O victor-bird, o vector, / I am like you, a non-state actor, / Death-fletched, alive, immune to all elixirs.
Compound Press published Fiddlehead, a long poem by Steven Toussaint, late in the Southern Hemisphere Summer of 2014 (April-ish). It has now gone out of print, but a really wonderful recording has been made of Steven reading the work in its entirety. This is great news for experiencing this poem, because one of the most compelling features that made the manuscript stand out to us was the presence of a refrain, repeated like semi-regular clockwork throughout.
Time in México para Jorge F. Rivera I speak Spanish in the same way that I understand I will die one day. Talk about it – in polite company, ad hoc, and forget more or less turning into morning unable, as it slips away without trying. This owes to typical way of escape—I go to make a home in the new world and of course it’s the oldest sight I’ve seen : the sun is there then skips away across grades of sand, leaves you without even the cactus or smog and just a certain marvel at how conquest takes in“Chris Holdaway”
For Kent Bach, The words were not ready,—at first for innocent things like going to a party; then papers, their job interviews even eschewing of jury duties; and before long they were failing too in meaningful conversations. They wavered, stayed hidden;—too much was left implicit, for you absolutely would not be kept waiting at the door without reason. It made you sad and individual, kept you out at the coast toiling to write long letters of frustrated lament; and between you and me, to call them incomplete wasn’t really enough, was it? You being to think, was it something I“Chris Holdaway”