Issue numero two is out, jam-packed with loads of action, mantras, sedations, clues, and toys from Hopeville. If it’s between a hard New York ten bucks to view “Failure to Launch” or gettin’ your grove on with some decent art of the written word, well, the scintillating pick pulls clear ahead by several noses in the bound tangible sheets of Tiny glory – all for a cool eight bucks. The government would do well to drop these leaflets from planes on the heads of the midwest and U.S. liberal coasts alike. David Shapiro’s collage dresses up the package quite beautifully and seals the deal for me.
I play the drums but only on rubber practice pads
My fetishes are lipstick and Language Poetry
Hi-hat cymbals and alcohol
I live in Kansas
Without attaching any emotion to this fact
This is a pantoum with half the lines removed
I am easily humiliated yet feel the need to be heard
Betty Letter at Sea
What I miss, mostly, is brightness–not dazzle,
and I don’t hate the dim, but I sat backwards on
a beach chair and it didn’t come in. I took out
slats. None there. I wanted to warn you that
the phone cuts off. The toaster breaks the microwave,
the storm windows are inside out. How fast
thinking gets here. Empty sink, high ceilings, etc.
This morning I thought how apparent lipstick
makes my heart. Coral, blowfish, ink.
Sometimes I make black ice cubes, I slip
them in my hard drink and watch my mouth
fade into the back. That’s what I’m trying to
say. About brightness. How, without, the sea looks
full with holes.
[Both poems from The Tiny – Issue Two]