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spring 2012



featuring the art of Bill Rogers

Henry's Dream: taken from R.A. Lafferty's Archipelago
spring 2012
Henry dreamed that night, as he knew he would, and of a boat. The name of the boat was the Navicula Petri. It looked like a Galleon, and yet it was quite other. There were many pennants and flags flying from it.
In hoc signo vinces, said one of them. And there was another in the looping handwriting of Finnegan, the left hand of Finnegan for he wrote left-handed half the time: Nisi esses sollicitus--, and then the Latin was scratched out and it was Englished boldy: If you can't be careful, be good.
Ubicumque fuerit corpus illic congregabuntur et aquilas, said another, and it was an echo of the high motto of The Dirty Five. And then there were three banners in a series that read: Tu es Petrus, and Portae inferi non prevalebunt, and tibi dabo claves regni.
There were various devices. There was a Lamb, and a Greek Cross. There was a Fish, and a Six-Pointed Star. "I always assumed it would be five-pointed," said Henry, "but I don't know why I thought so."
There was a woman , and a Serpent, and a Crescent Moon. "If I were making the little boat," said Henry,"I would consolidate the symbols for neatness."
It was hard to discern whether this was a toy boat, or a real boat afar off. Part of it was plainly more real even than the prosaic world, and part of it was drawn in with child's crayola. The seamen may have been dolls, or they may have been alive. There were the Apostles; and Stephen and Paul and the Baptist; Linus and Clement and Cletus. There were Barbara and Catherine, looking like sea-urchins, there were Gregory and Constantine. Jerome and Augustine glared at each other over a davit. Francis and Anthony were there, Thomas and Patrick, Hildebrand and Adrian the Dutchman. The Theresas, French and Spanish; and Joan and Xavier.
"It is odd that I know them," said Henry, "for I never saw them before. But that is who they are."
The boat was in trouble, and it gained in verisimilitude as the waves rose and the wind blew. It was a real ship and it was badly tossed, et descendit procella venti in stagnum, et complebantur et periclitabantur, and the account seemed to be translated for Henry into his own tongue like the sub-script of a foreign language movie, un tourbillon fondit sur le lac La Barque se replissait d'eau--
"Never mind," Henry told the dream. "I recognized the passage. I always preferred the Vulgate to the French."
There was salt in the spray. Was the Sea of Genesarat salty? Or was this bigger boat on a larger sea?
And now Henry first noticed the shattered and broken masts. There were many masts once, and the boat must have flown like a great white castle; but now they were splintered and down. There was Albion of the White Cliffs where Apostasy is foretold in the Apocalypse. There was Moscovy which was Third Rome. There was Gaul itself. And others were betopped and tottering.
A multitude was watching the boat, and almost any one of it could have reached out a hand and helped. But the people believed it was only a toy boat, as Henry at first had believed. They did not know that it was real and was about to go down: and that if it went down, the whole world would go down with it.
But Henry the Frenchman from the swamps knew that it was real and that he was involved with it. He also knew that it was the same ship as the Argo on which he already sailed, but that the quest had been sanctified during these last short millennia.
And he realized, before he awoke, that this was his Vocation; and that, whether he accepted it or not, it had come down to him.

~from Archipelago by R.A. Lafferty, Chapter 2 Part 4

Swamp Thoughts
spring 2012

If I had to create a soundtrack for Boomer Flats, this would be a good first pick.

Blue Scarf Girl
spring 2012
Dumb smile hoodie
Sits on her cheap wooden coffin
A goddess on the back of a tiger
Made of bent hangers and old magazines?
Two pairs of pants
Two shirts and two jackets
Hers is the July of winks and old coffee
Silently she breaks all the spines
Like de-veining shrimp
She curls up Exodus
Like a sea of reeds
And cuts down hairy and clawed old kings
With her grimy fingertips and bit nails
She bends back poor Saint Jude
Jesus' poor, mostly unknown cousin
Always stripped of his green kirtle and happy little picture
She promptly transfigures herself
Into her rap star avatar
With her right cheek twisted up just so
And her garland of lipstick stained hotlids
A blue bandana rhyming dictionary
One-woman variety show
Camped out forever
At big breakfast bus stops
Biting off the heads of sweaty apostles
Spitting them under the highchairs
And planting them in the Linux section
Mumbling on about influential Austrian families
She has never met and never will meet
And like many local gods these days
Summoning herself in a mirror forever

Gorilla Kid
spring 2012
Absent-primate meltdown
Red-faced and winded
Slams down winter jacket
In maniac spiralation
Between fractional sums
And rock candy dioramas
Yes we have no gorillas
Yes we have no orangutans
Yes there are no large non-human primates here
We chased off Pan trogoldytes
And banished Pan paniscus
And joyfully forced the migrations
Of weird sharks, old pro wrestlers,
Bitter essayists, faddish geomancers
And the cutest of all cute penguins

Pajama Girl
spring 2012
Spongy juggernauts on a field of pink
Marking all points
All the medians and joints
Of her soap-smelling frame
Painted-on power-of-thank-you deathwatch
Arching over complicated forced arrangements
Planning her escape
From the undead and capitalists
From reason in the name of reason
From health in the name of health
From thought in the name of knowledge
From words in the name of freedom
Yet, all the while
These unknown sigils
Connect her vital nodes
To the aetheric virtues

Banana/Salt Cookies
spring 2012

Ingredients: 2 bananas, 1 tablespoon sea salt, 1/4 stick grass-fed butter, cinnamon, honey (optional, not too much), 1/2 cup coconut flour, pinch of baking soda

Bake : Any cookie sheet or pizza pan will do. No need to grease it as the butter wild the trick. 20 minutes-ish on 350. Let cool. Will be soft.

They taste like salty banana bread. Enjoy.


I just created this recipe as a way to promote healthier snacking at home. No need to buy cookies when you can make healthier ones so quickly and easily.

spring 2012

by: Bill Rogers

I will send him, Johnny said, I will send my brute flying, floating like a silent cage, down, past the dark, goblin waters of Skookham, zig-zagging across and hovering over that reasonable Lake Skatchkam, down to the very window where he has always found you. Your north window that does not exist on your own floor plan or even on the outside north wall of your home. In fact there is no north wall but an adjacent apartment. That window. Oh how I see you when you don't know I'm there. How would we even begin to explain how that window continues to stand there though it persists in not existing? This had to have happened through an odd mechanics, and I am about that. So I'm sending him now, I'm sending him rapidly yet sylph-like. I made him from a pair of old cherry red fenders, some glitter, sand, grease, old turkey feathers and a handful of water taken from the Skookham during moonlight. Not quite golem and no wooden witch, he simply shows me things. He's more tool than ghoul. But for now I'm sending my Mallone your way to see if he can find the window once more.

I don't know how the Mallone keeps peeking in my window but believe me, your first sight of him will take the wind out of you, even if you suppose yourself prepared. Although I've grown more used to his visits I'm still not always braced for his arrival. I've seen him many times and, for all that, I've never located the window on the outside of my house. Johnny must know something. Or maybe he's just as baffled. I live in small apartment just a pinch southwest of Lunchbox Point. This is where all the local myths of Mr. Insul begin. You haven't heard of Insul you say?! Well, one day one of the skinniest men, about seven feet tall, walked to the southwest point of Lake Saggett and pronounced the following: After years of searching for a proper mensa domini, I've decided to go into hibernation until something like one is discovered. Wake me please if ever one is found. At this he collapsed into the form of a platypus and crawled into a plastic lunchbox that he had been carrying, leaving behind his tennis shoes, some old brown pants, a white shirt and his pale blue windbreaker. This transformation was a matter of fact for some and a seed of myth for others but for those of sane mind it was a both/and proposition. And among those there are some who say that the lunchbox had even been popped into the Green Zipper, which was new at the time. The locus of his transformation eventually became known as Lunchbox Point and remains commemorated by a now weathered plaque.

If you look at the lakes themselves you can see an overlay of the surrounding townsfolk. The Skatchkam is a perfect picture of the reasonable north Saggetteers. The clear still waters are almost never violated by alien forces and maintain themselves without much intervention by the locals. However, they move very little and mete out a kind of slow grayish tone over the township. Skookham, a few miles to the north is quite another story. If there were ever a vodnik or kappa to avoid, he would surely be happily installed beneath its foggy banks somewhere in its muddy bottoms. With both Skatchkam and Skookham there is the shared deficiency of being landlocked. This isn't to discount the normal principles of healthy lakes. Still, the southern lake is mostly reasonable, that is acceptable -- should we urge, tame. And that to the north, sublime and goblinate. Lake Saggett on the other hand was the 'bay lake' and was known to have hosted sharks now and again. Once when I was swimming along the western edge of the lake, swimming backward toward Lunchbox Point, I spied one just to my left about five yards away. This had to be something between a Tiger Shark and a Great White. Only his head was cocked back in almost permanent cartoon laughter and he was wearing a complete suit and tie and appearing upright. His trousers were simply a reverse cone, a tube all the way down to his tail upon which he was walking down the stairs that ran along side the seawall on the west side of the lake. This was a businessman shark. Now there are land sharks and there are card sharks. Both are to be avoided. But if you see one of these, wearing a full suit, top hat and tie, you are encountering a powerful clown-like entity that can put the flip flop to any system. If you need a quick reversal or have a challenging query these are the guys to call. But I can't promise that they don't get nippy, so be very careful when talking to one of them.

Johnny Walker was a striking sight, strutting here and there in his glowing red and yellow striped pants. He was sort of a cross between Sam Weller and a vintage neon Howard Johnson's sign. Not quite the fella you'd suppose would be creating a wildman in his garage, or wherever he had done it. He found the old car parts at a local junk yard and mixed in the other elements and out came his Mallone. The Mallone was an odd pericope to be sure. In his final version he had none of the hardness of the fender, but in his sheer hairiness bore all the dazzle of the metallic cherry red paint. He stood about nine feet tall but he could also transform into something that looked like an upside-down laundry basket, but red and with eyes. In this form he could float net-like over the streets and houses like some forgotten but moonlit jellyfish. The Mallone could follow you home and you'd never know, but if he slapped on the wall behind your bed as you slept you would not forget it for a very, very long time. Johnny wasn't trying to provoke fear though, and the approach of the brute was unusually benevolent, almost custodial.

I had been trying to send Johnny messages for years. I used to send smoke signals across Lake Saggett or just over the Terraces, but I'd never get a response. Sometimes I might go at the wee hours to a part of town he was known to frequent, and though I'd be right next to him he wouldn't see me. I've even walked with him before and had whole conversations that he did not remember at a successive meeting. I'm not sure why he never remembers. But I recently sent a thought out to one of the sharks about it. So we'll see what comes of that.

One day Lucy Lymon was out writing on a sidewalk with an audacious piece of chalk. She was listing in outline form all the points and sub-points she could about why the myths of Mr. Insul were unreliable and why they should not be believed. I spied Johnny in the crowd, but preferred to interact with him from a distance. I sometimes wonder if I talk to him through the Mallone without knowing it. At any rate, there she was, tearing apart the platypoid mystery and there was Johnny, like a smart little Aquinas, rebutting all her points with clever questions. She just couldn't bear that such a tall tale had ever wandered the banks of Lake Saggett and that he had become a monotreme and then scurried into a lunchpail. Likewise she could not stomach the idea that he was now continually resting under an impossible bridge that would reveal the humility of all who drove upon it. Her Skatchkam sensibilities were triggered by such tomfoolery and she was going to spread her reasoning any way she could. How could he possibly be laying there, she thought, like Merlin all these years? I'm sure if Lucy ever tried to drive on the Green Zipper (which she wouldn't) her car would fall right into the drink. Johnny knew that too. I liked his tenacity by the way, as he prodded her with his various points of view. I don't know what he actually thought of Insul, but I know that he had more room for the local lore than he did for Lucy's clever little sack of unbelief.

The Green Zipper is a mathematical curiosity that exists at the southeastern side of Lake Saggett. It spans the river which connects the lake to the bay. Most of the people who live near Lake Skatchkam don't use this bridge since they doubt that their cars will hold to it and because they doubt that it also contains the resting form of Insul. All the while, people around Lake Saggett and some from around Skookham drive on it daily and trust it without a second thought. It's a modest bridge made of sturdy green origami paper. The creases are obvious and the cars have to travel almost sideways near the center of the bridge, only to flatten back out near the ends. It is said that Mr. Insul lies inside that bridge, that he is still in his platypoid guise and still waiting inside his lunchbox for someone to awaken him if the time is ever right. And it is speculated that such a bridge, containing Mr. Insul is an example in advance of the mensa for which he searched.

Oh yes, the next time I find one of those businessman sharks I'm going to ask it about Mr. Insul and the Green Zipper or maybe about the impossible window that the Mallone keeps using for his peekaboo sessions. In the meantime I'll continue my silent chuckle when the Mallone slaps on my bedroom wall and startles me and I'll keep in touch with Johnny Walker through my various oblique means.
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The Poems of Bill Rogers
spring 2012
The Poems of Bill Rogers

The Abominable Luncheon Of Gabriel Ravenchild

arial 14

as yet unnamed

Blue Medicine

Blue Scarf Girl


The Dragonfly Mailmen

The Face In The Book

February Into March

Gorilla Kid

The Green Morning

Knock! Knock!

The Loose Spook

uma lua falsa

Mari Lwyd Night

Martinmas Week


Observations On The Knobbed Hornbill

Pajama Girl

Pancake Tuesday

Piebald Narrative


The Quince


Taser Man

This Is The Sound Of My Mother

Three For Fun

Tree Blind

Twelfth Night

under the toe

The Vanishing Reindeer-People

Windswept Swann & Studious
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under the toe
spring 2012

under the toe

He was mad running and falling out
There was no way to contain
The radiant armies would not stop marching
Under his smooth yet trembling chest
Under the toe of a deer that hung upon it
And the still stream pushing
Up in him,
In between him,
That cavity pushed out by growing rusty bars
That giant ontological steel pole
A Snakebird sitting in the sun
A dead tire scraped down Buffalo
This history could never be written
There were too many branching roads
But the man looked at his chest
And could see the shaking pads of dirt
The mosses, the hoof-scraped roots
The bark violated, in an appropriate manner
There were no trees here, only a forest, there was no silicon here, only a forest
There was no interaction here, only sadness, there was no despair here only joy
There was a system of eighteen hundred steel poles pushing
Pushing on his tiny litte ribcage and gently, purposely breaking him

Bill Rogers

spring 2012
Dream Of The Seth Muse


Vibe here, where every space, simultaneously and with ring-like projections, ties it all forward.
Deeper present: precise as the iron, particular and well formed.
Whale father could come into the world
Bending cactus light into this wall of discarded things.

Your Seth Muse connected invisible assistance to sandy desire.
Mayme represents the refusal.
Do not walk along sanctioned paths.
The undealt with overall advent.
See it like the clerk.

The hermetic key forms in dark flat sections, able to negotiate this inner fort.
Forest type threshold blossoms into [moist box spring].
Inside the belly of the numinous, treemaker plants the world.

Bill Rogers
March 31, 2011