Larry and

Friends
#1
from Hal Johnsons
Truck
larry goodell was guest editor
for month of July 2016

a duende free for all

production 2017
http://www.larrygoodell.com/
 2017
all rights revert to authors
 Hello and Love to All
Hal Johnson asked me and here I am for the month of July in 2016 and
you might call this LARRY AND FRIENDS since I just emailed for poems
and any comment about "what you're up to" and most people sent in
poems. To me this is further revelation that increasingly all poetry is
local. Traditionally way back there were national entities of poetry,
national poets even, but now there are entities within the national -
poetry reading and publishing confabs in pockets entities just about
everywhere. The populace of poets growing all around broken up into
localities of us bards, bardic yawps everyplace. The locality I live and
breathe in is Placitas Albuquerque Las Cruces Santa Fe Taos El Paso
mainly but more often it's just plain ole Albuquerque-Placitas for me. The
Facebook and email/website reaches are constantly extending and over
time dear friends are in their own localities wherever increasingly.

So the poets here are some of the poets informed by the longstanding
living locality plus the reachings out as everyone experiences, that growth
online, Facebook, music and "document" sites.

So welcome to all and thank you for sending poems and news and as long
as my time allows (constantly being demanded on) please continue to
send on here if you are indeed in some way a friend, a true acquaintance,
surely you're welcome and I'll do my best. larrynewmex@gmail.com

For information about me it is embarrassingly all too available with more

coming as I continue my project HEAR making much of my poetry work
finally available. http://www.larrygoodell.com/ And I can't help but
recommend my 3 new books from Beatlick Press. And thank you, Hal. -lg

-1-
 Truck/July 2016
I was so pleased
with the generous
response when
I asked friends
for poems
I decided to cut and paste
what was sent to me in
July and
put the poems
in this format
to be
more easily
accessed
and Hal said
go ahead

I may
do another
round of
friends
poems
as time
trippingly
speeds by.

love to all
and thanks f
or sending me
your notes
your
poems.
larry

spring 2017

-2-
 Contents of July Truck 2016
Hello and Love to All . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -1-
Truck/July 2016 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -2-
Rudolfo Anaya . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -6-
Margaret Randall . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -8-
Alan Casline . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -10-
Zachary Kluckman. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -12-
Bruce Holsapple. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -14-
Matthew Conley. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -16-
Judy Grahn . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -18-
Don McIver . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -20-
Laurie Macrae . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -22-
John Macker. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -24-
Geoffrey Young . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -26-
Miriam Sagan. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -28-
Katrina K Guarascio. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -30-
Mitch Rayes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -32-
Georgia Santa Maria . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -34-
Anne MacNaughton . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -36-
Jules Nyquist . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -37-
Donald Levering . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -38-
D.R. Wagner. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -40-
Jim Fish. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -42-
Michael Boughn. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -44-
Jennifer Bartlett . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -46-
Brendan Douthit . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -49-
Joe Bottone. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -50-
Anne Valley-Fox. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -52-
Latif William Harris . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -55-
Joseph Somoza and Jill Somoza . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -62-
Jerome Rothenberg . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -65-
Bill Nevins . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -69-
Mary Oishi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -72-
Gloria Frym . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -74-
John Roche . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -76-
Deborah Coy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -80-
Sidekick . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -80-
Jonathan Penton . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -82-
James Burbank . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -85-
Mark Weber . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -88-
John Tritica . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -90-
A Page for Satyrs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -92-

-3-
Rudolfo Anaya
Years ago Rudy and Patricia Anaya, along with David Johnson, Tony
Mares, Jim Fisher and others, launched the Rio Grande Writer's
Association* which boosted poetry and all creative writing across the
state and the SW . . . Voices of the Rio Grande came out of its first
conference and it remains the groundbreaking anthology for us in these
parts . . . thank you, Rudy . . . and thanks for sending this . . .

Rudy Anaya

*
https://larrygoodell.wordpress.com/2013/08/06/rio-grande-writers-associ
ation-1976-1991/

6/19/16
Hi, Larry, good to hear from you. Yes you may use my poem in TRUCK . .
. . New, just out, my new novel, THE SORROWS OF YOUNG ALFONSO,
reviewed by David Steinberg in [The Albuquerque] Journal. . . . Keep well
my friend, Rudy. . . Keep well my friend, Rudy

Here is Davids review:

https://www.abqjournal.com/797869/fact-amp-fiction.html

-4-
The Pulse of Life

It was the twelfth of June

another hot and humid Florida night.
In Orlando young people gathered at the
Pulse Club, enjoying camaraderie, the
dance floor pulsating with life,
dancers moving to syncopated music,
Latin rhythms, good will embraces,
laughter, friendships, plans for
tomorrow, flashing smiles releasing
stress in silent motions.
Then the pulse of life ended.
A man on fire came from a dark,
twisted place, methodically spraying
death, massacring our LGBT
dancers who fell like cut flowers.
Pulses died in 49 bloodied wrists,
blood pressures plunged to zero,
juices of life that would never
flow into the future stained
the sad dance floor.
Shock spread across the country,
across the world, enough grief
to last many lifetimes. Lost lives
cannot be replaced.
Orlando pulled together, offering
condolences and help. From here
we sent flor y canto, oraciones,
flowers and poems, prayers.
Left bereaved on this senseless
plain, we wondered who killed the
Golden Rule, Love Your Neighbor.
We mourn our fallen comrades, our
gay sisters and brothers, and after
grieving we march to tear down the
barricades of hate, bigotry,
prejudices. We march to tear down
walls that separate.

2016 Rudolfo Anaya

-5-
Margaret Randall
I cannot speak for the gun

I cannot speak for the gun

doing its ugly job
in George Zimmermans overeager hands.
I cannot speak for those eighteen ounces
easily concealed in any pocket.

Easy to guess what Georges intention was,

too easy to imagine the terror
in Trayvons eyes,
the grief his mother holds
four years beyond her loss.

The Law never found Zimmerman guilty

or condemned his crime.
And Martin could not know
his death would bring a nation
into the streets

or that hundreds of other black youth

would have to die, gunned down
by white policemen
or self-styled protectors
of an order that runs by exception

in this country where Law protects

the men who write it, works
for white, fails for black, rich
or poor, genders
that matter or dont.

Now George Zimmerman auctions

the gun that murdered
Trayvon Martin. Hes asking
$5,000, promises some of the money
will go to fight Black Lives Matter

because, simply put, they dont matter

to him. Will this guns new home

-6-
turn its barrel around
or lure another trigger finger
in wait?

I cannot speak for the gun or the men

who love caressing its fever.
My job is finding the words
that describe the weapons threat
exactly.

Margaret Randall

Dear Larry:
Here's a new unpublished poem for you.
About Naropa, I'm about to go up to Boulder to teach in week 3 of Naropa
University's Summer Writing Program (SWP). I've been doing this almost
every year for the past decade. It's always thrilling: long days and hard
work with serious students, plus the thrill of hearing the other visiting
poets and writers read and lecture. Naropa . . . Started by Chgyam
Trugpa Rinpoche and Allen Ginsberg, Anne Waldman took it over after
their deaths, and her special gift for imbuing it with energy and creative
exuberance permeates every part of the experience. I hear there are still
openings for those interested in attending Week 3 (beginning June 26th)
and Week 4 (beginning July 3rd). Week 3 features Tisa Bryant, Julie Carr,
Corrine Fitzpatrick, Colin Frazer, Gloria Frym, Renee Gladman, Laird
Hunt, Steven Taylor, Danielle Vogel and myself, with special guest
Richard Tuttle. Week 4 features Charles Alexander, Junior Burke, CA
Conrad, Christian Hawkey, Valentina Desideri, Thomas Sayers, Ellis and
Janice Lowe, Thurston Moore, Eileen Myles, Julie Ezelle Patton, Paul Van
Curen, TC Tolbert, and Anne Waldman . . . . I'll be there, teaching and
learning . . .
Love, Margaret.

-7-
Alan Casline
Larry, here is a poem . . . .
Best, Alan Casline
(note: Alan lives in Albany, NY)

SARDINE (FOR WORKSHOP)

sardines swimming small

old salty says sardines

pure with
no one to bait a hook
that little"

we plant the spirit of something smaller

the mesh of the spirit of something smaller

a little like love

the sardines squeeze their
spirits for us
spirits shaped like toothpaste
spirits pushed out under pressure

they are swimming with garbage

to protect all beings

gather poets
from our axletree broken wagon
poets spilled on low-lying ground
we stop on the swale
just beyond us
at sea the rainbow
out over the emerald sea

swimming

little taste for fish

only
vague how they, how they
come back again
a few left alone

-8-
 beauty sardines with
the beauty of swimming

"Sardine poem from August 4, 2009 reconfigured from Persian translation

by machine " Alan Casline (December 12, 2013)

Poets on the trail of "The Burning Springs" *(in NY) - photo from

Casline's FB photos. (thanks.)

Alan Casline is
second from the
right. The
gentleman on the
right (unusual for
him) is our friend
John Roche . . .

-9-
Zachary Kluckman
The Buoyancy of Potbellied Boys

A sobering thought. Water

is stronger than I, for all my thick-shouldered girth. Frog stroke.
Kick back to move forward. The same philosophy our mother taught
for self-defense. Kick back. Swim, little fish, trust the current.
Avoid every hand with its hook. This is survival. Practice.
Young, I punched myself in the face.
Hard enough to crack bone. Prepared the taste of blood in my mouth.
No surprise when the older boys came to the fight. Choked my-
self to discover how long I could hold my breath, in case
I should find myself short of air, victim of violence or old age.
Asked my friends father, the Marine, to bind me with the best knots he
knew.
Broke loose, under 2 minutes
to freedom. You never understood this fear of captivity,
this need to prepare for every violence and ready defense. To kick
back. A sobering thought. Water is stronger than prayer.
Quicker to take you to god. I would have learned to swim,
If our teacher had not let you drown. Had not stared so hard
at our fathers thin body, she missed your move to the deep end.
You live there now, though I pulled you from the water. Sister,
the water was stronger.
Pulled thrashing with fear
from the bottom, I never took another lesson. I pretend
my fight for the surface made me a swimmer. A devout minnow,
silver-finned like mother, with praise for the river. Pretend
the fist to the face, the blood in the knuckle, made me a man.
A sobering thought. A mans past
can drown him as readily as water. Past 40, my knees are not
as strong as your memory. Your face under water. But my children
have never seen the mirror I carry near rivers, to remind myself of the
sky.
Never seen the fight inside of their father. The pillow I hold over my face
to test my breath. A sobering thought. My need to defend them from
the fear, as fierce as their need to swim. Blood, once more,
the reason I jumped in the water.

Zachary Kluckman

-10-
 "Zachary Kluckman,
the National Poetry
Awards 2015 Slam
Organizer of the Year
and 2014 Slam Artist of
the Year, is a
Scholastic Art &
Writing Awards Gold
Medal Poetry Teacher
and a founding organizer of the 100 Thousand Poets for Change program.
The 2015 Slam of Enchantment Grand Slam Champion, Kluckman has
appeared multiple times at the National And Individual World Poetry
slams, as well as regional competitions, and has toured the nation
performing and facilitating poetry workshops. He serves as Spoken Word
Editor for the Pedestal magazine and has authored three poetry
collections."

We probably are brothers in the "sunlight of the spirit." larry

-11-
Bruce Holsapple
Hi Larry,

What I've been up to, besides no good: I just submitted the page proofs
and index for The Birth of the Imagination: William Carlos Williams on
Form to UNM Press. The book is due out in November (2016). I'm
reading a lot on the sublime, Longinus, Kant and Burke, and on the
Enlightenment. The sublime, they believed, contains an element of
terror, e.g. fear of God. And I am attempting lately to restain the porch,
but every time I'm begun painting the rain moves in.

Cheers,
Bruce

Fear of God

A hullabaloo outside
a squall moving in
the winds howl over the roof
growl about the corners
bawl, yowl

I am so mortified
melancholy
mad

Is anyone not struggling?

Write out the grievances:

crushed sore shabby harassed
Why did I get smacked so bad
grumble, grumble
the various toxins available,
rattlesnake, black widow

weird dirt orange trick

tiger leg flicker stifled child
the felony tip glow
a match lit, sulfur tang
red clandestine decay

-12-
Why ask people to read such garbage
Light a candle, will you, Jack?
Because it produces in them an unholy dread
& it is sort of delightful

Okay, I had no ulterior purpose but to write

& confess, it breaks the fixation
the reportorial, What I thought was
What I believe she did
What I feel besides broken hearted

a relief to be rid of yourself

curl into a black cloud, rain
can almost rumble rumble
hear the storm clouds below
you mean above
I mean above & below

I mean I always carry raincoats when I travel

you never know when someone special
might knock

Well, you could step outside

& get banged as easily

Okay, but still you never know what pivotal event

fatal interview, you probably should
straighten your tie, pull aright
this could be the moment
youre taken aside for questioning

Has your humor dried with age?

Yes, dried out, cracked

Bruce Holsapple

Comment from Laurie Macrae: Wonderful poem.

Review of Wayward Shadow and info about Bruce's many Audio

Recordings of Poets!
http://outlawpoetry.com/2013/10/23/bruce-holsapple-wayward-shadow-la
-alameda-press/

-13-
Matthew Conley
That tattoo

That temporary tattoo

is permanently
too

That tat
so you:
-flat
-unnatural blue

That tat
it's true,
I have my own bone
zoo

Matthew Conley

Im humming through a tiny airport at near 90 mph watching the smoke

from the Dogs Headfire off to the northeast news kiosk. Wait that cant
be right. Maybe: Im sleeping behind the wheel somewhere outside of
Albuquerque, Arizona, once called Tucson, New Mexico in another life.
Yeah thats it: Im steering a Subaru bed using a round pillow while a big
orange snooze button keeps kinking the horizon ahead.

My Teachers Summer is turning into a year-long sabbatical in this

transitional place called the southwestern United States. My desert home
is just another stop on the road trip, but this time Im leaving my library
behind me like an ant: follow the chemical trail hint of divorce and social
isolation.

For a decade Ive been at the University of Arizona working with

international students (the last5 years) at the lowest acceptable (for
American institutions of higher something) English proficiency levels and
it has been wonderful as in full of wonder. Having conversations with
young people from China & Saudi Arabia & Kazakhstan & Angola &
Mongolia is usually the exact day I want to have on planet Earth.
Occasionally attending workshops led by cutting-edge experts working
on problems I solved (hahaha) 3 years ago in the classroom. But when I
spoke up my speak up didnt use the big words like their talk down. Yet.

-14-
And as much as America has been on fire this Summer of 2016, I have let
my amicable end-of-relationship proceedings be that much smaller in my
mind. Life invites me to stress so to make room I take brooms to my me.
Gone awaaaaay are meat & alcohol. Here to staaaaay aredaily yoga &
herbal tea. Preach a little & practice more. Now my last June in Tucson is
behind me. That is something indeed. Once the Sonoran sets me free Ill
2nd Masters Degree, this time in Education. Another U.S. school,
probably mid-Atlantic, a graying mid-90s Legacy wagon parked outside.
Power to the People This Summer ) -MjC
*
Matthew Conley was born in Walt Whitmans hometown but prefers a
tighter line. Most recently, a poem of his appears in The Sonoran Desert:
A Literary Field Guide (University of Arizona Press, 2016).

some people you just love in the rebel of light - lg

-15-
Judy Grahn
From old friend and former Placitas resident (a time ago) Judy Grahn. And
please see http://judygrahn.org/.

Hi Larry, I spent a lot of time this month crying over the police murders
of innocent black people, as well as the murders of Dallas police. Also
reeling from the RNC misogyny expressed toward Hillary Clinton, and my
guess is some of that wrath is infused with racist hysteria. News for me
personallyfinishing up another collection of poems for Red Hen Press
due out next year, and working on stories that chase after spirit in nature,
ways nature reaches out to us and we use her creatures to make
meanings. Very happy that two friends from high school! came to visit
me for my birthday. A 60 plus year friendship, amazing. Recently
someone asked me why I write poetry given that it doesnt make any
money and takes so much effort. I know the answer: because it saves my
life (really) and also keeps me curious and optimistic. Love to you and
Lenore, please keep on singing your song.
Judy Grahn, Ph.D.
Poet, Writer, Professor at Large

-16-
Here's a collage of images and a couple poems from ye olde Oriental Blue
Streak in 1968, a mimeographed poetry magazine from duende press.
"The Centipede's Poem" and "In Larry's Room" are 2 of the poems she
generously contributed. Thank you, Judy. The top left photo is by Lynda
Koolish from Crossing Cards. The top med photo was taken in Placitas
where she was living . . . . book covers from books Judy sent me . . .

Max Finstein and others, loved Judy's poems in this one-shot issue of
Oriental Blue Streak . . . love, larry

"The walls of the closet are guarded by the dogs of terror, and the inside
of the closet is a house of mirrors." - Judy Grahn

-17-
Don McIver
Conspiracy

Somewhere
in the Rio Grande gorge, cottonwoods conspired with Russian Olives
pulled as much water out of the river before it merges with
the Red.
Those pesky humans dumped chemicals,
mine tailings,
nitrate laden water,
agricultural runoff and top soil in their river.
They stopped it.
The trees conspired to change the flow of the river,
stored it up in new lakes,
had a highway of deer teamsters
carry the water down to the cottonwoods and Russian Olives
in small quantities and bottles
and not let anyone else have it.

Somewhere
in the depths of Elephant Butte, bass conspired with trout.
They tired of Jet Skis, tow boats,
water skiers and tubers,
top water lures and crank bait,
casual swimmers, three day weekend barbeques,
and drunks.
The fish nibbled toes,
dragged innocent children down to the depths,
stuffed and mounted
them on water made walls.

Somewhere
in the Rio Grande Bosque, cranes conspired with ducks.
They turned on dogs,
horseback riders, and joggers.
The cranes ignored the grain that BLM rangers left behind,
posted memos and trail signs,
organized field trips,
and erected educational walks for viewing:

-18-
bureaucrats,
bird watchers,
tourists,
and the elderly.

Somewhere
in El Paso, Texas and New Mexico water managers conspired to take
more of the Rio water away from human farmers, pueblo communities,
and the desert. If the courts can mediate a settlement, Albuquerque can
sprawl even more; El Paso can grow even larger; and the natural
communities and habitats that depend on the Rio can fend
for themselves.

Deeds are written; titles notarized for water, a naturally occurring

chemical compound.

Don McIver

"Resting after bagging Mt.

Wheeler (New Mexico's
tallest peak)."

Don is a former member of the ABQ slam team, a host/producer of

KUNMs Spoken Word Hour, the author of The Noisy Pen, and editor of
A Bigger Boat: The Unlikely Success of the Albuquerque Poetry Slam
Scene. Hes performed all over the United States, produced, curated, and
hosted poetry events big and small including the 2005 National Poetry
Slam, and been published in numerous magazines and anthologies. He's
a teacher by trade at Central NewMexico Community College, where he
also manages the tutoring center. For more information on Don, please
visit his writing blog, Confessions a Human Nerve Ending
http://donmciver.blogspot.com/

-19-
Laurie Macrae
Laurie "grew up in
Albuquerque, spent six
formative years in the Bay
Area during the sixties, and
returned to New Mexico in
1969. She has been an
activist all her life and a
poet, periodically, since her
teens, when she was
mentored by Tuli
Kupferberg and other Beat
poets of the San Francisco
scene.

She has spent almost 30

years as a librarian, mostly in NM but for 6 years in San Diego where
she retired to pursue mental health activism. She writes, swims, and does
battle with the behavioral health system, which is at best inadequate and
at worst abandoning the population it should serve."

Poem of Laurie's from

Roosevelt Park Albuquerque
days:
http://www.dukecityfix.com/p
rofiles/blogs/the-sunday-poem
-laurie-macrae-roosevelt-park-
theory-and-practice

And another, Baseball caps!

http://www.dukecityfix.com/p
rofiles/blogs/the-sunday-poem
-laurie-macrae-the-reason-we-
wear-our-baseball

Memento! (Hope you

don't mind my adding this,
Laurie.) This was choice,
a lot of fun to do,
thanks to the Taos
Poetry Circus friends.

-20-
California Dream

Awake, a boat,
Sinew stretched
Between the hollows
of the bolstered bed

Grains of sand sift

in the sheets
The slings of sleep so recently adrift
Warmed by friction, ignite

The same quarrel

with each wave:
To sail into the deep
Where ancient hunger
and dread collide

Where a swell,
plunderer of senses,
Seduces each synapse
with undertow allure

And a beach
Benignly beckons
As Pacific turbulence dresses
For evening in
a flash of green

Or raise a clouded eye to dawn

Again the damp sea air, the clutch
Of my own arms
Against the bluster of the day

Warped limbs planted

on a shifting deck
Sucked from beneath me
By the rip of time, I stagger
But I stand

Laurie Macrae Nov. 10, 2014 San Diego

-21-
John Macker
Hi Larry & thanks.
Guest edited latest Malpais Review w/14 Colorado poets: "there is nothing
so beautiful as the sound of dreaming across borders" & wrote an essay on
Venice West legend Tony Shigella. Also Harare, Abate, Camp, Stabling,
Tabi Farness, Fell Robertson, Simon Ortiz, etc etc. Nice issue. Also
participating in panel discussion on Southwestern author Frank Waters
with John Nizalowski & Alexander Blackburn up at the Harwood in Taos
on Wed. Aug. 3rd. 7 p.m. Going to write an essay on Todd Moore for last
Malpais. Busy working & worrying about the state of the world. Here's a
poem about some things I've been thinking about.

Massacre
!for Joe Somoza
On any other Sunday if the kitchen
light had a voice it would sing
like Mavis Staples
all the birds would be
politely silenced by the poet
who sits in his
Las Cruces garden on mornings
like this for
twenty-two years
writing poems
in the shade of a tall tree
so he wouldnt later on
lose his mind.

The rooster would crow dawn up

from polished black to soft blue
full-throated throughout the neighborhood
many of the children would go
politely and without incident to mass
my prayer flags would still have nine lives.
On any other Sunday,
nobody would rise haunted with the
ghost sickness or deny the Coyote within.

Anybody would believe the full moon

or at least the ghost of moon
as yellow as yarrow

-22-
as it traveled across the shores of our eyes
or June with its rampaging fahrenheits.
Each tree is an indeterminate amount of
time rooted deep
I think, therefore I think Im an act of faith
unfathomable morning
Im walking through cottonwood snow.

John Macker

thanks for all you do, Larry. I very much like your latest books. Bravo.

well maybe life as a poet is worthwhile after all - thank you John

Comment: John, nice poem. thanks for dedicating it to me. I sent a

comment earlier but evidently didn't proceed properly (technology is not
my strong suit). I'm only reading this now because we were in the Bay
Area for 3 weeks, and without a computer to check e-mail. Joseph
Somoza

thanks, much, Joe. Was going to send you a copy. John Macker

-23-
Geoffrey Young

NOWHERE

Is there a gun more dangerous

than the one whose owner
defends his god? Look
where we are now, worlds poisoned

by belief. How far is it to the horizon,

to the Sun going down, to Thou Shalt
Not? Grab something of value
from the burning house!

Be smart, be fearless, be focused

on present necessity, with liberty
and yogurt for all. Heres my vote
for the equitable distribution of goods.

One pie, one family, one Earth, one knife, etc.

Whats a stack of cheese if we lose a planet?

Geoffrey Young

I run a contemporary art gallery (for the last 25 yrs). Geoffrey Young
Gallery. I make my leetle books and do drawings, but only show other
people's work. my next show, Hanging Paper, is a group show.
will use the new colored pencil drawings in my next book (of short
prose).

no title yet . . .

-24-
 geoffrey young

thank you, Geoff . . .

-25-
Miriam Sagan
(and a photograph by Isabel Winson-Sagan)

Miriam writes:

I'm blogging at Miriam's Well which is always looking for work tied in to
our interests. And I interview poets who have published a book. Email for
blog submissions or interview questions is msagan1035@aol.com. The
current theme is "Letter To My Younger Self."

Right now I'm at Herekeke on Lama Mountain, working with my

daughter Isabel Winson-Sagan on an ongoing collaboration of text and
image. Here is a poem.

The tattooed girl

draws the mountain
surprisingly soft-lined
fences and trees,
as a child

-26-
obsessed by rivers,
black and red ants
crawl over the bark
of an old pion
traveling through gullies and canyons,
suminagashi lines
on paper
pulled once
through ink floating on water
wet fractal
of a topo map
some place real yet imagined
right now
I might not even
see
Lama Mountain

Miriam Sagan

check Amazon Books

-27-
Katrina K Guarascio
How to be in love with a ghost

Sleep in his old t-shirt

savoring the scent trapped inside
thread and collar.

Leave the smell of hair in pillow.

Mimic the sound of shutting doors

slapping goodbye.

Play a melody of afternoon thunderstorms

and chase the scent of rain

through the house.

Flick ash to pavement,

bare feet to sidewalk,
leave a trail from the rubble
that built your favorite mythology.

Refuse to release him

from mind and motion,
bite lower lip to keep words
from falling out.

Find a boy at the bar with the same shade of eyes

and a smile kind enough to resurrect the past.
Sing all the words to Patsy Clines Crazy in his ear
in a slow dance to last call.

Stare into eyes a little too long,

listen to stories with too much care thirsty for truths.

Tell him he reminds you of someone you used to know.

Then no longer hide bruises.

Show him the peaceful side of your nature,
the sleepless side of your soul.

-28-
Walk across the broken glass of beer bottles
to nudge him awake,
replace missing pages about last night
over a breakfast where you
laugh to loud to be in public,
still drunk from one another.

When he leaves
thank him for wearing the skin of memory
and gifting the kindness of patience.
Do not kiss him goodbye.

Reclaim evening habits,

curled in tattered wool sweater,
beer and cigarette,
tangled in all the parts of what once was.

Watch in solitude as the full moon creeps across the sky

and breathe in all that has come to pass.

Katrina Guarascio

Hi Larry,
I wish I was up to more poetry and writing wise. Right now, I am keeping
myself busy updating my blog: katrinakguarascio.com and working on my
novel. I've had few features this year but am hopeful to get out to more
poetry readings in the future. I am the current editor of The Sunday Poem
on the Duke City Fix and would love some submissions (hint! hint!)
Kat

"The Sunday Poem" is an ongoing feature of Duke City Fix (I did a round
of editing for it myself). Note: Merimee Moffitt is the current editor. and
Katrina was editor. Here's a list of poems.
http://www.dukecityfix.com/profiles/blog/list?user=278nz5pzp12my

-29-
Mitch Rayes
I've been working on writing my Chiapas years, and I got a manuscript
under consideration . . . . Here's a new poem for Chiapas poet Joaquin
Vasquez Aguilar.

Joaquin

in a forest in the clouds far above your adopted city

zapatistas emerge from the shadows
to answer their time to fight

alone in a room
you retreat forever from the battles of the living

waves pound the sands of your birthplace

there is a flash in the water
your brother abandons his nets
hurries to catch the last bus to tuxtla
only to find you already lifeless

the swallows ask about you

and I offer them a morsel of Whitman
to carry back to their secret chambers
to see if it finds you
in the most stubborn droplet of the deepest calcium

and I trace my regrets in a saucer of salt

on the flimsiest table of our favorite cantina
to see if you might join me again
after one more drink

and I place a thank you

into the longest pause of our final handshake

for the words you have gifted us

for the years
as they carry us closer to the darkness that shines

closer to you
Mitch Rayes

-30-
Mitch Rayes doing one of his songs in Silvas Saloon, Bernalillo, NM

-31-
Georgia Santa Maria

Photograph by Georgia Santa Maria

Hi, Larry
I cheatedthis was from the Balloon Fiesta last year, but its kind of fun
for the 4th. Given the Worlds political climate, Im not feeling terribly
gung-ho patriotic right now. More, a little depressed and wishing, as they
used to say about children in school, that we were living up to our
potential (for good.) Curious that we celebrate our countrys history by
blowing shit up. The dogs have it righthiding under the bed and
waiting for it all to be over. Some fun news was that I was First Runner-up
for the Lummox Poetry Contest, and my buddy Jane Lipman was 2nd. RD
Armstrong came out from LA last week to visit and see what kind of
magic JuJu our Sunday night writing group has. Here is a short poem for
you, (from when Merimee & I were in Berlin and were awakened one
night to an astonishing performance event.)

A Little Night Music

A little night music lends itself

to thoughts metaphysical:
the orgasm, publicly shared

-32-
throughout the public breezeway,
like cats, like coyotes, like dinosaurs,
growl and roar and scream
their delight, their joy, their pain.
Everybody wake up!
Observe the moon in its starry wake.
Hear the entire city shake.
The sleep-deprived observer smiles,
contemplates the variables
going toward the improbable
ten minute orgasm without a break!
Sexual eclectic, always profound
an art installation in fury and sound,
we all want to know the sacred key,
(but, the heretic in me says fakery.)

Georgia Santa Maria

A book not to be missed, "Lichen Kisses." -lg

-33-
MacNaughton
General Relativity

we fly west
to go east
passing the moon

Anne MacNaughton

Anne is the silken voice of history illuminating the present and bringing
us in to a deeper sense of the now, now-now, the now of all time that
includes the past and is evidence of the future.

a little collage in appreciation of Peter Rabbit Max Finstein

Anne MacNaughton and the Taos Poetry Circus Renaissance

-34-
Jules Nyquist
Gun Crazy

Gun Crazy is a film noir movie from 1950 directed by Joseph H. Lewis.

Does it start with boys and bb guns

Aiming at anything that moves
Including the dog?
Movie theater madness
Bonnie & Clyde

The Judge asks the boy

Why did you do it?

I dont know, he says.

My sister says shooting is the only thing Im good at.
Its what I want to do
When I grow up.

I feel good when I shoot

Like Im somebody.

Jules Nyquist

Haiku

white yucca flowers

irreversible time
at Trinity Site

Jules Nyquist is the founder of Jules Poetry Playhouse, LLC in

Albuquerque, NM where she teaches poetry classes and invites visiting
poets to read. http://www.julesnyquist.com/poetry_playhouse.html

-35-
Donald Levering
Larry, "I attended an artist residency in Willapa Bay, Washington during
April and have been doing readings from my newest book, Coltrane's
God, since I returned.

The attached poem was written after hearing Bill Nevins speak about the
Trump rally in Albuquerque he attended (as an observer) in May" -
Donald

No Compass

Now that our stars are aligned

over our watchtowers,
no compass is needed

to go with the press of the throng,

rushing through streets headlong
toward the miracle

that will banish fear

and make us millionaires,

-36-
drawn to the spectacle

morphed to pop-up carnival

smells of caramel corn and elephants,
shrieks from the Tilt o Whirl & Wall of Death

the demagogues cant blasted from speakers

and old rock hits everybody bobs to
falling in with the torch-lit mob

that swells into a rip-tide

pulling me through the park
past bonfires his partisans fan

into phantoms and sparks

and I bump my head on the feet
of hanged scapegoats and feel sick

with the way they swing on their ropes

bouncing from one blind head to the next
without words of reproach

Donald Levering

beautiful 2012 book by Donald . . .

https://www.amazon.com/Number-Names-Poems-Donald-Levering/dp/0
86534860X

-37-
D.R. Wagner
ABOVE THE WORDS

Already the poem no longer belongs to me.

Its road of miracles shows wondrous horses
Shining with brilliance even in the darkest of nights.

My voice shakes above the words.

It is no longer witness
To the weather, or the moon,
Or this silent scratching upon
Whatever beach this is, catching
Waves like tears, voices
Heard only in sleep.

Still, I can see you.

Even without time collected
Around you. You are more
Than breath to me now.

We are as intimate as lovers

In a carriage, in an unknown city,
Plying the streets all of the night.

The clatter of our horses hard

Against the cobblestones as we
Make love to one another, again and again.

Street lights flashing past, falling

On our naked flesh.

D. R. Wagner

-38-
Douglas Blazek & D.R. Wagner (photo courtesy of D.R.)

2 books by D. R. Wagner

-39-
Jim Fish
THE GOOD LIFE

The early morning meditation

Picking wild cherries

In the orchard
In the upper reaches
Of the historic village of Placitas
Qualifies
As part of the good life
Of making wild cherry wine

Some years ago

Later in my dads life
He and I were riding
At the ranch
Where I grew up
And
Where he lived the better part of
his life
We rode thru the landscape
Looking
Listening
Talking
At the top of a ridge
He stopped his horse
And turned to me

You know
I never got rich
But I have always been surrounded
By wide open spaces

My brother calls it
The Church of the Original Creation
He attends the sermons
As both the pastor
And the audience of one
Often times
The sermons take place

-40-
At the Milton Puckett Ranch
Ten miles south of Fort Stockton
On Wednesday afternoons
After he closes his veterinarian clinic at noon
For the day
Sometimes
He holds a weekend retreat
With himself
Thirty miles southwest of Marfa
On the W. E. Love Ranch

Sometimes
He leans back in his recliner
On a Sunday morning
With a cup of coffee
To watch some game he recorded the night before

Late June
Early July
Finds me

Picking wild cherries

Jim Fish
Jim is the generous
fruit wine vintner
and owner of
Anasazi Fields
Winery in Placitas.
His hand-built
place, mostly
adobe structure,
has a PA, seats,
and welcoming
atmosphere for
poets, musicians,
artists . . . it was
the home of the
Duende Poetry
Series of 11 + years.
Bravo to Jim! http://www.anasazifieldswinery.com/Events.html

-41-
Michael Boughn
larry . . . here from a book I am working on -- it's called

Hermetic Divagations.
...
[2-15]

Where you go is part

deflection, part memory
of water. Then she is there

terrified but splendent. War

raged, a word of incandescent
complications in later contexts

she would ignore, it rends

earth and sky, the shock announces
strange opening alive

with electrical energy

of the Celestial Bed. In thrall
to the Whore of Babylon electrifies

sex beyond acceptable

sociological standards of simply
explicable agony and contracted

loss of laundry day vulval

extasis somehow ends up
with electromagnetizing Freemasons

dancing politely while exact

intellectual components, olive
green, suggest distant mist

wreathed lake, embrace her in other

harmonious analogies as some
one who knows what was lost

Michael Boughn

-42-
thanks Michael - I love "contracted//loss of laundry day vulval/extasis
somehow ends up/with electromagnetizing Freemasons" - and that's not all
-lg

Poet and teacher Robin Blaser on the left, Michael on the right
Notable among other notable items: The H.D. Book by Robert Duncan
edited by Boughn and Victor Coleman, UC Press. And, new . . .

Resist Much, Obey Little, Inaugural Poems to the Resistance

is available from Spuyten Press - over 700 pages, edited by Michael and
others. http://www.spuytenduyvil.net/resist-much-obey-little.html

-lg

-43-
Jennifer Bartlett
Hi Larry! Thank you so much for doing this! I didn't understand that that
we were supposed to write something about what I have been doing.
Which is a lot! I founded the first AWP disability caucus which was up
and running last spring. I am starting a non-profit organization for
writers with disabilities called Zoeglossia with my colleagues Sheila Black
and Connie Voisine. George Hart and I have a book on essays about Larry
Eigner coming from the University of New Mexico Press. These are just a
few things.

Poem by Jennifer and a Drawing

Like all of Jennifers, Jennifer had

a best friend. This best friend was called

Andrea. Andrea and Jennifer discussed

many things. They discussed childrearing

and husbands and boyfriends

and potential husbands and boyfriends.

They discussed philosophy and memoirs

and the best subway routes.

They discussed al-non and Buddhism:

disability and the mom-po list;

Portland poets and food.

They discussed Jennifers alcoholism

and Jennifers outfits and

Jennnifers reluctance to be in the world.

They discussed Andreas pot habit

and Andreas family and homeschooling

and television.
They discussed neurology and

the right side of Andreas body and

eating meat versus not eating meat.

-44-
They discuss rape and abortion and
being sexualized versus being desexualized.

They discussed Larry Eigner and Jennifers

garden and what she should do about it.

They discussed how the neighbor stole Andreas bike

and sold it and what she should do about that.

They discussed chandeliers and mirrors

and clothes they landed at the thrift store.

They discussed AWP and why you cant use a

cell phone on an airplane and the price of

hotel rooms and pets and Jennifers husbands

girlfriend and being an artist versus a poet.

They discussed meditation and their dharma teacher

and common household cleaning products

and which was the best public library branch.

They discussed college versus no college

and grants and business plans

and swimming pools and yoga.

They discussed the projects of others and

what it would take to get a teaching job.

They traded ideas and books and

groceries and clothes. They traded

sorrows and worries and happinesses

and printer paper. Andrea could do

things that Jennifer could not do

and she did some of these things for her.

Conversely, Jennifer did things for Andrea;

things that Andrea did not know how to do.

-45-
He is my true friend in the sense that he deeply
cares, I mean, deeply does not care, who I am.

Jennifer Bartlett

Jennifer's drawing

Jennifer Bartlett is working on her biography of Larry Eigner (1927-1996).

-46-
Brendan Douthit
"I'm Brendan Douthit, Anne MacNaughton's son. She suggested I send a
few poems of mine . . . "

Thank you Brendan.

New Strings of Silk

new strings of silk

between me and my morning chair
bright light
sunrise tethered
optic fiber
back and forth
back and forth
on air
I walk the long way

Raised by Old People

Mowgli was raised

by wolves

Tarzan was raised

by apes

I was raised
by old people

RASQUACHE

I was gonna tape

the tape
but realized the tape
hadta be retaped

Brendan Douthit

-47-
Joe Bottone
Swallows

I ride the train to Florence from Lucca

and think of the pueblo in New Mexico
where Corn Dance Clowns shake the earth as the train clickity
clacks over the rails incantation.

Visit Dante's home on Dante Alighieri street

climb the stairs
with the few curious tourist from China
I gaze at his dagger,
his masterpiece open, lovingly placed under glass
with blue illumination.

Dante, your streets

the old winding roads of your Comedia still weep
in anguish
and the swallows, as always
leave drops of blood in the sky
to fall on us like so much else.
After all these years
do you still miss the sweet charms of her soft earth?

In the morning pale sky

the church bells
awaken the dead .

Shepherd flocks graze the green hillsides

- oh, where is my name among the poets?
in these enchanted woodlands
you might think mischievous
gods still rule the world.

Joseph Bottone

-48-
Years ago (1968) when Joe was living in Placitas, we had a lot of fun
putting together the rather wild Oriental Blue Streak, a mimeo pub from
duende . . .

Here's Joe Bottone on the right. The late Bill Pearlman sitting in
foreground. In the back, Gene Frumkin, Betsy Robertson with Penelope,
Fell Robertson, Mel and Beverly Buffington sitting, Lora Linsley, me,
Stephen Rodefer and Olivia Bottone in doorway, Charlie Vermont . . .
Thanks, Joe. Do see his website: http://www.josephbottone.com/

-49-
Anne Valley-Fox
New Mexico poet Anne Valley-Fox was born in Paterson, New Jersey,
raised in California; and schooled at U.C. Berkeley. Her latest poetry
collection is How Shadows Are Bundled (University of New Mexico Press,
2009). A new collection, Nightfall, will be out from Red Mountain Press
in October, 2016. See AnnValleyFox.com - "It was great to see & hear you
at the Duende final festival, Larry. The whole event was a memorable
moment in our time." Note: Anne is referring to the Duende Small Press
& Poetry Celebration in Placitas.
https://duende.bandcamp.com/album/duende-celebration-1-poetry-art-s
mall-presses-morning-june-11-2016

JOANNE IN EVERY STANZA

for Joanne Kyger

Joanne in a dream reads a slinky poem about shelves

I want to build a set of my own
to those specifications.

Im here because I read too much,

Joanne confessed
on Day One of a Zen Buddhist retreat.

From ten to twenty, Joanne practiced the violin.

In San Francisco she gamboled with poets
and thats how the syllables settled.

Joanne in Japan was "whalloped" by Olsons

Projective Verse. His kinetic line: But breath is mans
special qualification as animal.

Joanne, Donald and I are talking

of writing, doing, not doing. Do you also paint?
I only do words," I admit.

Now in a dream Im building a bookcase la Joanne

nine adjustable pine shelves
for poems coming and going.

-50-
POET FROM FORT LEE
for August Kleinzahler

He sculpts the space around the stage with his visceral

purr, inducing frissonvamp on a barstool
lacing silken legs.

Swinburne, jazz, bridges in fog, mobster or doggy

palaverpile it on, its all
how you stack it.

He holds a choke of words in his throat benevolently,

like Shiva the Rescuer,
blue-faced with poison.

Tidal rhythms rinse and pull back,

as gratitude floods
the sheer shelves of continents.

As for heartbreak, eye-dropped into our sparkling vials,

this is how we recognize
animal warmth in others.

He's making a bluesy racket in the basement, raking

the bars of his cell with a spoon

Im innocent, damn it! Forgive me.

Anne Valley-Fox

-51-
THE KINGS HAIRCUT

The king comes for a haircut wearing his royal robes.

May I remove them? He shrugs his assent
and sits on the stool in sleeveless tee-shirt,
unnervingly sexy, like Marlon Brando
in A Streetcar Named Desire.
He tells me he wants to leave his wife,
the stick-thin queen, for another woman.
Shaping curls to noble head, I advise him
in the hairdressers way, to take it easy,
follow his heart. I once knew a man
of power, I say, who made a similar switch
at his age; it was a train wreck
but in the end, everyone came out okay.
The queen keeps popping into the room to lob
an acerbic remark. Because he believes
it's his absolute right, he'll leave her
for someone who morphs into somebody else.
There may be more children. No one
involved will be happy, or exactly unhappy.
Bored by our antics, fate turns a blind eye.

Anne Valley-Fox

-52-
Latif William Harris

Latif with (not

Jack Spicer)
but Jack
Hirschman
Latif William
Harris writes
us from San
Francisco.

I just gave a
reading with
David Meltzer
at Bird &
Beckett Books,
backed up by tenor sax player Zan Stewart. It was on Fathers Day and we
had a huge turn out. Sending a long poem for Jack Spicer written some
time ago but never published in its completed form. If too much ask for
something else.
Latif

Latif no! now's the opportunity to present your 5 pages concerning Jack
Spicer! Gratefully.

-53-
THANK YOU MASKED MAN

(Dictated in whispers from Jack Spicer May, 10 to August 20, 1993)

when I came longing here

from Los Angeles
where no poets lived
(1959)
I said to you:
Poetry is a cold blooded ax (that falls far)
And you smiled that subtle smile and said:
then I make you my master of dead flies
and will come
(from time to time)
like a woodsman dictating
crossing Columbus and Kearny (with my ax)
to whisper in your ear

(On May 10th 1993 such a dictation began)

The native place like my salmons face

is (Lorca) shooting pool in back of Gino & Carlos
(where there is a there) a clock in the birdbath
standing in (Osbornes) meadow
(surrounded by) an all igneous ellipse
and dance band
lyncean (the eyes of bucks and does)
laying in that caldera called hell
scanning (for) ghosts of cougars
yet (troubled by) rabbits
slashing through the grasses
night (falls faster)
than a frogs tongue
on a lazy dragonfly
(as the striped and solid balls fall)

The resurrection of the dead through technology

tabby cat Giants (in 1st place)
Dostoevskys work was imperfect (remember)
he had little time (for perfection)

-54-
(and resented Tolstoy and Turgenev
(for their) intimations of perfection
(when an artist) starts trying to save the world
he starts losing himself
ideas form like blisters on his brain

(Thank you again for your application

(as of) the present we have no positions available
(in the English) department

(Do not use a fly swatter

do not swat the mosquito
do not

Here he breaks off for breath

Dear Lorca,
We will use up your rhetoric
here
so that it will not show up in our poems.

(In the pantheon of voices

(choices) need to be made
(take) your fly powder
(like an aspirin)
tell everyone to have the guts
even Roberts one, two and three
(gee) are they dead
too
(say cheese if you please)
lead our darling ones astray
into a (meadow of) back slapping waltzes
(they) the leaders resent
the magical fly powder
(of a man) like yourself
your dead sons educate you
(it is sad) this
waltz
too

(but take apart) your lovely heart

and put it together again

-55-
one last run a (a pennant)
those Giants
holy moly

They have no brandy here

and no milk
they dont care if a mans fly is down
they dont care about fly paper either
(or powder) to darken the cheeks
the least among us can fly

The ocean (is) humiliating in its disguises

NO ONE LISTENS
to poetry. (Period)
(as the last fly ball is caught)
the last pool ball clunks down
retrieved only
by quarters
ressurecto this leather hide
oh plunk your quarters down (Mr. Whilikers)
those revolving poets
(have) taken refuge (in)
OH GOD
Universities
In UNIVERSITIES!

do they hear Mr. Eliotic declaim

prancing at the parades in Prague
the May Queen (on) the Naropes
theocracy of obdurate voices
messaging each other (again)
and again and again despite
my tales of caution
(will you tell them) William
what that
oh yes
I forgot
and you were so beautiful

At this point the dictation breaks off

I can hear Jack weeping quietly
Lamenting the loss of his body

-56-
No one ever really loved me
(you see) not exactly
the way I wanted them to
(my) body (for love)
was not final
the ocean does not mean (to be final)
The poet is
a counterpunching radio.
and those messages (God would not damn them) do not even
know they are champions
only parking lots
(are) final
gee whiz (whats a disembodied dictator to do
(I ask you)
to
do?
Sweet William
dearest sweet bodied William
never mind all the weeping sisters
your fly powder
Im Int

(add water) and poof

blown away
(it is) impossible to escape the context of ones life
August and the Giants
still Int

here Jack begins to reminisce

about some very private matters
(I cannot distinguish) nor would I try
to pry further

Some months have passed

Only whispers
A word or two now and then
So I read:

The fast take is a good sign

that youre hooked up
with some source

-57-
of power, some source
of energy

remembering (that)
Surrealism is the business of poets
who cannot (or will not) benefit from Surrealism
He clears his throat through a mist

when a message comes that you hate

like
the eyes should fall out
(instead of)
the eyes shoulder a lot
then you are hooked up
with a power
like your fly powder
and an energy
which starts the big record spinning again

YOUR DEAD CHILDREN

are here with me
they are wonderful young men
(you know?)
were on our way to the ball park
we can hear the thwack of the bat
from here

Latif William Harris

It is my rewarding aplomb to announce: Barter Within the Bark of Trees is

available from the resurrected Duende Press. "It's a book of poetry on
memory, aging and Buddhism which includes 2 sections: First: Older
work which presages Section Two which were written in 2014 as an
ongoing flow of imagery and illusions which speak to the authors state of
mind at 75 years of age."

Duende Press published his first book of poems Poems 1965 and 50 years
later this new book - thus we celebrate!

Latif is the man who drove Jack Spicer to his last poetry reading at the
Berkeley Conference (1965), by the way.

-58-
Mr. Harris & Neeli Cherkovski's Beatitude Golden Anniversary (about 600
pages) is an essential for any contemporary poet's library with a good
chunk of the original Beatitude from City Lights included. lg

-59-
Joseph Somoza and Jill Somoza

Jill and Joe Somoza in the Organ Mountains when the poppies were in
full bloom.

Joseph Somoza sends us 3 poems.

Double Talk

Sitting in my lawn chair, Im

walking down Bush Street
toward the Fillmore, your arm
entwined in mine.

Now that were old enough

it doesnt matter. People
may think what they think.
What are we anyway,
famous?

Step outside ourselves and

notice the flowering bushes,
the Victorian facades, the old

-60-
Japanese woman walking
home with groceries.

If we lived here?
If we came from here?
If we had gone to grade school here?

If we hadnt become
who we are?

Poet

He speaks nonsensical
whimsy
for the love of
hearing speech phrases
in a visible form he can
modulate, re-combine
fancifully,
evocatively,
or, just,
undermine his own
expectations, liking to hear
a possible, new
language one would
speak for no reason
but the love of
how it sounds.

A Million Lives

Amazing always, but especially

now in the early.
A freight train passing through town,
down the hill where
tracks lie in wait for a train
to come blow its whistle

while I sit in morning shade

-61-
under the tree, Marty, the black cat,
lying nearby, Jill watering the flowers,
the wooden picket fence as somber
as its ever been, unlike my
somberness that varies, often mixed

with joy, unbelief, or

other mixed feelingscolorations
that make the world seem
mine for the moment, a moment that,

at the time,
lasts forever.

Joseph Somoza

construction by Jill
Somoza

-62-
Jerome Rothenberg

Jerome Rothenberg with Tulips

at Kelly Writers House

Larry --
This was just finished up ... so from my computer directly to yours.
Abrazos,
JERRY

from FURTHER AUTOVARIATIONS

I Feel the Sand Between My Teeth

brittle like teeth

the mouth cant hold
but take the shape
of tiny arrows
what the wolf in dreams
spews out a cry
more like a tapping sound
like pebbles in a brook

the rat-a-tat

-63-
a wash board makes
against your fingers
or like castanets
the click & clack
precisely sand
pressed in your mouth
your tongue & teeth

feeling the grit

the particles in motion
bit after bit
you cough them up
or spit them out
leaving a mark on canvas
filled with blood & leaves
as many grains as stars

signaling the news

from space the dark world
filled with signals
more than the mind
can hold like dreams
that capture us
making a lie of time
where time runs wild

never to find
its equal
in the worlds below
through which you fall
& still will follow
absent your voice
that stays behind
silent as theirs

the black worlds opening

to let the stars sing
from unbounded space
more like a scream
than what we cling to
rhyme & reason
stripped from us

-64-
the days ahead

turned backwards
where a river ran
& houses on the shore
were ringed by bears
encounters
endless trials & woes
we ran from
would not find an equal

in the time we knew

the end of politics
as farce & tragedy
foretold & fatal
where the naked ape
sets forth again
the power in his finger
pointing at the sky

the hidden universe & things

beyond his knowing
soon reduced to worms
a sky where stars
are also worms
the words pronounced
in foreign tongues
sounds like gusanos

waiting watching
with the others
& myself
among them
eyes obscured
by moonlight
without time
to think

or find a place
that saves us
from the dark
the light

-65-
the nameless killers
aiming to embark
& claim
their prize

23.vi.16
Jerome Rothenberg

Comment: Wonderful work, as usual, and we seem to be in the same

groove. See my poem "California Dream" at the beginning of this blog ....
Laurie Macrae

-66-
Bill Nevins

A Gentile Kaddish Sung for All Fallen in the Sun

(Written after finishing the book Spain in Our Hearts,

about those who died 1936-1939)

No, son, only a lucky few of us are Jews --

thick micks, Belgians, Germans --
we were and are-- yet proud enough to have known those earth deep
people of
that Tribe of Moses, or the Gente of Nuevo Mexico and the loving folk of
Vietnam
Louisiane, Africa, Spain-- oh, any fine land where they still breathe free
Aghanistan Iraq those of faith those of Allah or even the good believers
in Pope or
Lenin, Rastafari or Buddha, for sweet Christ's sake!
even those who cherish this Fourth
this weird old falling down
Amerikay
Hey!
brother
son
strong fighter
man
I, non-Jew old man
of yours
yet do strive to sing
Kaddish

-67-
for you
in this troubled land
in
anyway I can
I do
This mountain morning
as I think of the fallen heroes
of Spain
of Gardez Base
of this falling rising world
May you fall softy
rise gently
in our holy star's blaze
in our fierce moon's pull

Bill Nevins

-68-
oh omar in darkness, what the hell ya dreaming now?

oh omar in darkness, what the hell ya dreaming now?

in that night we dreamed
as you could well dream, macho mateen destroyer of worlds,
of what could have been, of what could be:
why not turn those bullets away
with love and poetry and songs and laughter
--and touch and kisses--
so they spin off into the sea of false memory
and fade away like ice melting in warm waters
of our heart-blood while our brothers sisters lovers and friends
all alive
all fresh and wild
arise
open their eyes
recognize us
even you,
poor little omar looking for love,
habibi,
and smile?
hey!
we were only dreaming--
such a bad joke, hermano--
now, here we are
together
forever
let's dance
even you, oh flatfoot clumsy pendejo omar!
drop your gun
brother fool
take our hands
and dance
then the sun arose once more
and we whirled

as we all turned to light, turned to love

Bill Nevins

Comment: Very nice work, Bill. Laurie Macrae

-69-
Mary Oishi
Larry,
Attached are 2 poems that I haven't already published. One is obviously
really recent.

What I've been up to?

Working in public radio takes up much of my time not spent sleeping.
Then there's writing and performing poems, both of which are acts of joy
and magic. Oh, and there's taking care of dogs--mine and friends' on
occasion. Volunteering with gay youth one night a week, which I've done
for 19 years. Preparing my blues show--that's about 9 hours of prep time.
Listening to and cataloging new CDs for airworthy tracks. Checking
Facebook. Ranting about the state of things. Trying to grab hope and
keep dancing. Nothing much, I guess.
Note: Mary is a luminary at KUNM-FM and her blues show on
Wednesday is fantastic and gutsy.

cottontail cop

hulkin' philadelphia cop

under mayor rizzo
braggin' to his fellow
civil war reenactors--

i used to dress up
in a bunny suit
yeah, a full bunny suit
head to toe
big fuckin' ears and all
damn straight i got a confession
out of the stupid sonsabitches
worked every damn time
what're they gonna say?
some giant bunny came in,
beat the piss outta me
oh yeah, go ahead, go ahead asshole!
they're really gonna believe
that one alright!

mary oishi

-70-
orlando 2

when I encounter the

consequences of hate
I cant help but wish
for a widespread outbreak
of kindness

I am not less than

nor am I a threat because of
my mixed heritage
or mixed gender
(though you perceive me woman)

some times past

in many places
I would have been feared
punished
forcibly repressed
for being left handed

I have never fit the mold.

but you need me

the Big You needs us all:
right, left, and ambidextrous
bi, straight, trans, and gay

hey!
when you really stop
and think about it
were all queer
in some kind of
some which way

mary oishi

Spirit Birds They Told Me is available - West End Press

-71-
Gloria Frym

New Book by Gloria from Spuyten Devil

http://www.spuytenduyvil.net/the-true-patriot.html

Dear Larry, Here's something for the blog. A brutal something.

Gloria

Fiction

If you create a man at the door with a gun and he fires at the person
behind the door, hes fulfilled his fictive role.

If he fires into a crowd, hes a different character than the one you had in
mind. Its worth investigating this character.

-72-
If he kills ten people by firing a gun into a crowd, he may be a character
in another story. He may loom too large for the story you had in mind. If
he kills fifty, he may require an essay.

If another character declares, Its opened my eyes, I want to keep a gun in

the house to protect myself and my family, this character needs a course
in reasoning.

If this character needs a course in reasoning, you might send him to

France to learn pure and applied logic and new depths of deadpan. Or
you might want to open a whole new aspect of the narrative featuring this
second character.

If its tempting to create an interlocutor who asks, and what kind of gun
would you keep? And if the answer is an AK 47, this character could well
belong in another story. This character doesnt work in fiction, only in
America.

If the man fires into a classroom where he assassinates the teacher

and nearly all the children, then turns the gun on himself after firing
several rounds at the police who enter by the same door, you have the
beginning of a Great American Novel.

Gloria Frym

-73-
John Roche
78 Grandmothers

When Sinjar was liberated

in November 2015
the Peshmerga uncovered mass graves,
one containing 78 Yazidi grandmothers.

When the black-clad conquerors arrived in August 2014

they sorted the Yazidi women by age, a simple triage:
The maidens to be sex slaves, their mothers to be servants,
their grandmothers to be shot or buried alive.

This poet will refrain from comparisons to the Rape of Nanking, My Lai,
Sabra & Shatila, or countless historical parallels. Neither posit the Rape of
the Sabine Women as the starting point of Roman Civilization. Nor
equate warrior culture, religious fundamentalism, and patriarchy. Nor
analyze the rise of this particularly savage apocalyptic cult.

Only say, there is a grave in Sinjar

containing 78 grandmothers.

Only say, the poet's curse be on those who disrespect grandmothers.

Only say, the poet's curse fierce and ineradicable be upon the heads of
those who slay the 78 grandmothers, and upon those who slay the 778
grandmothers, and upon those who slay the 7,778 grandmothers.

May they be immediately rendered impotent and suffer a thousand

humiliations and torments, and may a coward's death soon follow.

Only say, may peace come to Sinjar, and children play with
grandmothers, and brides be dressed by grandmothers, and babes be held
in the arms of grandmothers.

John Roche

(who, by the way, lives when he can in Albuquerque, in fact has moved
here and just got married to Jules Nyquist of the very active Poets
Playhouse)

-74-
John &
Jules

The Mo Joe Anthology that John Roche assembled

is something of a phenomenon. Who would not agree?
http://www.beatlick.com/joethepoet.html

-75-
Larry Goodell
I wrote this early morning of the wedding of Jules Nyquist and John Roche
and was so honored to read it during the wedding ceremony. And Margaret
Randall read for John and Jules too. Thanks to all.

Arrival
for John and Jules

Historic ether
as the moon comes up
and mesmerizes,
the glimmer in the clouds
is full burst
the old terms catch the tongue
as well as the new
as seen through
the upheaval of the oral
place takes up dance in the plaza
all lenses along the borders
improve the light
as stars will tell you
late at night
as you come home anytime
the light lifts up to greet you
whirling in on the old 66
or I-25 I-10 64 60 285
54 84 to I-40
or descending as the land gets closer
and you bump down on it
you have arrived!
the slightly expanded-out square
like a skirt with the strange toe to Sonora
the state will bring you to
an illumination of its past
as the Voices of the Rio Grande
the Indian Rio Grande is in company
with poverty
as a starving drought will enter your soul
as well as the vistas of gypsum and striking red

-76-
what sustains and turns into love
is the honesty, the this is what is what is
and along with this delight
in the friendship of voice
the articulation of friends, the real ones
the real emergence as those who come here long before us
as my fathers mother and father in a wagon from Kansas
as all of us any way we can
arrived where we are as they did in Grenville
in Artesia and Roswell
as you did Connecticut New York Minneapolis and all
or truly emerging up from the ground
and building the first empires here.
Love finds love in happenstance, in chance
in mystery and change
as I celebrate my love finding New York to New Mexico
and New Mexico already here
may you and you all
see with brighter eyes
and hear what comes to you to hear
as true partnership is possible breaks through like
the moon and shining stars
and water, when thought absent,
suddenly surprises as Las Huertas every day
in mind and actuality greets me.
Blessings in festival of the seasonal
reverberates, history making new history
the story telling itself over and over in ever new ways
is what you are beginning to tell.
Love folds out in creaturehood
and presents us with a map of understanding
and your partnership.

Love always and with gratitude June 18th 2016

Wedding Day, from Larry

Note: 3 lg poems just appeared thanks to Kenneth P. Gurney whose

Adobe Walls published many of our area poems. This new venture is
called Watermelon Isotope.
https://watermelonisotope.com/2017/03/27/larry-goodell-3-poems/

-77-
Deborah Coy

Sidekick

-78-
I have no name.
I turn my foot as zombies chase.
I go to the basement to change the fuse.
I leave to pee and never return.
I wear red on the away team.

I know that glorious cantankerous

craving to be special,
to be the one and only
to not be mistaken for someone else.

Thats what keeps me at the heros side.

Im the also ran, the buddy, pal and buffoon.

There are perks

to being the sidekick.
No autograph hounds pester me.
I dont have to hide my identity.

But lets face it.

Ill never get the girl.

Ill be left sweeping up the glass

while the hero rides into the sunset.

Call me Robin, or Wilson, or Watson, or Tonto.

We are famous in our own ways.
We are also necessary.
We remember their stories.
We ride behind them.

We have their backs.

Deborah Coy

See Beatlick Press for some of Deborah's editing publishing and original
work. http://www.beatlick.com/

-79-
Jonathan Penton
"In 1998, Jonathan Penton founded UnlikelyStories.org in the fires of
Mount Doom, and into it poured his hatred, cruelty, and will to
dominate. Since then, he has lent editorial and management assistance to
a number of literary and artistic ventures, such as MadHat, Inc. and Big
Bridge. He has organized literary performances, and performed himself,
in places like Arkansas, California, Chihuahua, Colorado, Florida,
Georgia, Illinois, Louisiana, Massachusetts, New Mexico, New York,
North Carolina, Ohio, Texas, and Washington, state and DC. His poetry
books are Last Chap (Vergin Press, 2004), Blood and Salsa and Painting
Rust (Unlikely Books, 2006) and Prosthetic Gods (New Sins
Press/Winged City Chapbooks, 2008). Both of these poems are from his
forthcoming collection, Standards of Sadiddy (Lit Fest Press, August
2016)."

Unlikely Stories has even ventured into the Goodell world of cosmic trickery
and for that I thank you!

Because We Still Eat at a Chinese Buffet

You remember, running down the street in your sisters prom dress,
calling for help thinking that help would always be there, assured, secure,
only marginally afraid.

You remember when you truly understood that no help was on the way.

Since then, you find pleasure in your own company and rely on your own
mind to occupy you. Since then you grow as the tree, at once into the sky
and into the earth.

The lotto numbers on fortune cookies have become your numerology,

power found in patterns that have weight due to your will.

Dogs will fight over your remains.

But when you are alone with yourself, there is always one stranger
present. Within you is the woman who broke, who was not made
stronger by traumathe woman who grows as the tree, putting out new
leaves in the spring, never acquiring permanence, never adequately
nourished, a bird trapped by her feet, a man trapped in his tongue.

-80-
Friends know her with both eyes open, but see her with one eye shut. She
knows that friends are generous because life is cheap. They will give her
many gallons of blood before she dies.

North

the fields of tar are breaking

under copper-smelting towers
and you ask if you can cut me
to make our photos just pyrite

I grab hold of those fences

still formed from ocotillo
and I try to wrap up in them
but they dont think theyre part of this
so dont do anything at all

we head east on Montana

back to your mothers bedroom
where shes laid out all her gris-gris in hope of keeping me away
you get out your tattoo gun
and you promise me Picasso
but it seems my backs forgotten
so my hands best push you anywhere but here
where I can see the
scar across your neck the one that
tanglewebs in all directions
like something no doctor has the fingertips to do

since it seems my back has lost a great deal more than your tattoo gun
which didnt work much better than the spine you still must keep

Outside, the dust storm is starting

the sun is falling down in daylight
we should scamper to lower ground
though we know well never make it
before the grey and brown surround the way
our eyes forget the sunset
our hands forget the how of when we
climbed those yielding rocks
those pieces pointed skyward
to see the tapestry of femicide

-81-
 a map of smallpox comforts
dust embedded in our teeth

cause if my hands are forgetful

I think my mouth remembers
how you begged it to cut you
to get the Glamour Shot just right

I would have you die in beauty like a Fante heroine

so please-please when you read to me put down the Earnest
Gaines.

Jonathan Penton
jonathan@unlikelystories.org

Unlikely Stories published "Alien Classified"

which is all I can tell you about my Roswell, NM upbringing
concerning this subject.
http://www.unlikelystories.org/13/goodell0213.shtml
also, my "Outer Space Workout" which is guaranteed
to leave you lost somewhere in outer space.
http://www.unlikelystories.org/12/goodell0612.shtml

Thank you Jonathan and Michelle Greenblatt

Currently, see: http://www.unlikelystories.org/

-82-
James Burbank
Three Takes and a Riposte

Bone I turned over and over in my

hand complexity of it
whiteness starkness angles many
ridges and summits that have
never been explored except
for the flicker who assaults
at every opportunity why are
we blind to that
poverty of this moment with
skull in hand picking at dry
corners why? Look there into
my own death turning that
over and over in my hands

.
Up on that ridge nothing
can be said that has not been
said before into clear
blue air all those trees
speaking to one another

-83-
throughout time weigh
on the heart and bring
tears to the eyes old eyes those
blind eyes those that see beyond
nothing stars or clarity
even beyond
in wind in air in
.
Sometimes a
blessing lies hidden
and other times open
to air and the
incidence of touch
how remains the edge without choice
sharpness where remains
time and the
redtail hawk over
deep canyon small
creature invisible
below beneath leaf
.
Some years back my
favorite way up the ridge
back of old turtle mountain
an older tree still against a
bear-scratched stump
upward seeming
forever upward
and out over the river
plain home again I
cry out nowhere
to hear no one
Sometimes the dead
live more than the living
and the living have
no appreciation for
what it takes to
sit still inside nothing

James Clarke Burbank

-84-
The resurrected duende press presents The OxBow Poems, Slow Walks
on the Rio Grande, poems and photographs and writings by Mr. Burbank.
See his website. http://jimbu0.wixsite.com/mysite

-85-
Mark Weber
Hey Mark, what have you been up to and please send a poem.

I've been working on the mixes of the concerts we gave at Outpost

Performance Space in early May called Interlace, which might become a
double-cd. (KAZZRIE JAXEN QUARTET W. CHARLEY KRACHY, DON
MESSINA & BILL CHATTIN; VIRG DZURINKO, SOLO PIANO; PAYNE
LIEBOWITZ DUO WITH MARK WEBER.)

I'm reading Karen Armstrong's HISTORY OF GOD, and Nicholas Wade's

BEFORE THE DAWN (anthropology) and re-reading the KALEVALA and
for a break am re-re-re-reading Ross Macdonald. Still doing my Thursday
jazz radio show on KUNM-FM. And weekly installments on my on-line
music journal JAZZ FOR MOSTLY. https://markweber.free-jazz.net/

POEM FOR SUPRITI

And now you're an orphan

like the rest of us
adrift
out on the Western Sea
in your little boat
with the tattered sail . . . .
Those far distant lands
where your mother went on Saturday
the only telephone that can reach her now
is called memory
pumpkin pie, a novena, that spanking
you got for refusing to do the dishes (or was it
when you used your uncle's tennis racket to
bounce rocks?)
and your mother never spanked
you again because she cried
and you didn't . . . .
adrift
with the dust particles floating
in the afternoon window light
the bleak trees are beginning to remember
their leaves
something like tea
that is memory in a cup, warm

-86-
and slightly acerbic, or is that melancholia?
something . . .
something . . .
you trail your hand in the water over the side
of your boat, there's a jet way overhead above the troposphere
do jets fly this far over the Western Sea?
maybe . . . .
maybe
the Buddha is up there?
going somewhere in a jiffy

22mar16
Mark Weber

Extraordinarily up on jazz!

Mark Weber, Jazz for Mostly

https://markweber.free-jazz.net/

-87-
John Tritica
At the Edge of Hearing Seeing
for Richard Hample

I am listening
at the edge of hearing
leaves mottled
shade flutters me
a swallow-tails flyway
parallel to the bike
the brilliant wings alight
on a sycamore

***

industrial warehouses
beside the bike path
goat heads weeds wild grass
out here a hummingbird
finds no nectar
hovers then
carries the wind
straight up

***

a good reason
this is a first
the birds
lost along hard soil draught
datura could grow here
but no seeds
no moisture
a stiff wind
in the face
you ride
a bike along
a diversion channel
into the sun

-- John Tritica

-88-
 John Tritica

Larry:
I've been painting my house & working the garden & not diligent about
my e-mail--sorry. Thank you for using my poem--it's one that I like,
situated in the high desert that is my place & home . . . I loved seeing
your archive--Steve Clay is terrific human being. I once read in his gallery
in Soho, which was closed a long time ago. In any case, he's a great
publisher, & an astute agent for landing archival materials. What a
fascinating collection of materials--thanks for sending this to me. . . .

John

(sneaking in at the last minute a poem by John Tritica

and I thank you!)

-89-
A Page for Satyrs
Please send a spoof for this page. Larry.

WHAT A BUNCH OF HOOEY

May you topple the bobble

that is your bubble your
impossible babble.
You're the Tower of Blubber
the badass boogie man
of bubblegum.
Oh boo boo ba ba bladder
blast of puff dust.
Inflated ego of thin weather
balloon
popped.
Particles too frail to decompose.
What's left of you but useless garbage
if you can find it.
What a rear collision comes to
when there's nothing to collide with.
Did you topple your bubble
and bust your buffoonery.
Drop your pantaloons and find
there's nothing there but hot air?
Nothing is as nothing was
and nothing is as shall be.
What a bunch of hooey
and tomfoolery.

larry goodell / placitas, nm / 28Jun2016

And now from the source of all health in America, lovely to present this
on the 4th of July, 2016! Thank you Mr. Burbank.

-90-
THE REAMING: Bend Over Please, and Say, "OMMMMMMMMM.

Lets face it, health insurance is uplifting and ecstatic, almost a new
religious epiphany, especially the so-called customer service experience.
Just like dying from rat poison writhing in a forgotten cement corner, a
moment of supreme clarity arrives, so an enlightening and refreshing
customer service session with Blueballs National Health Insurance, my
carrier of choice, will fill your anus with a strange and wonderous blue
light that most probably comes from God. You are one of the chosen.

Hello, human. Please provide your name, your social security number,
your zip code, your address, your plan number, and your bill amount.

My name is Jimbu. My Social Security number is seven. My zip code is

nine. My address is , Albuquerque, New Mexico. My plan number is
twenty-three. My bill is one billion seven hundred million twenty three
thousand nine hundred dollars and fifteen cents .

The Customer Service Rep tells me she is Dogs minion, her name is
Meticula, and she says she will walk on her knees through broken glass to
satisfy my health insurance needs.

So, whats your problem, Mr. Jimbu? Did you try Nexium? she says,

Did you try Nauseum? Did you try Trichenosis? I can talk to you in a
calm and reassuring voice about your health plan, she says, But you will
have to consult your on-line pharmacy for further information about your
opioids and your constipation, your diabetes medication, your steroids,
your pot, and your smack. We dont deal with that shit here, only good
clean health stuff like you see on TV ads where you are supposed to ask
your doctor,

Why do I have such a bill the size of the national debt for my
colonoscopy? I plead.

Jimbu, you wanted to be reamed, didnt you?

And at that moment, thanks to my carrier of choice, I attained the

highest and the most pure and perfect enlightenment.

James Clarke Burbank

-91-
Thank you to everyone for contributing and please please link to this July
2016 collection of poems and information . . . here it is for you all to use!

And thanks to Hal Johnson who invited me to ask some poets to send work.
larry

Truck's editor-drivers, past and present

as of December 1, 2016
"Truck set out on its travels in April 2011, and ended this month, in
December 2016, in a very different terrain. During those several years,
Truck was guided by 69 different editors, each taking a month at the
wheel. Those driver/editors had carte blanche and were free to proceed as
they liked, doing as much or as little as they cared to, so long as they
didn't, as I sometimes told them, wreck the joint." Halvard Johnson

The full run: http://halvard-johnson.blogspot.com/

-92-
Apr. 2011 -- Kate Schapira
May 2011 -- Wendy Battin
June 2011 -- Frank Parker
July 2011 -- Skip Fox
Aug. 2011 -- Ken Wolman
Sept. 2011 -- Michael Tod Edgerton
Oct. 2011 -- Kelly Cherry
Nov. 2011 -- Andrew Burke
Dec. 2011 -- Lewis LaCook
Jan. 2012 -- Larissa Shmailo
Feb. 2012 -- Gerald Schwartz
Mar. 2012 -- Jukka-Pekka Kervinen
Apr. 2012 -- Lynda Schor
May 2012 -- David Graham
June 2012 -- Lars Palm
July 2012 -- Elizabeth Switaj
Aug. 2012 -- rob mclennan
Sept. 2012 -- Georgios Tsangaris
Oct. 2012 -- Douglas Barbour
Nov. 2012 -- Dirk Vekemans
Dec. 2012 -- Erik Rzepka
Jan. 2013 -- Alan Britt
Feb. 2013 -- Mark Weiss
Mar. 2013-- Mary Kasimor
Apr. 2013-- John M. Bennett
May 2013-- Orchid Tierney
June 2013--Victoria Marinelli
July 2013 -- Volodymyr Bilyk
Aug. 2013 -- David Howard
Sept. 2013 -- Philip Meersman
Oct. 2013 -- Chris Lott
Nov. 2013 -- Alexander Cigale
Dec. 2013 -- Catherine Daly
Jan. 2014 -- Maria Damon
Feb. 2014 -- John Oughton
Mar. 2014 -- Colin Morton and
MaryLee Bragg
Apr. 2014 -- Alan Sondheim
May 2014 -- Glenn Bach
June 2014 -- Bill Pearlman
July 2014 -- Edgar Gabriel Silex
Aug. 2014 -- Jerry McGuire
Sept. 2014 -- Karri Kokko
Oct. 2014 -- Mrton Koppny
Nov. 2014 -- Anny Ballardini
Dec. 2014 -- Chris Lott
Jan. 2015 -- Marc Vincenz
Feb. 2015 -- mIEKAL aND
Mar. 2015 -- Eileen Tabios
Apr. 2015 -- Crag Hill
May 2015 -- Rudolfo Carrillo
June 2015 -- Gwyn McVay
July 2015 -- Matt Margo
Aug. 2015 -- Volodymyr Bilyk
Sept. 2015 -- Stephen Vincent
Oct. 2015 -- Maxianne Berger
Nov. 2015 -- Alexander Jorgensen
Dec. 2015 -- Jane Joritz-Nakagawa
Jan. 2016 -- Michael Rothenberg
Feb. 2016 -- CL Bledsoe
Mar. 2016 -- Paul Sampson
Apr. 2016 -- Lynda Schor
May 2016 -- Allen Bramhall
June 2016 -- Joanne Howard
July 2016 -- Larry Goodell
Aug. 2016 -- Lori Horvitz
Sept. 2016 -- Tero Hannula
Oct. 2016 -- Laura Young
Nov. 2016 -- Ric Carfagna
Dec. 2016 -- Philip Garrison
-93-
 Larry and
Friends
#1

from Hal Johnsons Truck

July 2016
larry goodell guest editor

a duende free for all

production 2017
http://www.larrygoodell.com/