Showing posts with label Joey Yearous-Algozin. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Joey Yearous-Algozin. Show all posts

Friday, December 17, 2021

12 or 20 (second series) questions with Joey Yearous-Algozin

Joey Yearous-Algozin is the author of A Feeling Called Heaven (Nightboat Books), Utopia, and the multi-volume The Lazarus Project, among others. With Holly Melgard, he has co-authored a trilogy of books: Holly Melgard’s Friends and Family, White Trash, and Liquidation. He is a founding member of the publishing collective, Troll Thread. He lives in Brooklyn, NY.

1 - How did your first book or chapbook change your life? How does your most recent work compare to your previous? How does it feel different?

I don’t really think of having had a first book, but a first series of books or new ways of distributing text. Rather than thinking of publishing a discrete book, my earlier work was part of reimaging what publishing and writing are as activities. With Troll Thread – a Print-on-Demand/Tumblr press I helped start in 2010 – we were interested in testing the boundaries of printability and the book as a container for information or knowledge. My most recent book, A Feeling Called Heaven (Nightboat),is a book length poem on extinction and intimacy loosely following the form of guided meditations. In a way, the new work extends these ideas of immediacy and direct communication on a more local level.

2 - How did you come to poetry first, as opposed to, say, fiction or non-fiction?

My dad’s a writer and was always working on a novel, so I was surrounded by books growing up. I liked stories, but there was something about poetry that made more sense to me. It’s wasn’t an intellectual proposition, we’re drawn to what we are drawn to, but I suppose poetry made a kind of intuitive sense. I remember loving the mystery behind hearing Stephen Crane’s poems, say, and wanting to make something that felt like having them read to me.

3 - How long does it take to start any particular writing project? Does your writing initially come quickly, or is it a slow process? Do first drafts appear looking close to their final shape, or does your work come out of copious notes?

Mostly, it’s ideas for a project that morph over time. I’ll write something out, edit it later and then build on that from the notes I take as I’m turning the idea over and over in my head.

4 - Where does a poem usually begin for you? Are you an author of short pieces that end up combining into a larger project, or are you working on a "book" from the very beginning?

With Troll Thread, we could publish a book with as little as three pages or as many as multiple thousands. After that the difference between a single poem or book stopped making a lot of sense.

5 - Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?

I don’t normally write something for a given reading, but A Feeling Called Heaven got its start when Shiv Kotecha asked me to read for a series he was running in Codex Books in Manhattan. I’d just finished my dissertation and hadn’t really written anything else that year, so I had to write something new for it. Also, something had changed for me as a writer. I felt this urgent need to talk to people, at least those closest to me, to address them directly. For that reading, I wrote the guided meditation that became the closing of the book.

More generally, I like to read because it’s a way of sharing the things that I’ve made with others. It can be an act of great pleasure and permission to read out loud to a room of people. Also, one thing I learned over the last year is that there’s no substitute for the experience of sitting in a room with a group of people, everyone engaged in a mutual act of attention.

6 - Do you have any theoretical concerns behind your writing? What kinds of questions are you trying to answer with your work? What do you even think the current questions are?

My new book explores climate collapse, extinction and intimacy, asking what remains if we divest ourselves of the hope of a future. Rather than constructing a series of possible futures in a world-to-come, I wanted to write in a way that paid attention to the present moment as it sits under the shadow of extinction. While I was finishing the book, I was diagnosed with a very manageable kind of lymphoma. So, there’s also a question of what it means to manage and live with disease and the physical knowledge of mortality.

7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Do they even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?

No, probably not.

8 - Do you find the process of working with an outside editor difficult or essential (or both)?

A Feeling Called Heaven was my first time working with outside editors and I was extremely lucky to have Kim Calder and Evan Kleekamp as my editors. They helped me distill this work from a somewhat sprawling manuscript, stripping it down to its essential parts.

9 - What is the best piece of advice you've heard (not necessarily given to you directly)?

Someone I met on the bus in Wisconsin where I grew up told me a story that is a kind of advice. The story takes place in a small town during a plague. Amongst so much death, the people of this town came to the conclusion that god had forsaken them and had stopped attending church. That was until a group of flagellants marched through the town, whipping themselves as they walked. When they got to the center of the city, one of them spoke to the people who had come out to see the parade. This flagellant told the townspeople they were wrong, they hadn’t been forsaken, but that the plague was in fact what god’s love looked like. He told them that they had to go back to worshipping god, performing their familiar rituals, even though it wouldn’t do them any good, it was too late for them to be saved. After his speech, he fell back in line and the line of flagellants walked out of town. But something in the air had changed and the next Sunday, the church was full again.

10 - What kind of writing routine do you tend to keep, or do you even have one? How does a typical day (for you) begin?

No real routine, writing’s a constant preoccupation that I do when I can.

11 - When your writing gets stalled, where do you turn or return for (for lack of a better word) inspiration?

I love open world video games like Breath of the Wild. I learned more from Breath of the Wild about how the conscious mind embeds itself in a simulated environment than anywhere else besides maybe New Age music.

12 - What fragrance reminds you of home?

Honestly, I’ve mostly just been home since Covid started, so I haven’t had a chance to be reminded. Maybe Holly’s deodorant? She says it’s the catbox but I’m not sure I can really smell that anymore.

13 - David W. McFadden once said that books come from books, but are there any other forms that influence your work, whether nature, music, science or visual art?

New Age music taught me a way of understanding how time moves in a poem. Poetry is a time-based art, meaning that it occurs over time, and in slowing down the pace of the poem, you can feel time move in it almost independent of its language. In those moments, you can feel it taking place with something like the noise of the world.

14 - What other writers or writings are important for your work, or simply your life outside of your work?

I’m lucky to count some of my favorite writers as my dear friends and I don’t want to randomly forget anyone here as I’m typing this, so I’ll leave it at that.

15 - What would you like to do that you haven't yet done?

Run around with my nephew, who’s started walking since everyone stopped going anywhere.

16 - If you could pick any other occupation to attempt, what would it be? Or, alternately, what do you think you would have ended up doing had you not been a writer?

Writing’s not my occupation. I’m an adjunct professor, working at 3 different schools in and around New York City throughout the year. I love teaching, but American higher education is structured so that I both am and am not a teacher at the same time. So, instead of an imaginary other job, I’d just like a real version of the one I have.

17 - What made you write, as opposed to doing something else?

Ever since I was a kid, I wanted to be the kind of person who made books.

18 - What was the last great book you read? What was the last great film?

I re-read Alli Warren’s Little Hill this week and its low key a masterpiece. I just watched Ivan’s Childhood and the scene is the birch trees is one of the most beautiful shots I’ve ever seen.

19 - What are you currently working on?

I’ve got some ideas, but nothing worth talking about yet.

12 or 20 (second series) questions;

Friday, February 17, 2017

P-QUEUE #10-13



Anyone following this site for a long enough time will know that I’m a big fan of the annual P-QUEUE, a journal out of SUNY Buffalo [see my review of #7-8 here; my review of #5 here]. I might be a bit behind on everything these days, but I recently came into possession of issues #10-13 (2013-16) and couldn’t be more excited.

What I’ve long appreciated about P-QUEUE is the range of work included. As further evidenced by these four volumes, there is real curatorial thought in the way issues are constructed, including challenging and deeply-engaged (politically, structurally, etcetera) works by a variety of writers from the emerging to the more established, predominantly including longer works (whether excerpts of book-length projects or otherwise) that might not have found homes as easily in trade journals. Given that the journal is produced through the English Department at SUNY Buffalo, much of the work featured is a vibrant mix that includes visuals and language poetry, and often includes a great deal of work by younger writers, including a number with either two or fewer books to their credit. In that way, P-QUEUE is a great opportunity to be introduced to numerous writers that might yet not have achieved a larger attention. As editor Joey Yearous-Algozin writes in his editorial in the tenth volume, “Letter to the Co-Editor”:

Now in its tenth year, P-QUEUE has proven surprisingly resilient. Exceeding its institutional status, it remains a node at the intersection of disparate poetic practices and aesthetic engagements. Instead of stalking out a specific aesthetic territory in our curatorial decisions over the last three years, what has spurred our interest as editors is how we could limit our deviation from the consistency of P-QUEUE’s in-house design. In this way, using the format we inherited from previous editors as our constraint functioned as a tool for our critical engagement, working with a set of increasingly obsolete variables—letterpressed cover, lettrines, ornate serif fonts. Since we have always planned to pass on P-QUEUE after editing this volume, we’ve come to recognize our own place among this list of variables. As such, we can now say that our attention to the journal’s formal continuity has gone beyond imitation or aesthetic allegiance, towards reading obsolescence as embedded in our editorial practice.

Volume #10 (subtitled “obsolescence”) features work by Aaron Winslow, Kim Rosenfield, James Sherry, Amanda Montei, Rod Smith, Jon Rutzmoser, Feliz Lucia Molina, Astrid Lorange, Jeremiah Rush Bowen, Lanny Jordan Jackson, Judith Goldman, J. Gordon Faylor, AMJ Crawford, Angela Genusa and Diana Hamilton. The final issue in a three-issue block co-edited by Holly Melgard and Joey Yearous-Algozin, this is the largest of these four issues at some two hundred and twenty pages (wishing I had a copy of the previous issue, for the sake of comparison). Highlights of this issue include Rod Smith’s sequence “The Rothko Poems,” Jon Rutzmoser’s photo/poem-sequence “not yet / not yet / not yet” (which is really quite striking and difficult to explain easily) and Buffalo poet Judith Goldman’s “untitled” poems, that include:

UNTITLED [THE HUMAN TORCH]

The Human Torch speaks with flaming, red word balloons

easy to scale size of the lettering

To ensure readability and in service to the story

make the text a bit smaller

to fit in word balloons

Or: Denoting speech bubbles through the water that

fills their helmets

caption lettering for captions, thoughts, and so forth

Normal-sized text issuing from radio

By nature of the exclamation point, to indicate shouting (Judith Goldman)

The issue also includes an excerpt of “The Wes Letters,” an epistolary novel that was published in 2014 through Outpost19. As Feliz Lucia Molina’s brief introduction to the section reads:

The following excerpts are from The Wes Letters, a forthcoming book-length epistolary novel between Ben Segal, Brett Zehner, and myself. (January 2012-September 2012).

Brett Zehner encountered Wes Anderson on a train traveling from Chicago to California. Ben and me suggested Brett write to Wes. Then all three of us started writing to Wes. The collection of letters was completed at Mustarinda House in a remote bear forest in northeast Finland.

I’m curious about this small novel, admittedly. However odd it might seem.

February 3, 2012
11:00pm

Dear Wes Anderson,

I’m sitting on our living room futon while Brett explains the situation of meeting you on the train. Apparently the person you were with writes children books. I hear words like aristocracy and kings. Our friend asks him questions like “did you tell him it’s ‘HUN-day’?” Apparently you and your girlfriend asked Brett what he reads and what he thinks about trains. Obviously you and Brett have a lot in common. How romantic, Wes, especially on a train while sipping chardonnay, poking at your duck, and talking about literature.

Brett says it was a beautiful conversation. I think he thinks it was beautiful because you guys talked vaguely about books and he said he felt like a dick for dropping names. Funny he said dick, jue like Chris Kraus’ Dick. So you’re a-political? That’s great news. Since I was eighteen I felt weird for voting for some dude to run the whole country and felt bad when friends seemed disappointed I wasn’t ‘lefty-liberal’ enough.

I love you Wes, I’m starting to, despite all the distance.

I can feel the apartment grow wider and bigger because of you.

Yours,
Feliz

Volume #11 (subtitled “natality”) features work by Alli Warren, Joe Hall, Dolly Lemke, Angela Veronica Wong, Anne Boyer, Christine Wertheim, Kenyatta AC Hinkle, Kate Durbin, Elizabeth Hall and Holly Melgard. The first of a three-issue block edited by Amanda Montei (the back of Volume #13 announces that Allison Cardon begins as editor with Volume #14), she discusses in her introduction that she is working, as editor, to renew, to “establish our beginning.” She writes: “What we want so desperately is a new beginning.” It is no small thing to want to carve out your own space as editor when taking over an established journal, even while attempting to continue and expand upon the work that has already been done. She continues:

It is in the spirit of this impossible possibility that I want to inaugurate the second decade of P-QUEUE. The work in this eleventh volume wonders at the possibility of making present what we cannot see is every day made absent. It demands that we recognize that there is more than what is given, and in this way, these works act. After all, if –ity is the suffix used to form abstract nouns from adjectives, then natality is also the nouned natal, the quality or condition of being natal, being-as-natal, being-as-being-baby. Relating to the obvious fact of one’s birth, yes, but also to one’s Mother, one’s Mother’s tongue, one’s Mother’s body—a body Capital would have us just as soon forget. The works in this volume remind us that to act in this time, which has been both cruelly and generously gifted to us, requires we return to the body of the Mother, the reproducer of labor power, and of beginning, on whose invisible work the entire system rests. We return in this volume to the natal not in a nostalgic relation to the biological, but in an effort to question what the act of beginning might offer us here, at what looks so clearly like a futile confrontation with the end.

Some of the highlights might seem obvious, just from the list of contributors, from Alli Warren’s poems “from DON’T GO HOME WITH YOUR HEART ON,” an excerpt from Christine Wertheim’s “afterb|rth,” from Elizabeth Hall’s “I HAVE DEVOTED MY LIFE TO THE CLITORIS” and Anne Boyer’s “JOAN,” composed as a series of short prose-sections. The first paragraph of her “Joan Gets Married” reads:

I was married on July 28. Then I was married again on August 18. I was also married on Saturday, the day before Pearl Harbor. I was next married on May 12, 2006, at the Hotel Del Coronado. I was then married on September 13. I slept alone until I was married. On a few occasions, usually when I was half-asleep, I called my beloved young husband names. I was finally married on the 20th of October. I was next married on April 21. I also married on September 14. It was one of the happiest days of my life. I married on October 11, then married on December 31, and again on the Fourth of July, so there have always been fireworks on my anniversaries. I was married on Maui in October then I was married in Detroit on the 7th of August. I was married on the day Bing Crosby died. I was married on Halloween, but I’m divorced now. Before marriage I was a virgin because I was raised in a very religious household. I was fine with that. It took me a while to adjust to civilian life.

There are also Dolly Lemke’s short lyrics, that include:

Continuing To Not Die

My affection
is that rusty stubborn thing

And before you descend
the mountain
in a hurried search

Know just what nourishment
is necessary

You didn’t hear me
whisper across the city

If you come
and get this sweetness
I promise forever
to remember you

Volume #12 (subtitled “fatality”) features work by Emily Anderson, Monica McClure, Allie Rowbottom, Janice Lee & Michael Du Plessis, Nikki Wallschlaeger, Cheryl Quimba, Catherine Wagner, Jant Sarbanes, Jake Reber, Carmen Giménez Smith and Jennifer Tamayo. In the introduction to her second volume as editor, Amanda Montei writes on fataility, beginnings and endings on the eve of (actually) giving birth:

As I write this introduction, I am nine months pregnant. In my belly there is a little life squirming, uncomfortable with my position in this chair, and perhaps more so in this editorial role, at this time, when there is so much pain circulating not only within small press poetry communities, but more widely within the country. To be so close to the end here, as I complete this twelfth edition of P-QUEUE, is a kind of fatal mistake. I am somewhat removed, far inside my body in an attempt to make friends with it, and with this soon-to-be child, both body and baby ruling my current sense of time, place, distance. I am on the verge of a kind of subjective fatality, not just because motherhood functions as this kind of erasure, but because birth, that wave-like sitting with time, requires a giving up, a letting go, a radical waiting that shatters any sense of beginning and ending.

One of the obvious highlights of this issue has to be the nine numbered sonnets by Nikki Wallschlaeger, which are included in her CRAWLSPACE, due out in April with Bloof Books:

Sonnet (17)

You need a permit to throw those black chicken bones honey
across the territory agog in studied hurricane lamps.
The pain management center is high on skin bleaching creams
I know I talk at you with tons of stories about waiting rooms
but you should know by now that tear gas guffaws everywhere.
Why ignore the elephant tied to the city center refugee camp
or the outland of red gingham hearts tricked out in razor wire
when I go out for the morning’s mail. Tell me that once.
Children, it’s time to scream for as long and as loud as you can
treading water in the crap thickets of an evaporating formula.
Rock music is as carefree as ever at respectably placed volumes,
They will play it wherever we are waiting for our descriptions
snifters of hooting community support reruns on the mounted telly
waiting for us to shuffle along, shuffle along, shuffle along (Nikki Wallschlaeger)

Further highlights to this issue include the short prose pieces by Monica McClure, Cheryl Quimba’s incredibly striking short lyric sequence, poems by Catherine Wagner, Jake Reber’s visual sequence “Afterlife,” Carmen Giménez Smith’s short story, “Tool of the Boss,” and Jennifer Tamayo’s remarkable, accumulative mantra “Woman Weeping Too Loudy By Tin Ribbon (1969),” a poem that reads as though it really needs to be heard, that begins:

Because the aridity of your art-spectacle was so intense, I could
            not weep
Because you had wiped all the entries from the inside of my body,
            I could not weep
Because you made me feel vapid and numb
under the force of your silver, your tin, your magnesium, I could
            not weep
The weeping was to be abolished
There was no room for weeping beside the elements;
The elements can speak for themselves
Because all the metal and scrap had been dragged here
before me—a labor performed by how many invisible bodies?—
            I could not weep
Because this clean moment shone the ‘weary efforts’ of the
            white world
that preserve your legacy, I could not weep
Because “Ma’am we respect your right to protest, but I’ll have
to ask you to leave now”
Because The Poetry Project wished ‘Enough is Enough’ had shared
its agenda in advance of the meeting, I could not weep
Because you want our itineraries our agendas our names so you
            can
Prepare your defences, I cannot weep

Volume #13 (subtitled “mourning”) features work by Amina Cain, Allison Cardon, Carleen Tibbets, Emily Kiernan, Angela Veronica Wong, Stephanie Young, Eleni Sikelianos and Beeca Klaver. The final in editor Amanda Montei’s tryptich of volumes, she ends her introduction to this volume with:

If I have made any effort during my tenure as editor—by tokenizing white men in jest, but also in earnest; by refusing a standard definition of the poetic, or the avant-; by shaking off the yoke of standardization and consistency; or by snubbing in passing the tradition of print and institutional support—it is to bring forth the laboring bodies that get lost in current paradigms of production. What capitalism and so-called democracy put to work, yes, but also what our so-called progressive institutions smuggle in. What real care, community, and revolutionary thought is lost in those gestures.

What gets filled in by the works in this volume, I think, is some of that lost loss.

Highlights here, as with prior issues, a-plenty, and this issue features work by the now-current editor, Allison Cardon; a sequence of fragments excerpted from a longer project, “OPEN QUESTIONS,” that includes:

it is evident that you ask

what room is there for revelation
to conjure with corners instinctive

such self-evidence
wherefore to baffle, therefore to bluster

who is he to have his
own
thoughts on the matter

Further highlights include thirteen poems by Carleen Tibbetts, an excerpt of “Globe Touching” by Stephanie Young, Becca Klaver’s essay “Don’t / Look Back: On Nostalgia, and an excerpt of Eleni Sikelianos’ “Make Yourself Happy.” As an admirer of Sikelianos’ ongoing work, I’m thrilled to see her included in this issue, I also take note that she might be the most established writer to fall into the pages of any of these four volumes. Her sequence includes:

Everybody’s barfing up
the world’s extra energy

Throwing up reality

So the animal’s ghost dance is
what we get

They will never be done  Never be
done dancing   If we wipe them
from the face of the earth
they will never be done being
part of it          making the world with their
sounds & feet & hooves

until they ar done dancing the
animals’ ghost dance &
they they will be done

The next volume, which is scheduled, I would suspect, rather soon, will be incoming-editor Allison Cardon’s first. I am curious to see what she will do with hers.

As the back of each issue informs: “P-QUEUE is published annually, and accepts work year-round. See website for editorial guidelines and deadlines, but as a general rule, manuscripts must be received by December to make the following summer release.” For further information, either check the website, or send a submission directly to P-QUEUE, c/o Allison Cardon, 306 Clemens Hall, English Department, SUNY Buffalo, Buffalo NY 14260 USA.


Wednesday, January 18, 2012

P-QUEUE #7 (“Polemic”) + 8 (“Document”)

WOLVERINE
I was only pretending
to be ephiphanic

she said, tossing the whole
day over the embankment

Is the heart collandered
or semiprecious

filled with holes
and therefore filled with light

This is just the sort of thing
that cannot be said upon a chair

Unless that chair is spotlit
and wolverine. Can furniture

be wolverine? No, because wolverine
is a noun. (Julia Bloch)

From the depths of SUNY Buffalo come two more volumes of the annual P-QUEUE, their seventh (2010) and eighth (2011), respectively. Given the stunning work in previous volumes of P-QUEUE, I’m disappointed, although not surprised, to hear that these two are the only remaining volumes in print. How many do they make of each, I wonder? With the first three volumes edited by Sarah Campbell, volume 7 is the last of four volumes edited by Andrew Rippeon, subtitled “Polemic,” and features the work of Rich Owens, Craig Dworkin, Julia Bloch, Janet Neigh, Jimbo Blachly and Lyttle Shaw, Duriel E. Harris, Dawn Lundy Martin, Ronaldo V. Wilson, Steve Zultanski, Bhanu Kapil, Robert Fitterman, Patrick F. Durgin, Alessandro Porco, Craig Santos Perez, Vanessa Place and Sarah Dowling. What I’ve always appreciated about this journal has been the construction of each issue as a whole unit, as opposed to a gathering of pieces that don’t necessarily hold as tight together, however impressive the work might be. Sylvia Legris, for example, managed such a feat throughout her run editing Grain magazine. Reminiscent, somewhat, of the recent “Manifestos Now!” issue of The Capilano Review (3.13 / Winter 2011) [see my review of such here], editor Andrew Rippeon writes to end his “Editor’s Note”:

If Angers and Tacoma teach anything to vanguard artists (and it’s a travesty to even consider that they might), it is that neither exceptional individual experience nor movement solidarity exceeds that appetite. The first white wall of the village / Rises through fruit-frees… In our clamor to be among or name the object of that first, we wager the timbre of difference for our moment of arrival. The boots of the men clump / On the boards of the bridge… Does the collapse now so thoroughly permeate the air shared by collective and individual that we fail to recognize its event as only a symptom of itself? Like poetry after Auschwitz, French bridges and American stereos are crossed and sold, and continue to be apace. What barbarism there is exists not within the single poem, pedestrian, or audio component, but rather in the appetite that finds them interchangeable in what they offer. Confronted by the equal consequence of united front and individual mind, it is incumbent upon us neither to resist as a bloc nor to assert the value of the individual, but to develop practices that perpetuate the mutual unintelligibility of these structures such that neither reduces to the other. Hence, polemic. This is old song / That will not declare itself

There are some fantastic poems in this issue, from Julia Bloch to Rich Owens to some Sarah Dowling gems, visually reminiscent of some of the work of American ex-pat poet Edward Smallfield and Toronto poet Jay MillAr. In his essay, “Polemic for P-Queue,” Steve Zultanski moves through an exploration and argument for proper criticism, as well as a scathing rebuke, and begins with the question “What is poetic about Conceptual Poetry?” He writes:

A common critique of conceptual poems is that they are totalizing gestures. This complaint is directed, most often, toward the works of Kenneth Goldsmith. Without naming names (unworthy adversaries don’t deserve names), the critique goes something like this: Goldsmith’s books are big, and they “reproduce” a masculine need to index the world, to include everything within its rational purview. Thus, it is implied (or directly suggested) that a properly feminine (or at least non-masculinist) poetics would be fragmented, poly-vocal, incomplete, etc. See: Kristeva, etc. See: sloppy readings of Derrida, etc.

What this argument fails to account for is the appearance of the incomplete, as such. For Conceptual Poetry, the incompleteness of the text (what we’ve referred to as the non-identity of concept and realization, or, the poetic element) can only appear in the apparent completeness of the project. Because the text is only apparently complete, its incompleteness is ever the more apparent in a given reading. The appearance of incompleteness in this form makes sense not only theoretically, but historically—insofar as Conceptual Poetry marks an intervention into the practice of poetry.

The most recent volume, the eighth, is the first co-edited by Holly Melgard and Joey Yearous-Algozin, subtitled “Document,” and features the work of Anna Vitale, CAConrad, Ish Klein, Thom Donovan, Chris Sylvester, Jena Osman, Lewis Freedman, Brad Flis, Andrew Topel, David Buuck, Josef Kaplan, David Wolach, Divya Victor and Lawrence Griffin, as well as bookending essays by each editor, written as a letter to the other. As Joey Yearous-Algozin opens, writing:

Dear Holly,

What has stimulated our collaborative process in this volume has been the occasion to shed fidelities to a previous design scheme, without sacrificing the appearance of formal continuity. For this journal, which we are carrying forward after Andrew Rippeon’s illustrious run as editor, to share more than just its name with the previous editions, it was necessary for us to treat its architectonics as a pre-existing structure. Since the decisions behind this exterior pattern were not our own, we were free to follow them without necessity. Instead, in choosing to engage with the arbitrary details and constraints of a preformed template, we were able to arrive at a designed ambivalence. Therefore, it is in the splendor of contradiction that this phrase enlists that I want to inaugurate this volume of P-Queue.

Sectioned into quarters, the section headers run from “A” to “AN” to “AND” and “THE,” stretching the document on the document, citing essential connector words between the sections as much as titling them. When I first became aware of P-QUEUE some years ago, part of the appeal as a reader and potential contributor both (I have work included in a long-previous issue; try to figure out which one) was their eye for works that didn’t fit anywhere else, and this issue runs a range of styles, from a sharp-eyed visual sequence by Andrew Topel, a selection of related works by CAConrad, and an excerpt of a longer poem-essay by Jena Osman, “The Beautiful Life of Persona Ficta,” that begins with a quote by Muriel Ruykeyser, “A corporation is a body without a soul.” How could she have known, so many decades back?

scientific selection of the workman
an assembly line cog:
I realize I’ve pictured the cog incorrectly—
as a spoke—
when in fact it’s just one tooth of a gear
a small part that requires interlocking with another
I spoke a small part without teeth

14th: All persons born or naturalized in the United States, and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States and of the State wherein they reside. No State small make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States; nor shall any State deprive any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws.

This Amendment, adopted to end slavery once and for all in 1868, subsequently employed to protect an artificial person in 1886. In Santa Clara County v. Southern Pacific Railroad there is no written opinion granting corporations 14th Amendment rights; was it simply the slip of an errant court reporter?

The human body a machine that winds its own springs.

To order copies of these, or of their chapbook series (which I have yet to see), visit their website at www.p-queue.org or write P-Queue, c/o Holly Melgard, 306 Clemens Hall, English Department, SUNY Buffalo, Buffalo New York, 14260 USA