Works made using the GTR Language Workbench
Truck :: n. a self-propelled vehicle for carrying goods
Monday, December 31, 2012
Truck's drivers/editors as of Jan. 2013
Present
Alan Britt
Future
Feb. 2013 -- Mark Weiss
Mar. 2013 -- Mary Kasimor
Apr. 2013 -- John M. Bennett
May 2013 -- Orchid Tierney
June 2013 -- Victoria Marinelli
July 2013 -- Volodymyr Bilyk
Aug. 2013 -- David Howard
Sept. 2013 -- Philip Meersman
Oct. 2013 -- Chris Lott
Nov. 2013 -- Alex Cigale
Dec. 2013 -- Catherine Daly
Past
Apr. 2011 -- Kate Schapira
May 2011 -- Wendy Battin
June 2011 -- Frank Parker
July 2011 -- Skip Fox
Aug. 2011 -- Ken Wolman
Sept. 2011 -- Michael Tod Edgerton
Oct. 2011 -- Kelly Cherry
Nov. 2011 -- Andrew Burke
Dec. 2011 -- Lewis LaCook
Jan. 2012 -- Larissa Shmailo
Feb. 2012 -- Gerald Schwartz
Mar. 2012 -- Jukka-Pekka Kervinen
Apr. 2012 -- Lynda Schor
May 2012 -- David Graham
June 2012 -- Lars Palm
July 2012 -- Elizabeth Switaj
Aug. 2012 -- rob mclennan
Sept. 2012 -- Georgios Tsangaris
Oct. 2012 -- Douglas Barbour
Nov. 2012 -- Dirk Vekemans
Dec. 2012 -- Erik Rzepka
Sunday, December 30, 2012
Jeff T Johnson - Letters from the Archiverse
More information on LETTERS FROM THE ARCHIVERSE at Organism for Poetic Research:
Thursday, December 27, 2012
David Tomaloff
ERASER SPEAKS IN CLOCKWORK SPRINGS, LEAVES
FOOTPRINTS WHERE ONCE TURNED STEADY HANDS
AMONG THE WOVEN LEAVES
mid swallow,
my sandpaper tongue;
oo()())(()())))(()()(()()00
how everything that slithers
has retreated
to the safety of last year’s den.
and we,
an off-white,
like the volume
of stars
; read & then whispered,
like field language in the fall
PLYMOUTH ROCK (alt. remix)
an opening volley;
a dirge, usually reserved
for a burial at sea.
a kneecap drawn
into the throat
; alas, groping for thinner air.
how such turbulence
this far below
is said almost never to exist.
CRYSTAL COLORLESS GAUZE
lots of pretty radi0 [s],
everyone wondering
what it is they want.
the long,
low, white buildings—
{}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}
{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{}
{}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}
where there is sugar
& water
, the sea
is a perfectly idiotic idea.
________________________________________________________
built from words found in WAYAWAY, Dorothy Cork (1972)
THE BUILDING OF A RIVER
a territory
beneath the skin
; a rising motion,
a crest of swallows.
if none of these things
is an answer,
then I am afraid
I have the questions all wrong.
MOSTLY WE BECOME THE RATTLE OF MACHINERY, THE STATIC
& SEE-THROUGH SCENERY OF FURNITURE OR PASSING CARS
Katherine Sultan-Erminy
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Monday, December 24, 2012
Anthony Donovan
I am unable to end messages / I am you dragging halo ... just more dandruff of the orator / (for instance triste of tag, id solar id solar id solar) / Or else, forms of essentialism as knowing, or absolution as end-result, or will as process / (See how they run) / That is: ergo anon implies direction, or else, or at least, or in toto, the Blind Networks of some Bach Utensil 911 / Do not necessitate me / I understood my conduct was in question; yet you said little in person / It may never reach a viewing, I know, but may we induce something soon? / My ideas pull upon your chain, as you said previously / I share something like the same concept; but I am concerned only with grey exception / The past applies all over me / I am no context / I am no solving-system / My implements are embedded, but within schism / I cannot list acquisitions, nor can I softly combine same for your warm agency / My efforts provide citations and mimic the scene of models automated to some befallen-box / on / and on /
Lewis Lacook - Selections for the Mystery Engine
413
an arch of fallen and slow-rotting tree stalks the back-woods
your mother engineer cateclysm
songs that keep the hunters soft dragging you over the crags of the void
bones she's collected forgetting itself among crows
cannabis you smoke in the meadow mellowing to oranges and reds
but his eyes dribble and dab from between your fingers
yellow light of workspaces scolds us for our mildest winter
but the pace slips out of his damaged shirt
the part of her restlessly tugging the ends of you slipped back around the corner again
each and every failure was the first thing she saw when she woke
the latest digital jobs stands adjacent the blizzard
but his eyes cracking old growth as you pass by
cold fingers suggested the beat of his blood for you to friend
though stripped abandoned sofas mellowing to oranges and reds
December 24 2012
412
our colonies avenges your gestures on sadness
approaches to living time hiss amid the creases in the chaos
your wooden box of sour herbs expires like food
December 23 2012
411
a morning's giddiness have been traced on thin paper
what you suspect is true about the invisible came through the stream frowning forever
clotted emblems whispering in the edges of our grandmothers
flies working the dead mouse down haggard stars
another vague request whirling through the misspent rooms
bacon blurs the edges of alone mornings
if we who mask our skin with shrill lead escapes your lips
everything you've ever eaten enduring silently the tension needed
a leather thirty years an apt rain
brick red tar paper barn tell a long story to your spine as day wreaks one last skirmish
and the pallette of cigarette vapor twirling enclosed by brush
yellow grass under a shroud of snow tickle our lips with ghosts
but then his face trickle into the red barn and weave clusters of prehistoric leaves
the writing parsing you sour and lost
December 22 2012
410
crowds that stand near your thoughts silking in the bottom of a coffee cup
overview of all traffic glowing smeared across our mouths our fingers
the sleeping girl hums like winter vents
dirty dirty cigarette dropping nuts from whipped branches
as if assimilated the bird elongate and pale to scars with time
the part of you that stands in tall grass loving with your eyes hardened trees
slick clack of dog's nails misunderstanding all you see
though our gods are all in heaven eating your dead
the way your hands talk to mine isn't listening to anyone now
songs that keep the hunters soft penetrating the rainfall
pools in one end of the yard gathering ghostly cat hair along its spine
the part of you up early watching dawn are drinking grins out of fruit jars
the part of you that is a vain animal pieced you together from scraps of singing
your burned wood typography assembles music on sharp air
December 21 2012
409
the defiance of sunflowers move by sighing just under wind
innocence with nothing in their heads hold sky
swatch of rain light over treetips streaming down your face
December 20 2012
408
yellow light of workspaces pluck at her oils
those of us coated in animal prints walks the meadows unmolested still
a short break open under your fingers with a warm breath
the part of you that made it through to fall can calm beneath wet fingers
a choreography of lake-winded trees came through the stream frowning forever
December 19 2012
--
Mystery Engine is a generative poetry engine. It composes a poem randomly every day from sentence fragments in its database. http://mystery-engine.com
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
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