Vol.3 Issue.2

Artist Statement
I am not an artist. We are all artists. I sit and I drink coffee in the morning and I think about things and then they get written down. I think about many things, but lately I have been thinking about the whole world and that is what I write about. That is what these pieces in this journal are about.
I do not want to explain my poems or short piece of fiction, really. But I do want to say that nothing is really all that beautiful because everything else is just as beautiful. Except for humanity. Humanity is pretty ugly.
I write in a notebook that does not have lines. It is really not all that liberating, but I just think lines are kind of jerks, so I avoid them. I avoid all kinds of lines, not just lines on a page: fast food lines, border lines, etc. Lines are jerks.
I hope to one day start a movement. We will not really be going anywhere but we will be moving faster than everyone else. Moving places, everywhere, is what we will be doing. Move over, we are lost. Without maps and compasses and lines we know exactly nowhere we are going.
I would sing our anthem right now but we don’t have one yet, Ian Reynold is writing that hit right now, MTV here we come. Also, when I die, Tim Crisp is going to write my memoirs, pretending to be me—still alive.
We are doing things because no one else wants to do those things. We will do absolutely nothing because no one does everything. Be on the lookout for us. Read more poetry. And lined pages are for high school diaries.

And With That We Are Becoming Nothing

Sam Schild

 

we—
constantly cannibalizing
            brothers and sisters
cohabitating
            and cannibalizing
mix like sandinistas and
                        the cia
drinking mixed drinks together in managua
nicaragua
because we are digressing by
            our own
free will—
a species alive
            only
in history books written
by a—decrepit and
                                    desolate and
                                    beyond any image imaginable
                                                by dante
(during the future)—

 

landscape

 

the fourth of july
a celebration of
alienation of
herbivores—

 

hamburgers and hotdogs
hams and dogs
celebrate america daily—
hearts beating and not
resorting to violence
            fast enough to
                        save
                                    un
                                    /anti
                                    cannibals
from cannibalizing complications
and
they effect

 

landscape

 

beyond dante’s dream capacity (infinity)
for writing

 

we—
constantly cannibalizing
            brothers and sisters

 

sisters growing—

 

a grapevine en
caged
squeezing juice
from her bosoms
            we are wine drunk
                        stupid-drunk-apathetic
                                    drunk-passed out
                                                in a pool of our own
                                                            fascist dictator complex
replacing our motor
skills
with her
self—
having too much we had
too much
on a white and red truck
herse
riding to the

 

factory—makes scenes
            makeshift unseamstresses
                        unseam her
                                                name is Tory
but she should not have been
                                                named
cannibalization is weird enough
                                                before
she has identity

 

dante never slept
when he thought of lucifer with
hammers
so he did not dream of
armies of the giants
            holding battering rams
being placed
not so gently
                                    on
                                    top
                                    of
                                    our sisters’
                                    and brothers’
                                    heads

 

all—unseamed stitches
            hammering headaches
plaguing our
            siblings—
a new


blank
entry in the history
books being written
                       
(during the future)

 

don’t feed stupid fatties
(who don’t fit in smart cars)
in cars—
            drivethrough cannibals—
they want 2 for a dollar
                                    times 7

 

tomorrow’s landscape
does all her work
                        in pencil

 

but—
            maybe probably definitely without a doubt
                        feed them to

 

 

            the cows.

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