Step 1. Write word-centos of poetry by Coco,
Kashiana Singh, Larissa Shmailo and Rich
Ferguson, while listening to Charles Mingus,
Moanin’ (2-hour version). (In non-shpiggidity-
shpaggidity speak, a word-cento is basically
a rearrangement of the words of a poem how-
ever you see fit, but only using the words of
the poet, particularly the words in only one
poem of said saint.)

 

UNTITLED

(a word-cento of Coco’s
“Would You Notice Me” *)

Plastic eyes bulging for attention hung
indignantly
from cliché dreams,
the tree bridge of breaths, bubbles
with explosives, existence
to purge the Swan from depression.

Words swallow sadness,
splattered acceptance, mere
rapid images better skim
manic medications memories,
myself merlot’d out, peace
me down foaming flesh.
You notice electricity of
angry,
clothed in words.

* Original poem by Coco first
published in Spectrum Publish-
ing, Vol. 19. “Soul Clean.” Also
published in Unicorn Psychosis.

 

MOTHER

(a word-cento of Kashiana Singh’s
“Embroidered tundra” *)

Beginnings moan goddess
swirling breathless moans,
light oozes pause.
Pause – the land.
It protects bleeding sands dry,
puncturing air, vacant crescendo cries—
Courage now barefoot with slogans,
screaming sinew
rivulets still.

The Universe – pregnant. She protests,
recites grace inside exile,
outside courage, her country
breathing monuments of fragility.
Earthmen, their grit outside of her offers,
prayers of air, pause
rising sumptuous flag.
Freedom still glistening
between endings new.

Universe – flesh within flesh
between flesh
embroiders, enunciates sterile hope.
She renews life, pulsating
screaming hope new
to the watches of exile, ebbs
flutter within her tugs & untugs
of life, still urging hope
& freedom.

* Original poem by Kashiana Singh
published in Madras Courier. Nov-
ember 7, 2020.

 

THE PROMISED SANDSTORM

(a word-cento of Larissa Shmailo’s
“In Paran” *)

Scared Canaan lived wild sandstorms
against the promised oases stubborn,
slaving— I learned to pity water
and run slaughter nomads of manna
for Egypt mules, tribes of
camels, children skittish saving bondage
for God—

Outcasts lie wild near the promised sandstorm
of honey-milk bondage,
where I grew my mother’s war against asking
why my brother and his kin like the heat,
Pharaoh’s lands,
when they were born free.

* Original poem by Larissa Shmailo
has appeared in The New Press Lit-
erary Quarterly, FULCRUM, The
Enchanting Verses Literary Review,
and in Measure for Measure: An
Anthology of Poetic Meters (Penguin
Random House).

 

LOST GALLERY

(a word-cento of Rich Ferguson’s
“One” *)

Lost Gallery, how your bombs write
moon-diamond’s
silver suicide sky-
angels annihilating
everyday bitter magic in the mirror
of self-searches,
dancing lunatics’ reality flights,
always sailing deep into sun.

How the Fabric of Peace
breeds junkies’ ice-womb blinding napalm,
blonde-baptismal liquor fingernails the universe
twice with the weight of one beggar,
one numb thread through needles of
inner-child highway peroxide airwaves of blood.

Your grave will fail you, —
will fail you, Lost Gallery, before your eyes,
lost sham saint ticking veins through
TSA mockingbirds
made impermanent.

Lost Gallery forward allegory bitter,
Be one taste-flood tomb,
Be one with inherent insects growing the world
through bitterness,
written drunk wildlife volts
to hold you into all things,
before home hurricanes you into traffic:
lost structures one with paper airlines,
restless con consciousness
sewing life
in clean cavity, cayote-rage—

Music cuts breath. –

Be one with all-trademarks,
everlasting stranger-family running different deities,
searching along cosmic nobody-stars.
To dream blood is to dream best.

Pray with your first & last Death.
Pray to the Dark Night of one-clock,
with the perfect you—
the perfect rain of sunspeak boozers, –
perfect to ensure you know your lost palms,
your durable dirge
across the paper pill patterns melting
waters into waters . . .

You stare at terrorist newborns so bright,
guns perform away at your DNA doorstep,
rich souls slow the moment,
your welcome
through luminous body treasures,
perfect for all angels awake abracadabra—
paintings of prosperity, yourself,
one with somebody.

* Original poem by Rich Ferguson
published in The Nervous Break-
down. June 29, 2015.

 

Step 2. Meditative Insert. Lie awake in bed & check
emails, forgo your regular meditation routine,
sleep in late, it’s Sunday. Make sure you
are struggling, struggling to get to the next
step, trying to reach out, rise from your
mind and witness yourself without knowing
you’re doing so … Be plagued by emails
& texts & to-do lists, and want—try.
And wait. Wait for heaven to offer you
names, offer you mantra voices of sunshine. . .
upon those first words, rise & write in your head,
go use the restroom, wash your hands, clean
the toilet, say a quick prayer. Go upstairs,
get on your knees and pray silent prayers,
meditate bowed in the day, head on the sand
of your wooden walls, floor, and
write between breaths. Look at
your muse, She is everywhere. She is the world,
Universe, Mother. O Mother, Wisdom, Chokmah,
choke into the darkness of knowing
and live your life before you’ve begun.
Bang a gong & return —

Return writing in the same stillness of Life,
and wait until you no longer need to think—
tameless voice is your calling, your rhythm
to ascension, the sacred descension to set you free,
where you play the drums (a metaphor for living)
and turn on YouTube, listen to Infinite on Screen
screaming in your face. Fathom Darkness,
you’re gone. Gone into the world of music, so
Listen to Vanilla Fudge perform Elanor Rigby
like in the World’s Eye. Because nobody’s free,
& you’re no longer hanging on.

 

[Go into a dream & title-aftermath/episodic memory…
Send a Facebook Messenger to a friend of what comes
afterward meditatively. Free flavor for everyone.
Let the taste be breathed, broken into
BANG (Vanilla Fudge) & have it be the
epigram/whatever for the combo piece in Step 3.]

 

MEDITATIVE INSERT

Pt. 1.
I am alive, naked fire,
digging extinction with emails & texts—

Modeh ani l’vanecha, melech chai v’kayam
shechezartabee nishmati b’chemla,
raba Emunatecha
Thank You, God, for keeping me sober yesterday.
Please keep me sober today.

I wipe the toilet bowl clean.
Silver, gold, petals of perception/perfection.

Pt. 2.
O, Bank of America,
I bow my head in sorrow,
absolve jazz-rock-pop
chillax climate climax thundra.
My belly rumbles, Perfection.
—Is this my resurrection
of choice?
–I am at last set free in
the voice,
as I bow my head,
buried in sand.
Books, ash – I bliss thee.

Pt. 3.
Send notes atop
your forehead.
“Your” is a state
of mine.
Landmines of descension.

Pt. 4.
The future is a gong
I bang.
Praise, o sheep lama,
Eye sockets surge
tea for the tillermen’s trees
backwards in the mirror
behind my body.
I bow my worried head.

I remember the vow of noise
and forget my image
in the darkness.

Where did you go
when there were great rates
surprisingly low showstopper,
advertisement highways,
attractive lands bonding bombs.
God rings through the trues
& the Pharisees
as Her neck wrings

Her infinite yardstick silence:
the powerful precision, pure sonic.

Solar Sinai is a holotropic therapy
speaks to me into city lights
elevators on the screen.

But I want sun,
click out the pillow you decay on
om, look at Silence, Her Rig
drunk onslaught slammed
by Villain Fudging all true,
lonely people——LISTEN
to G-d’s last nexus:

You are now landmines,
listening to music with me,
orificial dogma dream
I lived
dotted my eyes… . . .

Where does one sunshine go
when I’m nobody,
running ruins, away from a way
anyway to wayward existence,
glances in the mirror
of someone,
someone other than you…
other than me. . .

 

Step 3. Combine word-centos and meditative insert,
listening to Led Zeppelin,
How the West Was Won (all 3 discs) followed
by In Through the Out Door (full album).

 

LOST GALLERY (combo)

I am saved by the sounds of darkness,
forever blessed by the eternal enigmity
of Memorization Minutia
into the miasmatic kinesthetics of jubilee.

Lost Gallery, how your bombs write prayers of air, pause
pregnant moon-diamond’s silver suicide sky-slaving—
I learned water,
angels annihilating everyday bitter magic
in the mirror
when they were born free,
of honey-milk bondage.

I am alive, naked by the fire,
swirling breathless moans
against the promised sandstorm,
digging extinction with emails & texts—

Send notes atop you forehead.
“Yours” is a state of mine.
Lunatic landmines of descension, dancing deep
into sunspeak
always sailing away.

The future is a gong I bang.
Plastic eyes bulging for attention,
rapid images of still-life urging hope.

O, how the Fabric of Peace
breeds junkies.

Lost Gallery, your grave will fail you.
Eye sockets will surge restless con consciousness
clean cavity coyote-rage
with twice the weight of one beggar
backwards in the mirror
behind your body
sewing life shut,
hung cliché dreams indignantly
from the tree bridge of breaths, bubbles.
Books, ash – I bless thee.

Lost Gallery, with explosives new
before home hurricanes you into traffic,
self-searches to hold you screaming
between flesh,
between endings.

I bow my worried head,
thread through needles, napalm blinding
Light oozes pause.
Mother’s war against asking why
my brother and his kin
like the heat, napalm needles
& airwaves of blood.
O, Bank of America!

still screaming sinew, slogans, slaughter
my melting manna nomads numb,
newborns melting through luminous ice-womb treasures,
reality flights into sun.
Stare at newborns, terrorists so bright
before your eyes
fail you.

I remember the vow of noise
and forget my image
in the darkness.

Where did you go
when there were great rates rising surprisingly low
showstoppers, ticking into your veins the Lost Gallery:
forward allegory advertisement highways,
running different deities
attractive land bonding bombs, baptismal-blonde liquor
God rings through the trues
& the Pharisees
as Her neck wrings the world. Words swallow sadness, skim
one taste-flood tomb.
Waters into waters… for Egypt mules made impermanent.
Puncturing air, vacant crescendo cries—

Her infinite yardstick silence:
the powerful precision, pure sonic.
Music cuts, scats breath.
Be one with all trademarks.
Solar Sinai is a holotropic therapy,
which speaks to me city lights,
elevators on the screen.
To dream blood is to dream best.
But I want sun,
click out the pillow you decay on
om, look at Silence, Her Rig
drunk onslaught slammed
by Villain Fudging all true,
lonely people——LISTEN
to G-d’s last nexus:

Pray with your first & last Death.
Pray to the Dark Night of One-Clock,
with the perfect you—
the perfect rain of boozers,
perfect to ensure you know you’re lost,
digging extinction, exile, ebbs electricity of angry
emails & texts—
Beginnings moan, Goddess. . .
to the watches of freedom
outside of courage,
inside Her country.

You notice me foaming flesh, Down Freedom!
Down!

Stubborn, manic memories, –
tribes of memories,
everlasting perfect-stranger family
Outcasts lie wild near the fire
where I grew Pharaoh’s lands.
Praise, o sleep, lamas, camels,
children skittish saving bondage for God—
tillermen’s tea trees, inherent insects
written drunk,
digging extinction, digging your durable dirge—–
Earthmen breathing monuments of fragility,
growing through bitter TSA mockingbirds’
inner-child peroxide highways!

O, Lost Gallery of all things— you guns
perform away at my DNA doorstep! —
Bitter, rich souls slow the moment
with You’re welcome… . . .
Lost Gallery, pulsating paintings of prosperity, yourself,
one with Somebody –
for all angels awake abracadabra—

You are now landmine,
listening to music with me,
orificial dogma dream
I lived silver, gold, petals of perception/perfection –
I lived Scared/Sacred Canaan. I lived & died
better through bitterness
in wild sandstorms of existence,
dotted my eyes… . . .
Modeh ani l’vanecha, melech chai v’kayam
shechezartabee nishmati b’chemla,
raba Emunatecha
Where does one sunshine go
when you’re nobody,
searching along cosmic nobody-stars?
running ruins, away from a way
anyway to wayward existence,
across the paper pill patterns,
glances in the mirror
of someone,
someone other than you…
other than me. . .

Thank You, God, for keeping me, this body, sober yesterday.
Please keep it sober today,
clothed in Your words.

I wipe the toilet bowl clean,
bow my head in sorrow within flesh.
The Universe is flesh within flesh.
The promised oases absolve jazz-rock-pop, run
chillax climate climax.
My belly rumbles, Perfection.
—Is this my resurrection
of choice?
—Am I free at last s/in
the voice?
Yniverse glittering exhale, recites grace.
Myself merlot’d out, peace.
I bow my head,
buried in the sand,
splattered acceptance to purge the Swan from depression.
Books, ash – I bless thee.

 

Right side displays the word-centos. On the left is the meditative insert. Writing shows the ordering and inserting the one into the other. Yellow highlighted lines are lines not used in final piece. Yellow highlighted bracketed x’s – i.e., [x] – indicate the lines were indeed used after typing up this image. (Note: some of the yellow highlighted lines might not have corresponding highlighted [x]’s where there should be some.) The color of writing shows to which word-cento the words correspond. Coco word-cento is blue, Kashiana Singh is green, Larissa Shmailo black and Rich Ferguson red. Black writing in brackets indicates rearranged lines or rephrased from the meditative insert part.

 

Joshua Corwin, a Los Angeles native, is a neurodiverse, 2-time Pushcart Prize-nominated, 1-time Best of the Net-nominated poet and Spillwords Press Publication of the Month winner. His debut poetry collection Becoming Vulnerable (2020) details his experience with autism, addiction, sobriety and spirituality. He has lectured at UCLA, performed at the 2020 National Beat Poetry Festival and Mystic Boxing Commission Festival of Sound and Vision, read with 2013 US Presidential Inaugural Poet Richard Blanco, Michael C. Ford, S.A. Griffin, Ellyn Maybe, among others. His Beat poetry is to be anthologized alongside Ferlinghetti, Hirschman, Ford, Coleman and weiss late this year (Sparring Omnibus, Mystic Boxing Commission). He hosts the poetry podcast “Assiduous Dust,” writes the weekly Incentovise column for Oddball Magazine and teaches poetry to neurodiverse individuals and autistic addicts in recovery at The Miracle Project, an autism nonprofit. Corwin’s collaborative collection A Double Meaning, with David Dephy, is currently seeking publication. He also has forthcoming collaborative poetry projects with Ellyn Maybe including Ghosts Sing into the World’s Ear (Ghost Accordion series 1st Wave, Mystic Boxing Commission). Corwin is editing and compiling Assiduous Dust: Home of the OTSCP, Vol. 1 (forthcoming April 2021, TBD) featuring 36 award-winning poets, all demonstrating a new type of found poem (OTSCP) he invented.