The Cenacle | 108 | June 2019 *Just Released*

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The Cenacle | 108 | June 2019 *Just Released*

Post by Cenacle » September 3rd, 2019, 3:59 pm

The Cenacle | 108 | June 2019
Reading link: http://www.scriptorpress.com/cenacle/108.html
Download link: http://www.scriptorpress.com/cenacle/108_june_2019.pdf
[Size = 10.9 MB]

Hello everyone,

Here comes the just-released Cenacle | 108 | June 2019. This issue’s release slowed by me getting laid off my job, but finally done & packed with good writings & graphics! Contents include:

From Soulard’s Notebooks:
[Excerpt]
I’ve been trying to locate the center-point of how much I loathe your presidency. Before you lied your way into the White House, promising the moon, stars, & eternal life itself to millions of people beaten down enough by life to have known better but the racist sexist catcalls in your speeches, your slick salesman’s way of massaging their egos to feel part of a special clan, your preacherly way of promising reward for those who follow you, & punishment for all the rest, your Archie Bunker-like charisma of prejudice & your Il Duce-like self-aggrandizement—before all this, you were just one more crooked businessman in a nation of them.

Feedback on Cenacle 107:
In “Crocodile King of Belize,” Charlie Beyer is teaching me to be effectual. Like now I should be sitting on a South American pier about to throw a long line out, not waiting for my wife as she shops for eggs and some decent tea.
[Colin James]

From the ElectroLounge Forums:
What is Your Earliest Childhood Memory?
[Excerpt]
I remember sitting with my back towards a wall. Entering the hallway, in a ray of light from the open front door, a woman approached me. I saw her loose brown hair and how she was grinning wildly at me. I was in Allentown, Pennsylvania, in a duplex apt. Age: 3 or less I remember not wanting to be scooped up into this woman’s embrace. She was too energetic, too much. The memory is filled with the vividness of energy: hers compounded by the radiant sunlight that seemed to propel her in my direction.
[Judih Haggai]

Poetry by Tamara Miles & John Echem:
[Excerpt]
Many roads lead home,
many homes without roads,
to the marshland of the soul.

At how many harbors
does the other lose his way?
How far is he from a shaman’s gaze?

Poetry by Sam Knot:
[Excerpt]
While you sleep, wintery, someone
is filming birds in the sunshine spring
—looking up—tight-framed—into branches—
tracking a blue tit before a blue sky—lagging
just a little behind those feathered teleportations
to fix on that shining black eye—but think!
There is no white face wearing the bandit’s mask
—a beard of blue & yellow—
& where should be the beak
is a hole like the dot of a question mark
(?)

Vines and Vignettes (Travel Journal) by Nathan D. Horowitz:
[Excerpt]
“Get out of my face!” I nearly said that out loud. Instead, shaking with anger, I turned away and picked up the big aluminum pot full of dirty dishes. Balancing it on my shoulder, I strode down the muddy path away from the hut. The mud felt good, cool and clean, on my bare feet. I navigated the slippery clay stairs and reached the sandy edge of Haiya, the Aguarico River. Silently greeted it, and the bubbles gliding on its smooth brown surface. Squatted down in the sand at the edge and rinsed everything, glad for the peace the task afforded. Scrubbed the pots with big handfuls of sand before getting to work with the soap and scouring pad. Was soothed by the cool water and the heavy, wet sand, and the way the suspended particles swirled and swirled in the water like a perfect piece of visual art.

Poetry by Tom Sheehan:
[Excerpt] 
This appointment came when light tired, this arrangement, this syzygy
of him and me and the still threat of a small red star standing
some time away at my back, deeper than a grain of memory.

Many Musics (Poetry) by Raymond Soulard, Jr.:
[Excerpt] 
The braided thread leads us to her
now, even my friends agreeably
let this be so. Its many twisted
color glows in my hand, urges me
hmmm to pay attention, beware & be aware.
My friends hmmm too, but do not have to try,
it is how they are. So many turns
in this Tangled Gate, more than possible.
Was this a thing I can honest say
I made, or were my dreams simply
how it passed to be into this universe?
The Gate’s Gate?

Poetry by Martina Newberry:
[Excerpt]
Impenetrable Los Angeles!
You are California’s bitch, so to speak;
Berkeley’s black sheep brother,
San Diego’s alcoholic uncle,
and San Francisco’s drug-addicted niece.

Same Moon Shining (Memoir Excerpts) by Tamara Miles:
[Excerpt]
The ongoing mystery of my biological grandfather has been a source of frustration. I now know his name—Leroy D. Allen—and the date of his marriage to my grandmother—but, other than that, I can’t seem to find any information about him before or after his brief role as father and husband in 1941 and 1942. While I wait and search, I theorize. This is what human beings do when we are faced with a mystery: turn it around and around in our minds, peel back the layers, and try to discover the answer to fit the missing pieces together.

Poetry by Colin James:
[Excerpt]
The portal to an alternative universe
has recently been identified
by a Peter Allman
of Ellesmere Port, Cheshire.

Notes from New England: Dream Raps, Volume Eight
by Raymond Soulard, Jr.:
[Excerpt]
I believe Senator Elizabeth Warren is tough-as-nails ready to face Donald Trump & beat him. She will restore the rule of law & the practice of civility to the White House. Her political views are progressive, inclusive & deeply intelligent. It would be a thrill to see her elected, & thus have Donald Trump fired by his worst nightmare: an intelligent woman who beat him fair & square.

Poetry by Judih Haggai:
[Excerpt]
thread weaves in and out
morning embroidery
each stitch counts

Poetry & Its Death (Classic Prose) by Virginia Woolf
[Excerpt]
Did you ever meet, or was he before your day, that old gentleman—I forget his name—who used to enliven conversation, especially at breakfast when the post came in, by saying that the art of letter-writing is dead? The penny post, the old gentleman used to say, has killed the art of letter-writing. Nobody, he continued, examining an envelope through his eye-glasses, has the time even to cross their t’s. We rush, he went on, spreading his toast with marmalade, to the telephone. We commit our half-formed thoughts in ungrammatical phrases to the post card. Gray is dead, he continued; Horace Walpole is dead; Madame de Sévigné—she is dead too, I suppose he was about to add, but a fit of choking cut him short, and he had to leave the room before he had time to condemn all the arts, as his pleasure was, to the cemetery.

Poetry by Ace Boggess:
[Excerpt]
I could make new scars
that swear ugliness is beautiful,
could cloak myself in them,
from thought to DNA,
until I leave my chrysalis,
a man made up of only scars:
pastiche, collage,
a burned omelet of scars.

Bags End Book #13: The Great Pillow Summit! by Algernon Beagle
[Excerpt]
There are times when Betsy is just too busy to notice she has not smothered me yet. She is usually seeing to her business in the Bunny Pillow Free State. Since Farmer Jones is helping Pillows to grow there again, & not an enemy like the old days, when he would sell them to rich people, Betsy concerned herself more with consolidating her own power bass, or lead guitar or something. In Beagle short, Betsy wants to run the show again. She takes all this agreeable cooperating personally, like an insult.

Poetry by Gregory Kelly:
[Excerpt]
each hair fell to the sink
while the razor never relented
his homily severed an unkempt beard

The Crocodile King of Belize (Prose) by Charlie Beyer:
[Excerpt]
Pelicans sit on the roof of the concrete building, eying the fish below. Fish of all sizes are piled on cement tables in this open-walled building. Behind each pile is its hopeful seller, lazily sweeping his hand over a black hoard of flies obscuring his wares. With each sweep, a cloud rises up and then resettles on the other side, as though the fishmonger was swinging his arm under a black sheet.

Poetry by Jimmy Hefferman:
[Excerpt]
Defending this place—getting tough
The world’s a place that’s kind of rough
If we could stop this waste of time
Perhaps we’d live enough

My Adventures with the Trip Doctors [Essay] by Michael Pollan:
[Excerpt]
My first psilocybin journey began around an altar in the middle of a second-story loft in a suburb of a small city on the Eastern Seaboard. On this adventure I would have a guide, a therapist who, like an unknown number of other therapists administering psychedelics in America today, must work underground because these drugs are illegal.

Poetry by Joe Ciccone:
[Excerpt]
The gears of the clock are crashing.
I tried for something.

Labyrinthine [a new fixtion] by Raymond Soulard, Jr.:
[Excerpt]
The old man stands up in the cab & begins telling his muffled story. “One day long ago, I woke up deep in the night, & I walked outside. I walked away, & I walked through the streets till I came to the edge of the Village, & I walked beyond it till I came to the brown hills, & I walked up them into these White Woods, & I had no shoes on my feet, like you see me here now” (& here he lifted up his gnarly feet to show), “& I had on only this robe” (shows front & back), “& I left everything behind to walk into these White Woods, & that night I fell down to my knees & looked up, & I said, ‘let me be the world’s servant like once I was! Let me serve the world again! Let me help!’”

Email comments to this mailing list by simply hitting “reply” to this email—or reply to me directly & off-list at editor@scriptorpress.com

Peace, 
Raymond

Reading link: http://www.scriptorpress.com/cenacle/108.html
Download link: http://www.scriptorpress.com/cenacle/108_june_2019.pdf
[Size = 10.9 MB]

Hello everyone,

Here comes the just-released Cenacle | 108 | June 2019. This issue’s release slowed by me getting laid off my job, but finally done & packed with good writings & graphics! Contents include:

From Soulard’s Notebooks:
[Excerpt]
I’ve been trying to locate the center-point of how much I loathe your presidency. Before you lied your way into the White House, promising the moon, stars, & eternal life itself to millions of people beaten down enough by life to have known better but the racist sexist catcalls in your speeches, your slick salesman’s way of massaging their egos to feel part of a special clan, your preacherly way of promising reward for those who follow you, & punishment for all the rest, your Archie Bunker-like charisma of prejudice & your Il Duce-like self-aggrandizement—before all this, you were just one more crooked businessman in a nation of them.

Feedback on Cenacle 107:
In “Crocodile King of Belize,” Charlie Beyer is teaching me to be effectual. Like now I should be sitting on a South American pier about to throw a long line out, not waiting for my wife as she shops for eggs and some decent tea.
[Colin James]

From the ElectroLounge Forums:
What is Your Earliest Childhood Memory?
[Excerpt]
I remember sitting with my back towards a wall. Entering the hallway, in a ray of light from the open front door, a woman approached me. I saw her loose brown hair and how she was grinning wildly at me. I was in Allentown, Pennsylvania, in a duplex apt. Age: 3 or less I remember not wanting to be scooped up into this woman’s embrace. She was too energetic, too much. The memory is filled with the vividness of energy: hers compounded by the radiant sunlight that seemed to propel her in my direction.
[Judih Haggai]

Poetry by Tamara Miles & John Echem:
[Excerpt]
Many roads lead home,
many homes without roads,
to the marshland of the soul.

At how many harbors
does the other lose his way?
How far is he from a shaman’s gaze?

Poetry by Sam Knot:
[Excerpt]
While you sleep, wintery, someone
is filming birds in the sunshine spring
—looking up—tight-framed—into branches—
tracking a blue tit before a blue sky—lagging
just a little behind those feathered teleportations
to fix on that shining black eye—but think!
There is no white face wearing the bandit’s mask
—a beard of blue & yellow—
& where should be the beak
is a hole like the dot of a question mark
(?)

Vines and Vignettes (Travel Journal) by Nathan D. Horowitz:
[Excerpt]
“Get out of my face!” I nearly said that out loud. Instead, shaking with anger, I turned away and picked up the big aluminum pot full of dirty dishes. Balancing it on my shoulder, I strode down the muddy path away from the hut. The mud felt good, cool and clean, on my bare feet. I navigated the slippery clay stairs and reached the sandy edge of Haiya, the Aguarico River. Silently greeted it, and the bubbles gliding on its smooth brown surface. Squatted down in the sand at the edge and rinsed everything, glad for the peace the task afforded. Scrubbed the pots with big handfuls of sand before getting to work with the soap and scouring pad. Was soothed by the cool water and the heavy, wet sand, and the way the suspended particles swirled and swirled in the water like a perfect piece of visual art.

Poetry by Tom Sheehan:
[Excerpt] 
This appointment came when light tired, this arrangement, this syzygy
of him and me and the still threat of a small red star standing
some time away at my back, deeper than a grain of memory.

Many Musics (Poetry) by Raymond Soulard, Jr.:
[Excerpt] 
The braided thread leads us to her
now, even my friends agreeably
let this be so. Its many twisted
color glows in my hand, urges me
hmmm to pay attention, beware & be aware.
My friends hmmm too, but do not have to try,
it is how they are. So many turns
in this Tangled Gate, more than possible.
Was this a thing I can honest say
I made, or were my dreams simply
how it passed to be into this universe?
The Gate’s Gate?

Poetry by Martina Newberry:
[Excerpt]
Impenetrable Los Angeles!
You are California’s bitch, so to speak;
Berkeley’s black sheep brother,
San Diego’s alcoholic uncle,
and San Francisco’s drug-addicted niece.

Same Moon Shining (Memoir Excerpts) by Tamara Miles:
[Excerpt]
The ongoing mystery of my biological grandfather has been a source of frustration. I now know his name—Leroy D. Allen—and the date of his marriage to my grandmother—but, other than that, I can’t seem to find any information about him before or after his brief role as father and husband in 1941 and 1942. While I wait and search, I theorize. This is what human beings do when we are faced with a mystery: turn it around and around in our minds, peel back the layers, and try to discover the answer to fit the missing pieces together.

Poetry by Colin James:
[Excerpt]
The portal to an alternative universe
has recently been identified
by a Peter Allman
of Ellesmere Port, Cheshire.

Notes from New England: Dream Raps, Volume Eight
by Raymond Soulard, Jr.:
[Excerpt]
I believe Senator Elizabeth Warren is tough-as-nails ready to face Donald Trump & beat him. She will restore the rule of law & the practice of civility to the White House. Her political views are progressive, inclusive & deeply intelligent. It would be a thrill to see her elected, & thus have Donald Trump fired by his worst nightmare: an intelligent woman who beat him fair & square.

Poetry by Judih Haggai:
[Excerpt]
thread weaves in and out
morning embroidery
each stitch counts

Poetry & Its Death (Classic Prose) by Virginia Woolf
[Excerpt]
Did you ever meet, or was he before your day, that old gentleman—I forget his name—who used to enliven conversation, especially at breakfast when the post came in, by saying that the art of letter-writing is dead? The penny post, the old gentleman used to say, has killed the art of letter-writing. Nobody, he continued, examining an envelope through his eye-glasses, has the time even to cross their t’s. We rush, he went on, spreading his toast with marmalade, to the telephone. We commit our half-formed thoughts in ungrammatical phrases to the post card. Gray is dead, he continued; Horace Walpole is dead; Madame de Sévigné—she is dead too, I suppose he was about to add, but a fit of choking cut him short, and he had to leave the room before he had time to condemn all the arts, as his pleasure was, to the cemetery.

Poetry by Ace Boggess:
[Excerpt]
I could make new scars
that swear ugliness is beautiful,
could cloak myself in them,
from thought to DNA,
until I leave my chrysalis,
a man made up of only scars:
pastiche, collage,
a burned omelet of scars.

Bags End Book #13: The Great Pillow Summit! by Algernon Beagle
[Excerpt]
There are times when Betsy is just too busy to notice she has not smothered me yet. She is usually seeing to her business in the Bunny Pillow Free State. Since Farmer Jones is helping Pillows to grow there again, & not an enemy like the old days, when he would sell them to rich people, Betsy concerned herself more with consolidating her own power bass, or lead guitar or something. In Beagle short, Betsy wants to run the show again. She takes all this agreeable cooperating personally, like an insult.

Poetry by Gregory Kelly:
[Excerpt]
each hair fell to the sink
while the razor never relented
his homily severed an unkempt beard

The Crocodile King of Belize (Prose) by Charlie Beyer:
[Excerpt]
Pelicans sit on the roof of the concrete building, eying the fish below. Fish of all sizes are piled on cement tables in this open-walled building. Behind each pile is its hopeful seller, lazily sweeping his hand over a black hoard of flies obscuring his wares. With each sweep, a cloud rises up and then resettles on the other side, as though the fishmonger was swinging his arm under a black sheet.

Poetry by Jimmy Hefferman:
[Excerpt]
Defending this place—getting tough
The world’s a place that’s kind of rough
If we could stop this waste of time
Perhaps we’d live enough

My Adventures with the Trip Doctors [Essay] by Michael Pollan:
[Excerpt]
My first psilocybin journey began around an altar in the middle of a second-story loft in a suburb of a small city on the Eastern Seaboard. On this adventure I would have a guide, a therapist who, like an unknown number of other therapists administering psychedelics in America today, must work underground because these drugs are illegal.

Poetry by Joe Ciccone:
[Excerpt]
The gears of the clock are crashing.
I tried for something.

Labyrinthine [a new fixtion] by Raymond Soulard, Jr.:
[Excerpt]
The old man stands up in the cab & begins telling his muffled story. “One day long ago, I woke up deep in the night, & I walked outside. I walked away, & I walked through the streets till I came to the edge of the Village, & I walked beyond it till I came to the brown hills, & I walked up them into these White Woods, & I had no shoes on my feet, like you see me here now” (& here he lifted up his gnarly feet to show), “& I had on only this robe” (shows front & back), “& I left everything behind to walk into these White Woods, & that night I fell down to my knees & looked up, & I said, ‘let me be the world’s servant like once I was! Let me serve the world again! Let me help!’”

Please posts comments to this thread—or reply to me directly & off-list at editor@scriptorpress.com.

Peace, 
Raymond

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Re: The Cenacle | 108 | June 2019 *Just Released*

Post by judih » September 3rd, 2019, 10:30 pm

So much content to enjoy. Thanks for the choice treasures

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