Peace Offerings to Mother Earth By Aaron Givens

Beautiful blond child picks sunflowers from lush fields as buildings make their way,
Down from their reign above,
Down from their perched throne,
God of the sky became servants of Mother Earth,
She took a hold of what was rightfully hers and held them to her breast,
Sun flowers feel the warmth of the breeze coming from the west,
Maybe a new wind is on its way?
Thousands upon thousands buried under heavenly weight,
Oppressed like so many,
The child looks out to the sun set,
Viewing a new beginning,
Past the overcoming of waves and sinking ships,
Passed the nuclear atom bombs of life,
The sun will rise again,
Her mother will hold her again,
Against her chest,
Above the womb of life,
Beautiful blond child picks bright sunflowers,
Peace offerings to Mother Earth,
Let your children thrive again.

Native American in Mexico By Aaron Givens

Sea opened my mind to a Mexican back ally apartment filled with Trash,
Dirt,
Angelic junkies shooting up,
Morphine filled veins,
Prostitutes posing for green to feed the beast
Beautiful Native American sits in our minds projecting God’s existence
You’re stuck in that apartment!
Rusty nails,
Foul water,
Drug induced company consumes your soul.
Pillow rest underneath my head, you speak of God “he will pay me back more”
Thin body slowly moving in the ruffled bed filled with Holy angels lost in Limbo
You are almost the Ginsberg sunflower
The Kerouac Yab Yum
Tall Mountain that gives birth to Mother Earth
Passed out in the corner
Baptized by rusty rain water dripping from overhang,
Waves crashing against the walls,
“Only your Mind exists”
“Only your Mind exists”
“Only your Mind exists”
Native American Junky in Mexico
You still believe in God

Toronto: A writing of successive first thoughts about a magnificent city

To Canada
Oh?

Toronto's a fine town

Don't mind if I do
Eh?

Trips on the Queen Liz
Great Falls
Lined Ontario
Sunny skies

In the car
Driving east
Raindrops patter
Skyline clear

CN Tower
Friendly natives
Sparse parking
Beeping traffic

Asians walking
China town?
Much to(o) many
To(o) much ground

I loved her freedom
Her adventurous air
Her sonnerous waters
Her ascending height
Her neon lights
Her uplifting wind
Her posh rhythms
Her nasally natives
An enlivened welcome

She beckons me
Syrup attracts my spirit
Moose make travel
Blue Jays marvel
Maple Leafs soar
Argonauts decrescendo
My eyes rise
to meet my soul
In Toronto's flare
In Toronto's flare

I feel most full

By: Matt Casey

"Nausea" - Michael Kellermeyer

NAUSEA
The Fourth Assault of the Finite



On the shore of the city I found a reason to leave
My breath in the soil charred by feet and stamping heels.

Where two tar-blacked legs interlocked, I knelt to scratch
The gum from my own grey, patent sole, wrenching
The tumor clear like one who desperately claws at an
Exposed and draining wound--something black and fungal.

Blinded or hollowed to the weather (which lathered each pole with
Crawling finery before sealing each limb in a silver casket)
I squatted into the pavement where every blood-drop's
Heat surged into cold clay--expended, wrung, and snuffed of voice.

My two hands clamped over one taught denim knee,
Like a mother receiving her son's first grasp—one desperate,
One unknowing, both unused to the sensation, and neither
Purely selfless in the intercourse. They clung together over the prickling shin,
Binding my fleshy thigh to its corresponding shoulder where a heartbeat passed
It's violent chatter from one organ to another, speaking without
Sense, orating to a deaf-mute with a spider's eyes and a
Cobra-face, incensed by the wealthier muscle's salivating
Life, a geyser of power that drained from its four slapping mouths
Into each vacant artery, vein and capillary, engorging my
Tongue and fingers with an ability that I would never
Understand or appreciate or want.

Instead, I let the hands intercourse lovelessly and collapse
--chapped and chaffed--
And alone, while I stood to lumber to the pulseless parking lot
--where I thought--
My cold-browed vehicle might remain with dead eyes frosted shut.

They jogged in time beside my hips and seemed to glance at
One another but without recognition, only swaying decadently
Like two dancers in a smoke-infected cabaret, yearning for
Eye-contact in the smoldering crowd, where pupils spilled
Down their legs and through their hair and around their spinning,
Shining eyes--which were of no one's concern or obligation.
Each bundle of digits extended from its own arm, suckling
On the blood that tightened each knotted wrist,
Bobbing listlessly on either side of a rocky pelvis,
Pretending to be carrying breath within,
But secretly thirsting to plant
Breath without.

Issue: Spring 2011 + A New Poem --Austin Givens

We have been working furiously on starting a quarterly magazine: the first issue to be for this spring. In it, you will find work from many of the artists featured in this blog, as well as many talented artists new to the world of Absinthe Spoon Press.

As of now, our plan is for an e-magazine consisting of quality work by the end of April. While this issue is entirely solicited artwork from the vast web of creative minds we know personally, we plan to accept submissions for the next issue. Of course, there will be festivities leading up to the launch, and we will try to keep you updated on our progress. I know that Sara Holbert, whose beautiful work has been featured here, is working on a website for the magazine which will become our new hub to access the pdf, our blog, as well as other content.

I will be heading to North Carolina next weekend to meet with Aaron and set up the domain and such, and Michael and I will continue to dedicate more long nights to insure that we can deliver a quality magazine worth your time. Of course, we will evoke a little help from the green fairy from time to time.

I also want to thank Faith Kellermeyer for sketching up work for the magazine, which I used to personalize the format of our blog a bit.

In the mean time, keep reading the posts. We look forward to creating a community of quality artists whose work conquers inhibition.

Also, here is a new poem, which I have converted to a pdf to conquer the vertical poem issue with HTML.

Austin

South Washington Street

For Jack Kerouac -- Aaron Givens

America,
You are not Dean Moriarty,
You have left behind your apple pie and ice-cream,
You have left behind your long trips from coast to coast,
The cowboy used to drive and always asking “you boys going to get somewhere or just going”
America,
You used to be in each and every one of us,
You have left your Dean Moriarty
The big Jalopy no longer travels along your
Highway of democracy
Highway of freedom
Highway of opportunity
The Dream is dead?
Dean Moriarty is still alive; we need to find him because Dean is possibly the dream.

Seeds and Sea

Well, the future is what I am chasing right now. Its a long hunt for something that can eat everything. My life right now, anyways, is transitional. I feel in between.

Well, this sort of thing is new for me: Looking deep into unknown things, feeling alive inside a future, loosing an appetite for the present, etc.

Watch this beautiful video:



I wrote this poem then, inspired by the music:

Seeds and Seas

 

Unsettled boy in my head forgot the feeling of drunkenness before leaving

        on the bending sailboat, floating on the sea of blood.

                        A ship in a bottle

                and the future seams French and my bedroom all the same –

        Be here now and sound a barbaric yawp

                for humanity.

as the sea beats into my heart, and hair follicles

 

In a year or so, I hope I see god in a little house

                in Paris or down the block

 

even the smallest spark of Wodsworth can flash for a moment

        like a note on top of another note

                coming from the violin.

 

There is proof of something in something.

                In something ambient.

But the atheists won't let me go down that road.

                I love their beards far too much.

 

Lets just all learn the trumpet and forgot about life anyways.

                We are young, everyone, even if you shit your pants

we are young and we are alive

                please just feel the seeds being planted

 

The future is French or just down the block.

        I will find its illusive skull.