EVIL CHASING WAY ~

Set against the night country of New Mexico is a mystery that has never been solved. The novel follows the footsteps of a young reporter who has been assigned to witness a series of bizarre cattle mutilations. In his search for truth, he interviews tribal elders, scientists, FBI agents, state police, mediums, mystics, cattle and horse ranchers, and many other observers living in the high desert of northern New Mexico. One of his interviewees is a scientist who claims to have been taken aboard a “star car”. A Navajo medicine man confirms that he was abducted as well. A tribal friend tells the author: “There is a hole in the sky and things are coming out of it.” PRAISE FOR GERALD HAUSMAN “If you’re hungry for a book to keep you up past bedtime—with all the lights on—this tale is for you. Based on real unsolved mysteries, Evil Chasing Way deals with startling animal deaths that some attribute to aliens, skinwalkers, secret government research or a force of true evil. This is New Mexico’s own X File anchored in Hausman’s elegant prose and finely tuned descriptions of the Southwestern landscape.” —Anne Hillerman, author of Song of the Lion "Evil Chasing Way is something special. Part mystery, part magical realism, part personal journey, and very much mystical, I was irresistibly drawn into the story. I was captivated by the narrator, an inquisitive journalist seeking answers to the mysterious and often grotesque cattle and horse mutilations that once plagued southern Colorado and much of New Mexico. Experts raced from incident to incent, but credible explanations were few and far between. What happens when reality defies known science and rationality? That’s where Gerald Hausman begins. Then he draws deep from his well of knowledge of Navajo story and culture. (Think Tony Hillerman on steroids.) He takes you on a journey from the arroyos and high forests of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains to the craggy stone crevasses of the Grand Canyon. Along the way you meet shuffling skin walkers, extraterrestrials, and crafty coyotes. This is more than a novel. It’s an experience you won’t forget and it will leave you hungry for more."

 —Peter Eichstaedt, author of Borderlands and The Dangerous Divide

Speaking Volumes

18 Sleeping Dog Road

Santa Fe, New Mexico

87508

BARBARA MOR ~

Barbara Mor

M O R E

KEI MILLER ~

What  River Mumma Knows

River Mumma Knows things —

the underground trod of Hector's Spring,

of One Eye River. The tributaries feed

the red mangroves of Black River.

Over 100 square miles of Great Morass

are stomping ground of River Mumma.

She knows rocks under which

live large colonies of 'shrimp', or  'swims',

depending on how you learnt to say things.

She knows even more than Goby Fish

where in river bottom alligator lives.

Wag Water is her own most sacred home,

secret place where is kept the famous

golden comb. In Drivers River, Manchioneel,

swim three last manatees who are

to mermaids as chimpanzees are

to man. Some days River Mumma

just sits cool on a bank, waiting

for signs that prove the prehistoric cows

still evolve towards the magic of herself.

Somewhere in Martha Brae lies the body

of Nora — selfish child who refused Dry River

token portion of ackee — small toll

for privilege of crossing; the girl insisted

she would rather dead.

Dry River call her bluff and come dung

heavy upon her head.

But River Mumma knows

not all things caught to be known.

Not all places ought to be found.

She cries 'Abu ye!  Abu ye!'

and swims towards her ground.

———————————

KEI MILLER

The Cartographer Tries to Map a Way to Zion

Carcanet, 2014

WILLIAM H. GASS ~

WILLIAM H. GASS, 1986

Dominique Nabokov

1924 ~ 2017

————————————————

William Howard Gass was born in Fargo, N.D., on July 30, 1924, the son of William Gass and the former Claire Sorenson. When he was six weeks old his father moved the family to Warren, Ohio. William grew up during the Depression, spending summers in North Dakota. “These were the dust bowl years, too; grasshoppers ate even the daylight,” he wrote.

The New York Times

7 December 2017

Fiction[edit]

• Omensetter's Luck (1966)
• In the Heart of the Heart of the Country (five stories) (1968)
• Willie Masters' Lonesome Wife (illustrated novella) (1968)
• The Tunnel (1995)
• Cartesian Sonata and Other Novellas (four novellas) (1998)
• Middle C (2013)
• Eyes (two novellas, four short stories) (2015)

Non-fiction[edit]

• Fiction and the Figures of Life (1970)
• On Being Blue: A Philosophical Inquiry (1976)
• The World within the Word (1978)
• Habitations of the Word (1984)
• Finding a Form: Essays (1997)
• Reading Rilke: Reflections on the Problems of Translation (1999)
• Tests of Time (2002)
• Conversations with William H. Gass (2003)
• A Temple of Texts (2006)
• Life Sentences (2012)

BUKKA WHITE ~

UNPUBLISHED CHARLES BUKOWSKI ~

Ecco Press

2017

#1

Oh, forgive me For Whom the Bells Tolls,

oh, forgive me Man who walked on water,

oh, forgive me little old woman who lived in a show,

oh, forgive me the mountain that roared at midnight,

oh, forgive me the dumb sounds of night and day and death,

oh, forgive me all the sunken ships and defeated armies,

this is my first FAX POEM.

It's too late:

I have been

smitten.

——————————

CHARLES BUKOWSKI

Storm for the Living and the Dead

edited by Abel Debritoo

Debritoo claims, "February 18, 1994 manuscript; previously uncollected. In all likelihood,

this is the last poem Bukowski ever wrote."

MICHEL HOUELLEBECQ ~

Michel Houellebecq & Iggy Pop

————————


By the death of the purest

All joy is invalidated

The chest as if hollowed,

And the eye knows darkness in all.



It takes a few seconds

To wipe out a world.




——————




My former obsession and my new fervor,

You quiver in me for a new desire

That's paradoxical, light like a distant smile

And yet profound like the essential shadow.



(The space between skins

When it can shrink

Opens a world as lovely

As a loud burst of laughter.)



————




When I have to leave this world

Make it be in your presence

Make it that in my last seconds

I look at you with trust



Tender animal with arousing breasts

That I cup in my hands;

I close my eyes: your white body

Marks the limit of the kingdom.



—————




When it is cold,

Or rather when you feel cold

When a centre of coldness settles with a gentle movement

Deep in the chest

And jumps heavily between the lungs

Like a stupid fat animal;



When your limbs beat weakly

More and more weakly

Before stopping on the sofa

Definitively, it seems;



When the years turn flashing

In a smoky atmosphere

You can no longer remember the scented river,

The river of early childhood

I call it, in accordance with an ancient tradition: the river of              innocence.



Now that we live in the light,

Now that we live right next to the light,

In endless afternoons

Now that the light around our bodies has become palpable




—————



Traces of the night.

A star shines, alone,

Ready for distant Eucharists.



Some destinies gather, perplexed,
Immobile.



We are marching I know towards strange mornings.




—————




The fine and delicate texture of the clouds

Disappear behind the trees

And suddenly it's the vagueness that comes before a storm;

The sky is beautiful, hermetic as marble.



————




When the meaning of things disappears

In the middle of the afternoon

In the gentleness of a Saturday

When paralyzed by arthritis.



The disappearance of railway sleepers

On the iron tracks

Happens just before the rain,

Memories are exhumed.



I think of my call signal

Left at the pond's edge

I remember the real world

Where I lived, long ago.



————




I am as free as a lorry

Crossing driverless

The territories of terror,

I am as free as passion.



————




In the mindlessness that takes the place of grace

I see immobile lawns unfold,

Blueish buildings and sterile pleasures

I am the wounded dog, the cleaner



And I am the lifebelt supporting the dead child,

The unlaced shoes cracked by the sun

I am the dark star, the moment of awakening

I am the present moment, I am the north wind.



All happens, all is there, and all is phenomenon,

No event seems justified;

We would need to attain a pure heart;

A white curtain falls and covers the stage.



——————————————

MICHEL HOUELLEBECQ
Unreconciled
Poems 1991-2013 
(bilingual edition)
Farrar 2017
Translated  Gavin Bowd

THE GREAT ESCAPE ~

CRAZY LOUISE ~

LOUISE LANDES LEVI

Louise Landes Levi is a poet/performer-translator/traveler and a founding member of Daniel Moore’s Floating Lotus Magic Opera Company, America’s first fusion orchestra. After receiving a BA, with Honors, from UC-Berkeley, and studying at Mills College with the sarangi-master Pandit Ram Narayan, she traveled alone overland to Afghanistan in the late 1960s and to India, via Istanbul, Tabriz, Mashed, Herat, Khandahar, Kabul, Peshawar, Rawalpundi and Lahore, to research North Indian sangeet (classical music) and its poetic tradition. Several translationfollowed: Rene Daumal’s classic study of Indian Aesthetics, RASA (New Directions, 1982); from the Middle Hindi of Mira Bai, an archetypal singer-saint of the 16th century,Sweet On My Lips: The Love Poems of Mira Bai (Cool Grove Press, 1997, 2003 & 2016); and Henri Michaux’s Toward Totality: Selected Poems (Shivastan, 2006). She has published more than a dozen books of poetry and autobiographical prose, including most recently: Love Cantos, 1-5 (Jack In Your Box, 2011); The Book L (Cool Grove Press, 2010); Tower 2/Tara or dc-x (Il Bagatto, 2009); Banana Baby, with facing Italian translations by Alessandro Tuoni (Super Nova, 2006); and Avenue A & Ninth Street (Shivastan, 2004). Her electronic chapbooks may be found at the website Big Bridge. Her recordings include most recently: From the Ming Oracle (Sloowax, 2014), an instrumental and spoken word compilation of her works from the late sixties to the near present; City of Delirium (Sloow Tapes, 2011); and the forthcoming LP Colloidal Love Poem (AudioMER.). John Giorno writes: “Her poems sing in the mind and dance through the heart and throat, and arms & legs, w. great clarity and bliss. Louise is Saranswati, goddess of poetry.” Levi has studied with such masters as Annapurna Devi, Ali Akbar Khan & La Monte Young. When not performing, she lives in a stone tower in Bagnore, Italy, with winter quarters in New York, her birthplace, and elsewhere.

M O R E

O Ancestors,

Be in my embrace,

We

don't know

who's us & who's here &

who are you, awake in my dream

I dream whose Vaster Continent,

in my bed, in my bed

of  

             dreams.

LLL

APPROVAL ~

Approval

We hiked into the woodlot first snow

Brought home a tree for the holidays

Misshapen hemlock few would look twice at

And because you were sick we held the

Tree outside the kitchen window for

You to see, smile, nod an approval

Point quickly to a chickadee

Off on a high branch

Seasons

All my life

Lived under the stars

Walked with them night after

Night, and I’m still

Learning how they move

Through the seasons

And you help — point your

Gloved hand this winter

Evening almost over our heads

To Cassiopeia and then arc

To the North Star in the

Little of the dippers  —  it’s

Easy once you know, once you

Are shown, once you have

Someone to see with

My Love. . .

wonders every winter-to-spring about a garden that grows on the way to town. This year she is worried about the man who plants and tends that garden every year. She hasn’t seen him at all out there working. Ground unplowed. She remembers him in the fall looking frail. There is a small pickup truck in the driveway. The gardener has no idea about my love’s thoughts. The space between the road and the house is maybe one hundred feet and within that space is a possible eden.

Lovers Of The Earth

Today in a supermarket in town, coming back from a job of land clearing, we stopped at a local grocers’ and found a few things, plus a sack of sunflower seeds since Sweetheart just can’t stop feeding the birds she feeds all winter long

It is springtime now

The bears may come for this seed if she isn’t careful

At the checkout an old-timer watched her buy the seed and before I packed it he asked her (and ignored me) “Are you going to eat those, or plant them?”

A gentle question

Sweetheart smiled and said, “Feed the birds”

His eyes grew in size  

————————————

BOB ARNOLD

I'm In Love With You

Who Is In Love With Me

Longhouse 2012

REMEMBERING ~

John and Bonnie Raines with grandchildren at their home outside Philadelphia in 2014.

CreditMark Makela for The New York Times

R E M E M B E R I N G

LORRAINE GELLER AT THE PIANO ~

REMEMBERING  LORRAINE  GELLER

CLIFFORD BURKE ~

Just in from the master letterpress printer & poet —

ever thanks, Clifford!

The Academy of Accidental Art

2017

FLEUR JAEGGY ~

M O R E

Simply, if you are already reading Ingeborg Bachmann, Thomas Bernhard, Paul Celan,
Robert Calasso, and even Franz Kafka (the grand papa of this group)
you will want to read Fleur Jaeggy, born in Zurich in 1940, Swiss
native long ago moved into the Italian pantheon and
translated by the likes of Tim Parks and now
Gini Alhadeff —
New Directions Books is Jaeggy's American home.




I am the Brother of XX (New Directions 2017)


Joseph Brodsky said, 
“Reading time … four hours. 
Remembering time ... the rest of one’s life.”