Joe Milazzo is co-founder of the interdisciplinary arts organization Strophe, co-editor of the online journal [out of nothing], Assistant Managing Editor of Black Clock, proprietor of Imipolex Press, and Director of Community Education & Outreach at The Writer's Garret, a full service non-profit literary center in Dallas. His writings have appeared in HTMLGiant, Antennae, Drunken Boat, H_NGM_N, Black Clock, and elsewhere, as well as the anthologies Chronometry and Conversations at the Wartime Cafe: a Decade of War 2001-2011. His The Terraces (Das Arquibancadas) will be published later this year as part of the Little Red Leaves Textile Series.
All in pomade, all in the grainy sweetness of a late morning's pear, all in the next hour's opiates, all in negotiations finalized over fish with rice, all in the spectrum of integers caged in columns, all in dash-dot and perforations, all in the glide of wireless propagations, all in spectacles redly ecstatic, all in a dry kiss perfumed with a caipirinha, all in taffeta and imported pigskin, all in flimsy wagers that won't open any reprieve to the enlisted man, all in defeat's luxury appointments, all in anecdotes curdled into aphorisms, all is unified in an encompassed life.
OK, stormy remnant. Who brings milk to a star party? The astronomer takes his laser pointer and bends a wry flamenco across the dark. I'm at the end of my neck. I can't see one bean or jaunt of light. "I don't care." I don't think its wrong, but I can hold all of you except your eyes. Saturn may be a halo's paint; the long way to Venus is queued altogether wrong. This abrupt brisk feels citrus. Only the earth rounds under the different weathers. Hug me back, "You are here." There's no dot can accommodate such a stance.