Guy Pettit: A Water Cooler (Approximately)

Barrett White: Three Poems


My hand caresses
back of the ice rope

reaching towards
perfected wallpaper

Perfect wallpaper appears
bald & dumb obsessing

purging weather

inculcates a pewter
comma signal

gravel thought bubble

rings spread roots
of all caps interference

The pen taken
from a motel lobby

scowls & swings
back quotes

paragraph from


A graphic
of a pink corinthian column

then fades

Cool Planet

I need constant supervision
maximal flotation
violence on television

wreaths around
DNA ancestry profiles
& psychic chronicles

placed on soft cycle

Mundane egg
the theater of limits

Couldn’t get a sense
of blue particle confusion

Pod living
it’s a hard way to be

Never attempt to catch a falling knife

Only refill me
with purified water
from a glacial river

I devour
nails & situations
in tentacular grids

I’m learning
hexagonal stop
gaps from mastery

of humor

Poor optics

Pixelated cloak
on exit

In a clench
let your font
take over everything

Brendan Barry and Jeff Parker: Clean Rooms, Low Rates


A vandal has added the disturbed to my Do not disturb sign in black Sharpie if I read my marker right. This is a sentiment I can abide.
But the disturbed people of Machias, Maine, cannot abide the sentiment.
  “Do not disturb the disturbed,” I shout when someone knocks. “Can’t you read?”
  “It’s the police,” a female voice says. I peek through the curtain. It is a female police.
  “Is there some kind of problem, officer?” I ask. “We’ve had some reports about a peeping Tom.” Her eyes sweep the room behind me. “I am a photographer,” I say. “Can I see some of your photographs?” she asks. I know my rights, but anything might happen in Machias, Maine. Luckily, I keep some pedestrian shots framing the good ones on the front and back end. I toggle through about five images, several highway structures of Machias, Maine; a dilapidated old house; the Do not disturb the disturbed sign.
  “I guess you’re not a pervert or terrorist,” she says. She pauses to register any slight, telling reaction.


I like my home.
  I like the sun that’s why I look like an alligator. Believe it or not my ass is just as white as yours is.
  Had to spend the weekend in jail for DUI on my bike. Only had two beers. I never have more than two beers. They’re supposed to charge you a dollar a day to stay in the jail, which, that’s a fair rate. Better than this shithole aka my home. Ended up with disorderly conduct.
  Stray socks, sweat shirt, duct tape, gas can, bucket, denim Nauticas, heavy duty degreaser.
  I’m probably the only person that’s got zero on their credit system. Got out of the system. I’m out of all the systems except the police station’s. That’s the only one you can’t get out of. I stopped paying taxes in 1989.
  I used to work out on the beams. I was the only one who’d work out on the beams. You get used to it. It’s a whole new feeling in your toes. You drag a toe behind you. You can’t think about it. Got to just not think about it.
  I used to work for a millionaire, made six hundred a week, had a ski boat in the ski magazine, three-car garage full of tools. He bought my beer and everything. But he got in trouble with the IRS and had to move to Canada. Poor guy owned a building in downtown Detroit.
  It’s buggy even in March. Holes in the screens. But it’s home. Just trying to make it nicer.
  I got to pick up my other bike at the police station. It’s motorized too. I got an old Coke bottle in the front basket marked Boston. It’s probably twenty-five years old.
  Got an old tin milk can. Going to make a still. Whiskey. You bet. TV cable makes the perfect clothes line. I got a whole roll of it, must be 300 feet long. I’ve actually had my hands photographed for a pray thing.


We are all prepared for the bible in the side table. We are not prepared for the sunrise ironing board steeple. Already I am on the phone and Interwebs declaring my rebirth and calling on the Jesus-toast and refrigerator-mold saints to join me in Ukia for the sunrise ironing board steeple.


How many times, green bucket, have they puked in you?


Guy Pettit is the founder and director of Flying Object and, more recently, a member of Sophie Embassy. He lives in Brooklyn, NY.

Barrett White is a writer and artist. He has published in Hysterically Real, Gauss PDF, Fanzine, Document, and elsewhere. His visual art has been recently exhibited in Helsinki, FI; Dordrecht, NL; and Los Angeles, CA. He is an editor for Tagvverk, and is currently planning an exhibition at a Holiday Inn Express near Starke, FL.

Brendan Barry is an English photographer whose work is mostly concerned with the notion of the journey, using photography as a tool for exploration and collaboration. His creative photographic practice combines elements of construction, education, performance and participation.

Jeff Parker has written several books including the nonfiction book Where Bears Roam the Streets: A Russian Journal (Harper Collins), the novel Ovenman (Tin House), and the story collection The Taste of Penny (Dzanc). With Pasha Malla, he co-wrote the collection of found sports poetry Erratic Fire, Erratic Passion (Featherproof) and with Annie Liontas he edited A Manner of Being (University of Massachusetts Press), a book of essays by writers on their mentors.


Title Quantity Price