11 TRIPWIRE11 TRIPWIRE 11 POP POP-CULT POP AVANT-POP ¡POP! POPULIST POP POP ART POP OAKLAND : 2016 TRIPWIRE a journal of poetics editor: David Buuck assistant editor, design & layout: Cassandra Smith co-founding editor: Yedda Morrison cover image: Truong Tran, “Bliss”. Mixed media, 2014. thanks to Joe Luna, Coffee House Press, ko ko thett, 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 11 * ¡POP! Douglas Kearney 5 Bruce Boone 8 Mariano Blatt (trans. Paul Merchant) 24 R. Zamora Linmark 31 Ye Mimi (trans. Steve Bradbury) 35 Hiromi Itō (trans. Jeffrey Angles) 38 Idlir Azizaj (trans. Jack Hirschman) 56 Owen Logan & Uzor Maxim Uzoatu 60 Dawn Lundy Martin 76 Courtney Meaker & Erin Pike 81 Kate Durbin (interviewed by Kevin Killian) 85 Luciana Caamaño (trans. Claire Parsons Lucena) 95 Dee Dee Kramer 101 Angélica Freitas (trans. Hilary Kaplan) 106 Nada Gordon 110 Ulrich Haarbürste 120 Ellen Addison 128 Angelo V. Suarez 136 Edwin Torres 142 K. Silem Mohammad 147 Nyein Way 149 Desmond Kon Zhicheng-Mingdé 154 Cheom-Seon Kim (trans. Matt Reeck & Jeonghyun Mun) 159 Anne McGuire 167 Kim Rosenfield 180 Julietta Cheung 191 Mae Yway (trans. Ko Ko Thett) 200 Grzegorz Wróblewski (trans. Piotr Gwiazda) 203 Selah Saterstrom 206 SE Barnet 216 ______________________________ Reviews Ashley Colley on Douglas Kearney 223 Ted Rees on David Wojnarowicz 228 Paolo Javier on Fel Santos 233 David Kaufmann on Rob Fitterman 261 Matt Longabucco on Lindsey Boldt 292 Calum Rodger on Steve Roggenbuck 298 Joseph Bradshaw on Kevin Killian 301 Afton Wilky on Nick Montfort 309 ______________________________ Contributor Notes 318 DOUGLAS KEARNEY done to deaf: to done uh yes yes___! yes___! yes uh get left. what’s those colored thumps are such a cheaper lot and breezy commute. KA-DUMB. : marks the KA-DUMB. location! location! see how close we KA-DUMB. are to the museums! KA-DUMB. location! KA-DUMB. KA-DUMB. “I have1 beated a silence back into you...2 ” emptying the low-end’s instrumental to the boom. the flown rewound to a new tract. bus the beaten out, some “exit the old style, uh yes yes___! enter the jack!” in the place to be? ; uh yes yes___! ! beat it you bother me! the beat ain’t spit, but a pattern of loud-assed ducendum ad colored silences. pack not, sedes simulacrum who could trap in this track? orandaque divae no ain’t to taint, no yo to oy, no tearing tongue to spoil your parade on home, just a clipping of funk in 32-bit ambience you can live with. see how close we (uh) 1: “have I...” are to the museums! (and uh) 2: “uh...uh...” 5 —at the Japanese American National Museum COPYCATS “the Kittypatra monument” say guard “was 3 days craning its one tonnage” of HELLO starshine and sugar skull, touch me buy me calls the wall past KITTY’s plaster neme’s mane. K scampers fore and whee, cardboard bowed to an o of ears, bow, her own crown a KITTY scalp scalped. share me. HELLO glee and death! Baseman KITTY mobbing with strange oily friends, those bulb-head goblins he stay painting, sky tumorous with fat and little balloons. aiiie! kaiju KITTY, HELLO destroyer of pretty cities, islands, itty bitty in the case we “please do not touch”— guards at alert! blocks west, horizoned, monstrous cranes haul a new skyline from a great hole in the city: hotel, shopping, pretty condos. K reckons EXIT and does, but not so the glass over charnel floor of a Manzanar Memorial, daddy, I’m scared to walk on there(!). grave. takers of houses, we. “Japanese investment in U.S. real estate in the late 1980s, which unnerved many Americans.” says me: K, it wasn’t fair. no it wasn’t, she, then gone. crowned, posing, K copycats the KITTY’s mouthlessness. to take a pretty picture. 6 Here’s the Old New Here Not Here hullish set for star destroyers-at-scale, teeming team of dream makers de-skeining flight, wire by wire. elsewhere crunch their terraprocessors: distance, flora, fauna, crafts, sand, cargo, force into cloudcud, into This Christmas. this 2015. the elsewhere here of voiceover over there still here as Jones Willie Tylered the bad-ass walking woofer, that black-ass babydaddy dummy. dark side right here, son. get some, son. a long time ago, a slave named Annakin— hear Jones’ nostril-bellows through the black machine, he’s in there. a long time ago now, a slave named Patsey—she’s in there, that not there now, a star face-captured to be in there out there, but out of there in there, see ya, so long-o. it’s coming, like Christmas. just like the ones we used to know. don’t worry, say the dream makers to a we, we’ll lose them in post- . 7 BRUCE BOONE from He Sleeps with the Angels (Pink Sperm) The meter was ticking but the taxi wasn’t going anyplace. Word by word I looked thru them. They poked holes thru my rubber masks. Now is there less, I asked. I said that teen angst paid off well for me but now, old and bored. Two holes started shaking and I noticed changing, ch ch ch change. Empty voices, please listen up. Alongside our moving Corolla in stetsons agents from cosmic powers, wearing jeans, cowboy boots. What gasped for a straight shot up I-5. These disguised ole boys. Shades. Faux-stetsons: archon agents in drag. As a monorail ran before us we couldn’t think clearly. Falsification is minimalism by speed. Frances Farmer did her best but against the windshield the moans of Seattle’s pre-I-5 rainy tarmacs. Every woman’s sentence, every word, isn’t it a heart-shaped box? Given to me, it sounds like those ole leaves blowing over Lake Washington. Oh sorry I mean the night I died. I’m all apologies SPERM-FACE! You buy and sell my records but here we are now entertain us. Damn you prolly heard that thing awready. Damn like I like it. It sounds in my head. The Corolla in its lane, the pickup truck with good ole boys crossing lanes to push us off I-5. I’m all apologies. Authorities. Stetsons. Tears wiped clean again and again by the windsheld wiper. Oh boy. Fall asleep now, Ms. Bean. Cuddly cigarette blanket burns but who can claim clear awareness after shooting up with heroin. I’m trying to do my best—which is to fall back to sleep. I dream of monorails running round the enemy space-alien SPACE NEEDLE broadcasting false messages ratified by a government in their pay. Too bad, so sad. Realization is a memorial service and then you wake up. Mooosh moosh I can’t hear. A window-wiper for my ears. To clear the air I lie to you now. And when stars begin to plunge—is it different then—IS IT? It only hurts real bad the first time. I know that. Nothing is really in 8 disguise you just look is all and see what’s there is not what’s not. Easy as pie. On a daily basis LOVE repeated KURT until I believed. Still do. Like any sissy you have to love animals. I do. Aliens and sin go together like a heavy stone falling—dead meteors, comets streaking out lives. Sometimes flip flop flip flop goes the monotonous windshield wipers and sentences no longer make sense following other ones—why? Can I just die? Hey I DID that. Right? What’s good for you is bad for you, Courtney, do you think, girl? Like me? Or the aliens? Give me my blanket back. I will never belong to the Watchtower Society—I don’t believe in waking up. Just sleep. Sleep. It’s so minimal. But when all the fat’s cut away do I know there’ll really be meat? Uh. OK maybe, I’ll just say like I hope. Maybe. Dominations and powers—they rule like archons. DUMB DOWN and they’ll never see you, DUMBED DOWN in your little girl-blanket, girl. Once I dumbed down emotions. Now I’m working paragraphs. Sentences. Words. Even morphemes like even. I hate myself and want to die. Too bad, said the PINK LIGHT to the sissy. Frances Farmer asked me, how many windshield-wipers will you need to cover up them tears. And she went ahead and tole me, well just grow a pair then, Kurt, and I hung my head. Forgetting so much. Did I get my start at Olympia in community college—and aren’t I just an animal like all of us? We are slaughtered daily for your breakfast sausages. Americans kill animals. Under alien supervision the continuation of a slaughter that never stops.