call for submissions

(dialtone was the name of a small, nearly handmade magazine that i put together a while back. it was born after my experience helping out and hanging out with the folks who put together ransom street magazine in the early nineties (sounds so weird to my inner ear to say that).

i assembled 13 issues over a four year period. i took in almost no money. paid for the photocopies myself and distributed the issues where i could and the quality of writing was, for the most part, outstanding.

i miss doing it. i miss reading the new work and i miss the acts of assembly and dissemination.

so, i am going to give it another go.)

THIS IS A CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS

dialtone, vol 2
the voices at the other end of the line

send me your
poetry
found images
flat things
very short prose
scannable and reproducible i'm going to keep it so don't ask for it back art
automatic
surreal
fantastic
take it with you everywhere because it's so damn good
words

send it to me electronically:

thedialtone@gmail.com

(postal address to follow)

IN KIND, I PROMISE

to consider and respond
to print in sufficient quantity to meet demand
to help you let it go to some of the world
i may even set up a website if i can trap a helper

keep the format simple for words: PDF, Open Office, Notepad. if i cannot open it i will let you know.


like i said, i miss doing this. we'll see how it goes.

thanks,

geo

oct09

how about that?

ask me 15 or 20 years ago if i would be out in front of my house on the concrete driveway giving my son tips on how to maneuver the power blower to get the best spray patterns and efficacious removal of dust and debris following a couple of days of having a crew put up a rather nice arbor over said driveway and i would have said you were hallucinating

three more days and there will be a fence in our front yard and those fucking deer will no longer have first helpings of my salad thank you very much

i did throw a rock at one in the back yard the other day, connected with its haunch with a rather satisfying slap
she quivered and looked up and slowly walked in what might be considered the other direction from where i was standing

i don't tell my kid what i would like to have done
that's cause i'm a pacifist

except when it comes to vermin and those who have no reliable supply of predators
i'd volunteer for the job
'cept for the fact that guns do nothing for me and i lack the discipline to learn to shoot with bow and arrow
oh well

but my son got a kick out of the blower
it's a plug in model, last of the power tools left in my sub urban nest
shares a shelf with an electric chainsaw
an electric skill saw
an electric jigsaw
and a rechargeable drill
do i know how to live or what?



geo
oct 09

and the sun did come out today, by the by

fall tuesday

dream


there's a pile over here and there's a pile over there

there are piles wherever i look

i cannot see the flat places

i believe the piles are hollow and i believe the hollows are singing

the topology of this place is complicated

i am a connecting function

i have no enemies here and the sky is a grid of fog

the birds are cones sharp points and gleaming in the scarce grey light

it is dawn or maybe i never went to sleep

the singing grows louder and the fog crystallizes and drops through the cones popping them like old bubbles

i am approaching a limit

i do not know if i can increase forever or if i will shrink down to zero

zero is where there is no singing and all hollow places collapse

i close my eyes and wait for an eraser



geo
oct09

the next thing to say

re: union


i'm gonna blow the roof off
i'm gonna empty vessel after vessel
i'm gonna be the perfect bracelet and never fall off
always shine
always rest on the bedside table
and never break

i swallowed a telephone booth full of nostalgia and melancholia last weekend
i dialed strange numbers and listened to sussurations from strange graves
i ate a quarter pound hot dog in front of six screaming television sets
i smiled and it hurt and i drove around in the rain because it was the only thing to do

the alarm went off and it was mortar and pestle and hellfire of neuronal screaming
and the swallowing started up as soon as the door opened
and every corner looked inviting and every glass was going to be as goddamned half-full as i could make it before the fluids froze and maybe even before the cheese started to sweat

i only remembered a few of the people in the room
maybe it was the room and the room was maybe most of the night but the night was clearly made for people whom i did not know and never would again
and the rooms all spilled their fleshy contents out into the trough going down the center of the concrete and glass hives

the night was open and noise and volumes of poems not yet written scribbling themselves across the vapid the mundane the horrible the aroused the slick and even the children
they were all children down there in that scar between this street and that street
the muses were all turned down and the little hairs stood on end to be audience to the chorus of yesterdays and best friends forever

forever could have been those four hours last saturday night
but the sidewalk was closed and the hot dog came back up with the morning coffee



geo

oct 09