That's right.. this Tuesday is the return of An Untitled Piece....Open Poetry and Acoustics....at the Trident Cafe, 940 Pearl

It'll be great
do come!
http://untitledpiece.wordpress.com

....to quote Lawrence Ferlinghetti who has fueled inspiration for the last several decades. Before photographs and poems and random existances of possible art are posted, I would like to make a small thanks to Mr. Ferlinghetti by introducing you with a section of a poem he wrote, just in case whoever you may be, happen to be unfamiliar with him...

"Don't shoot down the moon!

There may still be lovers on it

sleeping on the dark side

turning into light."

-From Landscapes of Living and Dying






7.
GAIN what you CAN
and STEAL from the Poor and WASTE time,
knowing your inevitable death will come UNIMPORTANTLY
and without ROMANTACISM
SHOVE the moment you see involvement in something claimed as only yours,
SAVE MONEY using recall food and subsidize stronger minds!
FOLLOW YOUR WRIST WATCH! and IMPROVISE YOUR VOCABULARY
Cause' Baby, WAR IS THE ONLY WAY to serve your dream of being a revolutionary
WAR MONGER..
-Emily Owens


An Awaited Train:






All of the Above is COPYRIGHTED. Emily Owens. 2007. (With the exception of the works by Lawrence Ferlighetti.)

I recently spoke to the board of permissions, and we now have the inside of the Cafe through the winter. Thanks to Mark, we also have an ad in the Camera as well as posted on Craigslist. The Open Acoustics//Poetry is starting to get off the ground. I hope to see all of you next Tuesday. Your support keeps this running, we appreciate your being there, whether audience of performer.



Noah Andrews during a performance


Thanks.
Your Host,
Emily

Not All People Have Happy Endings
The woman sat at her desk chair looking liek death was the greatest pen pal she longed to meet. Her styrofoam hair stuck well to her head and her smile was more like a bumper that got into a five-way crash. Documents sat neatly across her desk, with red-tinted logos that popped from the page. She sighed. I myself, was in need of some transportation. The schedules were all botched up and covered in stained fingerprints from the people before me. With haste I promptly returned them to their slots. The clocks were down that day in the station, and I was lef† with no option but to approach the overweight, middle aged security gaurd at her desk and ask, "Excuse me ma'am, do you have the time?"

"Get yourself a clock." she growled, and I watched as a single strand of styrofoam fell against her tattered face.
------

Homage to Kowski':
Pick up-
Aisle 17,
her hair is made of horse-wax
she wears light blue framed glasses
and speaks in the most monotonous of voices
that never quivers nor fluctuates in tone
they can not stand to hear her speak
for it's all the same-
she cleans up the aisle,
her ass wagging like a hungry dog,
someday- someone will call her
on the phone, but not to hear her voice
in particular,
because there isn't a single special thing about it.
-------
Excerpt From a Still Unwritten Story....
She had never been much of a heavy smoker.
She was aware of how much Theadore enjoyed watching the smoke slowly dance out of her mouth with the four o'clock sun hitting her miraculous body, and although she had grown weary of his odd turn-ons, she would keep this one up to preserve his ideas of her beauty. Each day, just as the sun would begin to fall, she would sit in on a blue-green chair in the very middle of their front yard and he, would watch her, sitting like a small child in a library listening to a minor poet. They had met in a small record store, only nine months before this exact day when she was sitting in the yard, wearing a white sundress with an acute transparency, folding one leg on the chair and leaning on the other with her feet just barely hanging off the edge of the antique wooden armchair....


------
Short Film Of The 21st Century
Each little bug
turned into a beautiful woman
that night
and every man
fell lustfully in love
when they awoke the next morning
they laid in bed with a praying mantis
and every woman was a broken teacup,
gathering their pieces for a long walk home.
Bugs. Bugs. Bugs.

- Emily Owens, www.myspace.com/untitledpiece

COME GLOW EVERYWHERE( an essay on revolution)

All real revolutionaries get shot in the head 'cause all real revolutionaries are way too alive not to be touched by the walking dead. The walking dead march nowhere with their revolvers that evolve nothing, who don't have a sliver of a notion to start some kind of commotion. They cannot stand what is new, anything that loosens the screws. So what you need, if you want a real revolutionary that's going to last longer than a quick spark of a candle, is a DEAD revolutionary. A DEAD revolutionary can't be killed, and I'm not talking about some stillborn baby that's been subjected to ECT, who can fuck with the economy and toy with social dichotomy. I'm talking 'bout a revolutionary who has come to the realization that the world has lost it's glow but who can still flow, who can be nowhere, everywhere, everyone like death itself- an entity that can stand above the masses and say: "Don't give into the stagnation, build a plantation of lust and spread it all across Momma Nature's bust and while you're at it, get it on, less this maze turns to dust." Oh Shit! I've gone from revolution to sex, but whats the difference? They're equally absurd and we're all just kids in cars playing chicken near the edge of a cliff.

---------------------------
INTO THE CITY
A city of sleazy dukes,

rabid dope salesman
fragile kids hustling their souls

for material gratification
sliver through broken piss alleyways

a snake searching for mice, diamond studded litter

a touch of a plasmatic insect called the fire spirit
A city of lust and forgetting how to get lost

city of glamorous decay
you become a bat, holding onto escape ladders
flirting with the velvet cunt pimps
analyzing track marks
hoping to see the plasma spark
in a trashcan
a spark of the fire spirit
in a car that offers nothing but insomnia and edginess,
you drive to the emptiest part of town
on the street,
naked chest
under your bullet proof vest
you find in an abandoned church
the fire spirit has called in sick and the serrogate essence is....
------
Boulder Transgressive Manifesto

All Hail Villainy! Hail Transgression! Hail Grime and Degeneracy! Hail Your Leader, Dictator of. All ye present, encircle the Glory Hole of Upper Crusty Society! And suck dick for your daily wages!
From now on there will be only Sodomy! There will be no Joy. There will be no Peace. There will be no Pride. All will succumb to Perversity and regard themselves as property of their own Sickness. All will be watched by the Vigilant Eye of the Secret Sodomites.

Any resident who betrays the Rule shall face the penalty of being sexually humiliated! Their heterosexuality will be exposed before their peers and their privileges of lucidity shall be taken from them by the enforcement of daily drug entrées!

Any resident who betrays the Rule in deliberate mutiny will be scrutinized daily by the Secret Sodomite Police and will submit to their sexual and sadomasochistic urges.

As a village of Worthlessness, we will all fart along the Borders of Boulder, Colorado. And our Fart will thrust itself across the Deserts and Oceans and smear wretched stench across the faces of all who are not with us and who are not aware of our Inferiority.

May no man sleep serenely! May there be Perpetual Angst, Disorder, and Erosion.
May no man go hungry for Terror and Sex! But may he be Criticized.
May no man breathe fresh air. May his lungs be filled with Drug Smoke.
And may no man GO OUT OF THE FISH TANK PARKING STRUCTURE.

In the New Boulder, we will all live underground, in subterranean labyrinths. If one must leave the subterranean, it can only be to spend ALL DAY within the constriction of a restaurant, coffee shop, or store… Any Sodomite who disobeys will be forced into the Native Rituals of Necrophilia, Pedophilia, and Coprophilia.

Every man and woman and child must suffer the burden of wearing their personal stupidity on their sleeve. Every man, woman and child must eat nothing other than what they have bought at a restaurant. In the grime of their homes, they may be allowed to ingest and digest only Vitamin Supplements supplied by the Boulder Dictatorship.

There will be no more Religion and no more Science. There will be only Absurdity, Bias, Loathing, and above all, the Worship of Sodomy.

Any Art that does not overtly uncover what is hidden will be publicly deemed Shitty and Boring.

Hail Discomfort for it is the only thing that is Pure!
Hail Feces for it is all that Matters!
Hail Jeremy Bryson for He is the Ill-bred.
And Boulder Uber Alles!


-Jeremy Bryson www.myspace.com/auntie_lucid

peacocks and vines
winding around pictures
of smiles and things
forgotten
things you try to remember
by placing them
above the memories
that belong to other people
next to the machine
that spits out your thoughts
and your bullshit
blinking red
tells you when you have to
wake.
up.
a photo
black and white
she is so beautiful
and you are now older
than she will ever be
next to a machine
that spits out
other people's thoughts
and bullshit
on top of fake brown lines
dirty fabric
where cords wrap themselves
around your feet
as you spout out
your ideas
into a piece of metal
wondering who will hear
them first.
you suppose this chair
should support you
in your endeavors
reaching for the piece of love
wrapped tight in tin foil
the only thing
that will always love you back
no matter how hard you cry.
unwrapped it looks cold,
calm, and from somewhere
you hear a voice
saying:
Tell me a secret
Tell me something
I don't know
So you do.
and this chair will remain
in your memory
forever.

-Zoe ..... Want More? Ask her yourself. www.myspace.com/zeeohee

(Photo by Brianna Rachel Williams)