TRIPWIRE 10 fuck the barn fuck the rancher and his barbed wire shake and shake and shake and shake shake until memory of the saddle is off CAConrad OAKLAND : 2016 TRIPWIRE a journal of poetics editor: David Buuck assistant editor, design & layout: Cassandra Smith editorial assistant: Lara Durback co-founding editor: Yedda Morrison cover image: Yuh-Shioh Wong, “Castle Camouflaged by the Rose.” Courtesy of the artist and Anthony Meier Fine Arts, San Francisco. thanks to: CAConrad, the editors of Entropy, Adriana Garriga-Lopez, Rob Halpern, and all the contributors. Tripwire was founded by Yedda Morrison & David Buuck in 1997, and published six issues from 1998-2002, plus a pamphlet in 2004. Back issues are available at http://tripwirejournal.com. Submissions: please send proposals or inquiries to [email protected]. Looking for essays, reviews, interviews, translations, black and white visual art, etc. No unsolicited poetry, plays or fiction, please. Tripwire Translation Microgrants: The Tripwire Microgrants for Translation are designed to provide support and recognition for translators of contemporary avant-garde and experimental writing. Each time donations to the fund reach $100, that amount will be awarded to a translator for work published in coming issues of Tripwire. Go to http://tripwirejournal.com/tripwire-microgrants-for-translation to donate. printed by Bookmobile distributed by Small Press Distribution (spdbooks.org) all rights revert to contributors upon publication. ISSN: 1099-2170 tripwirejournal.com TRIPWIRE 10 Danielle LaFrance 5 Juliana Spahr 10 Lila Matsumoto & Samantha Walton 13 Sarah Hayden 17 Nibia Pastrana Santiago 24 Frances Kruk 36 Sheila Mannix 40 ______________________________ A Pestschrift for CAConrad 45 with an interview, prose, poems, & a play by CAConrad, plus TC Tolbert * Magdalena Zurawski * Frank Sherlock * Anne Boyer * Marianne Morris * Allison Cobb * Jen Coleman * d/wolach & Elizabeth Williamson * erica kaufman * Thom Donovan ______________________________ Jennifer K Wofford 168 Alicia Cohen 174 César Moro (trans. Esteban A. Quispe) 188 Heriberto Yépez 193 ko ko thett 201 Steven Farmer 205 Nachoem M. Wijnberg (trans. David Colmer) 212 Ghayath Almadhoun (trans. Catherine Cobham) 216 Bert Stabler 222 ______________________________ Reviews Julian Francis Park on Claudia Rankine & Fred Moten 231 Tyrone Williams on Jocelyn Saidenberg 257 erica kaufman on Frank Sherlock 263 Eric Sneathen on Chris Nealon 269 William Rowe on Joshua Clover 274 Danny Hayward on Lucy Beynon & Lisa Jeschke 280 David W. Pritchard on Marie Buck 294 Kristin Palm on Wendy Walters 300 Linda Russo on Lorine Niedecker 303 James Sherry on Mei-Mei Berssenbrugge 322 Laura Moriarty on Syd Staiti 327 Nich Malone on Towards. Some. Air., eds. De’Ath & Wah 329 Ryan Gato on P. Inman 334 ______________________________ Contributor Notes 342 DANIELLE LAFRANCE Today Gives a Fuck If a fungus appears, scrub harder. If the reading condescends suck it, babies. Too long the book is too long she should have written a shorter book. A book it’s too long it should have written a too the book is shorter she Is shorter. I’m about to bleed survival strategies. After I reach third bASS with the men of Bach. Because all women do is confess. Breathe. Zest. Shit. Is indistinguishable from form. At this rate, a boring lyric is better than men. Not you. The other men. The ones in the back, no the front. I’m not talking about you. I’m talking about the good men. Now put your mouth where your mouth is. 6 Ass fungus infects deeper. Nail butter spreads down. The answer is germinating in the question. It hurts to want something less than democracy. Malamata flamamata. In solidarity, in hate, we love each other. This is how we fake the détournement of our social structures. Where is the sunny girl? Do not write, Cixous. For death is a silent hook- up. I can’t wait to see you again. Why trouble me with waits? Loosy-goosy fucking keeps us up all night. Panties in the doghouse. I wish to be alone and talk to no one. Except with you, no, not with you. 7 Convince me your annoying habits taste of salty chips. Fried gum. Write one thing express another. I never see myself. Only in the reflection of a city on fire. Fecundity panic, now goner. For a long time the poem was a cipher. Cloaked, gritted classes. Jeans that make our poems look fantastic. I want to copy everything you write. I want capitalist poetics. Poetics of revulsion, of violence. I don’t want to like anything or think things are good until. You are beholden to it. It grows. You are its beneficiary. You are grateful for moments when it subsides. It’s already your life, you’re projects and wrecks. Lubricant. And yet, a kiss ingratiates such blood-sister transfusions. I’ll play the part of the traveling hotel instead of a chivalrous goat. Fucking is a parody of caring. There are infections that come with it, but the Fuck cunt. 8 You lock. An anonymous friend enters the anonymous bookstore. Your speech wavers, your eyes glossy. You break down. An anonymous friend witnesses the exact moment where your private feelings are exposed in public, and escorts you into the back room. Later tonight, this intuitive friend tells you: when emotions are expressed in public, no longer contained in the enclave of the mind, the house, the seriousness of the situation is revealed and made visible. You were jealous: notice me too. Talking pants off, slow ride or sputter. It’s not personal, but Everything you hand in is your own caca. Helene Demuth to the Brotherhood of the Traveling Marxists: Sometimes you need to make a mess. I am pregnant. 9 I had an abortion. Provisional health makes small steps, puke trail demonology. At the bar, this might sound crazy, etc. But here, etc. I must confess that the itch is contagious. Audience dental damnation. Frigid, you cannot sleep with all these noises. Stop thinking, Sartre. When I say, not, no, not like that, not the word, that’s not the right word. Sitting with the loss of the word requires a supple religion, which I reject, as I prefer not to be strangulated. Bungico Umbilicus. If I want to cry, I’ll move to the left. No, your left. What’s left? It is remarkable to remember your genitals are more than a penis. Even yours, etc. Denounce me, like Moses to the Golden Calf. It is a critical time to dress for battle, not ear-candling. It is imperative to discard social safety, like marriage. Desperate moments call for triteness. A list of things you and I will never do together. It’s as easy as sharing a disgust for green washing and seal beating. Autosarcophy. I have eaten myself and still cannot finish the job. Is this girly-girl stupid? “If I’m not a feminist, can I still be saved?” If I’m a hot knife, you’re a pound of fat white butter. I’m not talking about you, dick-face. No, not your dick, the one in my back. 10 JULIANA SPAHR An Agatha, for Anne Boyer (written by Juliana Spahr but in debt to Cassandra Gillig) It’s a story we all know. She was right fair, noble of body and of heart, and was rich of goods. And yet she lived near a provost, a provost of a low lineage, who was lecherous, avaricious, and a miscreant and paynim. His lowness ranged from rape to belittlement, and for to accomplish his evil desires fleshly, and to have riches, did do take her to be presented and brought tofore him, and began to behold her with a lecherous sight for she looked pretty when she smiled and she should smile more so he said. Then began a series of events to get her to consent to his will and to smile more. Some did do put her in a dark prison. Some did do a keg stand in her name. Others did her to be tormented in her breasts and paps, and commanded that her breasts and mammals should be drawn and cut off. Some read Mark Strand RIP to her. Some did do put her back in a dark prison with no food and no medicines. It is said that she went gladly. That she said your words be but wind, your promises be but rain, and your poems be as rivers that pass, and how well that all these things hurtle at the foundement of my courage, yet for that it shall not move. That she said Over felon and cruel tyrant, hast thou no shame to cut off that in a woman which thou didst suck in thy mother, and whereof thou 11 wert nourished? But I have my paps whole in my soul, of which I nourish all my wits. And yet she healed and when the provost realized she was healed he made her, all naked, to be rolled upon burning brands. And it was then that the ground began to tremble from an earthquave and a part of a wall fell down. So the people came running unto the house of the provost, saying, in a great bruit, that the city was in a great peril for the torments and commanded that she should be remised in prison. And then he didn’t listen and so they then sacrificed a goat in the same of Satan and then a police officer in the name of Anne Boyer. And then great many did do the putting on of a robber outfit, smashing window after window of the provost’s office, hopping in and out, delicately, grabbing what they could.