There is no magic if everything is magic by Reed Posey
I wanted an answer to the difficult questions of the material world: What existed before the big bang? If space is expanding, what is it expanding in? What happened to mar the pristine singular void and submit the lake of totality to the trouble of actually existing? I did an experiment I did an experiment to test the effects of magnets on quartz watches People said it was a crazy thing to do, and that I would look like a crazy person And that people would be embarrassed for me for doing science in public Because, as every one knows, I’m not a professional scientist. I am, however, doing science to try to figure something out that I want to know. An experiment to test the effect of solar flares on komboucha You wouldn’t believe the results. You literally wouldn’t. Imagine a nearly implausible result. Now imagine I’m telling you that’s exactly what happened. Now imagine yourself not believing me, as I wave my hands in front of me saying I’m not shitting you, I’m really not. I did an experiment to test the cognitive bias of people who drink diet coke And you wouldn’t believe me, but it’s true, they exist as a singular culture Many of whom who would kill Parent A in in order to save Parent B from Parent A At age 15 and younger with a gun in the kitchen, yes, I’m afraid this happens again and again. Charlize Theron, your personal suffering has given your characters amazing depth. I did an experiment and made copies in my brain Every time you repeat something, your brain makes a copy. Every time you repeat something, your brain makes a copy. Every time you repeat something, your brain makes a copy. Every time you repeat something, your brain makes a copy. Every time you repeat something, your brain makes a copy. Every time you repeat something, your brain makes a copy. An experiment to define the dimensions of the mind, in cubic inches- it turns out you can’t; the mind is 3-dimensional, holographic, and fully scalable with a nearly infinitely rescalable zoom starting at any point- it’s the resolution which changes, ostensibly based on the size of the memory or the thought. I did an experiment playing 2 different copies the same cd on 2 different portable 10 second anti-skip protection cd players, both of Japanese manufacture, at the same time. They began in synch but got out of synch in the first two minutes. I took them to the computer lab at UCDavis and the technicians there told me that the CD’s contained exactly the same information. As I had suspected. I took them down to the electron microscope lab for a closer look. The man at the front desk said they were going to call security if I refused to leave. When security got there I pleaded my case: Sirs, sirs, when you look close enough at matter there’s nothing there. Everything is made of space and a series of repulsions and attractions assigned to nuclei that are only definable by the forces assigned to them as described in the laws of the universe- there’s no speck of anything there, not when you look close enough. It just disappears. Everything exists as energy and information: energy synchronized by the forces of data recognition conditions. The implication is that the entirety of our universe is information, and as such, it can be hacked. The man at the desk told the officers that I was right, and asked them to let me go with a warning. I wanted to leave them, the officers, and the scientists, with a final thought before being escorted away: There was a time when humans lived the same as their ancestors had for hundreds and thousands of generations, and they lived as their heirs would live for hundreds and thousands of generations more. Humanity was cradled in the abundance of the web of life, the sustainable systems of the world. But something happened to start an irreversible change, cascading like a virus through cultures, replacing long-standing mandates. It was humanity’s introduction to the period of time we call history- and how long is history? 10,000? 20,000? 25,000 years? And then what? Well, consider the metaphor of the birth canal. History, being the birth canal, is the transition zone between our animal bodies and our god-selves. And if we stay too long, we’re in danger of poisoning the womb. Our fingers are stuck in the delicate web, and the harder we try, the worse it looks. Our species is stuck trying to bring its imagination into the material world, but we will all become gods when we understand how our imaginations already construct our material world, our systems of governance, political structure, economics, family structure, eating habits, work habits, aesthetic taste, psychology in general, and cognition totally. One of the officers blogged about the event. No one commented on the entry.
THE UNKNOWN LYRIST’S EASTER SUNDAY SERMON TO HIMSELF by Klipschutz
National Poetry Month or no, I am, per usual, alone, in that dreary little cul-de-sac removed from luck and light, BOOKS ON TAPE and MYSTERY, green to yellow COOKING, the bitter dream of TRAVEL, surrounded by the pure pith of the ages, the rotten, ripe and wax fruit of the age. My eyes fall on an argument, The Ordeal of Robert Frost, no doubt misshelved, well-reasoned prose, which I don’t disturb, having ordeals of my own.
Outside a weak sun shines as my Rockports carry me back to this Tendernob cavern. (What used to be a “garret, carpet new” now lists as “atmospheric, skyline view.”)
Okay, he had it hard, we know, we know. The hired hand comes home to die, that much I recall, God-fearing solid souls take him in. Apples, birches, fences, the virtues of persistence and blank verse. Still no matter how you slice it, the ordeal of Robert Frost has gone to sleep. I on the other hand rock on from crisis to conceit, elegy to chorus, cheek to cheek, beset by editors and landlords without faces.
An early April afternoon could’ve gone worse. One’s bookworm cul-de-sac is the apple of another’s universe.
Using the tip of a blade, cut a small hole in the sail. Look carefully through the hole at the birds. It is cold, you are shaking, but you can shift around your ballast if you can’t steady your gaze. Funny birds who drink your thoughts with perky zeal. Their heads move to invisible jazz music. It makes you sick and tired of the sea. It’s specific to the tiny bird head movements. Anger makes you jump out at them. When they fly into the sky, you moan. No one can hear you, and everything is creaking, slapping, and forming waves. Your wave is lost in it all. Becoming smaller and smaller like a balloon that an infant has let go into a cloudless sky. You are now on the other side of the sail and the hole before you has a little flap that angles to the left where you moved your blade. There is a triangular shadow that forms and you can see the threads of the cloth. Your limbs are heavy and numb, and your head aches. You look out at the people you love. They are all unconscious. Some of them look peaceful as they rest, puffing up their lips over and over. You puff out your lips and think about your last kiss. It was after wine and you had been dancing. Now your lips are chapped and are raw from the wind. But you try to go back to the candle light, and the music that spun everyone around in circles. The circles that shaped your fleeting moments. This icy circle that has brought pain and crust. You want to jump into the water and feel the currents swallow you whole. The currents are swelling bellies. Filled with infinite sleep and dream, boundless time and space, and probably fish. You close your eyes tightly to the sea and feel the uselessness. The uselessness is climbing up your throat, into your ears, eyes and mouth. You stop.
It’s time to buy a truck. Awaken to a new vehicle. It’s likened to a wide awake Nightmare when edgy And arbuckled into laundering Your blood from bottomless socks.
The wagon overturned and A battery of heads rolled down The eternal cliffs of Ozarks. Shade given so commonly by the mirror like moon. Is taken away as the Nuclear warheads, As illustrated on dayglow Concert posters.
Unfurled curls of southern smoke, Draft upwards and Obscure the clansmen. Who above the dreamlike Stage of our fair city, Hurl burning cans of oil, And delivering telegrams Of pure hate.
Bottles of booze are lowered Down the slopes Into arcades and onto welcome mats. Memories of almost buying Cocktail At blockbuster suddenly outweigh a distant heiress bearing her breasts.
My past life comes in handy sometimes. I get washed out in a hailstorm. Get punctured a hundred and fifty times. Get buried before the light goes out And count pea harvests And watch owls Swoop low upon the earth. Until time becomes meaningless, Existence futile Until I combust into Precious gold dust, And sweep my self up Into a neat little pile of protons.
Austin Psych Fest is just under two weeks away, and we can’t wait to see you all! We’ve got some good news and fresh info for you.
FESTIVAL LINE UP & SCHEDULE:
The full festival schedule is now up! For the first time in its history Austin Psych Fest has 3 stages: The Reverberation Stage, Levitation Tent, and Elevation Amphitheater, all named in homage to the godfathers of Austin psychedelic rock, The 13th Floor Elevators. The same number of bands as last year are spread across the three stages with longer set times and changeovers, along with film screenings in the Levitation Tent. The Elevation Amphitheater sits on the banks of the Colorado River. Check the schedule out here – 2013 SCHEDULE
THE MOVING SIDEWALKS FEATURING BILLY GIBBONS • BLACK REBEL MOTORCYCLE CLUB • DEERHUNTER • THE RAVEONETTES • THE BLACK ANGELS • CLINIC • WARPAINT • BLACK MOUNTAIN • BORIS • OS MUTANTES • TINARIWEN • ROKY ERICKSON • SILVER APPLES • MAN OR ASTROMAN? • THE GROWLERS • THE KING KHAN & BBQ SHOW • OM • SPECTRUM • ACID MOTHERS TEMPLE • THE SOFT MOON • KALEIDOSCOPE (UK) • WHITE FENCE • DEAD SKELETONS • THE WARLOCKS • QUINTRON & MISS PUSSYCAT • TAMARYN • BESNARD LAKES • SUUNS • BASS DRUM OF DEATH • INDIAN JEWELRY • GOAT • NIGHT BEATS • VIETNAM • THE BLACK RYDER • LUMERIANS • DEAP VALLY • BLACK BANANAS • THE LAURELS • NO JOY • ELEPHANT STONE • WOODSMAN • WALL OF DEATH • YOUNG MAGIC • GARY WAR • THE CULT OF DOM KELLER • HOLYDRUG COUPLE • BRAIN PULSE MUSIC • VINYL WILLIAMS • CAPSULA • GOLDEN ANIMALS • HOLY WAVE • TJUTJUNA • RIDE INTO THE SUN • TTOTALS • DREAMTIME • THE SHIVAS • LSD & THE SEARCH FOR GOD • ST JAMES SOCIETY • HEARTS IN SPACE • THE WOLF • JJUUJJUU • HOLLOW TREES • & SPECIAL GUESTS
If you have any questions about Austin Psych Fest or The Reverberation Appreciation Society’s record releases please get in touch at info@austinpsychfest.com.
When Thin Lizzy plays his guitar I can tell me and him are like brothers. When he is singing about the boys being back in town, I am one of Thin Lizzy’s boys and we just got back from being in some other town for a while, maybe doing some construction work and I just got back, and me and Thin Lizzy go to McFeelies and everybody in there is really glad to see we’re back and there wasn’t any accidents or anything and me and him do a karaoke together of that song “Jailbreak” and everybody’s cheering and screaming and singing “Tonight There’s Gonna Be A Jailbreak!” and buying us pints. Then later I tell everybody that me and Thin Lizzy got to go and do another construction job back east and everybody at McFeelies slaps us on the back wishing us good luck and they’ll miss us and not to worry because they’ll be waiting there for us when we get back.
Dirk Michener is also Cavedweller. You can find his music on bandcamp: http://cavedweller.bandcamp.com/. He lives in San Antonio, TX.
aware of the dark body , a gelatin shadow ‘mong lights sporadically sourced like stars with their backs to us, like squirrels w/ white laser eyes occasionally a tree exhales, occasionally too many branches for anything to fly through, not enough leaves to empty rains pockets
I smell lemon though its january butterflies daylight at 1AM forest of brownian dancers clothed in moss & unraveled flight
the wind speaks the cutesy voice we use for infants & kittens
how 5 inches changes everything—half a head, gravitic multiplication, another tree without tracks, a banana skin filed with blazing butter light faster than its own name in a thunderstorm of adjectives open the flesh to free the salt– last week the clouds were celibateO
tomorrow begins in lush green smog hunkering into an afternoon brown I wish my skin was lunar rain brining another night on the grill
Since moving to Portland in 1977, Dan Raphael has been active in the poetry community as poet, performer, editor, and reading arranger.
A New Mayan Letter by Charles Potts For Joshua and Jeremy
South of the border The many borders Where rich Texas Cubans will erect walls For the poor to fly over On their way to heaven Though it may not be as heavenly As its proponents take pains to point out.
It’s been a long time Since I was young Driven apparently to excess By roads that stopped at the water’s edge, The border crossings Bearing the failures of bureaucracy.
Get old or die Are the only choices But living beyond the means Act young and get real Make good second choices.
The American dream is rattling the sheets Of a population asleep in it. Without a frame The picture goes on forever.
Charles Potts is an American counter-culture poet. He is sometimes referred to as a projectivist poet and was mentored by Edward Dorn. Raised in rural Mackay, Idaho, Potts left Pocatello, Idaho and Idaho State University in the mid 60s and set out for Seattle, Mexico, and ultimately the location where he rose to literary prominence: the counter cultural hotbed of Berkeley, California. He is currently a horse rancher in Walla Walla, WA. http://bluecreekappaloosas.webs.com/