Saturday, July 26, 2014

SarZine News

Zine Rack at Elliott Bay Books
The summer in Seattle is a fleeting thing. No wonder so many events are crammed into such a small space of time. It teaches us mutability and carpe diem better than any refrigerator magnet or motivational email signature. Alright. That is not really saying much.  Suffice to say I can rarely get a hold of David during these evanescent days of sunshine. It's why I am happy to let you know that while you are out and about town here in Seattle there are two places you can stop in and pick up a copy of Les SarZine 8: Mirrors.

The first is Elliott Bay Books, which is conveniently located near Cal Anderson Park, Richard Hugo House and perhaps most importantly, Molly Moon's Ice Cream. If you are up on Capitol Hill this summer, stop by and take a look at their spectacular collection of local art zines, curated by Keith Barbalato. You will find Les SarZine 8: Mirrors there along with some of the last SarZines Recollected out there.

Les SarZine 8 at the Frye Museum Store
Close by on First Hill is the Frye Art Museum. A great place to bring visitors who are coming in from out of town, it is a very accessible and free musuem. But best of all, it has a wonderful store that sells art by local artists. I am particularly fond of an onyx necklace by Meghan Sommer, but you can also pick up work by Ouroboros Press amongst other treasures. Rachel Lang graciously shelves the Fish here as well.

 So if you have relatives or friends visiting the Free and Hanseatic City of Seattle this summer, go ahead and take them to the Pike Place Market where and watch the fish throwers. Allow the de rigeur nonsense of the angler-fish to occur. But if they want some really non-perishable seafood to take home, take them to the Frye and Elliott Bay. If they are there, thank Keith and Rachel (profusely) for supporting local art!

Tuesday, July 22, 2014


The ships at rest out there, so grey and silent now, rise and fall with the rhythm of her breath in measure of the shift and swell of tide.

She is at rest, the night is free. She walks upon the barbican: old stones against the sea. With her new coat against the evening wind, she does not lie for lonely men tonight. The crisp work sheets are cold or lie beneath the warmth of yet another woman’s work.

She knows something of knots and marlin spikes, the luck untangled from a sheepshank, and the exchange of coins for masquerades of love devoted for an hour or two.

She knows she could have been a dripping girl who died in agony from rip and tear, like broken crates of fruit: all considered remuneration due, for work makes men, for avarice burns the outstretched knee and muddied hems of passion’s charity.

Sometimes she lies in the bed like a fine china doll and thinks behind the porcelain there’s nothing at the core but wheels and twine.

Sometimes love comes like a gracile cat: velvet, warm, silent and insubstantial. It mostly sleeps and when it hunts it is elsewhere. She thinks of that one’s eyes, the other’s laugh, and the Captain, whose hands are different; his touch sails out beyond her artifice.

More often now, she finds herself at work within her clothes. She mends, she cleans, she runs errands for the younger ones. She said once “I will know when the time has come to leave and I will find some man, (a carpenter crosses her mind with this memory) who also sells his work, and so will understand.”

She’s put some money by and so she smiles, at the warmth and cost of her embrace. She lets the evening flow around her. She allows the season of Fall to touch her. Her price? The red sunset.

The wool of her coat is lined with silk the color of the sky.

Wednesday, July 9, 2014

The Everyday

I had given my cabin shape so it could be a friendly home for long legs, long nose, black hair to flutter on the mountain. I was beautiful and could not see it.

Every day began with sorrow. Every day I bore anger for him, but every day eventually gave way to every evening and I missed him. That is always the problem of the Everyday. The everyday problem that somehow every day I awoke, either from the sleep of night or the sleep that comes in the day, such as when I was hard at my work, writing useless things.

The Everyday was where I was alone.  I must have been mad to see the world as different in the light.  And what was it then, but a terrible curse, a kick in the face, a broken nose, a slice to the warped chord of family, and every moment a shouting chorus of the Gods at our defeat?

The Sun opened up my pressured brain with its bolts of light.  I felt like laying down in the light, so the earth could gently gather me to await the last irrevocable stroke.

Friday, July 4, 2014

The Knight and Love

The Knight is a game piece
He moves in L shapes
2 squares up, down, sideways
1 perpendicular

Or the L moves in Knight shapes
Or Love = Knight
Consider this metaphorically

When you are finished
Strip him of his moves
Place him on a checkerboard

With checkers
He jumps, he kings
Like any other piece
Is Love the Same?

Sunday, June 29, 2014


Just there, beneath and beyond the dock or the bank or the sand is Waterwork: the work of the hands and feet of the Waterpeople.

I know them. I have spoken of them before. They are blue, sometimes green, and marked with shifting patterns on their skin. When they first invited me into their realm, I tried to decipher the calculus of desire, thought and memory, but they are always changing. The hydromantic visions they provide are as fluid as they are.

Have you seen their work between the tides? Sometimes they cast fish into the air, to tease them with a taste of death, but also the something beyond the horizon of the surface.  The water hands pull down the young limbs and the old.  They gently pull while the sinker fights, but they usually win.  Even islands pause in their slow dissolution and listen to the life given out in song, in sadness. It is the history of a life that all drowners see and recapitulate in the motets of the water hands.

Their waterhands play their slow tunes in the depths and the waves of their music. Listen, in amplitudes of calm or storm, the music comes ashore. It carries out its stories against the rocks or the sand and I can only catch shreds of passages, of meaning, like listening to low voiced men discuss mysteries on the far side of partitions.

Each conception of Moon in the darkened water is fleshed from some desire.  What was it?  They forgot it in the last ebbing of the world. That point when it all rushed past and a life is last lived, and found in the water. It becomes old and young and middle-aged at once. It is why they always look different, the Fountain People. The What-Could-Be and What-Could-Have-Been are dissolved in the water and the blue hands.

The water laps and lays naked over the stone. They touch the rocks with gentleness and climb above the water, and lay in dark, somnolent thoughts—between the ebb and flow at night when the moon crescents. These tides are when the children of the water and moon are made.

The Ocean dreams them into the air. The Waterpeople, so high above the fields and trees, come with purpose and relief from thirst. Listen and you will hear their music in the rain.

Tuesday, June 24, 2014


A snake is laying on a ledge, which can be seen the words of a partial phrase "hu-bu. here is also shee"

I asked the snake why he was in the temple.  He tasted the air for my bouquet, looked at me and said:
"I dare not bite my tail or it will bring undue symbolism to my lodging.  I am merely here."

"Hush, your noise may frighten the mice and then I will have to follow them into the darkness.  My absence would be debated and then there would be bloodshed, no doubt. That is how all religious arguments end.  The temple itself may even be toppled, or worse, burnt to the ground.  This is why I am careful in my habits."

Friday, June 20, 2014


Ada is standing, looking at a sunset. The color palette is reds, orange and brown.
"In the flame of sunset"
Summer is a natural time for travel.
The road is not a morass of mud
and the weather is pleasant.

I travel in the summer
regardless of whether I go anywhere.
Under what sky?

The northern summer blue,
with its misleading twilight
is like a friend who does not age.

In the southern sky,
the constellations wheel and gyre
turning on a winter.

In the flame of sunset.
there are too many reds and oranges
holding hands and kissing.

I turn to the darkest quadrant of the sky,
for there in the east
the sea is a flat horizon.