Tag Archives: Pank

Sean Lovelace Reviews Vintage PANK

pain is a small dog in my lap

1. Support online literature. Bra it. Watch it deviously. Don’t be a sound sleeper. Don’t un-storm. Online literature is a staggering sky of nacho constellations: there goes oyster, there goes cheese or Sara, there goes a hot Thursday night of jalapeno thunder. Like zine-scene issue one. Sean Lovelace with the Introduction.

2. Sean Lovelace reviews Sean Lovelace. Clever fellow.

Thunk! Hold up, just got an email. No, no, that’s not right. My computer makes the sound of rainwater dripping off a man’s nipples when I receive an email, not a simple clunking. Someone is at the door! Thunk! Thunk! Like someone is throwing a bicycle lock into the face of a small goat.

3. Flash Fiction interviews Sean Lovelace.

Busy as a freaking bird, that Sean Lovelace. Busy as a bleeding. Busy as a clattered toad. Etc.

[my eyeball just fell into a jonquil clang of Pringle salt]

*

Got up this morning and arrowed a walking trout–an actual trout walking down the hallway of my home/soul–and knocked it down but it sprung back up like a recycled Liz Taylor and it’s fine now. I saw it later at the local diner. It was eating a big-ass omelet and a tin of apricots. Possibly the trout was a Freudian fish. A phone booth. Everyone is a phone booth. Everyone will be obsolete soon and who cares? Or like you don’t care now and later people won’t care for you, or something…Or the trout everything I am when I pass dark smears of roadkill and thrown beer cans and winter fields on my way into work and I think, “This life can be ghastly/me.”

[fetch two cans of beer! hissing ones! gather round!]

I rubbed my eyes, the trout swimming away into murk, and went about my early morning:

a.m. cold. Wind dead as The Dollar. Me happy. Sucked down oil can of coffee. Shuddered. Stood in creek. Ice lay along the shore, frangible plates fracked up and broken on the mud and small ice-cities whitely all down the drained and frozen flats where delicate Krystal columns of flaky French fries and smiles sprouted from the mire. I took a long and smoking piss in the water. I feel this is good luck. I am sorry. It’s my way.

it

hello

hello

it

Stood in the cool flow throbbing my boots and opened Pank magazine in the flash light darkness. This Pank didn’t seem like the current PANK (big ol’ caps) I read and glow. I got my iPhone Google (weird, wrong light in the inky woods) and found they do indeed relate. Maybe earlier Pank I hold in my hands is father/mother/hawk of online PANK I read late into the floorboards? Maybe this Pank I hold in my hands, here in this smeared gray morning, here in this flowing stream, is the daybed and donned shoes of the present PANK? I dunno. I mean they still have PANK today. What is the difference? Most likely time. Most likely editors. Most likely the size of the letters.

[not actually sure how i got this print pank. it arrived at my stepway. sometimes late at night i just click/click/click things online and then things butterfly to my doorway. things are run by dogs. dogs herd items to my doorway. im saying. everything in this world is chased by a ghost dog.]

This print Pank didn’t seem to be kin to the current PANK, or maybe a distant relative, I mean the words. The online PANK has more neon blood coughing mist. Coughs of mist. THUNKS. Maybe it evolved? Maybe it was born a this and became something red and stretched glowing over flames.

[it’s issue one, Sean!]

We get an EDITOR’S NOTE. I am anti-EDITOR’S NOTE. I don’t want to see the wizard. I don’t want to be spoken to in excited whispers. Editor, go edit. Don’t tell me:

Pank, the word, is a verb. It is possibly…

Wrong! PANK is the sound made when the human eyeball is dropped from an apartment balcony into an aluminum dog dish below. This happened living room/late night post-disagreement, at a semi-kegger, Memphis, TN alleyway, a Tuesday. I can still smell blood and barbecue…

As witness, I remember the sound well: pank

Shall we review?

Competent is a word. The first 2 poems are competent. Poetry done well. As expected. The first two poems are competent. We get the nature swerve road thing that reminds us of the hit-deer poem. We get the mathematical problem poem where you are heading to a hospice. OK. We get that. OK. Sometimes I feel like a dried-off towel full of officer.

[hip a glass flask!]

The third poem is rather good. It is by Laura LeHew (so was the 2nd poem. actually both are right here). This one verves (not swerves). This one pops a bit.

Rearing environment?

Do you want to?

She promised.

Me like. Who is Laura LeHew? Don’t know, but she calls herself a crazy cat lady. Meow.

 

Poem # 4, 5 are by Andrew Sage. Now this mag is beginning to moss the color of lightning. It rolls now. I will include one Andrew Sage poem in full here. Will PANK send me a cease-n-desist letter? I doubt.

I have brought everything I need into this place.

There is nothing I need that is not here.

And everything that is here I need. When I leave

I will take with me everything that is here.

And none of it will be needed in the place I go to.

Interesting, odd, subtext. A little fern of something. Thank you, Sage. (Here is another.)

Got up in stand. Sprinkled around some Tinks. Looked around, listened. Milky gray swirls of darkness. Big deer frost-crunched right below my stand, 15, 10, 5 yards. Body a thick, dark trunk of floating dark. Glowing fingers of antler bone. Buck, fer sure. Tough to see exactly how large. BUT I can’t see my bow pins anyway, now can I? No, I cannot. Buck frost-crunches away.

Big deer crosses way off center of corn field. Can’t tell what. Sun comes on up like we all expected. I pulled a novel by Cormac McCarthy out my pack and read a few lines and I thought, “There’s lots of movement today so I better stop reading.” I throw the book high into the air and it lands with a thump in a thicket. I think “But life is short and doing two things at once is the finest glow.”

I redraw my Pank Magazine out of my pack. Good heft, solid magazine.

I glow persona fiction, as you know. Gabriel Welsch brings us “Rove Speaks.” Fucking Karl Rove. Who does that? But it’s done well! Here.

Yes, yes, we get a few of the easy jokes and ideas, Bush as puppet with Rove’s hand up his ass, but Welsch shows us, if you twist things, a formed idea can reform, can ivy and bloom and thorn. Important lesson here–one thing can be done an infinite ways. CREATIVE writing, kids. So Bush runs off the bus, off on his own!

He said, “Wait here. I’m-a take a walk.”

One day something happens. Conflict! On the first page. Writer. Writer. Writer? Are you listening? Dialogue spot on, as you see. And it is funny. This line concerning Bush:

How had he gotten money? Who gave him that?

Next we have poems by Dan Pinkerton. You should read these poems. They are the best poems in this issue of Pank. Why didn’t you put these poems online, PANK? Fuck.

a yo-yo, two Oreos

four oboes, eight elbows

a full pack of lies.

Bonus poem: Drive the interstate with Dan.

Then we get some poems that are competent again. I don’t know. Good plain food. Tablets tilted. That one people write about people in jail, etc. One poem is a sort of memo and I glow organic forms but it felt a bit older yet sitting there. I think my head is high-webbed steel now. A couple more get really close to me writing them here. But I’m not going to write them here. Slaw. Sometimes I feel like the bones of a birch forest, only I’m purple.

A hawk scissored by. A black squirrel hopped along a low branch. Leaves whispered down and fell about me and one small leaf landed on my hat. That was odd. I took the leaf off my hat and smelled it. Then I ate the leaf. Not sure why. Why not?

About 8 am a doe entered the field and skirted the edge. Way out of bow range. I did the bleat can. The bleat can went all rollerskating. The bleat rose and fell/rose and fell. The bleat can sounded like a man handing his car keys to his youngest son.

“Thanks dad.”

“No problem, son. Where you going tonight?”

“Uh, tennis? I’m going to play tennis with my friends.”

“Where’s your racket?”

“Um. I don’t know.”

“You don’t own a racket, do you, son?”

“No.”

“Right. Well, have a nice time.”

The doe came all away across the field to the bleat can!! Well, thank you, Mrs bleat can.

What is with this doe? I didn’t even know does responded to bleat cans. Well, they do. Maybe out of curiosity? Or maybe this doe decided to beat down any other doe in its zip code? Or maybe this doe just had its bedding area foreclosed and credit card debt like bags of boiled gravel and really didn’t feel so sexy this morning, not feeling sexy at all and this the rut and all, feeling rather gritty and bloated like a runover spider crab and really wondering why a big horny buck has to go and judge a doe by external appearance versus this deer’s inward significance, the thing that really matters, what is INSIDE, or maybe just a little smidgen of the doe’s brain was having trouble cycling serotonin levels this early Friday morning, etc.—my point is maybe this doe was just suicidal.

Because it came right to me. 23 yards, quartering away like a November moon.

TWWWACK!!!!!!

Chaka Khan!!

There is a story in Pank told in four parts, with two authors. I have never seen such math. It is a yell of a story, too. Informative and made me take cards of empathy. Impressive. It is by Claire Thomas and Carl Peterson.

What the hell kind of thing is this by David Silverstein? Holy shit, now this Pank is branding up fangs. Now this Pank is rocked and wheeled and slid away. This is more like the current Pank. What is this? I’ll need to take a photo. I’ll take a photo.

Moe Folk (cool name) shows us that most stories should be about work, period. Hey, writers, especially you student-writers, quit writing about apartments and dogs and tables and hardwood floors and kegs and walls and tires and dachshunds and your mother and apartments and cars and zombies and cars drinking bourbon and apartments and elves and elves drinking bourbon and start writing about work, work, work.

Moe’s story online here. Glow.

There’s the sort of black and white photos you get in these magazines. At least they didn’t go cartoon on us, or even worse, cartoons about writing on us. So, yeh, some black and white photos, contrast, grain, rundown houses, people, whatever, blar, you know what I’m saying.

Whoa, whoa, whoa–scratch what I said earlier. Michael Moore has the best poems in this fucking issue. Wow. I mean they do what poetry does–each one a shoebox full of witch fuck. Good work, sir. They are here. Enjoy. I am going to repub one right here, though, because, as I mentioned , it is a witch-fuck of a poem:

A student of architecture
Who doesn’t look up from the ground
Long enough to study any buildings
Carries my future In a black bra.

Pank is pissing me off. How could you not put “Mahalia the Fish” online? Meg Thompson is going crazy right now. She is stalking the streets and gnashing her kidneys and smacking her chops at you, PANK editors. Meg Thompson is fourlegged garfish of hate. Meg Thompson is gonna granite teardrop your ass, PANK!

You fuck-nards.

My toast was misshapen because I hack the crusts off with refrigerator magnets the size of winter melons.

glow. I wish Meg Thompson would publish more online. I’m having trouble finding her work online. It blars me.

There are some more poems, set in a tone and time I enjoyed. They had a controlled hand, a controlled pacing. I trusted the poet, Mr. Randall R. Freisinger.

There is a short story about breasts.

Joe Wilkins has two poems. Here.

I appreciate the contemporary sonnet. Thank you, Mr. Wilkins.

There is a poem about fishing.

Penny Zang (another razor name, wow) writes about work. What did I tell you? WORK. It’s well-done, and there’s a cat named Joan Jett. Glow.

Adam Katz is an interesting poet. He uses lists, odd fonts. Odd enjambments. Odd forms. He appropriates and collates. He spins. Honestly, it glow.

Some more poems. A few more. There is another poem. Maybe like I feel alchemical or that my forehead is hung out with the wash or maybe a resting belly.

Deer hit high in the spine and dropped like an albatross struck mid-air by a golf course. Dead as a freaking Pet Rock. I keep shooting high with my new PSE. It annoys me. I practice, shoot high on the stand. I am adjusting to my new bow, I think. My old PSE NOVA was deadly. This new Brute? I hope. Well, I keep practicing. But I digress…

The doe ran zero yards and zero feet.

The doe decided to never run again. The doe decided to swim. The doe is swimming right now in a marinade of soy sauce, red wine vinegar, garlic, salt, onion, brown sugar.

Tonight the doe will swim in butter.

Tonight the doe will swim in wine.

And Marianne Boruch goes:

Here the eye takes

the brain walking.

And I thank you, lit mag, for my eye did indeed take my brain for a walk. And sometimes my eye bulged in its socket. And sometimes–maybe thrice–my eye fell right out my head…out my head!

pank!

Pumas and whatnot and Denver

I ran 13 miles yesterday, good flow, fast finish. Now my left foot feels like a brick or a potable couch, but like a brick or potable couch I handed to you and you were like, Look, I’m going to pour rotgut vodka on this brick or potable couch and set it on fire, and then you handed it back to me only I wasn’t looking at you directly (bad habit) and took this flaming brick or potable couch from your hand and reattached it to my ankle because the F-brick or F-potable couch is actually my left foot, see, and now I hobble a bit down the hallways but hide my hobbling because I don’t want anyone to talk to me about my foot.

“Hey, why are you shuffling like that?”

“I’m not shuffling, I’m hobbling. Leave me alone. Let me be, like cold coffee.”

“Is coffee a drug? Don’t do drugs. Does coffee make you feel important?”

“Shut-up! Go buy an overcoat or something! Let me be!”

But that’s all normal. I broke my heel almost ten years ago and this has been my left foot area ever since, a brick or a potable couch, in flames. The doctor said I would never run again. Ha, ha, and ha!

He had this look like I was supposed to hand him a vase. I hate that look.

Many marathons later…

Fucking doctors. Their mystique doesn’t work on me–I used to be a nurse. I know about the little man behind the curtains, folks. I know about the fishing boats with the tiny engines, the billing and the phone cards and the blue glow of stretched cotton. Etc.

Anyway, ice and ibuprofen, then I got me a good tempo run I’ll do 2morrow. I want pain. I will curl pain into a pot like a fucking cobra. Hiiiisssssssssssssssssssssss

Mount Lemmon is known for mountain lions. I mean pumas. I mean cougars. Whatever, big-ass cats. They are like Carver stories–they get 8 names or some shit.

(Here is one of the first news articles I have seen on the race–more coming as the race nears!)

You should use three exclamation marks your whole life, ass. God, I look at my writing sometimes and I want to kick a little heartbeat into Wendy. Just grapple in the decade, you know?

I have decided to call the October race The Purge Of Knees, a phrase I like and recently incorporated into a micro-fiction/prose poem series.

The very road…

*

I am going to AWP! First, I thought I wasn’t, but now I am. Will be doing a Rose Metal Eggs signing on Saturday, and the remainder of the time some BSU work. Lots of stuff going on, but mostly looking forward to buying a ton of sweet books. Last year I got true gems. I hope HTML does something rad, like a polka or something. Maybe place a potted plant on the roof of a car wash, some stunt like that.

beer

beer like preadolescent catalogues

like rage of an age, some tumbling knuckle

In AWP’s honor I dropped three prose poems at Denver Syntax:

Meaning of Life # 14

Meaning of Like # 36

Meaning of Life # 20

Well, isn’t that dandy as cod people think is haddock.

*

I just had an urge to play roulette but the nearest roulette table is electronic roulette and who in the fuck would play electronic roulette? Idiot. OK, I’m over it now, the urge to play roulette.

*

I am doing a serial reading thing, you know, where you read two, three books consecutively. I am reading Factory Made, an Andy Warhol book, and one I read years ago. The HTML folks have been on an Andy Warhol jag and it made me think about the Warhol books I own and then to leaf through a few and next thing I need to re-read this book. So I am. Also reading Aaron Burch’s chapbook, winner of the PANK contest. Then the Murakami running book.

Oh Andy you are so ironic to take the photo of the photographer taking your photo of you taking a photo of…

*

Holy fuck I won the Irish lottery again!!

*

I would like to meet Morrissey at a bar and have him tell me to place my hands flat on the bar and then he nails my hands to the bar. And I have this evidence. Greatest crooner ever, folks. See the blood?

S

Pank does eggs. Submit to The Broken Plate! Ken Sparling. Flash Fiction Atwood Style.

Pank with a super-kind review of EGGS here. I thank thee 14 times.

Several people have come up to me and said, “I don’t eat eggs,” as if my chapbook is about eating eggs. Well, I don’t eggs either. So.

I have been reading Pank more and more. I think I just like the word PANK. It sounds sexy and then also like a snack item you would find at a horse track or something and maybe like some type of verb, like possibly a bad shot in disc golf into a tree, flopping into river, and I say, “Dude, you just panked that one.”

The Yukon lay a mile wide and hidden under three feet of ice. On top of this ice were as many feet of Pank.

I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I Panked him.

“I don’t like it,” muttered an old woman, as she hobbled into the meetinghouse. “He has changed himself into something awful, only by hiding his Pank.”

PANK has a cool new contest, 1001 words or less.

I was going to enter but they just reviewed my chapbook and I have a piece in Pank soon, so I think it would be a bit much to enter the contest. Or maybe not? Sometimes I think weird things.

children (49) copy

(I ripped this painting from the Royal Art Lodge. Very bad-ass stuff going on there)

Ethel Rohan is very kind here. Thank you for reading EGGS!

*

Oh man cool interview with Ken Sparling. I love this dude, period. His writing I can honestly say has inspired me in many ways. Read The Chapbook Review interview here.

I need to review some chapbooks soon. I feel it inside. So I contacted Chapbook Review and said send me a chapbook to review I need this inside like hotel, climb walls, shove, like logger horses and apple-tree branches and maybe I remember the day I leaped off the moving truck and knocked unconscious in the center of the country highway, all out and splayed-out like a pinned frog, biology lab muscle twitch, and woke up in the night OK, OK, I think OK, though an armful of words can often heat only one stove of What Happened and I did vomit later in the kitchen sink maybe or the garbage can, aquarium, etc.–and so Chapbook Review went, OK.

So I will review a chapbook pretty soon.

*

I have some readings coming up. I will blog about that later.

*

SUBMIT TO THE BROKEN PLATE MAGAZINE!!

Wow, this immersion class/practicum/literary magazine has really been challenging and enjoyable so far for me as a professor/editor/writer. We met last night and

Worked on our snazzy ad to place at HTML GIANT. (You will see it soon–we have to vote on which one to use.) I did a big advertising lecture for the class. We discussed CALL TO ACTION and KNOW YOUR AUDIENCE and THE SYMBOLISM OF COLORS and IS IT ETHICAL TO HAVE A FAKE BUTTON ON YOUR AD and PSYCHOLOGY OF ONLINE ADS and NEVER USE THE COLOR YELLOW and all types of other marketing information.

Worked on a T shirt idea.

Decided on PROSE and POETRY and SUBMISSION editors and teams, and a design team.

WILL YOU SUBMIT ALREADY? Our submission period is Sept 1–thru–Oct 31, so get your ass moving.

Oh, and if you don’t get in the magazine, don’t get on my COMMENTS section and rant about my writing or my mom, etc. And if you DO get in, don’t buy me a beer. THE STUDENTS ARE THE EDITORS AND THE READING IS BLIND.

OK.

(Wait, you can actually buy me a beer whenever you want, although it will have to be on a Fri or a Sat. For the last month, I have drank only on Fri or Sat.)

*

I am reading Murder in the Dark by Margaret Atwood. It is flash fiction (including the popular Happy Endings) and prose poems. It is published in 1983 so it looks like people were writing flash fiction in 1983. Also it looks like Margaret Atwood writes flash fiction. This book be wicked.

*

I am running a 9 mile trail race Saturday. We’ll see…won’t we?

PANK below

water disc

S