Rupert Wondolowski's Blog, page 20

John M. Bennett Is Hoisted Aloft By The Shattered Wig Dancers

(From Piedra Portatil by Sheila E. Murphy and John M. Bennett)




John M. Bennett is not only the hardest working mench in the poetry avant-garde and just retired curator of the experimental writing wing of the University of Ohio library, but his long running and vital magazine Lost & Found Times, which ran from 1975 until 2005 (54 issues in all! The last few assembled while Professor Bennett was undergoing all kinds of hellish eye surgery), was the conduit for me to discover the weird and wonderful world of Blaster Al Ackerman.





(Sheila E. Murphy & John M. Bennett)


"From its origins in mail art to its more recent participation at the edges of language (and what is coming to be called post-language) poetry, Lost and Found Times provides a model of how marginalized cultural workers can create productive areas of engagement within a network of activity." — from Loose Watch.

Although Bennett no longer publishes his magazine Lost & Found Times, his press, Luna Bisonte Productions, continues to crank out tiny beauties like the above Piedra Portatil and Benzene, his collaboration with Musicmaster, below.


But of course the meaty core of Bennett's production is his own slippery writing. Shattered Wig was very pleased to just receive a thick packet of new work by Bennett and we feel it sings among his finest. Here are a few. And although it's too soon to call this a Shattered Wig Review #29 sneak peek because God only knows when I will arise from sluggardness to put that one together, I guess that's what this sort of is.

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Numb Thorn

the jerky suit the chest of hairand socks .blast of number phonecalled my I you did .your didmy unit clamber .dice and dime.dressed in lieberwurst conejo !minedusted ,bash what spoon nimbles thethoughtless dust ,I dressed ,youdreamed I pulled you pilled .ahepiphyte rolling down the steps !
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Plunder
chased my cloudburst you a golfball mildewed in my soapdishwhat the mist dried like zitiin your lap a dozen masks grunt and chain inside the soupcloset dribbly with your dogwash
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Check out John M. Bennett's Luna Bisonte/Lost & Found Times website at:
http://www.johnmbennett.net/Lost_&_Found_Times_Luna.html
There are video poems, text poems, a catalog of the immense amount of titles published by John and some history of the press and its mission/passion.

A Letter From Our Pal Blaster Al

Dear Rupert -

Many thanks for the swift WIG mailing. I've been enjoying that ever since it arrived, beginning with the RANDY GEORGE cover, one of his best. Right off the bat, I read my letter because I'd forgotten most of it. Golly it sure did bring the nightmare aspects of that trip steaming back, especially the really awful parts such as RICHMOND, and the fatties and their palm-pals in Nashville, etc. I only wish I'd had time to whine at greater length about the long, long delay in WASHINGTON, DC, a true downer interlude in a city that should be expunged from the map. Makes me wonder how I survived it, but that's the thing about being too tired to register the truly awful - you wind up being only able to blow your nose and nod, as I said in my BERT'S story. Too true.


So anyhow, it was a long wait between issues but worth it, as this #28 is one of the all-time best. I've been reading and savoring a few pages at a time every day snce the bugger arrived. I was happy to see "GLORIOUS MOST HOLY INMATES" a real Editorial with a lot to say. I appreciate your kind words about Blaster Al and will promise to return sometime next year when the sky looks free of the awful white stuff. People still don't believe me when I talk about the awful weather Dec-Feb in Baltimore last year and how the city under snow had even Alaska beat hands down, but we were there and we know, he said wildly.


Anyhow, issue #28 has a lot of good, surprising reads in it. When you see Chris Toll be sure to tell him I thought his 1845/1776 was one of his best-ever pieces. Also got a kick out of Stephanie Barber's stuff. Enjoyed quite a few names who were new to me. Amelia Gray's GHOST was one of the most pleasantly confusing reads I've come across since the hogs ate my brother (but you're crazy f you think I'll buy that "Chandler did it" explanation, for I know it was none other than Melvin Starr, my old delinquent high school chum who once got thrown out of Jefferson High when he jimmied the lock on the principal's door, let himself in to the office at the end of the school year, broke into the files and changed all his "F's" to "A's", which ended when his name and big punkin head appeared in the school list of "Most Outstanding Students" and was recognized by many as a grade A fraud. I always wondered what happened to Melvin. He was certainly a dead ringer for MAD MAG's "Alfred E. Newman". And as Melvin himself liked to say, "When you got it, flaunt it.")


Speaking of which, is that HAIKU FOR GLENN BECK by YOUR Everly? (ed.: yes indeed!) Quite liked that one.


OK, more about the issue next time.

"O yeah Baby - your old thang, Blaster Al"

Conflicting Mayan Prophecies & Start Your New Year With Blaster's "Great Yellow Hairs"

Well, what a year it was indeed. I bought a house at "George Bush Destroyed The World Cut-Rate All Houses Must Go" prices, got married, turned motherfucking FIFTY! (My legs, bring me my legs!), Normal's Bargain Cobbley World got a new landlord (praise him and his new roof and new Red Room and new facade soon to come) and turned 20!, Blaster Al moved back to Texas after a brutal winter of record breaking blizzards and the economy hit what I hope was the bottom of the Catfish Pond, rising, at least for Normal's, gloriously in time for Christmas just as my nails were eaten down to my hairy knuckles. And I finally put out a new Shattered Wig Review after a two year hiatus, my first as a domestic man, shredding papers from the couch as my beloved sipped a martini from the easy chair, watching Mrs. Minerva and eyeing my feverish actions warily. "No honey, I think it's good you have this outlet, no matter how futile and despised it is."


But, what about that Mayan prophecy, that our already tenuous time is about over? That the Cosmic Eggtimer sand is running as thin as my once glorious Glen Burnie 'fro? As it states in the sacred Popol Vuh: "well, it looks like we have run out of tablets and cave walls upon which to paint. Sacrifices just don't provide the rush to our groin like they used to. The skies roar no more, but kind of bleat. We seem to be at about 2012 White Man Time on this calendar, maybe we should just call it quits. After all, by then they will most likely have Mother Gia covered head to corns with Great Marketplaces filled with shoddy clothing that was made by enslaved peoples and will fall apart after three wearings, as opposed to one of our decorative huipil that will last for a dozen harvests. Let's just erase time after that, even though it will wash the Brown and Yellow down the Blackhole along with Whitey. Aaghh, I just had a vision of a woman resembling an Itzam Cab Ain and with the mindset of the young boy who hangs about the ceremonial platform in Tikal trying to lick the severed heads dripping from the tzompantli. She is wearing great spectacles that mask her face like a war eagle and she is laying down great stalks of corn and heralding them as wisdom. Apparently if we don't end the world she will rule "North America" and collapse the sky. Oh, I am in great need of many Balche and I must erase Future Time."

But also in the Popol Vuh there is talk of "The Decade that ends with Saint Roland delivering the Spaniel to the compact Asian car" will herald a new decade of great bounty and world peace. Above is a photo of just that act indeed happening. Perhaps, as it says in this kind of New Agey but fairly level-headed statement - http://www.13moon.com/prophecy%20page.htm#2 - the Mayan calendar has been misinterpreted by Westerners and it's just the end of a World Cycle, which it really does feel like we're at the end of something. Could we ever turn away from putting all our resources into endless fruitless war, or will we just start cranking out robot soldiers that will save the lives of some of our broke-assed young people that have no other career options, but kill lots of broke-ass people in other countries without the bother of emotions.

The Hell with all this. It is a glorious new year and new decade not yet tainted, though the cabbagey smell of the last one can still be detected, and the Blaster Al mail is rolling in from down South. Austin, to be precise, the oasis of Texas. Here is a new piece by him that he called his recent favorite:

POEM (The Great Yellow Hairs)The great yellow hairs are not so different from the tiny yellow hairs/so long as you're sorta slow and mistake the whistle in your elbow/for one whose budget rent-a-car tumbles down the drain cute as cute can be,/and all the dopeadicto logs wait for you as my crispy thumb peddles drugs./No yellow hairs, no whistle from your elbow, these were using drugs long beforeyou knew it. The trout house madly bangs outside while you get your act together/finally knowing that anything this "flabby-strong" rates an invite down the street/to the birthday party where all the children watch you chew all the candlesnot knowing you do this at every meal because every meal's a partyand because it is my chalchihuti.

Blaster Al Ackerman (from jmb of 11/24 etc.)

Favorite Ciinematic Moment of 2010

Although this Greek film Dogtooth, which reminded me of Bunuel, came out in 2009, I didn't see it until this year, so it qualifies for my favorite cinematic moment of this year. Amazing scene of feverish shaking off of a lifetime of repression. Yummy!

I Am Almost Weeping - The Most Comprehensive Write-up Of Shattered Wig Night & Review

Photo by James Hodges Shattered Wig Review

15 December 2010

(What Weekly)

http://whatweekly.com/2010/12/15/shat...

Rupert Wondolowski

Frequently, literary performances are confined to coffee shops, libraries or the odd gallery so it's refreshing to see an event where the words were given a stage and an interesting venue in which to breath. Last Friday the 14 Karat Cabaret hosted the release party for one of Baltimore's best literary magazines, The Shattered Wig Review. The event was hosted by the publication's editor, Rupert Wondolowski.

Photo by James Hodges, story by Dylan Kinnett.

Photo by James Hodges

Ryan Walker featured in the current issue of Shattered Wig Review.

Shattered Wig has been around for a remarkably long time, judging from its issue number, 28, and the editorial, which alludes to a recent two year hiatus. As it turns out, the publication has been in print for 22 years. That's an impressive run for an independent venture of any sort.
The first performer was R.M. O'Brien, an editor of the interactive literary magazine WORMS, which occurs monthly at the Bell Foundry. O'Brien's stage presence is comfortable, casual and ideal for a first reading. His work is often an amusing and intelligent commentary on contemporary pop culture but he also reads the works of others. Tonight, he read a poem by Gregory Corso.

Photo by James Hodges, story by Dylan Kinnett.

Books, Live Music, Art Gallery and more!

Same block as Windup Space, across from Joe Squared. Plenty of room inside for your bike; FREE street parking for your car (well plug your meter before 6, after that its free anyway) come on over…

30 West North Ave.

Baltimore, MD, 21201

Photo by James Hodges

Becky Hunter - "I like the venue. I come to whatever I can, here."

The evening continued with a reading by Ryan Walker, whose untitled poetry is published in the new issue. He commanded the audience's rapt attention with his playful series of stream-of-consciousness observations.

Photo by James Hodges, story by Dylan Kinnett.

Photo by James Hodges

Chris Toll

In the latest issue of Shattered Wig Review author Chris Toll describes a magical encounter between Edgar Allen Poe and Emily Dickinson, involving a time machine. Exploring this notion, by itself, is worth the price of admission.

Photo by James Hodges, story by Dylan Kinnett.

Photo by James Hodges

Justin Miller

There's something uniquely independent about this publication. In an age when computerized desktop publishing has yet to reach the legal drinking age, the Shattered Wig Review holds true to a print sensibility that is rapidly fading. Its pages look and feel like those of a good ol' zine, the kind we loved before blogs, with staples on the spine and strange drawings in the margins.
Also reading this evening was Emily Peterson Crespo who had been a regular performer at the now-defunct "Speak Your Piece" series in Mount Vernon. Her performance this evening was an intricate blend of poetry and prose with all of the deliberate diction of the former coupled with the scenic detail of the latter.

Photo by James Hodges, story by Dylan Kinnett.

Photo by James Hodges

Ed Foster of The Baltimore String Felons.

It wasn't all words at the 14 Karat Cabaret during this event. The music began with a performance by former members of the band, Madagascar. The new band, called Nests took their current project out for a test drive for this, their first ever performance. The lineup retains much of the minimalist qualities of the original band though the new sound has more in common with contemporary ambient electronic music.

The evening concluded with musical a set by The Baltimore String Felons. The Felon Family are a unique group of contemporary folk musicians who are making a strong case for music made with hand tools.

Photo by James Hodges, story by Dylan Kinnett.

Books, Live Music, Art Gallery and more!

Same block as Windup Space, across from Joe Squared. Plenty of room inside for your bike; FREE street parking for your car (well plug your meter before 6, after that its free anyway) come on over…

30 West North Ave.

Baltimore, MD, 21201

Photo by James Hodges

Geffery Sof' Serve of The Baltimore String Felons.

Don't let the DIY look of the publication mislead you. Here, you'll find sophisticated literature, with allusions to the visual poets, surrealist, automatic writing and stunning poetic lines like Stephanie Barber's "one conducts electricity or symphonies, big bands or / trains or themselves with restraint." There is plenty of worthwhile reading material in here all for only six dollars.
The new issue, as well as a subscription, is available for purchase from Normal's Books.. Full details are available on their website.

Photo by James Hodges, story by Dylan Kinnett.

Monumental Genius Holiday Bookshop and Reading

Circling around Mt. Vernon Place and the Washington Monument for twenty minutes in driving winter rain was not putting me in the mood for a reading. It was 2 o'clock on a Sunday afternoon. A cold, rainy afternoon. A good kind of day for nesting on the couch with the Sunday Times and the Louvin Brothers on the turntable telling you to watch your back with Satan.


Not to mention there had just been a Wig Night and I am a lumpy gray butterfly that needs to rest psychically for at least a good week after a Wig Night. But Publishing Genius Adam Robinson was gathering indie lit forces in Jamie Gaughan-Perez's romantic Mt. Vernon Place apartment as part of the Indie Lit Roadshow happening in cities nationwide simultaneously. He put together two different sets of readers and I was flattered to be part of the early set, even if I felt like Willy Loman carrying my box of literary goods in the rain. Go ahead and stare pal! Get your fill! You too will age and diminish unless you get stuck with the worse alternative.

But of course once I climbed the apartment house stairs, shook off the wet, saw the large table of shiny hopeful books stuffed with the dreams of young authors and saw Adam Robinson (above) wearing the world's greatest "holiday" sweater (sorry I didn't get a front shot), I was able to shake off the gray torpor of my bloodline. A big warm cup of Joe didn't hurt either.
Speaking of Joe, Mighty Joe Young was there and he did not bite on my pain pill inquiries about his mysterious broken wrist.
"Yeah, I got a bunch of pain pills. Percosets, Oxymylarheartshapedoozydoos, Kimjongiliums, a bunch of stuff. Could fill a fuggin' pinata with 'em. But I haven't taken any. I guess I'll save some for when I want to escape reality."
"Yeah, right. Why escape reality?" says I, white-knuckling my coffee cup.
The reading was starting fairly late, because everybody was in a kick back Sunday vibe, shaking out their Lionel Richies and whatnot, but Adam had to get slightly assertive because he was double-booked, needing to get to the Essential Sundays reading hosted by Julie Fisher at four, where he would change from host into reader. This town is getting to be like literary New York of the 1950s. On top of these two readings, there was also The Benevolent Armchair reading happening at the Bromo Seltzer Building that day, hosted by Chris Toll and Barbara DeCesare.
I won't torture you or myself with a blow by blow of what turned into a pleasant Sunday afternoon of hearing some great writing. I was too fried to take notes on all the readers and my camera hit "Memory Card Full". Didn't want to sit there during a reader beeping out old photos to make room for new.



Did get a picture of the first reader, Eric Amling above, author of Nine Live Two-Headed Animals (which I am now reading and enjoying), who went on after the ever delightful Aparna Jonnal and David Nesmith (yes, he is related to the guy from the Monkees and he was also in Men's Recovery Project and Hawkwind II: Lemmy Atom) started the afternoon off with "The Atheist Holiday Poem" that they had written. Aparna reading with David playing a slender traveler's guitar. The poem is quoted in full at the bottom of this post. The other readers were Laura van den Berg who read from one of her short stories, John Woods, a former Baltimorean now living in Brookly, New York, who read from his book in process Baltimore Catastrophes, Jamie Gaughan-Perez, who read from his notebooks that he is filling while commuting to work in DC, Michael Kimball reading from his first novel The Way the Family Got Away and myself. I will not go into detail of how my last second decision to read my tawdry homage to Julie Fisher's quest for the erotic got me into hot water, let's just say I actually saw a look of fear on Stephanie Barber's face. I had never seen fear cross her face before and it caused rivulets of sweat to cascade through my Borgnine backwig. Now, let's all sit back with some Egg Nog and enjoy Aparna and David's .................
The Atheist Holiday Poem

'Twas the night before the Big Bang, when all through the dark
Not an atom was stirring, not even a quark;

No stars were yet hung in the sky with no care,
To be wondered about much later: how are they there?

The strings of theories were still nestled in beds,
While visions of how things work were waiting for heads;

No mothers and fathers yet to buy their children crap
Made from the same stuff as when we were one point on a map.

When out in the void there arose such a clatter,
As energy exploded and turned into matter.

Anti-Matter and Matter competed to be
With matter winning by just a hair, you see.

The baryons forming were all aglow
Protons & Neutrons arranging just so,

Electrons charging and Quarks did appear,
Expanding faster and further than many light years,

In the life of the universe this all happened so quick,
Then the matter began to organize and stick.

Shapes and forms it rapidly became,
Eventually molding into things we could name:

"Now, atom! Now, molecule! Now, protein and enzyme!
On, mitochondria! On nucleus! On cell membrane and lysozyme!"

Yielding tissues and organs contained by cell walls,
And creatures that eventually could shop in a mall!

Oh the things that were formed for us to buy,
Mounting into heaps that pierced the sky,

And all over the earth and into space debris flew,
While the debts and inequities grew and grew.

It was astounding the greed which knew no roof,
That had been the result of one cosmic poof.

The Earth on its axis kept turning around,
While the trash piles grew by ounces and pounds.

Strip malls, cheese cake factories and smokestacks,
Taking over what used to be solid black.

As if it were permanent we strutted about
We ate and bought and built without doubt,

We claimed to have permission from a fellow called God,
Who when we killed for him would benevolently nod.

Only some of us could hear him and relate what he said
To the rest of us to abide, or live in hell when dead.

One of God's cronies was called Santa Claus,
A legend quite supportive of the cause

Of compelling us to buy more things at Walmart
Using guilt and fear to coerce our hearts.

Looking back on it all it seems rather strange
That this is how the particles were arranged.

The feeling of our permanence was just a mirage
And our so-called advancements just a hodge podge

Of random arrangements of the baryons of yore
That eventually would be no more.

And just as it grew it would shrink back to a dot;
Our universe that was more meaningless than not.

But since we are all still here, let's toast our wine
Merry holidays to all and to all… good luck.

Shattered Wig 28 Revealed Among Nests and Felons, Bearing Great Love

It had been two years since I last cobbled together a Shattered Wig and I was feeling it. A bunch of all nighters to meet the "deadline" of the publication party while the new comforts of home and marriage called out to me: "Silly old man, look at you cut and paste like a 12 year old. Who will read your Wig? Put it all down, walk away from the scrap covered floor and get under the winter blankets with that new printing of that crazy Charles Williams pulp novel you got. Or think about how long it's been since you've seen "Clockwork Orange". Pop in a little horrorshow. Look how warm and inviting Everly is there despite how she loves to keep the window open in 30 degree weather with an industrial strength metal fan two inches from her head. You are a near broke, near old man - you might as well be well rested."



I went to bed around 3 a.m. the night before the show without having written any introduction, which I like to have for future reference, each issue being a little buoy floating on the ever rougher surface waves of my consciousness. I jumped up the next morning with just enough sleep not to feel completely like shit, but not enough to let my body realize how much more it desired. Got right down to the coffee and introduction and by 12:30 it was done. I quickly called reliable Rob at wonderful Work Printing (762 Washington Blvd off Martin Luther. They are suspiciously friendly and helpful!) If they didn't exist, neither would the tiny Wig.



"Hey Rob, I finally finished, can I bring it over now?"



"Sure, no problem. Just be careful."



"Careful? What do you mean?"



"It's snowing outside."



Panic! My old pal and bedrock Shattered Wig contributor Blaster Al's arch nemesis - the dread white substance that lines the street and renders shoes useless: snow. Then I had to chuckle. Here it was the melancholic first Wig Night with Blaster now living back in Texas and it was snowing. Last year he said he felt as bad as he did back in Vietnam being penned in by all the snow and ice.




And of course a big enough snow can be a "promoter's" nightmare. Hard enough competing these days for a crowd in overbooked Baltimore without competing with Nature itself.


Luckily, it was just a little scare and a cosmic joke to get me laughing with Blaster. As Rob, Debbie and I devoured some fine pizza and the Wigs rolled off the machines like a backwards slaughter house shooting out unslaughtered pigs, the snow became a brief dusty memory left by the slate gray sky.









It felt good to be back at the 14 Karat Cabaret, a brand new issue piled high on the rickety old card table that erstwhile soundman Ronnie had already set up for me. The crowd started up early and there were a lot of new faces.


Originally, Neoist plotter, anti-science buff (but highly erotically charged lover of Der Kindle) John "Pego" Berndt was going to bring a little Blaster Al to the proceedings by reading some of Blaster's new poetry that he's written since taking the Southern plunge, but John went down with one of the many flus that seemed to hit hard and early this year. In his stead, which was supposed to be in Blaster's stead, I opened the show (to a nice crowd of 70 people or so) by reading Blaster's letter in the new Wig about his epic Greyhound trip from Baltimore to Austin.


R.M. O'Brien ("Bob" to his arresting officers) took the stage next and whupped up and loved on it. He is not only the curator of the diverse and well attended WORMS reading series, but a great poet and performer. He mixed a nice Gregory Corso poem into his mix as well as one by an old friend of his. Inspiring stuff and well received.


Following Robert was Emily Peterson Crespo, world traveler, linguist and co-founder of the Follow the Buffalo Workshop and reading series. She read poems about and/or inspired by her trip to Egypt and I definitely think there is a novel or travel book in there. She made many references to the fine bottle of wine that she and her hubby Joe had had to wolf down at the restaurant before the show, not wanting to be wasteful. She told me Saturday that not only did she have a good time, but that she was hungover. That is all I ask of these shows - that at least one of our performers wakes up the next day with a big old rubber sack on their back. In the old days when my hair climbed toward the skies making even Gene Wilder scared, I wouldn't crawl out of bed after a Wig Night until about 3 the next day. Shame!








Above is the mischievous enigma known as Ryan Walker. As I said that night when introducing him, I always suspect there's something he knows that he's not telling us. Always that small quirky shadow of a smile. He has a great reading style of something like Steven Wright reading the nightly news as written by Zippy the Pinhead. Often he will stop and laugh at what he has just read, as if he has seen it for the first time.




One of the bonuses for me of Shattered Wig Nights, are surprise guests like Mary of an old group I was in called Groovy Like a Pig and Andy of the group Red Dogma from the early '80s. Red Dogma actually could have gone places, except two of the members went to a place indeed - Australia, when they married. Andy has since had the pleasure of playing and recording with Roland Howard. Mary is a bounty hounter.







This Wig Night had many facets of joy. One was the reunion of sorts of the group above. That's Michael and Tony Lambright, formerly of the much loved Madagascar group. This night was the first time they played on stage with Justin, also of Madagascar, as "Nests Revealed". More of an electro ambient sound this time. Great to hear these guys again.






Ah, then there's the unwashed wild straight outta Westport antics of The Baltimore String Felons. I've had the pleasure of hearing these hobos many a time and not just because the stringy wild-eyed fiddler is my genius nephew Geff. They have brought old country and Americana music into the seething weirdness of the modern world with their very own sound. 98% of their songs are their own, but they have a quality of a really detailed strange hand carved thing that you always saw on your grandmother's cupboard next to her dandelion wine. They have an album already recorded and in the can, so I hope someone with a few dollars and some distribution contacts hook them up. I know we'd be able to move quite a few hot units of it at Normal's Bargain Cobbley World.

And so ended another Wig Night. The lovely bundled up Madame Drogoule retreating out the door with her strict taskmaster Buff Joe Medusa, who still dangled some hope before me that one day I may get to play the Richard Burton part in a stage version of "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf" directed by him. And the cherry on the cake of the fantastic evening was that the new issue flew off the table, as well as quite a few books. Nothing makes me happier than the thought of people sitting down at night to a Wig. I truly love the writers there-in and wish them all the luck and readers in the world.

WORMS November 23

I would have to reach far back into my life, into my childhood really, when my friend's Uncle Johnny would have us as at his shore house that was literally feet away from a pier and the bay and had a fridge always stocked with Coke and Yoo-hoos, to think of host as generous and kind as Sir Robert M. O'Brien. In just a year and a half or so he has truly built up a great reading series that draws an attentive crowd and mixes up some good diverse intellects.



And just in case you are new to the series and not sure you have found your way to the right spot in the catacombs of the Bell Foundry building (Isn't this the basement parking garage where Marvin Mandell would eat the still beating dismembered hearts of Baltimore orphans?), Robert wears a pleasingly bright lime hoodie to draw your eye and help the pickpockets in the crowd get some work done.
Also, at each WORMS reading, Bob starts off with a nice twist on the ordinary. This time he read the synopsis of a Bugs Bunny cartoon, which took on a new life in this format. The first WORMS of the season Bob talked about the recent phenomenon of "celebrity poetry" and he read verbatim from an inane website advising you on how to get rich quick on Britney quatrains. In honor of that moment I read my poem at this November WORMs that I wrote in homage to the actor who never sleeps and whose doctorates could wallpaper a mansion - James Franco. I dedicated my last poem to publisher genius Adam Robinson not even realizing that he was sitting front row to my left with brainy and wild Stephanie Barber who was shape shifting and burning off so many calories just sitting and squirming in her chair that there were more rainbow colors being given off than at a Phish concert.



After the crowd was done with me, next up was Jeremy Hoevenaar, who moved here fairly recently from Brooklyn.




Third was the Sphinx-like Joseph Young who calmly read micro-stories from Easter Rabbit. His soothing reading voice and gentle flipping of pages reminded me of my favorite newscaster from the 9/11 mess. I never knew his name and he always seemed to come on after midnight. He catalogued updates and events in a low deep tone that wasn't meant to sedate or trick but merely to give each word equal weight and chance and the sound of his words was a promise that life would go on, that this too would be lived through and we would come through the other end of it, only to be bent over a park bench and jackknifed by Karl Rove and his boys over and over while car horns blatted out some football team's fight song.
I have to say that some of my attention was diverted from Joe's reading by the fact that he was only wearing a t-shirt in a warehouse basement on a late November night. I was having sympathetic chilblain freeze, but that might have been also from the miniature Coke I was sipping.






This gent is Matthew Smith, a Johns Hopkins graduate and he also is endowed with one of those voices from beyond. Many of his poems were classically themed and he told great tales of ancient mythology setting a few pieces up, so he made a nice lead-in to the fuzzily shimmering star of the night, Chris Mason.






Chris is one of the rare poets who I can't get enough of in a reading. This one in particular seemed cruelly short. He has a new book coming out on Narrowhouse Press called Hum Who Hiccup and he read a few pieces from there, plus one of his old "click" poems. When I hear Chris read I always feel a renewed belief in humanity, that kindness and thought can still exist and grow. And I also feel slightly ashamed of myself, that I'm not doing enough, not pushing my boundaries enough. But then I go home, slip into some oversized Austin Powers teeth, put on an episode of "The Honeymooners" and wash some Cheetohs down with Robotussin.

Shattered Wig 28 Sneak Preview #13 - A Poem by Shattered Wig Night Poet Ryan Walker

Ryan Walker, an inventive, laconic and slippery poet living in D.C. will be one of the featured poets at the December 10th Publication Party at the 14 Karat Cabaret. Here is a look at one of his poems that will be in the issue to get a taste of his writng.


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less than the subtraction of its parts
a place went missing.
I've climbed a tree with your plans
I surrounded the animal spirits with my wispy money
and with that I stuff my farm on you
I'm trying to climb on your face
walk down the carpet
then the swart mouse brigade militant with unnamed mouse wishes
manipulated as examples and independent
these hoops of ice behave
and the whistles
my antenna is a bow
I make grapes
I only steal originals and seals.
only for the last ticket
I admit I spray a token person with windex
I slept on a cake it was faddish
I had cake shoes and my little dog was made of cake
otherwise I used a light cucumber green to destroy the lander
then a blank caper. I used it for a pointed western.
it wasn't as meaningful as it sounded
it just took a long time and while I'm not beat up it's nice to meet you
and of course lease a helicopter
but there is the small matter of the marriage of our crowns
we are willing to adopt protestantism
and the list of changes we submitted earlier
has been not so much rescinded as re-directed
to an oft-thwarted nation of overrated types
we plan to wear tee-shirts
we have huge record collections
we're born on a pretty stream.
and things are observed a lot
it's an opposite customer
grapes are bees in potholes


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Ryan is wondering how Friday got here so fast. Semi-recently he self-published the hell out of his book, You Will Own It Permanently. Additionally he writes web apps and rehabs an old house in Washington, DC.

Baltimore String Felons and R.M. O'Brien to Foist Joy Upon The Shattered Wig 28 Publication Party

The lineup for what I hope will be the Shattered Wig Review #28 publication party (I would have gotten a hell of a lot done two Fridays ago if not for the damn BGE outage!) is almost nailed down. It looks to be a fine night of rapture.

Of course this being modern day Baltimore there will be tons of other cool things going on, including a Sea Couch and Forks of Ivy show (traitors), but we will have a shiny new issue sporting the menacing front cover you see smack dab in the middle of the top of this "page".

And although I truly have grown to hate the ubiquitous "Boh" man, I can stand him with a top hat and a banjo.........

Here is the lineup for the December 10th Shattered Wig party at the glorious, glamorous, forbidden, luxurious, decadent, legendary 14 Karat Cabaret:

R.M. O'Brien - poet, emcee/curator of the fantastic WORMS reading series
Emily Crespo - - poet, traveler, alchemist.
Ryan Walker - D.C. poet extraordinaire, friend to all.

The Baltimore String Felons. Fantastic timelessly weird old American folk music with a punk edge. It will Mikey the lead singer's birthday so don't be a weenie - buy him a beer!
Tests. Music featuring two members of the dearly missed group Madagascar.

Here is what the City Paper had to show about a String Felons show they did a while back with Balti Mare.

Earlier in the night, the Baltimore String Felons offered their own unique twist on folk traditions, theirs being more distinctly American. And what's so refreshing about the weirdo folk acts in Maryland, as opposed to say New York or California, is that we're not so far from Appalachia that the musicians seem more connected to those influences, and more likely to have actual family roots. The String Felons, with their fiddle and banjo twang, have a definite mountain sound in their so-called "inner city doomgrass," even with its oddball twists, including songs that detail the assassination of JFK or choruses that howl "please don't kill me." And like Balti Mare, the combination of tradition and playful irreverence is what makes the String Felons work.