Acid Dropping EP (6 tracks) on Bandcamp (Funtime Records)

 

The six-track version of the Acid Dropping EP, here embedded from the Funtime Records site on Bandcamp, features the Feel (I saw) remix, an assemblage which began from Zenboy1955 on CC Mixter and includes a chunk of the anaphoric opening section of Feel.

The Feel (I saw) remix enjoyed a nine-week run at #1 on the Soundclick Acid Electronic sub-generic chart; it also climbed to #8 on the Electronic Overall chart, and reached #7 on the hearthis.at Electronica chart.  

Cold Autumn Day

 

 

I.

this is
what
words
amount
to—
festivals
of ash,
collapsed
into urns,
held
up by
timid folk
for the
bold to
scatter.

 II.

Poems are train-wrecks
            that move— to stand
on tracks, to do so solidly, is
            suicide of a high order—
 
to die by force of wreckage—

 III.

On why it has to be that writing

comfortable garbage is the inevitable

byproduct of living comfortably, with

each fresh hell I wonder why the hooks

towards artful utterance are set this

way, & why I must become such an oyster

just to confer into a leaking bucket,

insecurely hung from abraded cables,

a blue droplet not even of blood but

of nectar, or wine, or whiskey— 

IV.

Times you get bored
with the process, but
 
worse are times when
words are little deaths,
 
wrung out like sheets,
draped over hangers,
 
out in a damp yard on
a cold autumn day, as
 
wind rises to pin them
to your hopeless breast.

Apparition Poem #1112

 

 

#1112

I.

“Fuck art let’s dance”

only we didn’t dance,

we fucked, and when

we fucked, it was like

dancing, and dancing

was like art, because

the climax was warm,

left us wanting more—

how can I know this

dancer from the dance?

Brain-brightening glance,

how tight the dance

was, and the sense that

pure peace forever was

where it had to end for

both of us, only your

version was me dead,

after I had permanently

died inside you like the

male spider always does—

II.

Pull me towards you—

woven color patterns

create waves beneath

us, tears buoy bodies

to a state beyond “one”

into meshed silk webs—

not every pull is gravitational—

as two spiders float upwards,

I say to you (as we multiply

beyond ourselves) “those

two are a bit much, their

sixteen legs making love”

Beams and Going the Distance

 

 Another placement of Beams which might be able to go the distance. 

X-Peri: 3 Pages

 

 These three pages, from Daniel Y. Harris's X-Peri web-zine, span the years 2017-2020. 

Acid Dropping EP on MixUpload

 

 

Acid Dropping EP is:

I. A Clangorous Din— Speck

II. Stone the Devil— Speck

III. Viaje entre las luces— Vince El Mejor

IV. Driving Home— MalreDeszik

V. Hipsters— Falki Hoz

Various Positions:

On the Soundclick Jazz Overall chart, A Clangorous Din reached #15, Stone the Devil #12, Viaje entre las luces #18, and Driving Home #29.

A Clangorous Din also climbed to #8 on the hearthis.at Electronica chart for the week beginning November 7, 2021. 

On the Soundclick Electronic Overall chart, Hipsters, a.k.a. Ode On Jazz (3, with Falki Hoz), reached #20.

Featured on Things You Heard When You Were Dead (shane p).

All tracks feature spoken word by Adam Fieled, from (respectively) Opera Bufa, This Charming Lab, When You Bit..., and Ode On Jazz. 

From Funtime Records. 

Produced/engineered by respective artists, Eris Temple, and the Kelly Writers House. 

Zines Collection

 

The following pdfs have been added to the Internet Archive Zines Collection:

4 pages, P.F.S. Post: Waxing Hot poetics dialogue with Steve Halle, 2006

2 pages, P.F.S. Post: Ode On Exile, Apparition Poem #1613

5 pages, No Tell Motel: 5 sonnets from When You Bit..., 2008

4 pages, denver syntax: from Apparition Poems, 2010

Cheers!

P.S.

Mipoesias, August 2010: Letters To Dead Masters #3, is in the Magazine Rack Collection

LTDM (Letters to Dead Masters): #10

       Percy, 

       The girl named Kris who works here is wiping down tables right in front of me. In some moods, I say, this never gets old for me; the female form and figure, its’ contours, lights, the things in it that do dances. But as I get older, I find myself getting bored with my own physical reactions to girls. It’s not just that I’ve been promiscuous; it’s that in doing it, I’ve created an engine that never ceases revving and humming. Kris leans over and my blood starts to boil— what else is new? Truly, Kris deserves better than me; someone more attentive and more sensitive. Rather than going for the straightforward blazon, I might as well pierce right through to the main dish about Kris; I’ve been told she likes to do sucker-punch flirtations with guys. If I’m more of a sucker than most, I at least have some fine and feisty ways of withdrawing before any damage is done. Dana also likes to wander in, even on days when she doesn’t work. They look rather like the Doublemint Twins together. I can feel them trying to figure me out, but they won’t have much luck. I’m enough past figuring out that I’ve given up the attempt myself. The DJ behind the counter is having a rough day; you can see it in his slumped shoulders and perpetual grimace. I keep thinking that Saturday night might have been one of their big parties; I’m not sure. But, I’ve noticed, DJs are like creative artists in that they lead an up and down life. Spinning the wrong record at the wrong time is like striking out; too much trance at once like fumbling; and if you decide to go retro, even for a few songs (think Depeche Mode, or mixing Blur with Daft Punk for the rock kids), you had better be prepared to face the consequences. Or, it could be that the recession has forced people out of the clubs; you can’t dance at home, but you can drink and screw. I do feel this guy’s pain, as it has come to my attention that the festive aspect of the arts has been sullied; when resources become scarce, people hunker down. So I’m hunkered down over my coffee, pretending not to notice Kris’s ample cleavage. Days like this, you feel you’re scraping the bottom of the barrel, just because the energies around you are stagnant. Human stasis becomes so dictatorial, once it sets in, that it might as well be crowned emperor. And oh what a domain. 

       I can’t exactly get behind this letter, because I’m perturbed, caught in yet another academic fracas. It resembles what you might call power square dancing; swinging your partners that they might be hurled over cliffs. First it’s scary, then tedious; eventually, it makes Against the Grain look like Call of the Wild. Not that the dances I did with Wendy Smith and Julie Hayes (Boston and Temple, respectively) weren’t the real Call of the Wild. Between Kris (who is right here, wiping tables again demurely) and power square dancing, I’m about ready to de-anchor the Ariel and sail right into a storm. And I do mean Mary Shelley. 

    Drowning, 

       Adam

The Nymphet Sequence

A trilogy of sonnets/double sonnets in the Miscellaneous section of Something Solid, meant to convey a sense of mystery around beauty, the body, and innocence. 

The & Now Awards: The Best Innovative Writing ('09), library-available on IA

 

 On IA, in its entirety and available to be borrowed, The & Now Awards Anth.

from Something Solid: Miscellaneous Sonnets: Nymphet

 

How far can she take it, her body, her looks,
how steep will the dare be? I watch the nymphet,
idling behind her mother in the supermarket
line, and wonder, do an appraisal, just as she
must be doing a self-appraisal of her own. My
mind moves out, runs into the brain of Yeats,
hovering somewhere in distant space. The sage
answer he gives is simple: it depends, in any
context or situation to befall her, whether she
means it or not; whether she is in earnest. What
beauty buys is nothing if not hitched to a set heart
and brain. She looks to me, here, as though
she means it, alright; tying her shirt in a knot to
reveal her midriff, caressing herself restlessly
 
with her hands. What’s at stake is not merely
her body & face but her life; what it means, where
it may go. I have to look away, but when I look
back she’s gone. She’s left an imprint on my
imagination about youth, possibility, eternity
(even), worlds while they are in the process of
opening up, which the soul can see “forever” in.
May outside, first heat, & the revelation of what
ricochets, here, into the ethereal. She is, I’m sure,
in the car by now, weighed down by groceries,
mind already past her solitary passion. My own
solitary passion, as I walk down Butler Pike, is
merely to register having seen something someone
else saw (Yeats), the heaven and the hell of it, & in earnest, myself.  
 

Monday Journal #1

 

Thanks again to Vlad Pogorelov and the rest of the Monday Journal crew, for all the hard work they've put into Monday Journal #2. In the interest of literary completism, here is Monday Journal #1 (2019) on Amazon.

Preface

 

With the new Monday Journal out with a vengeance (online & print), worth noting that Vlad has something else coming out of note: a second print edition of his late Nineties chapbook Derelict. When Derelict was released, Vlad still lived in Philly, and much of the action in the chap takes place in Philly. Vlad asked me to write a preface for this second edition, and I did.

Treasure Trove Part 2

Trove, subsidiary of the National Library of Australia, in Canberra, Australia, has continued to re-publish the pdfs of entire Otoliths issues which began in 2017, and which I mentioned here in 2018.  

Here now, are issues 57, 61, and 65, featuring Wayfaring Angel, The Witches of South Philadelphia, and Perfect, respectively. 

Hannah Miller

 

Hannah Miller was an important social presence for the Philly Free School in the mid-Aughts. Hailing from the West Coast (So-Cal), she split her time then between books & politics; and she was devoted to a liberal socio-political vision of Philadelphia that Mike, Jeremy, Nick & I approved of. 

Among other new appearances of Hannah online, in & around Philly Free School, Poetry Incarnation '05, & the Highwire Gallery, Hannah appears in the Something Solid sonnet Undulant, which I can be heard reading here, and is also featured in the new Monday Journal.

Sacramento Poetry Center reading

 

My reading tonight for Sacramento Poetry Center and Monday Journal, of Undulant and Trooper from Something Solid, is taped, 

from Plymouth Meeting.

Sacramento Poetry Center: full reading, including my segment (1:33:43-1:37:03), on a video file. 

Monday Journal on Amazon

 

 The second full issue of Rocklin, California's Monday Journal, edited by Vlad Pogorelov (among others) and featuring two poems from Something Solid (Trooper, Undulant), is now available in print on Amazon. Many thanks to Vlad and the rest. Cover image presented here: Pretending to Dance Ballet, by Ed Bowers. 

And the lead-up...

 

 In the lead-up to English 271, Laura Goldstein discovered Opera Bufa at myopic books in Wicker Park, Chicago, as is explained here. 

25 East Pearson

 

 25 East Pearson from the outside. And an English 271 term paper only visible on the inside. 

Loyola 25 East Pearson Room 306

 

This is room 306, 25 East Pearson, Loyola University Chicago, where English 271 was held. 

The Touched (A Very Black Comedy): Adam Fieled: Outlaw Playwrights: 2-6-97

 

(A dilapidated old room— the Munsters meets the Bates motel— downstage left, window. Maybe an old chaise lounge and some flower-print chairs would be appropriate. Enter Helen Harold, a voluptuous young blonde— but dressed like Trent Reznor’s wet dream: Goth city. With her is Timothy Whitehead, a very square GQ looking yuppie in a Gap suit.)

 H: Look at this musty old place; I haven't been up here for months, not since Maggie's funeral. I made it beautiful for that; I dusted the floor and polished the tables. Everything looked new. Now here I am, the sole heir of a ghost palace! (walks stage left, gestures) Look out this window, Timothy; do you see that tree? My grandfather used to hide there when he was a kid. Eventually, he snuck girls up there too. He's another dead one.

 T: Hmph! You know, talking about dead people, this place is so eerie, it's like "Twin Peaks." I feel...presences here...like we're not alone!

 

H: (Helen laughs nervously and pulls Timothy towards her) Don't say that, Timothy, you're frightening me! I've felt the same thing— this room has a power of its own, Timothy, this room is...(she pauses to lean in close to his face)...inhabited!

 T: (breaking away from her) I wonder if we're disturbing the inhabitants?

 

H: (Helen moves rapidly to the windowsill) Well, maybe we are, but we have every right to; this isn't their room anymore; they're long dead!

 

T: (moving to console her) I see this is freakin' you out; shall we go back downstairs?

 

H: (as if shaking off spooks) No!...No, I'm going to stay here. (grabbing his hand) Will you stay with me, Timothy?

 

T: (takes on suave LOVERMAN tone) Hey, sure, baby, it's all right, I'll stay with you. I don't know what we're going to...(closes in on her, heavy sleaze) do here, though.

 

H: (breaking away nervously from his grip) We're going to wait. There's something else you should know about this room— Maggie died here, my grandfather did too. He used to bring his mistress up here, and my grandmother caught them, and...

 

T: (obviously spooked and getting impatient now) What, Helen, what? You drag me up here to tell me about your family of fucking freaks? What the hell do you want from m...

 

H: (screaming, hysterical): SHE KILLED HIM! MY GRANDMOTHER KILLED HIM!

 

T: Oh, that's great, Helen, fantastic! What the hell do you want me to do about it?

 

H: (runs and grabs him) Listen to me, Timothy, just listen! You can't leave me alone in this room! There's a curse on me and you've got to help me!

 

T: Man, this is just too fuckin' weird. I'm leaving!

 

H: (suddenly calm) You can't.

 

T: What do you mean, I can't? (Timothy tries opening the door— it stays resolutely shut— he begins to panic)

 

H: (suddenly very much the chastising, superior bitch) Stop struggling, Timothy. Come here, sit down, and I'll tell you what's happening. (Timothy gives up and follows her order) You think you chose to come here today. You wanted to fuck me and you know I sleep around. But you didn't choose to come here today, Timothy— I put a spell on you.

 

T:         (tries to scream, chokes on his breath, gasps)

 

H:         Stop fighting it. Stop. (he does) Good. Now listen, Timothy— I chose you because you’re touched. You have the magic in you and you don’t even know it. There’s a curse on me and only you can break it. Until you do, you’re under my control (pats him on the head)— got that?

 

T:         (barely spits it out, with vengeance) F…f…fine!

 

H:         Good. Now, swear on your mother’s eyes that you’re not going to leave me here.

 

T:         (frantically, struggling to form the words) I…won’t…bbbring…my….mother…into…this…she’s a Christian!!

 

H:         (strokes his leg like she would a cat) Oh but you will, Timothy— swear on your mother’s eyes that you’re not going to leave me.

 

T:         I…won’t…leave you here…BITCH!

 

H:         (sitting in his lap) Good! (kisses him on the cheek) Remember, darling, that was a binding oath you just took— if you break it, the only way to pay is with blood!

 

T:         (regaining his ability to speak) Are you finally going to tell me what this shit means now?

 

H:         My mother hates me. She’s jealous as hell— all witches are. She’s also wiser and more powerful than I am— celibate witches gain strength! She’s cursed me. She’s got me trapped here. Sometimes she won’t let me eat, sometimes she won’t let me sleep, and she keeps threatening to kill me. And you can kill her. You’re touched. All you have to do is keep saying Hail Marys until she drops! Only…Timothy…(runs her hand through his hair) you must not let go of my hand. Do you understand that? You must not let go of my hand. Promise me you won’t.

 

T:         Helen, I promise you, I won’t let go of your hand. But can we get this thing over with now? (very little boyish) I’ve got a bad headache and my tummy hurts!

 

H:         (smiling radiantly) Yes, Timothy, let’s go…up we go…there’s a good boy…

 

(they exit arm-in-arm, Timothy limping— end scene)

 

(Lights up on a tiny, sparsely furnished bedroom. On a rocking chair, facing the audience and knitting violently is Victoria Harold, Helen’s mother. She has a furrowed brow and stern look about her— very Madame DeFarge.)

 

V:         The child thinks I don’t know what she’s up to: the ignorance! Does she think my power that shriveled? Touched he may be, but he’ll not leave this house alive! I’ll send that Hail Mary through him with a force Mary herself’ll feel! She thinks she’s going to leave me to die alone; the selfishness! Why should she be allowed to leave, when no one else has! That little damned whore! I own her, body and soul, and she don’t even know it! I am the goddess of this house, and no one’s taking that away from me— the goddess!

 

(Helen and Timothy enter, hands clasped tightly. They approach Victoria’s chair.)

 

V:         (turning herself in her chair slightly to face them) You’re not leaving this house, Helen, you’re not! You’re stupid to think you can! No Hail Mary will save you!

 

H:         (beseechingly, she puts a firm arm around Timothy’s waist) Concentrate, Timothy, pray; and don’t let go! Mother, I’ve been taken advantage of enough; you’ve abused me since I was born, used your power against me, and I won’t take it anymore!

 

V:         (begins to knit again) You can’t contradict a curse. What I say, goes! There’s no way around it; you’re not getting out of this house! Let her go, Timothy; what do you care about her? Why should you be dragged into her mess? She doesn’t care about you, she’s just using you; she’ll destroy you, if that’s what it takes!

 

H:         NOO!! Concentrate, Timothy, don’t listen to her…(Timothy begins to chant, with his eyes shut, “Hail Mary full of grace, Hail…”)….AAAHHH! Tighter, hold my hand tighter; it’s burning up; it’s on fire; tighter! CONCENTRATE!

 

V:         Let go, boy! Let go, and end your pain! Why should you suffer for her? You’re doing this for nothing! You’re suffering in vain!

 

H:         (Helen appears to fading fast under her mother’s gaze. Timothy is still muttering, catatonic) It’s not in vain! OOOOOOOOWWW! Don’t let go! I love you for this, Timothy, we’ll get married, have children, I swear just please HOLD ON…

 

V:         Lies, lies! She’s playing with your mind, boy; she’s a witch! She wants your blood, and she won’t stop until you’re dead…(Victoria begins sputtering and drops her knitting)

 

H:         You’re doing it, Timothy; we’re winning! I can feel it! Concentrate, hold TIGHTER, concentrate, don’t let got—don’t let go!

 

V:         You’re going to kill me; have mercy! Timothy! Do you want this guilt on your hands? How will you live with yourself? Let go of her hand; and give back the only thing this old maid still owns!

 

H:         You don’t own me, you hag! Don’t let go, Timothy!

 

V:         (coughing gets worse) You’re going to kill me; my heart can’t take the strain! Have mercy, have mercy! I’ll let you leave, Helen, I promise; have MERCY!

 

H:         (triumphant hand placed on hip) Why should I? Tighter, Timothy, harder— “Hail Mary, full of Grace”— SAY IT!

 

T:         (sweating profusely, Timothy stumbles) H-H-Hail Mary, full of Grace, Hail Mary, full of…

 

V:         You’re choking me. I can’t breathe…Mercy! Mercy! Mercy!

 

H:         Harder! Don’t let go!

 

V:         You…leave…mercy…mercy! (she appears to die)

 

H:         Keep on going! Harder!

 

T:         (snapping out of his trance) Helen, she’s dead! We killed her!

 

H:         (letting go of his hand, Helen opens a window and fans herself daintily) We did what we needed to do. The stubborn old bitch only lived to torture me anyway.

 

T:         I thought she was faking it; did you know it was for real?

 

H:         Of course I knew it was for real! You’re touched, for God’s sake! You could kill a battalion!

 

T:         She’s a human being, for fuck’s sake. How could you take advantage of my power?

 

H:         (comes down from windowsill and faces him) What were my options, Timothy? Let you run away, and lose my one chance to escape this hell?

 

T:         You didn’t have to kill her! She was begging for your mercy!

 

H:         I had to kill her. (she sidles up to him) That’s what witches do, remember?

 

T:         You evil bitch! (throws her aside) You manipulated me! Hail Mary, full of Grace, Hail Mary, full of…

 

H:         Stop that, Timothy, you’re hurting me…you’re making me sick! Mercy! Have mercy on me; I shouldn’t have killed her, it was a mistake; have mercy!

 

T:         Fine, bitch; I’m not gonna take part in a second homicide! But I’m leaving, and I’m warning you— if I ever see you again, I’m going to fucking KILL you!

 

H:         You’re weak; I need a strong man!

 

T:         You need some serious therapy, is what you need, BITCH! I’m leaving, and if the cops come, I was never here in the first place— got that?

 

H:         FUCK OFF, you BLOODY WANKER!

 

(Timothy exits, slamming the door behind him)

 

H:         (slumps into a chair) Where the fuck am I gonna go? I didn’t have anyone but this old dead witch. (she rises nervously) What am I gonna do with a witches’ corpse anyway? Throw it on the fire, or in the woods, or…

 

(Victoria’s eyes open suddenly, and she rises. Helen freezes)

 

V:         You underestimated me. You were deceived by a ruse. You don’t have a witches’ suspicious heart; you have the heart of a woman! A plain old ordinary CUNT! You can’t speak— don’t even try. You’re going to serve me until the day you die— silently, like a dog! And, Helen…(Victoria claps her hands, and Timothy re-enters)…say hello to your new father-in-law!

 

(Victoria and Timothy passionately embrace, while Helen falls to her knees and slumps to the floor.)

 

T:         (smirking, breaks embrace briefly, looks at audience) Now THAT’S witchcraft!

(Timothy and Victoria embrace wildly again)

 

 

                                              End Scene— End Play

 

 

 

 

 

Ocho #11 again...

 

Christopher Goodrich re-published on P.F.S. Post.  And Steve Halle. And Ocho #11, in its entirety, on Google Drive. 

P.F.S. Post: An Alternate Anthology

 

  Another ways and means of consolidation for P.F.S. Post and its oeuvre:

P.F.S. Post: 2005

P.F.S. Post: 2006

P.F.S. Post: 2007

P.F.S. Post: 2008

P.F.S. Post: 2009

P.F.S. Post 2016-2022

P.F.S. Post: 2023

P.F.S. Post: 2024

Art Recess 2: late 2005

Art Recess 2: 2015

Art Recess 2: late 2023

Art Recess 6 (Slow Wave): late 2023

with an interest on seeking out the right crests of the right waves.

From Equations: The Jade Episodes on PennSound

 

 

The last portion of Equations, The Jade Episodes, is now up on PennSound. Many thanks to the PennSound crew.

Disturb the Universe: The Collected Essays of Adam Fieled (2nd edition)

 

 

Disturb the Universe: The Collected Essays of Adam Fieled, taken to a more expansive locale.

New Poem in Otoliths (61)

 

New, long poem in Otoliths 61. Many thanks to Mark Young. 

Here is Otoliths 61 in its entirety. And in print.

P.S. Listen to The Witches of South Philadelphia on mp3.

Susan Wallack on P.F.S. Post

 

 Susan Wallack, whose painting One Part Paradise adorns the cover of Mother Earth, with a new poem on P.F.S. Post. And another.

Something Solid on mp3 (sampler)

Something Solid: a triptych of sonnet collections (The Nineties, Aughts Philly, Miscellaneous Sonnets). Some highlights from Something Solid, including poems from all three sections, on mp3.

Dream (draft)

 

 

 I.

Dream: I’m standing in the enormous cave

described adroitly by Keats in Hyperion,

with the Titans, as they enact their version

of the Stygian Council. Saturn’s voice booms

forth in dismay. It gradually creeps into my

mind, as I watch his white, oozy beard tremble,

that hidden in the dark recesses of the cave,

opening out behind me— dark, eerie, intimidatingly

empty— that the Titans would have a better time

of it dealing with that primordial starkness, its

own ooze, then to try to fight their losing battle

against newer, more formidable Gods. Go into

the cave, come out a winner, peeps. Ride the

darkness into more darkness. Oceanus seems

to agree with me— he’s reasonable. As he displays

the wares of an elevated mind, I notice that

the Titans are scowling, rolling their eyes, being

infants. Oceanus sounds like an adult. And gets

greeted by no approbation whatsoever. The

cave behind me, unheard by the Titans, belches

in response. The understanding in the air of

who Oceanus is, is the resonance of the entire

cosmos, which also makes, audible to me,

a kind of belching noise. Clymene I refuse

to even stick around for. I run into the cave

behind me: it’s utterly dark. I send Oceanus

a silent wavelength that I’ll see him here later.

A voice from the cave signals me to understand

something: that nothing in here I will see

exists as fully as I do. Don’t expect fullness.

But if I can assimilate the craziness of what

turns up, I’ll be rewarded to have the Titans

serve as manservants to me for a ten-year

fling. Thea will even be my geisha girl. 

 

Equations: The Webbers

 

Trish tells so many horror stories about her parents that they have assumed legendary status before I even meet them. They are white-collar, devout Christian WASPs; they live in a large, conventionally furnished house in Media. Because all three daughters are grown up, there’s not much left to fill the house; it strikes me as being both too empty and too clean. Trish’s horror stories involve alcoholism, sexual abuse, philandering, and rampant meanness; I see none of these things. But I realize, through Trish, that the WASP psyche dotes on artful evasions, permanently closed doors, and freshly scrubbed, polished surfaces. The WASP version of nice is predicated on a perpetual need for surface maintenance; for all of Trish’s buffoonish antics, put a stranger in front of her and she becomes a model of propriety. As I sit down to dinner with Trish and her parents, I’m amazed at Trish’s sudden transformation into dutiful daughter. There’s nothing extravagant about the food, because of course these WASPs aren’t going to waste their money wooing their black sheep artist daughter and her boyfriend. But the surface of the conversation remains unruffled. It is only when Trish’s mother claims to be “so-so on the gays and the blacks” that a rupture occurs. She also finds time to remind us that “you can never be too rich or too thin.” The problem I hear with this WASP is that she has absolutely no sense of irony. She lives straightforwardly on the surface and naively hopes that nothing else exists. She’s a housewife; but her social position, she believes, is immensely elevated by her husband’s funds and the God that provided them. 

 …………………………………………………………………………………………………

Trish and I are both buffoons; when we see Trish’s family we are often stoned. One Christmas I spend with Trish’s family, I am asked to bring my guitar. I do, and the whole family sings along to old Beatles songs. Trish’s sisters are as attractive as she is; Trish plays the usual competitive games sisters play. Usually, the mood isn’t all that festive. Trish’s parents want what most traditional WASP families want for their daughters; to have her marry into money, so that she might be off their hands. As I realize this quite consciously, and know that in this family’s eyes I’m no less a failure and a flush than their daughter is, it’s interesting to feel a sense of almost-acceptance at these dinners. That my roots are unclean tilts things even more formidably against me; but I enjoy the education I’m receiving nonetheless. I learn, for the first time, the absurdity of middle-class, church-going, white-bread America— folks that vote Republican as a matter of course, elevate themselves by considering their brand of normalcy the only Godly one, and don’t need to rationalize the way that Catholics and Jews do, because they have no guilt or shame to begin with.

And Trove again, U Penn: Jacket 40 TOC

 

              

                           The entirety of Jacket 40, preserved in Trove (NLA), U Penn archive.

More NLA (Trove): Otoliths Tables of Contents

 

 

 

Also interesting on Trove (NLA): the tables of contents for issues 25, 30, and 32 of Otoliths, respectively, which act as lead-ins to the entire issues archived.

Letters To Dead Masters: An Epistolary Novella

 

 

Letters To Dead Masters: An Epistolary Novella by Adam Fieled has sprung back to life, here.