be/ond seh flinges by jim leftwich and steve dalachinsky

from luna bisonte prods

be/ond seh flinges

by jim leftwich and steve dalachinsky

With some sort of strange anxiety caused by the unknowable elements of the title of the book bugging my brain, I brave myself to go through the table of contents. Poems. OK. They are poems. A relief. Then, my mind gets messy again following the massive endless list of the poem titles. It starts with 1. plums; 2. plopperly slashed; 3. astral viaduct frogret... ends with 128. WOODY BLIN BLEEDING (another casualty of the real). Just to go through all the titles makes me dizzy & unstable. Am I uncomfortable in this “crazy-ness”? Yes, definitely. & “No” at the same time. How strangely fabulous it is to be able to have the oppositional feelings together as if embracing the long lost twin emotions you didn’t know you had! Poems presented here are all like amalgams of Plus/Minus; Black/White; Color(s)/Non-Color(s); Music/Anti-Music; Sanity/Insanity; Fun/Disgust & Joy/Resignation... all gelled into gems. Not just experimenting with the language for the experiments’ sake, but Jim & Steve are playing with the language as musicians play with notes & artists play with their métier & ideas. --Yuko Otomo

jim leftwich & steve dalachinsky -- a Blakean sunset

a Blakean sunset 

​visiting the air brought

         vulnerable clearance

   waiting as the water

      pursues memories

         lovers gone

fading flowers

     sun in and out

olive oil in the salad

  dreams twinkling​​

    among the ivories

   purring soup bone

hovers above our

         lower wading

  snout-sand

    at the Inn of the Us

        pop art eye

in the spinach

diddly/squat mirth-worms

      jumpin in the juniper

  one mint at a time

what squirms like a doodle

   with lime-scented tones

rappelling bumper-to-bumper

    inside the tunnel

 connecting limp nods to

    telepathy

like a funnel filtering

      nodes through

   the lamp nexus 

swath to Connecticut

   where we dawdle in the twaddle

     with our swaddling bands undone

        ​​a Blakean sunset on the tips of our lips

     slipping downstream

  without a

paddle

in the hand zone madding

       dour as a crypt

   where the chosen ones perilously straddle.

​august 2019​