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