street into the millions of paths we never choose in accord.
6
I am almost asleep when the bus rounds a corner and sunlight shoots through the window. The man next to me becomes rigid. He points to the cube-shaped piece of light on my shirt.
"Shit. Oh shit. Get it off. Quick!" he screams and leans back, pointing. The cube on my shirt grows. "Get it off--it's on you--get it off. Oh shit!"
He crawls backwards to avoid the sunlight. I lose sight of him as the cube covers my face.
"It's all over you--move! Please!"
His yells become more like pathetic whining and the whining gets wet between the stuttering muscles of his throat.
The girl walking by is just one part of an endless number of things.
7
I ignore the old man and the girl. I feel a steady ringing begin in my ears. I am conscious of the ringing. It is all I can sense. It quiets my steps as I get off the bus. Somehow I know it is my stop. I walk home. Somehow I know the steps. Someone is walking thirty feet behind me. I am afraid. But I shouldn't be. No one would want to kill me. I try to put the keys in my door quickly. The apartment is dark. I sit on my couch and worry about things that are not present. I let revolve in my head all the things I have to do, ultimately doing none of them until I begin to feel sleepy. I go to my room and lock the door. Halfway through the night I wake up. I do not fall back asleep. Instead, I watch with eyes half-closed as the window in my room becomes lighter. It is almost time to get back on the bus.
- Sam Pink
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
How to Travel
I love a girl but she’s far away. She loves to travel. She’s never there for me. I cannot call her. I always doubt that she’ll pick up my call. When I text her, she never responds in less than an hour. This I am sure of because I can’t help from checking the time, every minute, then going into my cell phone’s message options and verifying at which moment I had last messaged her, while I wait for her to respond. I have to force myself to ignore her phone calls when she does call me, to wait at least twenty minutes before I respond to her, to even out the scales between us. But it’s too late. She knows that I love her. And she loves to travel. Right now she’s in Mexico smoking cheap weed with poor children and hoods,
teaching them English so that they can progress. Last week she was in L.A. snorting cocaine with the elite fashionistas in a five-story mansion glittered with gold. Next
week she will fly to Beijing to play soccer with neoimperialists on a field covered by Chinese rocks, to then help them organize their plan to save the world. Currently I am strapped to a machine that is plugging into my soul. It is removing blood from my system. I have a thick needle stuck into my mainline. I sit on a reclined leather chair and read Tennessee Williams on row with other poor people reclined in leather chairs. Whites, blacks, students—poor. Each chair, to its side, has a machine. The machine removes our blood and mixes it with an anticoagulant which separates the white blood cells, our energy source, from the red blood cells. The machine keeps our energy and deposits it, now called plasma, into a plastic vesicle. Our plasma will be sold to science studies and the Army. To save lives, we’re told. I will receive twenty-five dollars. Next time I come I will get twenty dollars. If I donate eight times in a month I will get thirty dollars on the eighth donation. The machine returns our red blood cells to our bodies. When the process is done with me I am another person. I become cold and indifferent. I am an asshole. I have no soul. It’s been depleted. I will eat a burger along with five beers in an attempt to regain my soul. I might receive a message from the girl I love. I will ask her what time it is wherever she might be. She will eventually answer and the time will be very different. Just like her and me. Maybe when she returns she will allow me to have her. But it won’t be real. I have heard that racism is dead in America. That is bullshit. But if it were true—we still have class. Color was an excuse. Class difference shall always exist. Poverty is a race. To be born wealthy is a race. Complacency is a race. I will always be there for the girl I love, but she will never be mine because I am poor and she loves to travel.
Who is Rey Emmanuel Andujar?
Andujar is the Dominican acting on stage. “Una pequeña ceremonia” from Andujar’s debut short fiction collection Amorcidio has been translated into English by the Riverbed and has been published at the Jargon. Check that out HERE.
The Riverbed has been translating Andujar’s debut collection and it will be published in December as Amoricide. Look out for that.
Also on the Jargon, a new Riverbed poem, “Censorship (for the sake of foreign opinion) is a disgrace” has been published. Check that out HERE.
***UPDATE NUMERO DOS***
The Riverbed has a piece of flash fiction called "Hector Valdez" published in the second issue of LitChaos Print. It's about illegal immigrants fucking trannies. Check that out HERE.
PLUS!!!
Damaged, the debut Andy Riverbed collection is on sale for seven dollars. Check that out HERE.
Cootie Shot
Cootie Shot’s debut EP is available to download HERE.
Listen to the songs
"Blue Tooths"
and a cover of La Cara Oculta’s "Pizzeria Fatal."
Dennis Mahagin’s Ebook
Available to buy HERE.
Cofre
The Riverbed’s poet-homeboy, Alfredo “Cofre” Perezjurado has a blog now. Check that out HERE.
The Riverbed and Cofre once worked at el Nuyorican café in Old San Juan together. They once worked on a screenplay about Reaggaeton and its rise into the mainstream. They once smoked lots of weed and snorted cocaine and read poetry together. Those were good days then on the island, their home. Now they are both displaced. They are the same but in different points on this Earth.
Magdalen Powers
The Riverbed’s first writing teacher at UF, Miss Magdalen Powers, who also happens to be the author of the story collection, The Heart is also a Furnace, put out by Future Tense Books, has a show playing in a band with an ex-member of the MC5. Check that out if you’re in Oregon or something.
Also out from Future Tense Books is Chelsea Martin’s Everything was Okay until Whatever. Check that out HERE.
Circus Circus, Andy Riverbed, Mystery Books Tour
Circus Circus, Andy Riverbed, and the Mystery Books will be playing shows in Orlando and in Puerto Rico for the last weeks of June.
The first Circus Circus show will be in a free art exhibit where the major young Puerto Rican artists will be painting in groups divided by themes. There will be more than 15 bands playing that day. Check out details HERE.
The other shows will be on June 26th as Mystery Books and Andy Riverbed along with DJ Spik Jagger at a TBA location, June 27th as Circus Circus along with Antisociales at a TBA location, and on June 28th as Mystery Books and Andy Riverbed at Libreria Isla en Rio Piedras along with Rey Emmanuel Andujar.
***UPDATE NUMERO UNO***
CIRCUSCIRCUS' "The Don't Sleep on Your Moon EP" is ready. Check that out HERE.
Radiation Newsletter
Is still looking for submissions. Check that out HERE.
Sincerely, it’s an awesome publication and Matty puts a lot of himself into it. It’s your opportunity to decide its content.
Newamba Flamingo
Is kind of weird, but also kind of cool.
New Translations!
Te voy a patear la cara y luego te la besare
Te patearé la cara y luego le daré besos.
He practicado mis patadas aéreas todos los días.
Por lo menos tres o cuatro veces al día las he practicado.
Eso significa que he practicado mis patadas aéreas con mas frecuencia que cualquier otro humano.
Eso significa que cuando te de esa patada a la cara te darás cuenta de lo poderoso que soy.
Eso significa que esa patada tendrá mas impacto que si otro te hubiese pateado la cara.
Luego de patearte la cara, te la besaré.
Habrán muchísimos besos—
tantos que me odiarás por no darte espacio y estarás vagamente espantada.
Pensarás que soy un psicópata.
Y yo no sentiré nada, ninguna emoción, cuando te bese la cara.
Será algo que estoy haciendo por hacerlo, nada más.
Te besaré la cara en repeticiones,
majormente por la área de tus chachetes,
pero aveces en la puntilla de tu nariz y aveces en tu frente.
Y a veces mi boca estará abierta.
A veces mis dientes delanteros tocarán tu piel por accidente.
Y te prometo abrir mis ojos para asegurarte que si eso pasa,
cuando sientas el toque de dientes contra tu piel, y luego abres tus ojos, mis ojos estarán abiertos.
Pero no detendré mis besos a tu cara.
Tus ruegos de que renuncie serán ignorados.
Al día siguiente despertarás con tu cara contra la almohada, tu cara que ha sido pateada y violentamente besada.
Te va a doler la cara.
La tocarás y vas a sentir lo mucho que duele.
Estoy practicando mis patadas aéreas; mis besos ya son de alta calidad.
Te dare uno de lo primero y muchos de lo segundo.
Tú me significas nada y me eres nadie.
Eres una migaja en mi ombligo.
- Translated from English by Andy Riverbed with proofing done by Marina Reyes Franco
I am going to jump-kick your face and the kiss it
I am going to jump-kick your face and then kiss it.
I have been practicing my jump-kicks every day
I have been practicing my jump-kicks at least three or four times a day.
That means I have performed more jump-kicks than the average human.
That means when I jump-kick your face you will notice my power.
That means when I jump-kick your face, it will mean more than if someone else did it.
After I jump kick your face I will kiss it.
There will be many kisses—
an amount that will eventually become annoying and vaguely frightening to you.
They will seem mad.
And I won't even feel emotion while I'm kissing your face.
It will just be something I am doing.
I will kiss your face repeatedly,
mainly in the cheek area,
but sometimes on the nose and sometimes on the forehead.
And sometimes my mouth will be open.
Sometimes my front teeth will touch your skin but it will be accidental.
And I promise to open my eyes to assure you if that happens,
when you feel teeth and then open your eyes, mine will already be open.
But I will not stop kissing your face.
The pleas to stop will not be obeyed.
The next day you will wake up with your face against the pillow, your jump-kicked and violently kissed face.
It will hurt.
You will touch it and feel how it hurts.
I am practicing my jump-kicks; my kisses are already pretty good.
You will get one of the former and many of the latter.
You mean nothing and you are nobody.
You are a crumb in my bellybutton.
- Sam Pink
el hombre de holanda
me llama por teléfono:
dice que quiere que le autografíe
todas las revistas literarias
en que he aparecido
y se las mande
por correo.
voy a comenzar
un archivo
de tus trabajos
dice
mientras estoy aqui sentado
en la oscuridad
y una cucaracha
se pasea para arriba
y para abajo
por mi pie descalzo.
de chamaquito
nunca quise
ser famoso:
solo quería
ser aceptado
quizás amado:
nada de eso
ocurrió.
el hombre de holanda
también dice
que quiere publicar
una colección
de mi poesía
en carpeta dura
lo cual debería
acariciar
mi ego
o por lo menos
elicitar alguna
emoción
(he leído
relatos recientes
de poetas llorando
al recibir
esta clase de noticia)
pero mis huesos
estan llenos de
humo azul:
en mis sueños
se me caen los dientes
en lo que
un perro chapotea
hacia delaware:
y este hombre de holanda
dice que
quiere
archivar mis trabajos.
la cucaracha
se pasea para arriba
y para abajo
por mi pie descalzo.
comienzo a
reirme
descontroladamente.
- Translated from English by Andy Riverbed and Marina Reyes Franco
the man from holland
calls me on the phone:
says he wants me to autograph
all literary magazines
i've appeared in
and mail them
to him.
i'm going to start
an archive
of your work,
he says
as i sit here
in the dark
and a cockroach
hikes up
and over
my bare foot.
as a kid
i never wanted
to be famous:
all i wanted
was to be accepted
maybe loved:
neither of which
panned out.
the man from holland
also says
he wants to publish
a full length
hardcover book
of my poetry
which should
stroke
my ego
or elicit
some
emotion
(i've read
recent accounts
of poets weeping
upon receipt
of such news)
but my bones
are full of
blue smoke:
in my dreams
all my teeth fall out
as i
dog paddle
to delaware:
and this man from holland
says he
wants to
archive my work.
the cockroach
hikes back
and over
my bare foot.
i start
laughing
uncontrollably.
- Justin Hyde
teaching them English so that they can progress. Last week she was in L.A. snorting cocaine with the elite fashionistas in a five-story mansion glittered with gold. Next
week she will fly to Beijing to play soccer with neoimperialists on a field covered by Chinese rocks, to then help them organize their plan to save the world. Currently I am strapped to a machine that is plugging into my soul. It is removing blood from my system. I have a thick needle stuck into my mainline. I sit on a reclined leather chair and read Tennessee Williams on row with other poor people reclined in leather chairs. Whites, blacks, students—poor. Each chair, to its side, has a machine. The machine removes our blood and mixes it with an anticoagulant which separates the white blood cells, our energy source, from the red blood cells. The machine keeps our energy and deposits it, now called plasma, into a plastic vesicle. Our plasma will be sold to science studies and the Army. To save lives, we’re told. I will receive twenty-five dollars. Next time I come I will get twenty dollars. If I donate eight times in a month I will get thirty dollars on the eighth donation. The machine returns our red blood cells to our bodies. When the process is done with me I am another person. I become cold and indifferent. I am an asshole. I have no soul. It’s been depleted. I will eat a burger along with five beers in an attempt to regain my soul. I might receive a message from the girl I love. I will ask her what time it is wherever she might be. She will eventually answer and the time will be very different. Just like her and me. Maybe when she returns she will allow me to have her. But it won’t be real. I have heard that racism is dead in America. That is bullshit. But if it were true—we still have class. Color was an excuse. Class difference shall always exist. Poverty is a race. To be born wealthy is a race. Complacency is a race. I will always be there for the girl I love, but she will never be mine because I am poor and she loves to travel.
Who is Rey Emmanuel Andujar?
Andujar is the Dominican acting on stage. “Una pequeña ceremonia” from Andujar’s debut short fiction collection Amorcidio has been translated into English by the Riverbed and has been published at the Jargon. Check that out HERE.
The Riverbed has been translating Andujar’s debut collection and it will be published in December as Amoricide. Look out for that.
Also on the Jargon, a new Riverbed poem, “Censorship (for the sake of foreign opinion) is a disgrace” has been published. Check that out HERE.
***UPDATE NUMERO DOS***
The Riverbed has a piece of flash fiction called "Hector Valdez" published in the second issue of LitChaos Print. It's about illegal immigrants fucking trannies. Check that out HERE.
PLUS!!!
Damaged, the debut Andy Riverbed collection is on sale for seven dollars. Check that out HERE.
Cootie Shot
Cootie Shot’s debut EP is available to download HERE.
Listen to the songs
"Blue Tooths"
and a cover of La Cara Oculta’s "Pizzeria Fatal."
Dennis Mahagin’s Ebook
Available to buy HERE.
Cofre
The Riverbed’s poet-homeboy, Alfredo “Cofre” Perezjurado has a blog now. Check that out HERE.
The Riverbed and Cofre once worked at el Nuyorican café in Old San Juan together. They once worked on a screenplay about Reaggaeton and its rise into the mainstream. They once smoked lots of weed and snorted cocaine and read poetry together. Those were good days then on the island, their home. Now they are both displaced. They are the same but in different points on this Earth.
Magdalen Powers
The Riverbed’s first writing teacher at UF, Miss Magdalen Powers, who also happens to be the author of the story collection, The Heart is also a Furnace, put out by Future Tense Books, has a show playing in a band with an ex-member of the MC5. Check that out if you’re in Oregon or something.
Also out from Future Tense Books is Chelsea Martin’s Everything was Okay until Whatever. Check that out HERE.
Circus Circus, Andy Riverbed, Mystery Books Tour
Circus Circus, Andy Riverbed, and the Mystery Books will be playing shows in Orlando and in Puerto Rico for the last weeks of June.
The first Circus Circus show will be in a free art exhibit where the major young Puerto Rican artists will be painting in groups divided by themes. There will be more than 15 bands playing that day. Check out details HERE.
The other shows will be on June 26th as Mystery Books and Andy Riverbed along with DJ Spik Jagger at a TBA location, June 27th as Circus Circus along with Antisociales at a TBA location, and on June 28th as Mystery Books and Andy Riverbed at Libreria Isla en Rio Piedras along with Rey Emmanuel Andujar.
***UPDATE NUMERO UNO***
CIRCUSCIRCUS' "The Don't Sleep on Your Moon EP" is ready. Check that out HERE.
Radiation Newsletter
Is still looking for submissions. Check that out HERE.
Sincerely, it’s an awesome publication and Matty puts a lot of himself into it. It’s your opportunity to decide its content.
Newamba Flamingo
Is kind of weird, but also kind of cool.
New Translations!
Te voy a patear la cara y luego te la besare
Te patearé la cara y luego le daré besos.
He practicado mis patadas aéreas todos los días.
Por lo menos tres o cuatro veces al día las he practicado.
Eso significa que he practicado mis patadas aéreas con mas frecuencia que cualquier otro humano.
Eso significa que cuando te de esa patada a la cara te darás cuenta de lo poderoso que soy.
Eso significa que esa patada tendrá mas impacto que si otro te hubiese pateado la cara.
Luego de patearte la cara, te la besaré.
Habrán muchísimos besos—
tantos que me odiarás por no darte espacio y estarás vagamente espantada.
Pensarás que soy un psicópata.
Y yo no sentiré nada, ninguna emoción, cuando te bese la cara.
Será algo que estoy haciendo por hacerlo, nada más.
Te besaré la cara en repeticiones,
majormente por la área de tus chachetes,
pero aveces en la puntilla de tu nariz y aveces en tu frente.
Y a veces mi boca estará abierta.
A veces mis dientes delanteros tocarán tu piel por accidente.
Y te prometo abrir mis ojos para asegurarte que si eso pasa,
cuando sientas el toque de dientes contra tu piel, y luego abres tus ojos, mis ojos estarán abiertos.
Pero no detendré mis besos a tu cara.
Tus ruegos de que renuncie serán ignorados.
Al día siguiente despertarás con tu cara contra la almohada, tu cara que ha sido pateada y violentamente besada.
Te va a doler la cara.
La tocarás y vas a sentir lo mucho que duele.
Estoy practicando mis patadas aéreas; mis besos ya son de alta calidad.
Te dare uno de lo primero y muchos de lo segundo.
Tú me significas nada y me eres nadie.
Eres una migaja en mi ombligo.
- Translated from English by Andy Riverbed with proofing done by Marina Reyes Franco
I am going to jump-kick your face and the kiss it
I am going to jump-kick your face and then kiss it.
I have been practicing my jump-kicks every day
I have been practicing my jump-kicks at least three or four times a day.
That means I have performed more jump-kicks than the average human.
That means when I jump-kick your face you will notice my power.
That means when I jump-kick your face, it will mean more than if someone else did it.
After I jump kick your face I will kiss it.
There will be many kisses—
an amount that will eventually become annoying and vaguely frightening to you.
They will seem mad.
And I won't even feel emotion while I'm kissing your face.
It will just be something I am doing.
I will kiss your face repeatedly,
mainly in the cheek area,
but sometimes on the nose and sometimes on the forehead.
And sometimes my mouth will be open.
Sometimes my front teeth will touch your skin but it will be accidental.
And I promise to open my eyes to assure you if that happens,
when you feel teeth and then open your eyes, mine will already be open.
But I will not stop kissing your face.
The pleas to stop will not be obeyed.
The next day you will wake up with your face against the pillow, your jump-kicked and violently kissed face.
It will hurt.
You will touch it and feel how it hurts.
I am practicing my jump-kicks; my kisses are already pretty good.
You will get one of the former and many of the latter.
You mean nothing and you are nobody.
You are a crumb in my bellybutton.
- Sam Pink
el hombre de holanda
me llama por teléfono:
dice que quiere que le autografíe
todas las revistas literarias
en que he aparecido
y se las mande
por correo.
voy a comenzar
un archivo
de tus trabajos
dice
mientras estoy aqui sentado
en la oscuridad
y una cucaracha
se pasea para arriba
y para abajo
por mi pie descalzo.
de chamaquito
nunca quise
ser famoso:
solo quería
ser aceptado
quizás amado:
nada de eso
ocurrió.
el hombre de holanda
también dice
que quiere publicar
una colección
de mi poesía
en carpeta dura
lo cual debería
acariciar
mi ego
o por lo menos
elicitar alguna
emoción
(he leído
relatos recientes
de poetas llorando
al recibir
esta clase de noticia)
pero mis huesos
estan llenos de
humo azul:
en mis sueños
se me caen los dientes
en lo que
un perro chapotea
hacia delaware:
y este hombre de holanda
dice que
quiere
archivar mis trabajos.
la cucaracha
se pasea para arriba
y para abajo
por mi pie descalzo.
comienzo a
reirme
descontroladamente.
- Translated from English by Andy Riverbed and Marina Reyes Franco
the man from holland
calls me on the phone:
says he wants me to autograph
all literary magazines
i've appeared in
and mail them
to him.
i'm going to start
an archive
of your work,
he says
as i sit here
in the dark
and a cockroach
hikes up
and over
my bare foot.
as a kid
i never wanted
to be famous:
all i wanted
was to be accepted
maybe loved:
neither of which
panned out.
the man from holland
also says
he wants to publish
a full length
hardcover book
of my poetry
which should
stroke
my ego
or elicit
some
emotion
(i've read
recent accounts
of poets weeping
upon receipt
of such news)
but my bones
are full of
blue smoke:
in my dreams
all my teeth fall out
as i
dog paddle
to delaware:
and this man from holland
says he
wants to
archive my work.
the cockroach
hikes back
and over
my bare foot.
i start
laughing
uncontrollably.
- Justin Hyde
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
How to Go Too Far
Only those who
do forever
matter and
only the suffered
will go to heaven;
the rest will roam
as uglyfuckingspirits;
if things
do change and
I’m wrong,
that’s a
regret I’ll have to
deal with.
New Riverbed poems have been published. Check out: “On Wall-Attacks (i),” “On Wall-Attacks (ii),” “On Wall-Attacks (iii),” and “People who were.” The Riverbed was invited to collaborate in Titular’s project, The Passion of Mel Gibson. Check out “The Man without a Face”.
The Riverbed is no longer sidelined; he is off the bench and running the streets again. More streets will be attacked and ruined, he promises. The Riverbed will be on the streets of St. Augustine and Miami soon, so if interested in anything, hit him up at andy.riverbed (at) yahoo.com.
A really fucking-awesome band, The Ruins of West Palm Beach, was interviewed HERE.
391 is now back in action. They are inviting people to make footage and submit it; the Riverbed is planning on working on this project; if interested in collaborating, hit him up at andy.riverbed (at) yahoo.com
Krammer Abrahams has a story published HERE.
Paperwall #13 is out. Check it out HERE.
Chelsea Martin has a book out by Future Tense Books.
MuuMuu House books are, and in the future will be, available at the Wayward Council.
There’s an article on MuuMuu house in the March issue of Nylon magazine, so if you’re not a hipster tell all your hipster friends.
Translations!
apestá
La vieja
Hubbard
fue a
su gabeta
y se dío cuenta
que algún
duendesito
le había bajao
sus pali
otra vez.
- Translated from English by Andy Riverbed
so jaded
Old Mother
Hubbard
went to
her cupboard
and realized
some redundantly
little leprechaun
had watered down
her laudanum stash
again.
- Dennis Mahagin
aviso adelantao
Peter Peter
comé-calabazas,
si te
tiras
uno mas
desos
tuber-peos
intrusivos
antes de la
la pregunta en ¿Quién
quiere ser millionario?,
mandaré tu sonrisita-
jack o’lantern
pa Salinas
en un taxi tan deprisa
que tu cabeza
no va volar,
se quedará
orientado hacía
tras.
- Translated from English by Andy Riverbed
fair warning
Peter Peter
Pumpkin Eater
if you cut loose
with even
one more
of those
unbelievably
intrusive tuber farts
before the crucial
question on Who Wants
To Be A Millionaire?,
I will put your jack-o’
lantern grin
back on a bus
for Salinas so fast
your head will
not only spin
but stop
facing
backwards.
- Dennis Mahagin
De la collecíon, Canciones de infancia revisados por Chinaski
From the collection, Chinaski’s Revisionist Nursery Rhymes
Live Music!
The Winslows
La Cara Oculta
The Smoking Dopes
Alligator
do forever
matter and
only the suffered
will go to heaven;
the rest will roam
as uglyfuckingspirits;
if things
do change and
I’m wrong,
that’s a
regret I’ll have to
deal with.
New Riverbed poems have been published. Check out: “On Wall-Attacks (i),” “On Wall-Attacks (ii),” “On Wall-Attacks (iii),” and “People who were.” The Riverbed was invited to collaborate in Titular’s project, The Passion of Mel Gibson. Check out “The Man without a Face”.
The Riverbed is no longer sidelined; he is off the bench and running the streets again. More streets will be attacked and ruined, he promises. The Riverbed will be on the streets of St. Augustine and Miami soon, so if interested in anything, hit him up at andy.riverbed (at) yahoo.com.
A really fucking-awesome band, The Ruins of West Palm Beach, was interviewed HERE.
391 is now back in action. They are inviting people to make footage and submit it; the Riverbed is planning on working on this project; if interested in collaborating, hit him up at andy.riverbed (at) yahoo.com
Krammer Abrahams has a story published HERE.
Paperwall #13 is out. Check it out HERE.
Chelsea Martin has a book out by Future Tense Books.
MuuMuu House books are, and in the future will be, available at the Wayward Council.
There’s an article on MuuMuu house in the March issue of Nylon magazine, so if you’re not a hipster tell all your hipster friends.
Translations!
apestá
La vieja
Hubbard
fue a
su gabeta
y se dío cuenta
que algún
duendesito
le había bajao
sus pali
otra vez.
- Translated from English by Andy Riverbed
so jaded
Old Mother
Hubbard
went to
her cupboard
and realized
some redundantly
little leprechaun
had watered down
her laudanum stash
again.
- Dennis Mahagin
aviso adelantao
Peter Peter
comé-calabazas,
si te
tiras
uno mas
desos
tuber-peos
intrusivos
antes de la
la pregunta en ¿Quién
quiere ser millionario?,
mandaré tu sonrisita-
jack o’lantern
pa Salinas
en un taxi tan deprisa
que tu cabeza
no va volar,
se quedará
orientado hacía
tras.
- Translated from English by Andy Riverbed
fair warning
Peter Peter
Pumpkin Eater
if you cut loose
with even
one more
of those
unbelievably
intrusive tuber farts
before the crucial
question on Who Wants
To Be A Millionaire?,
I will put your jack-o’
lantern grin
back on a bus
for Salinas so fast
your head will
not only spin
but stop
facing
backwards.
- Dennis Mahagin
De la collecíon, Canciones de infancia revisados por Chinaski
From the collection, Chinaski’s Revisionist Nursery Rhymes
Live Music!
The Winslows
La Cara Oculta
The Smoking Dopes
Alligator
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Como enfrentar a las ciudades que no conoces
A las ciudades se incursionan con la frente en alto,
con sonrisa de cuchillo en boca,
dejandolas saber
que son solo la extremidad de un fantasma que alguna vez soñastes
y que eres un domador de bestías gigantes.
- Alfredo ‘Cofre’ Perezjurado
How to Deal with New Cities
You must explore new cities with your head held high,
with your blade-smile in hand,
letting them know
that they are only the remnants of a ghost you once saw in a dream
and that you are the tamer of extreme beasts.
- Translated from Spanish by Andy Riverbed
This Exists
DON’T FORGET ABOUT THE LIMITED EDITION WALL-ATTACK #3 POSTERS AVAILABLE IF YOU SEND YOUR POSTAL ADDRESS TO andy.riverbed (at) yahoo.com
A new Riverbed poem has been published. Check out “It seems our President is having trouble”
Check out this cool street-art site, Stuffed Animal Brigade.
A really cool newfuckingband, Campo-Formio, was interviewed HERE.
Translations!
imparcialidad
Jack y Jill
pasaban el monte
y el amante de Jill
finalmente
se hizo de
hombre
y no los
persiguío
hasta
al topé
con su
camara de espía
de encuestador
falso.
- Translated from English by Andy Riverbed
equanimity
Jack and Jill
went up the hill
and Jill’s other lover
was finally
secure enough
within himself
to resist
following them
all the way
to the top
with his
phony surveyor’s
easel cum
spy cam.
- Dennis Mahagin
los caballeros del rey ni trataron
Humpty Dumpty
estaba sentao en una pared
chekiandose a un
rapero guillao que tenía
cojones sufuciente
pa haberle cagaó
su buen nombre
y Humpty se
badtripío tanto
que se fue
a Heckel y Jeckel
y se compró
par de caple
y recayó,
aunque lo que había consigído
era en realidad
mierda de paloma
encontrado pegao al bronce
deluzciado de las barandas
de Pioneer Square en Portland—
la placa de la estatua decía:
“Tipo de la
sombrilla cashmir—
que bien
te hará cuando
llegen las lluvias
de verdad.”
- Translated from English by Andy Riverbed
the king’s men and horses never really tried very hard
Humpty Dumpty
sat on a wall
staring at a certain
pimp rapper with
the unmitigated
gall to have ripped
off his good name,
and Humpty got so
depressed he
relapsed
and bought
crack rocks
off Heckel
and Jeckel,
which was really
just a smidgeon of hustlers’
petrified pigeon scat
plucked from the tarnished brass
slats of a statuary in Portland’s
Pioneer Square—it’s plaque
said:
“Stately Fella With
Paisley Umbrella—
but a fat lot
of good it’ll do him
when the For Real
rains come.”
- Dennis Mahagin
De la collecíon, Canciones de infancia revisados por Chinaski
From the collection, Chinaski’s Revisionist Nursery Rhymes
Quisíera que todos bajen sus armas
a.
viendo mis poemas en pagína
de nuevo,
mi bicho se para
—me distrae,
es un seno y coseno;
una palomilla canta opera
en lo que la agua levanta
pesas. se prepara para doce rondas
con ese acaro cabrón;
fractales verdes y rojos flotan sobre los lagos y
ríos;
canciones populares tienen un cojonal de tracks
mezclao—post
ancientismo = coatlismo.
prometí escribir algo
con substancia pero se me paro el bicho,
tengo hambre y mis ojos me
pican
—¿quién podra causar
que todos los rebeldes
bajen sus
armas,
sus biblías,
sus bolsas de chavos
y manifestos,
si todavía
no hay comida,
no hay agua?
b.
la urna dice que es sobre la verdad,
belleza y
paz.
c.
la red dice que es sobre dinero,
poder y
sexo.
- Translated from English by Andy Riverbed
I could get them all to put down their weapons
a.
seeing my poems in print
again
my cock is hard
—so
distracting—it's a sine and cosine;
a moth sings opera
as water is lifting
weights. it prepares for twelve rounds
with that bad ass dust mite;
green and red fractals hover over lakes and
rivers;
pop songs have 128 tracks
blended—post-
ancientism = coatlism.
I promised I'd write something
meaningful but my cock is up,
I'm hungry, and my eyes are
itchy
—who could get
all the rebels
to put down their
weapons,
their holy books,
their registers,
and manifestoes
when still
there's no food on the table,
no clean-running water?
b.
the urn says it's about truth,
beauty,
peace.
c.
the net says it's about money,
power,
sex.
- Ra Gabriel
Live Music!
Andalusians
The Deep and Holy Sea
Scum of the Earth
con sonrisa de cuchillo en boca,
dejandolas saber
que son solo la extremidad de un fantasma que alguna vez soñastes
y que eres un domador de bestías gigantes.
- Alfredo ‘Cofre’ Perezjurado
How to Deal with New Cities
You must explore new cities with your head held high,
with your blade-smile in hand,
letting them know
that they are only the remnants of a ghost you once saw in a dream
and that you are the tamer of extreme beasts.
- Translated from Spanish by Andy Riverbed
This Exists
DON’T FORGET ABOUT THE LIMITED EDITION WALL-ATTACK #3 POSTERS AVAILABLE IF YOU SEND YOUR POSTAL ADDRESS TO andy.riverbed (at) yahoo.com
A new Riverbed poem has been published. Check out “It seems our President is having trouble”
Check out this cool street-art site, Stuffed Animal Brigade.
A really cool newfuckingband, Campo-Formio, was interviewed HERE.
Translations!
imparcialidad
Jack y Jill
pasaban el monte
y el amante de Jill
finalmente
se hizo de
hombre
y no los
persiguío
hasta
al topé
con su
camara de espía
de encuestador
falso.
- Translated from English by Andy Riverbed
equanimity
Jack and Jill
went up the hill
and Jill’s other lover
was finally
secure enough
within himself
to resist
following them
all the way
to the top
with his
phony surveyor’s
easel cum
spy cam.
- Dennis Mahagin
los caballeros del rey ni trataron
Humpty Dumpty
estaba sentao en una pared
chekiandose a un
rapero guillao que tenía
cojones sufuciente
pa haberle cagaó
su buen nombre
y Humpty se
badtripío tanto
que se fue
a Heckel y Jeckel
y se compró
par de caple
y recayó,
aunque lo que había consigído
era en realidad
mierda de paloma
encontrado pegao al bronce
deluzciado de las barandas
de Pioneer Square en Portland—
la placa de la estatua decía:
“Tipo de la
sombrilla cashmir—
que bien
te hará cuando
llegen las lluvias
de verdad.”
- Translated from English by Andy Riverbed
the king’s men and horses never really tried very hard
Humpty Dumpty
sat on a wall
staring at a certain
pimp rapper with
the unmitigated
gall to have ripped
off his good name,
and Humpty got so
depressed he
relapsed
and bought
crack rocks
off Heckel
and Jeckel,
which was really
just a smidgeon of hustlers’
petrified pigeon scat
plucked from the tarnished brass
slats of a statuary in Portland’s
Pioneer Square—it’s plaque
said:
“Stately Fella With
Paisley Umbrella—
but a fat lot
of good it’ll do him
when the For Real
rains come.”
- Dennis Mahagin
De la collecíon, Canciones de infancia revisados por Chinaski
From the collection, Chinaski’s Revisionist Nursery Rhymes
Quisíera que todos bajen sus armas
a.
viendo mis poemas en pagína
de nuevo,
mi bicho se para
—me distrae,
es un seno y coseno;
una palomilla canta opera
en lo que la agua levanta
pesas. se prepara para doce rondas
con ese acaro cabrón;
fractales verdes y rojos flotan sobre los lagos y
ríos;
canciones populares tienen un cojonal de tracks
mezclao—post
ancientismo = coatlismo.
prometí escribir algo
con substancia pero se me paro el bicho,
tengo hambre y mis ojos me
pican
—¿quién podra causar
que todos los rebeldes
bajen sus
armas,
sus biblías,
sus bolsas de chavos
y manifestos,
si todavía
no hay comida,
no hay agua?
b.
la urna dice que es sobre la verdad,
belleza y
paz.
c.
la red dice que es sobre dinero,
poder y
sexo.
- Translated from English by Andy Riverbed
I could get them all to put down their weapons
a.
seeing my poems in print
again
my cock is hard
—so
distracting—it's a sine and cosine;
a moth sings opera
as water is lifting
weights. it prepares for twelve rounds
with that bad ass dust mite;
green and red fractals hover over lakes and
rivers;
pop songs have 128 tracks
blended—post-
ancientism = coatlism.
I promised I'd write something
meaningful but my cock is up,
I'm hungry, and my eyes are
itchy
—who could get
all the rebels
to put down their
weapons,
their holy books,
their registers,
and manifestoes
when still
there's no food on the table,
no clean-running water?
b.
the urn says it's about truth,
beauty,
peace.
c.
the net says it's about money,
power,
sex.
- Ra Gabriel
Live Music!
Andalusians
The Deep and Holy Sea
Scum of the Earth
Friday, January 16, 2009
How to Save your Country
Disobey.
Robert Downy Jr. made an appearance in claymation media-form.
Circus Circus played the Wayward with their drummer Rilly, Moral Sects, The Genuine Imitations, and The Riverwinds.
Circus Circus
Moral Sects
The Genuine Imitations
The Riverwinds
New Translations!
me sorprendo a mi mismo sentado en mi cuarto
tarde en la noche me siento en mi cama solo
typiando oraciones en gmail chat
me sonrío en lo que me veo las piernas o algo así
limpío mi piso con papel de culo mojado
me gusta vivir en un entorno limpío
a veces pienso en los demas
y pienso que el enfoque principal de mi vida podría ser otra cosa
pero luego no se me occuren otras cosas
- Translated from English by Andy Riverbed & Alfredo "Cofre" Perezjurado
i sit in my room feeling really amused at myself
late at night i sit alone on my bed
typing sentences into gmail chat
i grin while looking at my legs or something
i clean my floor with wet toilet paper
i like to live in a clean environment
sometimes i think about people
and i think that my main focus in life might be on something else
but then i can't really think of other things
- Tao Lin
big macs
abro la kombucha está
y me supó a big mac
nunca me había occurido una jodienda así
pense en como me sentía
pienso que me sentía como mierda
- Translated from English by Andy Riverbed & Alfredo "Cofre" Perezjurado
big macs
i opened my kombucha
it tasted like big macs
that hasn't happened before
i thought about how i felt
i think i felt really bad
- Tao Lin
sin rumbo
caminé debajo lluvia
en ruta a la biblioteca.
imaginé que el aire era agua y la lluvia era bulbujas
y estaba en algún lugar debajo del oceano atlantíco
y los carros eran almejas flotantes
y la gente eran calamares pequeños.
me reí de una persona corriendo una bici:
un calamar en una bici.
alguien debería hacer eso en un comíc.
y luego pensé en ella.
lo mas probable que se siente insegura,
o a lo mejor no entiende porque me río.
uno no ve cosas así todo los días.
¿como le podría explicar mis procesos mentales
y como podría saber que estaba pensando ella?
a lo mejor debería hacerme el loco o que estoy endrogao o algo así.
es divertido hacerme de cosas así.
cuando tenía catorce años,
mi amiga se hizo la muerta,
acostada con sus brazos inánimadas en el aire
en una carreta roja.
yo la empujaba por las calles del suburbío
actuando como si estuviese abiertamente matando gente
y transportandolos por el día.
no me importaba si la gente aprobaban de mi comportamiento destructivo.
es difícil explicar porque eso me daba gracía,
especialmente ahora,
cuando los edifcíos que paso son arrecifes de coral gigantes.
- Translated from English by Andy Riverbed
aimless
i walked through the rain
on my way to the library.
i imagined the air was water and the rain was bubbles
and i was somewhere under the atlantic ocean
and the cars were floating clams
and the people were small squids.
i laughed out loud at a lady riding a bicycle:
a squid on a bicycle.
someone should make that into a comic.
and then i thought about her.
she probably feels insecure,
or maybe she doesn't understand why i'm laughing.
it's not everyday that you see these things.
how could i explain my thought process to her,
and how could i possibly know what she was thinking?
maybe i should pretend i'm crazy and on drugs or something.
it's fun to pretend like that.
when i was fourteen,
my friend pretended she was dead,
lying down
with her arms lifeless in the air,
in a red wagon
while i pushed her through suburban streets
acting like i was openly murdering people
and moving them around in the daylight.
i didn't care if people would approve of my unusually destructive behavior.
it is hard to explain why that was funny to me,
and especially now,
when the buildings i walk by are giant coral reefs.
- Rilly Fink
*Important News*
By the way, Andy Riverbed will be reading at Wayward's Open Mic this upcoming Sunday the 18th. Anybody else in the area of Gainesville that wants to fuck shit up at the open mic, feel free to show up.
And the Wayward is still looking for art donations to sell and benefit the store in the University of Florida's Art Walk which will occur January 30th. Don't think about it, just do it!
For details, email andy.riverbed (at) yahoo.com
The Mystery Books
Rilly of the Mystery Books was interviewed by Jason Jordan at What to Wear During an Orange Alert. Check that out HERE.
Other than that, buy my book, or something.
Robert Downy Jr. made an appearance in claymation media-form.
Circus Circus played the Wayward with their drummer Rilly, Moral Sects, The Genuine Imitations, and The Riverwinds.
Circus Circus
Moral Sects
The Genuine Imitations
The Riverwinds
New Translations!
me sorprendo a mi mismo sentado en mi cuarto
tarde en la noche me siento en mi cama solo
typiando oraciones en gmail chat
me sonrío en lo que me veo las piernas o algo así
limpío mi piso con papel de culo mojado
me gusta vivir en un entorno limpío
a veces pienso en los demas
y pienso que el enfoque principal de mi vida podría ser otra cosa
pero luego no se me occuren otras cosas
- Translated from English by Andy Riverbed & Alfredo "Cofre" Perezjurado
i sit in my room feeling really amused at myself
late at night i sit alone on my bed
typing sentences into gmail chat
i grin while looking at my legs or something
i clean my floor with wet toilet paper
i like to live in a clean environment
sometimes i think about people
and i think that my main focus in life might be on something else
but then i can't really think of other things
- Tao Lin
big macs
abro la kombucha está
y me supó a big mac
nunca me había occurido una jodienda así
pense en como me sentía
pienso que me sentía como mierda
- Translated from English by Andy Riverbed & Alfredo "Cofre" Perezjurado
big macs
i opened my kombucha
it tasted like big macs
that hasn't happened before
i thought about how i felt
i think i felt really bad
- Tao Lin
sin rumbo
caminé debajo lluvia
en ruta a la biblioteca.
imaginé que el aire era agua y la lluvia era bulbujas
y estaba en algún lugar debajo del oceano atlantíco
y los carros eran almejas flotantes
y la gente eran calamares pequeños.
me reí de una persona corriendo una bici:
un calamar en una bici.
alguien debería hacer eso en un comíc.
y luego pensé en ella.
lo mas probable que se siente insegura,
o a lo mejor no entiende porque me río.
uno no ve cosas así todo los días.
¿como le podría explicar mis procesos mentales
y como podría saber que estaba pensando ella?
a lo mejor debería hacerme el loco o que estoy endrogao o algo así.
es divertido hacerme de cosas así.
cuando tenía catorce años,
mi amiga se hizo la muerta,
acostada con sus brazos inánimadas en el aire
en una carreta roja.
yo la empujaba por las calles del suburbío
actuando como si estuviese abiertamente matando gente
y transportandolos por el día.
no me importaba si la gente aprobaban de mi comportamiento destructivo.
es difícil explicar porque eso me daba gracía,
especialmente ahora,
cuando los edifcíos que paso son arrecifes de coral gigantes.
- Translated from English by Andy Riverbed
aimless
i walked through the rain
on my way to the library.
i imagined the air was water and the rain was bubbles
and i was somewhere under the atlantic ocean
and the cars were floating clams
and the people were small squids.
i laughed out loud at a lady riding a bicycle:
a squid on a bicycle.
someone should make that into a comic.
and then i thought about her.
she probably feels insecure,
or maybe she doesn't understand why i'm laughing.
it's not everyday that you see these things.
how could i explain my thought process to her,
and how could i possibly know what she was thinking?
maybe i should pretend i'm crazy and on drugs or something.
it's fun to pretend like that.
when i was fourteen,
my friend pretended she was dead,
lying down
with her arms lifeless in the air,
in a red wagon
while i pushed her through suburban streets
acting like i was openly murdering people
and moving them around in the daylight.
i didn't care if people would approve of my unusually destructive behavior.
it is hard to explain why that was funny to me,
and especially now,
when the buildings i walk by are giant coral reefs.
- Rilly Fink
*Important News*
By the way, Andy Riverbed will be reading at Wayward's Open Mic this upcoming Sunday the 18th. Anybody else in the area of Gainesville that wants to fuck shit up at the open mic, feel free to show up.
And the Wayward is still looking for art donations to sell and benefit the store in the University of Florida's Art Walk which will occur January 30th. Don't think about it, just do it!
For details, email andy.riverbed (at) yahoo.com
The Mystery Books
Rilly of the Mystery Books was interviewed by Jason Jordan at What to Wear During an Orange Alert. Check that out HERE.
Other than that, buy my book, or something.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
How to Gain Respect
Before Obama ever was President-elect, he was just a simple teacher in an inner-city school. The day he first got hired, after spending eighty dollars on detox drinks and self-piss-tests to make sure he’d pass the screening, he scoped out the scene. He tried to be incognito, but it didn’t work; the pearl necklace he wore that day called him out; he was a separate class than the students. The students saw Obama walk above their heads. But despite this setback, of not being able to blend in, Obama did not allow himself to miss an opportunity. “We need change,” he told himself that day, floating above the crowd. He took mental pictures of the students, and went home to make a plan. The next morning, Obama arrived, dropped off by a two-story limo that had illegally tinted windows. The door of it was opened, and Obama back-flipped out, landing with a bounce he set up with his knees. He turned around and opened his lips the way Mick Jagger does when he’s done too much coke (the way Obama thinks it’s permanently stuck because of too much of it), and gave full-view to his new platinum grills. The students, children of ethnic groups—poor, poor, poor—could finally see him for what he was: one of them. Obama had their respect. He swaggered down the halls, through metal detectors (letting them ring annoying songs, but allowed to continue because he was faculty), through gang beat-downs, through aggressive and sexual stares. Obama stood in front of the board and wrote, “OBAMA!” and turned around, bent at his knees and leaned back. He said, “I fucking listen to hip-hop! I’m fucking street! My life’s laughable but I’m fucking doing what I want! I’m fucking the shit! I’m a piece of shit! When you’ve been through what I’ve been through, when you’ve been fucked by life though all the consequences are your own breeding, and you’re still being a piece of shit, then I’ll respect you.”
*DISCLAIMER*
Andy Riverbed does not support the formation of suburban ska-punk bands. When questioned as to why he would represent himself with such crap on his blog, he answered, “It exists. It must be documented. Shitty-suburban-ska-punk-bands are an anthropological enigma that must be looked into to prevent in the future. Ska-punk sucks!”
Circus Circus played their second show without, Rilly, their drummer on December 13 along with LARF, TBH, Amish Electric Chair, and the Roaring Twenties. Props to AEC, the RTs, Greg, Matt, Spence, Brian, Brett (for showing up), and anyone else that my mind might have slipped, for representing and staying to watch Circus Circus. Fuck little kids that got to be home by 12 AM.
Circus Circus
The Roaring Twenties
Amish Electric Chair
LARF
TBH
ART BENEFIT
The Wayward Council will be participating in the University of Florida’s January ’09 Art Walk. Last year’s at the Wayward was a success; artists from all over the country donated pieces. If interested in donating art to be sold at a gallery-type-thingy at Wayward, followed by a band show, feel free.
Check out the flyer here.
If you need details such as a contact address, send an email to andy.riverbed@yahoo.com
Zachary C. Bush is getting shit done.
Zachary C. Bush, a good poet-friend of mine, has a collection of his available through Lulu press. You can check that out here. He is a great poet who really likes to push shit. He also has two other books coming out next year from some pretty cool publishers.
They are:
1) AT SWAN DECAPITATION (Vox Press: Spring/Fall ’09)
--concrete/graphic/language-experimental poetry
2) ANGLES OF DISORER (BlazeVOX books: Summer ’09)
--surrealist/fabulist/futurist odd blend of prose poetry
ZCB also founded a new lit journal named KORA, check it out here.
Not everyone hates Andy Riverbed.
People are appreciating the social work that the Riverbed partakes in. Check the praise here.
There's also another interview with the Riverbed at What to Wear During an Orange Alert? Check that out here.
Don't forget you can pre-order the debut Andy Riverbed collection throughout the month of December here.
New Translations
Knowing his Country had a Weak Legal System
Some half-wit
Asian
dude tried to save face
once
so he murdered
his girlfriend
cause she accepted
his
ding-a-ling
wouldn't work right.
- Ra Gabriel
Sabiendo que su país tenia una mierda de sistema legal
Un asiático
medio
moron trato de dar cara
una vez
asique mató
su novía
porque ella aceptó
que su
bichito
no funcionaba.
- Translated from English by Andy Riverbed
Easier Than Betty Crocker's Chocolate Cake
my fingers smell like pussy (mine)
my husband is in bed (snoring)
life has become a painting by an
auto mechanic who inherited his mama's trailer
and can't keep a woman
cause he listens to Mahler instead of George Strait
and he'd rather eat garlic mashed potatoes than pussy
the painting is of a duck
the duck looks puzzled
and out of place
in the IHOP parking lot
- Misti Rainwater
Mas facíl que un bizcocho de chocolate Betty Crocker
mis dedos huelen a chocha (la mía)
mi esposo esta en la cama (roncando)
la vida se ha vuelto una pintura por un
mecaníco quien heredó el tráiler de su maí
y no puede quedarse con una mujer
porque escucha a Mahler envede de a George Strait
y prefiere comer papas majadas con ajo envede de chocha
la obra es de un pato
el pato se ve confundido
y fuera de lugar
en el estacionamineto de IHOP
- Translated from English by Andy Riverbed
*DISCLAIMER*
Andy Riverbed does not support the formation of suburban ska-punk bands. When questioned as to why he would represent himself with such crap on his blog, he answered, “It exists. It must be documented. Shitty-suburban-ska-punk-bands are an anthropological enigma that must be looked into to prevent in the future. Ska-punk sucks!”
Circus Circus played their second show without, Rilly, their drummer on December 13 along with LARF, TBH, Amish Electric Chair, and the Roaring Twenties. Props to AEC, the RTs, Greg, Matt, Spence, Brian, Brett (for showing up), and anyone else that my mind might have slipped, for representing and staying to watch Circus Circus. Fuck little kids that got to be home by 12 AM.
Circus Circus
The Roaring Twenties
Amish Electric Chair
LARF
TBH
ART BENEFIT
The Wayward Council will be participating in the University of Florida’s January ’09 Art Walk. Last year’s at the Wayward was a success; artists from all over the country donated pieces. If interested in donating art to be sold at a gallery-type-thingy at Wayward, followed by a band show, feel free.
Check out the flyer here.
If you need details such as a contact address, send an email to andy.riverbed@yahoo.com
Zachary C. Bush is getting shit done.
Zachary C. Bush, a good poet-friend of mine, has a collection of his available through Lulu press. You can check that out here. He is a great poet who really likes to push shit. He also has two other books coming out next year from some pretty cool publishers.
They are:
1) AT SWAN DECAPITATION (Vox Press: Spring/Fall ’09)
--concrete/graphic/language-experimental poetry
2) ANGLES OF DISORER (BlazeVOX books: Summer ’09)
--surrealist/fabulist/futurist odd blend of prose poetry
ZCB also founded a new lit journal named KORA, check it out here.
Not everyone hates Andy Riverbed.
People are appreciating the social work that the Riverbed partakes in. Check the praise here.
There's also another interview with the Riverbed at What to Wear During an Orange Alert? Check that out here.
Don't forget you can pre-order the debut Andy Riverbed collection throughout the month of December here.
New Translations
Knowing his Country had a Weak Legal System
Some half-wit
Asian
dude tried to save face
once
so he murdered
his girlfriend
cause she accepted
his
ding-a-ling
wouldn't work right.
- Ra Gabriel
Sabiendo que su país tenia una mierda de sistema legal
Un asiático
medio
moron trato de dar cara
una vez
asique mató
su novía
porque ella aceptó
que su
bichito
no funcionaba.
- Translated from English by Andy Riverbed
Easier Than Betty Crocker's Chocolate Cake
my fingers smell like pussy (mine)
my husband is in bed (snoring)
life has become a painting by an
auto mechanic who inherited his mama's trailer
and can't keep a woman
cause he listens to Mahler instead of George Strait
and he'd rather eat garlic mashed potatoes than pussy
the painting is of a duck
the duck looks puzzled
and out of place
in the IHOP parking lot
- Misti Rainwater
Mas facíl que un bizcocho de chocolate Betty Crocker
mis dedos huelen a chocha (la mía)
mi esposo esta en la cama (roncando)
la vida se ha vuelto una pintura por un
mecaníco quien heredó el tráiler de su maí
y no puede quedarse con una mujer
porque escucha a Mahler envede de a George Strait
y prefiere comer papas majadas con ajo envede de chocha
la obra es de un pato
el pato se ve confundido
y fuera de lugar
en el estacionamineto de IHOP
- Translated from English by Andy Riverbed
Monday, November 10, 2008
How to Strengthen a Relationship
Break up and maintain intimacies. Intimacies include fucking and IV drug use.
Between September 27 and 28 Matty and Reilly, whom form the Mystery Books and also part of La Cara Oculta (del rock n roll), played three shows in two different counties in the state of Florida. They played the Pizza Palace on the 27th, then Orlando (along with a reading by Andy Riverbed), then Gainesville as La Cara Oculta (also a reading by Andy Riverbed). By the time they had all gotten to Gainesville, nobody cared about footage, but the Gainesville show was fun as hell too.
The Mystery Books at the Pizza Palace
The Mystery Books in Orlando
Now that you are in love with The Mystery Books, you can download their new album, "Russia" here.
Last weekend was The Fest 7, and that kicked fucking ass. There was a reading. Tao Lin shouted "Obama!" at people. Andy Riverbed fell asleep in random public places.
Tao Lin at the Breakfast Buffet
Andy Riverbed reads translations at the Breakfast Buffet
Andy Riverbed reads new shit
To avoid confusion here are the poems read:
Jesus de chavito
mujer vende a díos en el
metro. gabanes embriagados
le dicen que este no es
el lugar para su jesus.
jesus esta en el tren,
ella dice. jesus es el
chófer. tipa, por lo menos di que
jesus esta en la vía,
piensa el poeta.
jesus es el deseo
para decirle que se lo empuje,
murmura el cínico—
en lo que ve porno en su ipod—
un borracho apestoso
se para:
“¡mis pantalones estan desgarrados
he roto mis zapatos!”
el cínico grita, “¡asique tu eres
jesus! ¡mujer, vete pal otro carro!
¡llevate este jesus apestoso contigo!”
10¢ Jesus
woman sells god on the
subway. tipsy suits
tell her this is not
the place for her jesus.
jesus is on this train,
she says. jesus is the
driver. at least say jesus
is in the tracks, lady,
thinks the poet.
jesus is the desire
to tell her to stuff it,
whispers the cynic—
while looking at porn on his ipod—
a smelly, ripped-pants, drunk
stands up:
“my pants are ripped
I’ve ripped my shoes!”
the cynic yells, “so you’re
jesus! woman, get to the next car!
take this stinky jesus with you!”
-Ra Gabriel
Consumeristamor
¡Corre amor mío! ¡Corre, que te patentizo!
No dejes que te haga mercancía de mi poesía,
brincando de poema en poema cada vez que se me antoje consumir tinta en un papel…
¡Corre amor mío! ¡Corre, que te patentizan!
Aléjate de tu casa, de tal calle, de x urbanización;
no te encuentres al alcance de precios;
escóndete de los que contratan y adquieren derechos,
los que auspician y consumen,
y ahora de seguro te consumirán y te auspiciarán…
Tú, empaquetá, en la vitrina loca porque te saquen de la tienda.
¿A qué precio?
¡Yo, empaquetao en mi vitrina, sin poder comprarte!
Ambos destinados al combustible, a los vehículos,
a los anuncios,
a la propiedad privada y a la deuda.
¿A qué precio?
¡Corre amor mío, corre! Que nos patentizan…
Consumerist Love
Run my love! Run, because I want to patent you!
Don’t let me turn you into a commodity of my poetry,
jumping from poem to poem each time whim takes me to consume ink on page…
Run my love! Run, because they’ll patent you!
Leave your home, in that street, in x suburb;
don’t find yourself at the grasp of prices;
hide from those who’ll contract you and keep the rights,
who’ll sponsor and consume,
and now surely they’ll consume and sponsor you…
You packaged on display, crazy to be freed from this store.
At what price?
I’m packaged on display, unable to buy you!
We are destined to fuels, to vehicles,
to advertisements,
to private property, and to debt.
At what price?
Run my love, run! They want to patent us.
-Alfredo 'Cofre' Perezjurado
Gato, poema, y notas
no era gran cosa
las hojas de arce se estaban volviendo
un rojo almibarado y caían
a la cera
gente caminaba sus perros
en la cera
cargando sus bolsitas
carros paseaban
un avíon proyectaba su cuchillo atraves la gelatina
del cielo
gatos jugaban en
el patío
changos nidaban en
las muletas de arboles
viejos
no era gran cosa
hasta que las gomas se resbalaron
Notas: es una cosa increíble. Una reliquía de verdad. El padre, un hombre de aparencía gracioso de Londres, había tenido una esposa de Indonesia que siempre corria por to laos casi desnuda. Piel terrible. Ella se desaparecío un día. El dijo que no entendíamos como ella no podía bregar con los EEUU. Ya no importa. Ellos vivían en la casa al lado del mío, pero no tan grande. El mío es el mejor de la calle. Su esposa nueva volvío pa Texas despues del accidente. Ella era mona—mas de mi gusto que la Filipina—pelo corto, nariz pequeño, pecas, y dientes grandes. Me gustan dientes grandes y fuertes en una mujer—le da caracter. Su nombre era Kathy, con una ‘K.’ Me sentía mal por ella. Ella vino una noche pa darme algunas de sus cosas antes de que empaquetara y se largara. Me dejo el gato del nene. Ahora tengo tres, cual es una jodienda, pero no podía decir que no. Le quise preguntar que se quedara conmigo—que se mudara. Yo la sentía tan necesitada. Ella perdío todo que le importaba. Pero volvío a su hogar. Pa Texas. Lo increíble fue que encontraron el poema en la ruína. Me lo dío con el gato, Rusty. Dijo que lo publicara, asique aqui esta para que todos lo lean. Ese maldito accidente. Esas hojas resbalozas.
Cat, Poem, and Notes
it wasn’t much of anything
the maples were turning
syrupy red and falling
at the sidewalks.
people walked dogs
on the sidewalk
carrying their little bags
cars ambled past
a plane cast its knife across the jelly
in the sky
cats were playing in
the yard
crows brooded in
the crutches of old
trees
it wasn’t much of anything
till the tires slipped
Notes: it’s an amazing thing. A relic really. The dad, a funny looking man from London, he’d had an Indonesian wife, always running around half-dressed. Bad skin. She disappeared one day. He said we couldn’t understand how she couldn’t take the U.S. Not important now. They lived in the house next to mine, not quite as big. Mine’s the best on the street. His new wife moved back to Texas after the accident. She’s cute—much more my type than the Filipina wife—short hair, small nose, freckles, and big teeth. I like big, strong teeth in a woman—gives ‘em character. Kathy was her name, with a ‘K’. I felt really bad for her. She came over one night to give me some of her stuff before she packed up and left. She left the boy’s cat with me. Now I have three, which is a handful but I couldn’t say no. I wanted to ask her to stay, with me—move in. She seemed so needy. She lost everything that mattered. But she went back home. All the way to Texas. The amazing thing is they found the poem in the wreck. She gave it to me with the cat, Rusty. Said to publish it, so here it is for all of you to read. The damnedest thing that accident. Those slippery leaves.
-Ra Gabriel
And guess what? Andy Riverbed's debut collection is availble to preorder here. It only cost $13.95 if you preorder through Paypal. If you don't have a Paypal, hit up andy.riverbed@yahoo.com and something will be done.
There's an interview with Andy Riverbed mediated by his publisher, Ra Gabriel, in which Riverbed talks much shit. Check it out here.
Tell everyone you know.
Between September 27 and 28 Matty and Reilly, whom form the Mystery Books and also part of La Cara Oculta (del rock n roll), played three shows in two different counties in the state of Florida. They played the Pizza Palace on the 27th, then Orlando (along with a reading by Andy Riverbed), then Gainesville as La Cara Oculta (also a reading by Andy Riverbed). By the time they had all gotten to Gainesville, nobody cared about footage, but the Gainesville show was fun as hell too.
The Mystery Books at the Pizza Palace
The Mystery Books in Orlando
Now that you are in love with The Mystery Books, you can download their new album, "Russia" here.
Last weekend was The Fest 7, and that kicked fucking ass. There was a reading. Tao Lin shouted "Obama!" at people. Andy Riverbed fell asleep in random public places.
Tao Lin at the Breakfast Buffet
Andy Riverbed reads translations at the Breakfast Buffet
Andy Riverbed reads new shit
To avoid confusion here are the poems read:
Jesus de chavito
mujer vende a díos en el
metro. gabanes embriagados
le dicen que este no es
el lugar para su jesus.
jesus esta en el tren,
ella dice. jesus es el
chófer. tipa, por lo menos di que
jesus esta en la vía,
piensa el poeta.
jesus es el deseo
para decirle que se lo empuje,
murmura el cínico—
en lo que ve porno en su ipod—
un borracho apestoso
se para:
“¡mis pantalones estan desgarrados
he roto mis zapatos!”
el cínico grita, “¡asique tu eres
jesus! ¡mujer, vete pal otro carro!
¡llevate este jesus apestoso contigo!”
10¢ Jesus
woman sells god on the
subway. tipsy suits
tell her this is not
the place for her jesus.
jesus is on this train,
she says. jesus is the
driver. at least say jesus
is in the tracks, lady,
thinks the poet.
jesus is the desire
to tell her to stuff it,
whispers the cynic—
while looking at porn on his ipod—
a smelly, ripped-pants, drunk
stands up:
“my pants are ripped
I’ve ripped my shoes!”
the cynic yells, “so you’re
jesus! woman, get to the next car!
take this stinky jesus with you!”
-Ra Gabriel
Consumeristamor
¡Corre amor mío! ¡Corre, que te patentizo!
No dejes que te haga mercancía de mi poesía,
brincando de poema en poema cada vez que se me antoje consumir tinta en un papel…
¡Corre amor mío! ¡Corre, que te patentizan!
Aléjate de tu casa, de tal calle, de x urbanización;
no te encuentres al alcance de precios;
escóndete de los que contratan y adquieren derechos,
los que auspician y consumen,
y ahora de seguro te consumirán y te auspiciarán…
Tú, empaquetá, en la vitrina loca porque te saquen de la tienda.
¿A qué precio?
¡Yo, empaquetao en mi vitrina, sin poder comprarte!
Ambos destinados al combustible, a los vehículos,
a los anuncios,
a la propiedad privada y a la deuda.
¿A qué precio?
¡Corre amor mío, corre! Que nos patentizan…
Consumerist Love
Run my love! Run, because I want to patent you!
Don’t let me turn you into a commodity of my poetry,
jumping from poem to poem each time whim takes me to consume ink on page…
Run my love! Run, because they’ll patent you!
Leave your home, in that street, in x suburb;
don’t find yourself at the grasp of prices;
hide from those who’ll contract you and keep the rights,
who’ll sponsor and consume,
and now surely they’ll consume and sponsor you…
You packaged on display, crazy to be freed from this store.
At what price?
I’m packaged on display, unable to buy you!
We are destined to fuels, to vehicles,
to advertisements,
to private property, and to debt.
At what price?
Run my love, run! They want to patent us.
-Alfredo 'Cofre' Perezjurado
Gato, poema, y notas
no era gran cosa
las hojas de arce se estaban volviendo
un rojo almibarado y caían
a la cera
gente caminaba sus perros
en la cera
cargando sus bolsitas
carros paseaban
un avíon proyectaba su cuchillo atraves la gelatina
del cielo
gatos jugaban en
el patío
changos nidaban en
las muletas de arboles
viejos
no era gran cosa
hasta que las gomas se resbalaron
Notas: es una cosa increíble. Una reliquía de verdad. El padre, un hombre de aparencía gracioso de Londres, había tenido una esposa de Indonesia que siempre corria por to laos casi desnuda. Piel terrible. Ella se desaparecío un día. El dijo que no entendíamos como ella no podía bregar con los EEUU. Ya no importa. Ellos vivían en la casa al lado del mío, pero no tan grande. El mío es el mejor de la calle. Su esposa nueva volvío pa Texas despues del accidente. Ella era mona—mas de mi gusto que la Filipina—pelo corto, nariz pequeño, pecas, y dientes grandes. Me gustan dientes grandes y fuertes en una mujer—le da caracter. Su nombre era Kathy, con una ‘K.’ Me sentía mal por ella. Ella vino una noche pa darme algunas de sus cosas antes de que empaquetara y se largara. Me dejo el gato del nene. Ahora tengo tres, cual es una jodienda, pero no podía decir que no. Le quise preguntar que se quedara conmigo—que se mudara. Yo la sentía tan necesitada. Ella perdío todo que le importaba. Pero volvío a su hogar. Pa Texas. Lo increíble fue que encontraron el poema en la ruína. Me lo dío con el gato, Rusty. Dijo que lo publicara, asique aqui esta para que todos lo lean. Ese maldito accidente. Esas hojas resbalozas.
Cat, Poem, and Notes
it wasn’t much of anything
the maples were turning
syrupy red and falling
at the sidewalks.
people walked dogs
on the sidewalk
carrying their little bags
cars ambled past
a plane cast its knife across the jelly
in the sky
cats were playing in
the yard
crows brooded in
the crutches of old
trees
it wasn’t much of anything
till the tires slipped
Notes: it’s an amazing thing. A relic really. The dad, a funny looking man from London, he’d had an Indonesian wife, always running around half-dressed. Bad skin. She disappeared one day. He said we couldn’t understand how she couldn’t take the U.S. Not important now. They lived in the house next to mine, not quite as big. Mine’s the best on the street. His new wife moved back to Texas after the accident. She’s cute—much more my type than the Filipina wife—short hair, small nose, freckles, and big teeth. I like big, strong teeth in a woman—gives ‘em character. Kathy was her name, with a ‘K’. I felt really bad for her. She came over one night to give me some of her stuff before she packed up and left. She left the boy’s cat with me. Now I have three, which is a handful but I couldn’t say no. I wanted to ask her to stay, with me—move in. She seemed so needy. She lost everything that mattered. But she went back home. All the way to Texas. The amazing thing is they found the poem in the wreck. She gave it to me with the cat, Rusty. Said to publish it, so here it is for all of you to read. The damnedest thing that accident. Those slippery leaves.
-Ra Gabriel
And guess what? Andy Riverbed's debut collection is availble to preorder here. It only cost $13.95 if you preorder through Paypal. If you don't have a Paypal, hit up andy.riverbed@yahoo.com and something will be done.
There's an interview with Andy Riverbed mediated by his publisher, Ra Gabriel, in which Riverbed talks much shit. Check it out here.
Tell everyone you know.
