ISSUE  1   2   3   4   SUBMIT

environments of persistent appeal

Stacy Szymaszek

I missed the first deadline for this statement and am getting this in at the last minute. It is just days after the passing of coeditor and friend kari edwards. What I would have written in October is not what I will write in December.

Queering language is confronting the regime with our minds and bodies. our language, our love. I asked a dozen poets who are living this commitment. This edition of EOAGH presents an important, and timely, collective of people who are embroiled in the potentialities (both realized and latent) of poetry as a form of social change. To paraphrase Oppen, poetry is related to cadence therefore to the force of events.

People who don’t maintain consensual reality when it comes to concepts of language, family, time, gender, sexuality, money, religion, have it a bit tougher in our daily lives, underneath the sheen of equality and democracy. The poets I chose have transformed the impact of stress into vision, an agora for otherness. “You in others—this is your soul.” Boris Pasternak. These poets create environments of persistent appeal, where I wander the grounds freely…

the orders are typed out lemony soft between the fingers
we agree to agree dots collecting to form letters
there is no “frigate propriety”
twice wrongly accused
I had wandered into the booth to be alone
continually desiring friction
like the boy I was—

        hey man, mi amigo as a gesture of thanks and affection
            lightly caresses my eyes and nose and lips as I sleep
                with his erection

said he’d been in jail a couple of times
I said nobody’s perfect
admire yourself
your posture with expression so privy to adventure

        the table of sections is amended
        by inserting the following new item:

        “1738C. she wants her to unbuckle her bible belt
        taste her sweet mason sweet dixon”

what we don’t know//what we build between us
my very very pink lip gloss has rubbed off on you
like a too blonde wig on Tyra Banks
trying to say “I love you” too, the commodity form
against an anatomy of cuts

                        it matters this disaster began with an idea

unable to choose one “I” or version of the events
we’re always trying to “tone it down”
to minimize the “piss-off” factor
yes, I sex my neighbor
shitty apple trees they were dried up—sheared skinny—
singing the wrong note.
yes. sour ones.

        all we innocents
        belly chortle