Not only have people been begging us to be included in the Cyberbag, but recently, we've even received complaints from those who can't find their names immortalized in this historic incarnation of the legendary Bodybag. The reason for this has to do with the ever-increasing amount of submissions we're receiving down here at Corpse Headquarters, and of course, the Assistant Editor's natural inability to juggle and transcend his administrative duties. But at least the Bag is now up to 97.6% efficiency, which is up 6.4% from last issue, and a whopping 12.3% from the issue before that.

But on to some remarks about the Issue #9 Cyberbag, which is actually the Spring 2001 Bodybag, and a bawdy bodybag indeed. As the neighborhood nutria go into heat (the Corpse lives in cyberspace, but our actual location is on the cypressy edge of the Cajun swamps), as the gators awake from glumming in the mud all winter, as the azaleas burst into bloom and the larvae of mosquitoes are born into the envoys of encephalitis and Nile disease, we hear the groan of our springtime submitters like behemoths in rut--meaning that the submissions this time were more randy than usual. See for yourself (they get less lusty toward the bottom):
 

Youssef Alaoui writes:

I submit two water poems cause "april showers..." n all that; you know.
lotsa water falling and sexual urges: that is the stuff of this season.
ps i luv you and let's hump soon.


Ariana-Sophia Kartsonis tells us:

Ask me to wager so much
as an afternoon
on human kindness
& I'd ask that you be so kind
as to kiss
my sweet asphodel.
 

Frank Polite politely points out:

I have before me a photo of a lady
blowing a horse. The caption under it
reads, Lady Blowing a Horse, which
tells me I have not mistaken the scene.
For instance, she is not a veterin-
arian, naked from the waist up,
who, happening upon a hurt horse,
applies a healing salve to its penis.
 

Eric Jorgensen sends a pair of love poems:

If I were a woman

I would play with my titties until my
hands were numb. Actually, I would play
with them much longer than that, but I can't
think of a good metaphor for how long that would be.

If I were a rabid dog

I would fuck you. Foaming at the mouth,
I would fuck you.
 

Joseph Massey, cooking with Pam:

LUCID DREAM
for Pam

You realize the crowd surrounding you
is a little too interested in your clit
that's become a speaker
blaring Ave Maria.


From Joseph Aprile:

MODERN CONNECTIONS

Marie gave head to Edward who
banged Cynthia enthusiastically who
fondled Timothy's diminutive cock who
pressed hard into David's hairy buttocks who
ate Margaret's plentiful and wet pussy who
impaled herself on Henry's prodigious member who
loved the Lewis sisters with abandon who
both brought Marie to wondrously multiple orgasms.
 

And Stephen Paul:

Maxim

monogamy: merely a matter of mathematics
as one moiety of multitude be masculine?.. or
maybe millions of mortal mammals mate in a
misguided myth that martyrdom is the
measure for the misbehaving man.

moral: Why don't we just get drunk and screw?

 
Meanwhile Tasha P:

'Bang! You're Dead'
Afraid of flowers with eyes, ghosts,
& silence, you live with your mother,
wash your hands before each meal
in the evenings you hammer,
you hammer nails in the wall --
one for that girl who
scrubs beneath her breasts to
remove that familiar sour scent
one for your mother who
only speaks in tongues
one for your father who
put a bullet through his head --
(bang! you're dead).
 

Jesse Weiner's poem for Michelle:

produce section at waldbaum's, by
the avocados, I asked her, do these
feel right to you? she screamed
'I know what you're thinking!'

she grabbed two cantaloupes and held
them near her chest. they're the same
size as my breasts, feel them, are they ripe?
I did and she screamed, slapping me.
     ...
at the deli counter, as I ordered
a pound of marinated artichoke hearts,
she took a discarded number and
demanded immediate service.

serve me now! serve me now! let him go
to the bakery! look at his cart, notice
the cherry pop tarts in there. perverts
like him ruin shopping for the decent ones.
 

Debra Griffith's bladder would be gladder if it was fladder:

To love a ghost
the arms of the moon
and desire to return
join severed heads floating in the ocean.
Nerves tendons sinew bloody strings
hanging down like tentacles
of luminous jellyfish.
Piss is the best way to stop the sting
but for now
I'm going to hold it.
 
Lisa Ann Smith sticks her nose where the sun don't shine (and no one objects):

Most Gracious Editor Gods and Goddesses (cheap flattery has got to get me
somewhere with someone)--
      Ok, so I waited for what seemed like a fucking decade for issue #8, and low and behold I made it to the primordial swamp of the body bag! Hey I'm not complaining, I'm comfortable in the company of bagged corpses...you should see some of the old hag brokers I have to schlep for. Anyway I digress, and I'm giving it another go, because what the hell, you guys kick ass either way. That was sincere that time man...swear to god.
Danke shoen babies...

 
Erik J. Rader:

opprobrium
      convolution
septicemia
     to the point
           of fibrillation
      febrile
           a february of bile.
 
 
Das Final Coupé/Send Again
Alistair McHarg, Gadi Dechter (a little sentimental but tight), Melissa Walker (kinda seems too true w/all that detail important to the narrator slowing it down when it wants to get going), Daniel Cubias, Damian Mosley, Brian Beatty, Bryon Nicoson (interesting hypermegamethajuxtaposition butt: the "eyes" don't have it), Anthony, Joseph Siroker, K.S. Moffat, James Liu, Carol Maric, Briggs Seekins, Jim Gage, Subinscison (you didn't include your name on your email or in your work, which we hovered above a bit; what turned us off was your scatological title and your fill in the blanks, but we liked the arc of the rest of the equation so send again, and in a form that's easier to read), Craig Cochran, Steven M. Wheat, Karl E. Birmelin, David Willems, Daniel J. Cunningham, Thomas Gianakopoulos, Jann Burner, Danielle Pafunda, Tracy Kirk (sorry--get it?), Kurt Hopkins, Darby McDevitt, Jeffery Bahr, Martha Bridegam, Gadi Dechter, Miranda Nell, Robert C. Belyk, Robert Castle (weird stuff), Jay Miner, Edward Wright, Peter Markus, Bibio L'Teca, David Chorlton, John Dooley, Suzanne Frischkorn, Jeffrey Dalton, Michael Lombardo, Peter Cole.


Nope on a Rope but Maybe on the Morrow
The Conductor, Trevor Dodge, Christopher Mulrooney, Fred Moramarco, Ry Kincaid, Rob Kozlowski, Rachel Arretteig, Gary Sloan, Matthew Wayland, Pereira Irving Paul, Lawrence Carradini, Jo Neace Krause (some dark stuff), Patrice Melnick, Rob Thurston, Dan Wils (we warely wime), Michael Farrell, Gary F. Edwards, Tom Snee, Ryan Smart, Gerald Piosenka (not a waste, keep on trucking), Steve Maloney, Steven J. Stewart, Dick McCabe Jr., KRS Murthy, Mathew Wayland, Gerv- Drem-, Robert Crowe, Bob Slaymaker, David Walbridge, Dr. Rich Logsdon, Jason Gurley, Anthony Dowler, S. D., Zack Finch, Paul Laforest, Carter Monroe, Carolyn Conger, Kevin Fread, John Wesley Kilpatrick, J. Wallenstein, Matthew Rogers, J. Kevin Wolfe (Get a job), Jeff Giberson, Jeffrey Dalton, Dan Cady (yes, we do; and yes, we are), Jude Richards, Michael Tetievski, Ann Tweedy, Weston Ochse, Kent MacCarter (it's "hors d'oeuvres," not "hors du vours," Mr. fancy-talker), James Winslow, Adam Snow, Mark St. George, Tom Cervasio (interesting & surreal but not for us; avec regrets), D.T. Harris, John Marran (some tense problems at beginning), Sacha Calagopi, Clay Garside, Jeremy Simon, Debi Dodson, O. B. Joyful, David Lombard Harrison, John G. Gorman, C.L. Liedekev, Drew Giorgi, Sandra Calemine, Brian Nerney, Claudette Cohen (we love to hear about fish, but not from the first person), Stephen Ersinghaus, Mark Armacost, C.W. Cannon, Jennifer Wilks, Grace Full, Susannah Indigo, S.L. Stinnett, Em Franco (hey, are you named after a long hyphen?), Rob Getzschman, Jeff Wood, Adam Cline, Chris Mansel, D. Bradley Williams, Danielle LaVaque-Manty, Jamie Wasserman, Joseph Petersen, Colin Dickey, Tom James, Jesse Rounds, Kate Lutzner, Michael Diamond, D.N.Blodgett, Eric Uys, Laird Barron, Wayne H.W Wolfson, Sabina Becker (more fiction! we gotta have it!), Jan Wellington, Ray Cook, Michael Hansen, Mike Moran, Catherine Daly, Erin Elizabeth, Caren Gussoff, Karen McElrea, MC Harper, Raymond R.J. Saint-Pierre (here's a guy who sends a cover letter that looks like an acceptance letter), Burke Richardson, R.M. Englehardt, Scott Withiam, Lisa Martinovic (hmmmm...), Dan Carpenter, Michael Greene, Jamie Parrish, Sreya Bremtin, John Wingspread Howell, Maralyn Lois Polak, Ronald Donn, Tessa Dratt, Maralyn Lois Polak, W. A. Smith, Patrick Welch, Ayan Bhattacharya, Rob Thurston, Douglas Light, Bob Stephenson, Mary M. McCurnin, Kari Edward, M.D. Tschaepe, E.S. Barmack, D. Harlan Wilson, Eric Curkendall, Bryan Sentes, Amy Stuber, Felicity Snyder (you are a pregnant nudist), John Cotter, Kris Saknussemm, David E. Patton, Will Burnette, Charles Silver, Andrew Johnson.


Shite List
Lawrence Uedermeier.
 

Stuff Received
River City, vol. 20, no. 2. The Drag Issue!! ooooo...

Oyster Boy Review 11 & 12. Looks like some good stuff: James Broughton's last High Ku Ku (not to mention a double-submitted poem by same, right before he died, which Corpse published as well (see cover OB 11)) and snazzy sounding poetry titles, ie: "Bio: Black Baptist/Bastard" by George Eliot Clarke, "Twenty-four Top Places to Fuck, By Dr. Seuss," etc.

The Women's Review of Books, Jan & Feb 2001. We put these up in the lobby.

Clamor, December00/JanuaryO1. Funny cover of two screaming black kids on a white Santa's lap. This "loud and continued uproar of many human voices" exudes a bucketful of political/polemical tude. We like.

PEW Fellowships in the Arts catalogue. We put this in the lobby too.

American Book Review, Jan/Feb & March/April 2000. ditto.

Colorado Review, Fall/Winter 2000.

American Poetry Review, March/April 2001. Ibid.

I Travel Light, by Doris Edmund McGehee, Papercraft Printing & Design, Charlottesville, Va. Sometimes it's better to pack just a little bit more.

So Much for Paradise, by Jack Phillips Lowe. MuscleHead Press. Send check for $3 to John Berbrich, 3700 County Route 24, Russell, NY. 13684. This kid's got a lot of energy. Some really good poems in here about freeway stalking and disdain for authority.

Pavement Saw #5. Includes work by Skip Fox, Virgil Suarez, Simon Perchik and more. Nice mix of experi(mental) and postmod verse. Thoughtful stuff.

Select Things, by Robert Vas Dias. Backwoods Broadsides Chaplet Series no. 56. Anything that includes the subject of a junky car gets a thumbs up from this ed., unless it's a piece-a-crap Ford.

Intentions, by Manoel Antonio, John Burns and Maria Do Cebreiro. Backwoods Broadsides Chaplet Series no. 57. Bilingual traduciannos de la varietie das skizoreal joli, ie:

      When my bed get empty make me feel mean and blue
      My frame's agettin rusty sleepin single like I do.
      Therefore i muse about lizard brand soap on occasion,
      about what must come, my mom...
      like this shh, shh i scrub the dishes, shh, shh

Poetry Project Newsletter, Feb/March, no. 183. Interviews, articles, letters, reviews, cartoons, ads.

Before New York and Will Ball, two novels by Charles Wehrenberg, Solo Zone, San Francisco. These are spiffy-looking "new-technology" books. Back cover of Will Ball reads: "She is rich and famous. And she is very beautiful. Why shouldn't Barbara Wing, self-made millionaire and World Champion of Will Ball, make a baby with Name Brand Sperm? Who needs a man? Not that she really cares what others think. She goes for it, and continues as Top Gun in the Natural Selection Games with nineteen kills to her name by the time her son Herman enters the competition."

Rebus Umor Paradoxism, by Gheorghe Niculescu, Alfa Press, Romania. I can't tell what the guy is saying but Andrei can.

Prin Albe Si Clasice Epii Tarzii, by Gheorghe Niculescu, Casa de Presa, Romania.

The Train to Port Arthur and Other Stories, by L.M. Young, Peony Press, NC.
South Central Review, winter 2000. Criticism.

Bad Luck, by Mike Topp. Low-Tech Press, NYC. This is a handsome little letter-pressed mofo reflecting the humor and wisdom of someone whose name spelled backwards is essentially "poet."

Familia, nr. 11-12. Noiembrie- Decembrie 2000. A Romanian lit mag sent to us with work in it by Barry Spacks, Dana Ranga, Denise Duhamel, Amalio Madueno and Richard McNally translated into Romanian. These are Corpse writers we cannot find. If anyone knows any of their addresses, please tell us so we can forward contributor copies to them.

The Republic of Burma Shave, by Richard Katrovas. Carnegie Mellon University Press.

What's Come Over You? by Marian Thurm. Delphiium Books. Uncorrected excerpts. Some sort of a galley.

Foreigners, by Joe Martin. Hi Jinx Press, Davis, Cally.

Parabola: Shorter Fictions, by Joe Martin. Asylum Arts, Paradise, Ca.

Women's Tales from the New Mexico WPA, Tey Diana Rebolledo and Maria Teresa Marquez, eds. Arte Publico Press, Houston.

Ankiza, by Gloria Velasquez. Pinata Books, Houston.

Collected Poems, 1952-2000, by Richard Murphy. Wake Forest University Press.

The Jewish Confederates, by Robert N. Rosen. University of South Carolina Press, Columbia. Oi Vay, here come the Yankees!

To Loot My Life Clean: The Thomas Wolfe-Maxwell Perkins Correspondence, Matthew J. Brouccoli and Park Bucker, eds. University of South Carolina Press, Columbia.

liberté, #251. Big old carp on cover!

Rimbaud: A Biography, by Graham Robb. Norton, NY. This book purports to be novel in that it joins together the two halves of Rimbaud's life (before & apres Abyssinia), as if this is something new to do; something that hasn't been the biographical trend for the last 20 years. On top of this, this book dramatizes and spectacularizes Rimbaud as a "breaker of all taboos," a "gay pioneer," and posthumous "Beat poet" and "rock lyricist." This is stuff that bends the facts a bit too much. Contrary to what the book jacket claims, Rimbaud's list of crimes is not longer than his list of published poems; he did not break ALL taboos; whether or not he was gay while pioneering the African frontier is debatable and unproven (and Robb certainly makes no attempt to investigate this in his sposedly objective biography); and Rimbaud was certainly not a beat rocker in any incarnation, since he preceded these fads. Robb also pictures Rimbaud as a successful & wealthy entrepeneur, which he was not; he was ultimately a failure as a businessman. Robb then skips a whole lotta information during Rimbaud's time in Africa (ie, Rimbaud goes to Africa, runs some guns, and is suddenly on his deathbed); his whole trip to Egypt isn't even mentioned, nor his second great piece of post-Paris prose which was written to a Cairo newspaper and published during his lifetime. Robb is also foolish enough to bring up one of Rimbaud's Abyssinian maids then make nothing of their relationship when all the other recent biographies will tell you that Rimbaud had a significant heterosexual relationship while MIA, and maybe two (these women might have even been his wives). All in all, this is a sloppy work of scholarship. Save your money and buy a sandwich instead.
     

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