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Improvijazzation Nation poetry - Issue # 77



ALL artists!  I am very, VERY happy to announce that IMPROVIJAZZATION NATION is ACCEPTING SUBMISSIONS again.  I have been granted a (possibly long-term) stay of execution for my trip to Iraq.  I will still  be traveling all over the U.S., so new issues may be a little less timely, but (as always), we will review your materials as soon as possible after we receive them.  Look at the guidelines for submission below, please:


MUSIC:  All formats accepted.  Snail mail to:  Zzaj Productions, c/o Dick Metcalf, 5308 65th Avenue, Lacey, WA 98513  The only criteria for music you submit is that it MUST HAVE high performance energy... if you submit lacklustre material, it will be reviewed accordingly

POETRY:  Poems are accepted for publication ONLY via e-mail.  Poems submitted in any other fashion will NOT be published.  Poetry that includes some reference to music is granted first priority for publication.

BOOKS:  We will review some books; books about music are PREFERRED.  We will NOT return any books submitted for review.  Snail them to the address listed above for MUSIC.

DIY Announcements:  We will post your (e-mailed) ad about DIY projects, regardless of genre or medium... HOWEVER, this is ONLY for INDEPENDENTS... if you are a corporation, don't even BOTHER sending stuff... it will be marked and reported as SPAM!



Poets - SUBMIT your poems via e-mail (!!ONLY!!) to:




Candy-Yapple dreams,
Lying in the cool grass,
Smothered by the sweet/putrid rotting apple scent.
Hearing the Little League "Whop!" of fruit
Crashing to earth,
And calliope'd merry-go-rounds of horse and unicorn,
Tangling my fancy with reality.

But these are not my memories.

Is there a Cybil-sister within
Who thoroughly enjoyed five, six and seven;
Who has buried in my subconscious
A buffet of delights gone unnoticed
In my childhood sorrows?

It's only fitting that now,
As my sight begins to fade,
And "What did you say?," is my standard question,
That I should again enter childhood.
Only now can I even remotely joy in
The engaging, delicious Nature touches.

So ridicule me not for my childish, childlike ways;
For only now have I determined
To become reacquainted with Abandon.


Geri Rosser, 2007





sped brinking read s inking bed crinking an aw nested slope a s inkhole thinking waft y r towel bar falling o ff ah un nap again st the bowl an lumb er toward yr c rotch the hot light dims s a gainst the gl ass you lake to aching leg an lumination in an eye look deep into yr arm





jump uh jag uh gyp uh arf uh axe uh ashy uh uh gulp uh gas uh grasp uh heeler foamers in yr shoe rumber pag inations tort yr peste red sock wore on yr nose an blown  .spee dy wisp an rollative I pla te my page d own sticky chest my shirt dis solved in wind








him hot half hunchered happy humped an hipfed he ,hissed an heeled ,hoped an hallway hank ered hocked the hint erland he hopping in was aimed an awkward ,ash ah angled antwise all long angels any after clotting always ample and a amplitude an aggregation ,angry ,aw ful ,agglutination of the ankleirons


That floppy something


bench o blither ing an blasta morphone trept omyecin blinking on the steps the trees grew through the highway d rowned the drugged steers stumble in a row your corn hips swish       an      corner






bush inch that cubic stumblebunch that it ch soup dumped do wn yr leg was lum py rain an cturds d ripped out yr ears a w fog of gore an blissful shopping f ill my bucket blood my hash my dust my gasoline



John M. Bennett, 2007



With all that has become

After another small fall

From the shelves of my sympathy

Now only I, and me

Reinstate pity

To remember you

In your milieu walls

A sense of duty

Stretched and bound

As if I were laced crooked

Laughing tearless

Until the hour was feint

Hearing a firefly

Loosened of its coat of dust

Going away

Without sound.





Cows nearest the fence nod


Their patchwork mass

Lazy in conker season

Tangled briar in sleeping lanes

Air words cradled

By touching lips

Pitched for warning lights

Poppies dance on dead hay

Waving broken smiles

A farmer cracks through birch

Gunning distress

From a taunted ewe

To death without sound

We are still coiled snakes

Inside a silken purse.





There was snow on our hill

Where our childhood

Was buried one winter

We awoke

Four prickly things

Fallen out of heavy sleep

Cold and weighted

As mud travelled boots

Trying to find home

In a window

We threw mirth at each other

The edges melting

As we rolled red blisters

Around iced stones

And caught ourselves

Howling in puzzles

Lost Christmas

And cried at the presents


By a fire

That had gone out.





I would like to bury

Our goodness

In the garden

To know

That it is still there

When I want to pull

It up

With urgent fingers

Boiling around graveyard soil

Unwrapping the grass

And laying it back

As a blanket,


Tangled legs


Under reflections door.



Maria Daines




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'k, alla' you hardcore D.I.Y'er's!  We've added a D.I.Y. forum board!  Simply click on the lil' button below to TELL US wot' you think...



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