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kmd-jg

 

What are three things you want the reader to know about GHOST / LANDSCAPE?

KMD: In the poems, you’ll find a bank robbery, a lock on the door, and a freezer we keep forgetting we keep in the basement. One (and only one) of these things is real.

Now that you’ve entered the landscape, don’t follow the paths that seem most clearly marked. They’ll lead you further away from the guesthouse (and the truth about the ghost).

Lastly, and most importantly, the conference we keep referring to was really an elaborate cover-up. Even the panels were just for show.

JG: Things keep changing, you know? One moment the news is on, and it’s such very bad news from so many quarters (1). And then you’re shopping for new shoes (2). Both of these things are honest and true things about living in the world (3).

I was reading something the other day (you might’ve seen it; it was passed around facebook) arguing against the current conception of empathy, that it’s too easily swayed by individuals in crisis and not enough by long-term goals. And it reminded me of an episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation, where Riker gets turned into a god, and loses his capacity for empathy. Like most things, it’s a negotiation.

I tried to phone you, but we’d reached the very edge of the meadow. Now a felled tree, some thistle. It all reminds me of a book I read, the one where the field only seems endless.

In the book, everything’s haunted, even the flowers. Especially the flowers. And the chapters aren’t numbered, so you forget exactly where you are, and where you placed the key to the room that holds all of your things from childhood.

Future Angeles

By Zoe Tambling

Poem

With my fuck tank full
I keep the sun down
And the air on

I show grief in future Angeles by touching all the expensive pants on the rack
A man says macramé about my dress, then looks closer
No just knotted

On a map I see it’s a descent
Below eighth
It just keeps going
Where were you
That time
Eating dumplings

Apple1

Who was your favorite teacher growing up?

I’ve always thought of high school or college teachers, but since you said, “growing up,” specifically, I thought of Miss Jackson, my school librarian. I still remember the day she let me graduate from “easy to read” books to “red tape” books (which were marked with red tape on the spines to indicate a higher grade level). It opened the world for me, and I’m forever grateful.

My favorite part of the act wasn’t the sparkle of red sequins,
the skimming of satin skirt flirting with thigh. I loved

the knife thwack, the shudder of pearl handle vibrating
when the blade landed true. I loved cartwheeling in space

when you spun the wheel, our love every day a game
of roulette, praying to always land on black but wearing

red just in case. I lived for you tying the blindfold, the whisper,
I love you as you fastened the manacles secure. Each second

a precarious balance between trust and chance.

The Hunter

By Magdalen Powers

Poem

The wild animal
in our bed

always leaves
before dawn.

george.one.and.one.03


WHAT IS THE WORST LETTER IN THE ALPHABET?

Kardashian.


DADDY

By George Wallace

Poem

I am the hand grenade
your daddy should’ve
jumped on, back in ‘43,
to save his buddies,
the snipers nest in
Fallujah, I am the lost
platoon, the lost soldier

we are at home in half houses
we house the fatherless sons
we weave together our fingers
form baskets of veins filled with blood

when-

By Christine Tierney

Poem

this slow pace clings    i drag myself    to the dark underneath    of all beds.     goodbye acheybreaky     goodbye naptime leeches.    i am the saturated plum of dusk    and the plea to leave the last few ingredients out,     the cookie could give 2 shits    no rising    no butter.

SDAI P&A #1--Michael Klam at Mic
Hello.  I’m reporter Michael Klam, and it is my great pleasure to interview myself for The Nervous Breakdown.   I was told by the mighty Rich Ferguson to read the other self-interviews on TNB, but I didn’t.  My ego is far too big for that, cosmic big, not like the cosmos of yesterday (we are the only galaxy, etc.) but “Kepler huge” like the infinite cosmos with all of its bits of dust and muck that barely fit into the pinky toe of my self-awareness and enlightenment.

Woah, woah, woah! Hello? Editor Michael Klam checking in here:  Was that last sentence a run-on? Should I fix it? Should I consult Strunk and White? I don’t think it makes sense.

when speaking of reincarnation
nobody ever says
“I want to be a Chihuahua”
but what if you found out that Chihuahuas tremble
because they are in a constant state of orgasm?

if you are a nymphomaniac or an addict
you might think twice about this

Autobiography in ten words.

Brawled my way into the world. Survive is my language.

You firestar. Pool of moonburst.
You turned my skin to dust. Rawblade glasstooth girl.
With your hot rage and bus ticket anywhere.
Never saw a woman run so many directions at once.
One night, you shined so bright the police came to watch.
Your bruises and shirt-shreds. How we all just stood there,
watching you shimmer. Afraid to flinch, for a faceful of claw.
You are some kind of firework. Flipswitch blues.
Broken Sundays spent towing the boulders out of you.
The Brooklyn 3am’s, frenzied as an upturned autobahn.

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What’s the strangest place you’ve ever written a poem?

In a Porta-Potty at Oktoberfest in Munich, Germany, drunk off my ass on the first beer I’d ever imbibed. The poem didn’t make it past the cutting room floor for my first book, but that feeling of MUST WRITE A POEM NOW before I’d even really started identifying as a poet (I still thought of myself as a fiction writer, ha!) was exhilarating. Though the beer probably contributed to that.