The Cenacle | 107 | April 2019 | 24th Anniversary Issue | *Just Released*

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The Cenacle | 107 | April 2019 | 24th Anniversary Issue | *Just Released*

Post by Cenacle » May 22nd, 2019, 8:34 am

The Cenacle | 107 | April 2019 | 24th Anniversary Issue
Reading link: http://www.scriptorpress.com/cenacle/107.html
Download link: http://www.scriptorpress.com/cenacle/107_april_2019.pdf
[Size = 6.2 MB]

Hello everyone,

Here comes the just-released Cenacle  | 107 | April 2019. This 24th anniversary issue (24 years!) offers a wealth of good writings & graphics. Contents include:

From Soulard’s Notebooks:
[Excerpt] Welcome to the 24th Anniversary issue of The Cenacle! Begun well along a day & evening of work on this issue, its many texts & images. It amazes me more than a little to arrive to this occasion every April, coinciding as it always does with my birthday. Not there yet, but in a few years I’ll have been publishing this journal for half my life.

Feedback on Cenacle 106:
[Excerpt] Those Utah Sun Tunnels photographs by Jimmy Heffernan saved and continue to save my sanity. I know there’s a larger force in operation. I know that this moment is not even a blink of the eye in the larger scope of things. My sanity looks again at them, & remembers again that someone with vision has offered a way through. Thank you. Words help, but the photos in this issue are first aid! [Judih Haggai]

From the ElectroLounge Forums:
[Excerpt] 
We Were the Mulvaneys by Joyce Carol Oates: This one just grabbed me from the get-go and didn’t let go, and prompted me over the years to go back and read almost all of her early books and some of her more recent ones (which have been way more hit-or-miss for me). I remember this one being twisty, going back and forth between characters and time, and I really liked that. The characters were all . . . quirky, which I of course loved. [Kassi Soulard]

Notes from New England: Dream Raps, Volume Eight
by Raymond Soulard, Jr.:
[Excerpt] For example, I learned that there’s a deserted planet called Sunderground. It’s been used to test weapons for hundreds of years. And I suppose that would be OK, but I read on later in the book, a bit more redacted, but I think I can suss it out, that there came to be some doubt at some point: What if there were beings that lived there on that thought-to-be-deserted-planet, & they came to believe that the gods were punishing them & destroying them through these seemingly random explosions?

Poetry by Martina Newberry:
[Excerpt] 
That orphanage from which you emerged—
after World War II, and after Korea,
and I Love Lucy, and Soupy Sales,
and long after childhood’s life span—
where is it now, who lives there now?

We Are Those Guys (Travel Journal) by Nathan D. Horowitz:
[Excerpt] I follow Gus, worried he might run off and jump in the river—a worst-case scenario during a ceremony. I can grab him by the hemp choker he wears around his neck if I need to. But he just strides off into Joaquín’s banana plants, exclaiming, “Set sail for the Crimson Sea! And if so, why not? How many time do we have and have been? How much hours where flowers grow like powers!” And he vanishes among the shadows—the crickety shadows, the listening shadows.

Poetry by Nathan D. Horowitz:
[Excerpt] 
My dad wore the Panama hat around the pool of his condo,
Where it may have helped get him laid. At least,

I see him wearing it in a story a beautiful, drunk stranger told me
Years later at his memorial service, though it wasn’t the hat she mentioned,

But his sexy legs, the way he looked hot in swimming trunks
Despite being sixty, nearly three times her age.

Her boyfriend torn between desires to leave the house,
To tell her to be quiet, or to respect the solemnity of the memorial,

Her story came out in blurred fragments
As, unsteadily, she clutched a plant as a gift for my dad’s girlfriend.

Poetry by Joe Ciccone:
[Excerpt] 
Later the guards were sedated
and the tomb cracked open.

The women soon came,
and they wept, on queue.

Poetry by Tamara Miles:
[Excerpt] 
The orchids said, “We’ll try to start over.”
The roses stared in disbelief.
The weeping willow was too filled with grief to cry anymore.
Same Moon Shining (Memoir Excerpts) by Tamara Miles:
[Excerpt] I had a red painted toy box that had been converted from a military box Dad had. It was one of the few possessions of his I had. Sometimes he did not seem real to me. Sometimes I believed he was dead. Sometimes I had the strange idea that I was adopted, maybe because I looked different than most of my family.

Poetry by Colin James:
[Excerpt] 
A rocking motion then
a herky-jerky tremor.
The talented walk differently
than us, in any obvious direction.

I have been studying them.

Many Musics (Poetry) by Raymond Soulard, Jr.:
[Excerpt] 
I know you are coming by when you
enter the Gate, by the throbbing tremor
in things what men are. You followed
no sure course to me in this Cave,
unlike how your King travelled me in
his dream. I know you have roamed
this Island fruitless days, lost in One
Woods, forgetting yourselves, softening
to more like speechless brutes.

The Island of Bali: The Sacred Dances With The Profane, By Firelight [Travel Journal] by Leia Friedman:
[Excerpt] I saw a Kecak Fire Dance in Bali, a sacred ceremony where heavily made-up and bejeweled performers wordlessly enact a Hindu legend, such as the story of Rama winning Sita’s love—until he left her with his cousin—and went to kill a magic deer apparition, but that was a trick—and then the monkey king gave her a magic ring—and the cousin tried to steal her—but she tried to tell Rama she was still alive—until the serpent—never mind.

Poetry by Judih Haggai:
[Excerpt] 
haiku on strike
no explanation
slight scent of blank

Classic Poetry by Langston Hughes:
[Excerpt] 
I play it cool
and dig all jive
That’s the reason
I stay alive.
My motto,
As I live and learn,
is:
Dig and Be Dug
In Return.

The Crocodile King of Belize (Prose) by Charlie Beyer:
[Excerpt] It’s been a great ski season up in Aspen. The snow is five feet deep and as powdery as the
white dust snorted on the Silverado Bar. JC started out skiing all the hills with Rose, proving to be a reasonable skier, but clumsy. He was not the smooth instructor he had claimed to be, but did show himself to be an accomplished orator, with his excessive pontification and frequent stops on the way down the hill to explain some irrelevant detail. JC managed by this process to demonstrate his skiing adequacy to the smiling Rose.

Poetry by Jimmy Hefferman:
Grasping, holding on to absence
Feeling my way in calm reticence
Numbness, fearful uncertainty
Hell must be this eternally

Bags End Book #12: What Is Imagianna?
[Excerpt] Where I dream at night is called the Creature Common & best I can say is that most of their guys are a lot less crazy than mah own folks in Bags End, or else some other kind of crazy that looks like niceness but, surprise! ha! isn’t!

Poetry by Ace Boggess:
I listen to traffic humming loud as the blues
guitarist on stage, & I’m waiting for my bounce,
the arcing groove as pendulum reaches
counterpoint to its last extreme.

Prose-Poetry by Diana Rosen:
Like a lot of older people, she seemed all legs. Her torso bent over so that, when she sat down, her head barely rose above the classroom table, and she had to pull the microphone down to under her chin to capture her voice.

Poetry by Gregory Kelly:
i feel my breath it is tangible
it is tangible the motion of lungs
releasing air back to ancient territories
i feel my breath circling the mysterious
pathways
beneath
skin


The Beatles and LSD by Joe Goodden [Essay]:
While The Beatles were no strangers to drugs prior to 1965, their introduction to LSD caused a major shift in their music and personalities, as well as in the public perception of them. The event was later termed the “Dental Experience” by George Harrison, and it had a profound effect on all those present.

Poetry by Tom Sheehan:
[Excerpt] 
on slow coals of sticks
like hiccups, hawthorns
for roofing and stone

Labyrinthine [a new fixtion] by Raymond Soulard, Jr.:
[Excerpt] Then something in the mirror catches my eye. There’s on the unmade bed another book, coverless, about the size of the NJB still in my hand, but this one is glowing, is hmmming, & what is this then? It has a kind of extra-dimensionality to it, but when I turn to look it straight on, it’s not there, & the copy in my hand isn’t glowing. I look back in the mirror & there it is, on unmade bed, glowing deeply—

Let me know your comments here, or reply to me directly & off-list at editor@scriptorpress.com

Peace, 
Raymond

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