Hot Off the Dresses.
BUK SCENE 1, 110 pages! Published in Montreal.

Original ink drawings added to poems and color pictures, black and white pictures of Charles Bukowski,all taken from original oil paintings by Desforges.

Essays on Charles Bukowski by David Barker, David Stephen Calonne and others.

Poetry by Jordan Hurder, Linda King, A. D. Winans, Justin Hyde, Christopher Cunningham, Justin Barrett, Stephen Hines, David Moscovich, Whitney Woolf and others.

Memoriams on Dave Church and Michael Montfort.

Critical column on the small press.

BIG story on Steve Richmond by Mike Daily.
A couple of days ago I got this email from Raymond Federman. In his metafictional exhuberance, he addresses it as if speaking to an audience in a hushed yet imperative voice, not at all stark and unedited and passionate -- and I'm going to take his advice:

On reading The Road

whatever you’re doing
stop right now
even if you are in the middle of a dream
go immediately buy THE ROAD by Cormac McCarthy
right now -- No book has gotten to me that much since I first read Molloy or better yet How It Is this book shows us How it will be No book has moved me [even when I first read Calvino] than THE ROAD since I felt the little slippage when I first read Sam it may be because of my present condition as I confront my mortality up close it’s a sad mysterious cryptic and crystal clear
we are in the No-man’s land of deviltry
there is urgency to each page
raw emotional pull you cannot stop reading even if you don’t know where this road is taking you it is as if you must keep reading so that the father and the son can stay alive so they can survive this horrible How it will be if humanity doesn’t stop going full speed towards eternity it a violent story a grotesque landscape not unlike that in which Pim Pam Pem etc are crawling in How It Is a horrible landscape rendered beautiful and melancholic even though it is atrocious a darkness that glows with intensity a huge gift of language it is not the language of Sam in which one always hears a little laughter the language here is all sadness and yet happiness too the way the father love his son the son who carries the fire
the fire towards which they are perhaps going
should by accident humanity stop doing
what it is doing and reinvents love compassion and fear it is a disturbing book that exposes the blackness
that lies beneath this surface of grief and horror it is the inevitable culmination of everything becoming nothing just ashes yes ashes that’s all is needed to know when and where we are
on the road to nowhere it’s hard to comprehend how the writer managed to write the apocalypse in such beautiful words Well there is a bit of biblical stuff that circulates in this book
but wasn’t that true also of sam’s language
but with sam we don’t fall into the trap
here it’s not always clear it’s ambiguous what is for sure
McCarthy is the perfect cynic for our time a word to describe this book – devastating – yes a book about devastation -- lovely and sad
so sad it’s hard at the end not to let out a few tears when the father dies but then one remember what we read a few pages earlier Every day is a lie ... but you are dying. That is not a lie. Yet amid this Godot-like bleakness, McCarthy shares something vital and enduring about the boy’s spirit, his father’s love and the nature of bravery itself when it’s a matter of survival
Deacon Don Sings

Deacon Don Says...

Currently I'm not quite a third of the way through a project to post a new clip to Youtube in each of the last 100 days of 2008, mostly new songs, mostly played on my new HARMONIUM.

This project will serve as a kind of sketch book of new tunes and an archive of the process. Has it occurred to you that youtube clips, unless removed by their authors, will remain indexed and available for years and years - as long as the whole Google project to index all information lasts?

I wonder what use a historian might make off all those talking head responses to responses of vlog videos fifty years from now... 100 years?

I have three different playlists:
Song Seeds Sown is the raw sketchbook of tunes
there's a Saturday Cartoons list in which I animate one of the week's songs
a Sunday Service where I sing or preach or... well, it's evolving.


FUCKBAR Staff Says I’m Not a Human Being After DJ Attacked Me

FUCKBAR. Nice name.

Although expecting to find decent company, or any company at all, in an alcohol-fueled danceclub in a small city in Japan (especially one named FUCKBAR, nice name) is a case of being in the wrong place for the wrong reasons, I didn’t count on getting mauled by the DJ, threatened physically and dragged through the hallways and out the door because I “requested too many songs the DJ didn’t have.”

I’ve seen my share of DJ’s all over the world, good and bad, and everything inbetween. And this one was fulfilling the job description, spinning dancable r’n’b music for the typically mixed crowd that frequents the FUCKBAR. But the night took a sour turn when I requested The Beastie Boys’ Sabotage after a string of requests he couldn’t fulfill, and the DJ threw up his arms in exasperation. Apparently, it was my fault he didn’t have any Happy Birthday songs or any Beastie Boys because the next thing I knew he was on the floor with his arms in my face, screaming like a teenager on a rampage (he probably is a teenager for all I know), quickly and conveniently followed by some bald ape-like japanese staff who decided that pushing me into tables, chairs and knocking people over out the door was the good and decent thing to do. If ever I met someone who introduced themselves with their force, throwing me into the animate and the inanimate, first on the dance floor then into the bar then into the hallway then out the door, it was him. The baldy continued the harrassment in the gritty stairwell (about as welcoming as a trash compactor, fitting for this gem of a club). Apparently, he attended one of the more prestigious Universities in Japan and graduated with high marks with a major in Pushing Gaijin Into Walls, Tables and Chairs. I had never heard of it until that night, but after doing some research it seems to be a field of study that is getting more widely deserved acclaim, a stout reminder of the integrity of the Japanese education system.

It wouldn’t be fair to claim that I am unbiased on the events of the evening – but, as another gaijin shouted while the baldy was displaying his unique academic prowess, maybe I should “get a lawyer”. That might be an option if I felt that I have any rights as a resident of Japan. But the ape assured me this was no case of discrimination, as the DJ was not of Japanese nationality, and since the owner is an equal opportunity employer discrimination is out of the question. Sound logic. Hiring people of diverse ethnic backgrounds (read: one Korean guy counts as "diversity") apparently exempts a business, and all of its staff, from racism. Just like Affirmative Action guarantees equal treatment of minorities in American workplaces. Somehow, I don’t see the connection between hiring practices and behavior, but then again, it’s my fault for being a fan of The Beastie Boys, and, uh, birthday songs. Birthday songs are inflammatory. What shortsightedness on my part.

But again, to be perfectly honest, I’m not just an innocent victim, but I do believe absolutely that the brilliant baldy and the DJ were extreme in their reaction to my small offense. I flipped off the DJ. Immature, no doubt, but not professionally immature, as was his reaction. I wasn’t the one on the job. His ego was hurt, it’s very simple. But frankly, if you expect to please everybody your life will just be an extended disappointment. Which, come to think of it, is probably why I bought the bulldozer, out of pity for the DJ. You might see us riding in it together someday, proudly together with the bloodstain flag. Did I threaten him with a gun? Did I threaten him with a knife? Did I threaten his safety in any way? No, the answer is by anyone’s perspective, the attack did not come out of self-defense. The double attack, I will add. There was no threatening on my part, and as one customer remarked about my colorful plaid shirt and lanky legs, I was obviously physically assaulting them with my warlike form of dress. I was practically yelling `we need another Hiroshima! we need another Hiroshima!` by wearing a shirt like that. My friends were as startled as anyone else in the crowd who watched the DJ come out from behind his plastic screen to accost me, standing in the middle of the floor talking to my birthday friend. With reddenned eyes he accused my friends also of laughing at him, which surprised the hell out of them since they didn’t even notice him until he started pushing me. I thought I had made it clear to the DJ that it was alright he didn’t have the Beastie Boys, and a friendly bartender also told me the same, upon which I remarked, no worries, mate. And I thought that was that, until the DJ jumped down off his post followed a nanosecond later by the baldheaded expert in pushing, aggressing and dehumanizing gaijin`s. Which brings me to the final point, after which I want to let this episode go – after apologizing for my finger’s tendency to elevate when faced with a limited cd collection, he asked me point blank – are you even human? The given look of pleasure in his face told me immediately I was dealing with a world class dildo. Of course I’m not human, I’m a gaijin. I`m a zoo animal. I smell like shit and I`m spreading it on every wall in Fukuoka. Not so long ago people like me were cut open up and operated on for amusement by Japanese ‘medical practicioners,’ because they thought gaijin weren’t human, too. At the same time I thought, in false reminiscence, I wish I had attended some of this guy`s early junior highschool classes, where he no doubt first learned this airtight line of logical thinking that would put Plato to shame (read: got his head smashed in by some teacher whose father paid off the vice principal so he could get a job).

But of course, that’s hardly possible, even given a time machine for which to complete the audit. Because I doubt that he even graduated from elementary school.

Basically I can’t forgive the staff that night that decided to push me around with a good amount of pompous self-rightous violence. The dynamics of power in the situation was undeniably in the DJ’s favor, even as the staff only deemed it necessary to listen to his half-baked, maybe even cocaine-induced paranoid frenzy before attacking me. There are witnesses as to the DJ’s paranoia, bystanders who watched as my friends were shocked when he accused them of talking behind his back, with popping reddened eyes like he just came back from the bathroom from snorting a line of coke. Add to that the obvious disadvantage of being a gaijin in any club scuffle, where we quite likely appear to others as the instigator. Add to that the fact that that any staff at a club has a distinct power advantage over the customers, add to that the guy was twice my size. Add to this that I was expected to apologize for my non-violent action and they didn’t feel the need to apologize for their 100% violent response, for which I now have a swollen ankle, and large bruises on my legs and shoulder from being knocked around. This all adds up to a very small offense on my part and a tremendous irresponsible overreaction and unprofessionality on the part of FUCKBAR DJ and lead staff.

Shabooyah, FUCKBAR. Five Stars. Did I mention how that`s a really nice name?
From Twenty Drunken Nights by david moscovich [Mummaliga Press: 2008] Now available at the New York Public Library and in very limited quantities at St. Mark`s Bookstore (NYC), Left Bank Books (Seattle), Reading Frenzy, the PNCA library and Powell's City of Books (Portland, OR):

With Bernie and I there was a genuine sense of comradeship, of chumming, and despite all his pining over superstar models he pretended to know intimately then lose in some heated barfight, he needed a friend more than anything, a partner in time. My best days with Bernie were when he managed to laugh, and when he was in a good mood, usually sunny and the rum was rolling, and we were playing Dick Dale up on volume twenty-six, and we turned the chair so we could talk to each other and not the hypnobox, we had a party for two that matched any existentialist nihilist drunkards’ super DJ house party in momentum, in density of emotion and raw animal magnitude, we were an 8.6 on the richter scale. At our best, Bernie and I were a lifestyle, a free-wheeling, fuck-the-world brotherhood that gave it to the man when and how we felt it best; because of Bernie’s status in the community we were able to pull off superhuman stunts in the realm of social experiments. There was no end to the piss we could take out of greenish grocery store clerks, gas attendants, car wash girls, whoever. Bernie and I always had to do the shopping together, that was part of the deal.

--What should we get at the store Bernie, I would ask, and he would cock his head to the side, and move his mouth to the corner of his mouth and slur

--Shockka shipps

--Chocolate did you say chocolate Bern

--Schokka shipps hookies

--Brilliant boss we’ll get some but you can’t just eat cookies – I don’t wanna tell you what to do but how bout some strawberries with that

--Nyeah nyeah nyeah wereel goo

--And hey you gotta remember to coordinate food with drink it’s just as important as getting the right shirt to match the pair of pants you want to wear

--Nrigght nnrii

--So if we’re drinking Cuba Libres tonight – you said you wanna drink Cuba Libres right

--Nyeah nuuba reebrayy

--Right so what kind of fruits might sit well for example cut and wedged into the side of the glass as a


--We need some umbrellas Bernie is that it

--Nfrr the nrokkrails

--Right super brill the little umbrellas you are always thinking progressively my friend – umbrellas and what kind of fruit did we say


--Pineapple good one boss now can you tell a good pineapple from a not so ripe one


--Well you gotta squeeze it like this then turn it upside down and throw it at the pile of apples like this, I say, and let it rock the Pink Ladys down the floor in a fruictilicious avalanche

The produce boy would come scraping the floor and I’d tell him,

--Sorry part of the job description buddy, and he would look at the corn exuding from my ears and keep scraping

--Nya, Bernie guffawed at the bumbling produce boy

--You know Bernie just asked you your name, I told him

--He asked me my name I’m so sorry I didn’t well it’s not that I didn’t understand but

--So just exactly what are you saying

--Look I’ll get right on it

--You’ll get right on what I think you’re taking advantage of the situation here just who do you think you are

--Nyeah haa haa han, said Bernie, pushing the wheelchair into the apple pile again and knocking back all of his work onto the floor again

--Look I’m going to have to call the manager is he on duty right now

--Oh please don’t do that

--You know and I know this is a clear case of discrimination against

--The handicapped I know I’m very sorry

--Handicapped who said anything about handicapped are you trying to say Bernie is handicapped

--No that’s not what I meant

--Sure it’s what you meant you people are all the same he’s not handicapped he’s a public nuisance

--That’s what I meant to say

--So you’re saying he’s a public nuisance are you, I said, raining the produce and cash registers with a booming Orson Wells voice

--Nyeah nyeah numbic nussann haa haa han, Bernie echoed, swaying his head in complete joy over the whole scene

There was nothing better than this moment, watching the pale awkwardness of a person who doesn’t know how to react, the vibrating smiles, the hands out of rhythm like some new teenager who sees a bit too much leg on his mother’s girlfriend, notices she enjoyed his nervousness – the joy of being with Bernie in the public sphere had much to do with that secret agenda, making people squirm.

I quite like this self-aware train-of-thought story - David Moscovich writes in a unique, absurd manner that is often quite funny. Taking on this piece can be a challenge - it is hardly a cohesive narrative, and it takes over half of its duration to move from the author's abstract ruminations to the actual convoluted robbery solutions in question. These "solutions" are actually the various hypothetical ideas the narrator and his friends come up with in order to rob an unlocked ATM machine seen in a burrito place. It's difficult to locate where exactly the story is set, and what parts are true or merely fantastical, but a well-executed twist on the last page provides the reader with a nice bit of closure. I recommend this to all experimental fiction enthusiasts.

-Michael Tau/Broken Pencil

roy thought of the sound a skull-shaped boat would have made hushing through a viking tempest

dravidian langual
kanned kangaroo dog an odograph gravured in pearl sauce of en avant

novaculite: hone stone, siliceous rock of a new kind of fictitious narrative, supplementary to the Codex

porphyry: variegated purple hard made by slowly stirring oatmeal or rolled milk in oats, pursuivant of the English College of Elizabet
han half-penny`s,
pork scratchings
Fiasco Improvisation(Tim Alexander, Alejandro Ceballos, Bryan Lightcap, Shane Schneider, Jerry Soga) with David Moscovich reading from Castro`s Weatherman: Ethnography of a Bumbling Sex Tourist. Recorded December 2007. Blame satan tomorrow for the sandwich you ate today. Probably does it to other fruits. Ethnography of a Bumbling Sex Tourist. That`s not Bellatrix, it`s too bright to be Bellatrix. Recorded amongst an audience of sheep. Let`s keep it that way. Proctology of a hurricane. Self refluxing again, are we? Caught in the rain in Palenque overnight at the Temple of the Inscriptions. Self refluxing again, are we? Permitted but irresponsible. Castro`s Weatherman....

Give Give Four

Take Take Three
.. dispatch


improvised solo percussion

Sunday, March 23rd, 9pm
232 SW Ankeny

performing solo,
then in collaboration with
Jonathan Sielaff - clarinet / bass clarinet
Ben Kates - alto sax
Mark Kaylor - drums / sousaphone
Matt Hannafin - percussion

Originally from Osaka, Japan, Tatsuya Nakatani is a world-renowned, contemporary percussionist who has created his own approach to sound and instrumentation, effectively inventing many instruments and extended techniques. His music is based in improvised/ experimental music, jazz, free jazz, rock, and noise, yet retains the sense of space and beauty found in traditional Japanese folk music. He utilizes drumset, bowed gongs, cymbals, singing bowls, metal objects, bells, and various sticks and bows to create an intense, organic music that defies category or genre.

sound sample:

more info:
vanilla arm pudding on fire\ バニラ腕プジング痛い

roasttodit picktodit痛い痛い痛いスペシアルミナイシウン痛い痛い痛い
greasedodit plucktodit smeetodit luvkodit codeinit heppodit baantodit haatodit
stillodit haatodit impossibit haatodit sureepressit wakkowit allnightit haatodit cannudiggit morpheinit onlyit takeawayit haatodit cannudiggit pinprickit danotits’ infernoit noexaggerit fukitallithaatafevah choppme ed off blimeyits a bbq of yunk meat mein.痛い痛い痛いエレベイタアイズリ痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い痛い
dogs.bollocksshredder 犬も痛い痛い痛いきっすも痛い痛い痛い
you.impudentgimp. さわるも痛い痛い

To be released in the United States of America February 25 on the Eh? label:

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