Self-suspended sacrifice to the cause, the well lived and well hanged man. That's what initially comes to mind when I think of Ken Warren.

This review of Mexican poet Gabriel Magana Merlo insists on the translator's art, which is an overdue perspective. The review itself is quite mysterious (or maybe too brief) to let us in on  why a reader of poetry might find a line arrangement "goofy," or how exactly the great Jill Levine "collaborated" with Merlo, but these are questions that might be elucidated in future communiques. Should these occur, we would also like to know what" hand-grenades," "canyons," and "fresh paint" are doing in there (especially "hand-grenades of meaning," which is something the Corpse editors duck constantly.)

The Romanians, Englished by Adam Sorkin's skilled keyboard, keep taking America by storm. Reviews by Peter Thompson.

EXTRA! EXTRA!

A pathogen in this context is both an organism and a meme, always the other guy’s. Infection with memic thought disorder fractures the family, as it often does, along religious lines.

for Shirley Hill

The Berlitz phrase book meant to throw a linguistic bridge between two tongues is an otiose item in my hip pocket, and any attempts I make to crunch and grind the appropriate phrases in their English pronunciation are met with confusion, snickers, or derision.

Gamoneda is a witness to the devastation of living.

Crossing Borders: Poems by Steve Kowit, Drawings and Watercolors by Lenny Silverberg, Spuyten Duyvil 2010

    
His name was Charles E. Bowles (Boles), aka Black Bart, the Po-8.  He’d robbed a stage just down the road in Duncan’s Mills.  My imagination did the rest.  What started out as a lark cum hoax soon blossomed (the alluvial plain around here is quite fertile) into a gigantic (albeit imaginary) enterprise that would include tee-shirts (black, of course), buttons (“the only good poet is a dead poet”), Bumper stickers (“The Black Bart Poetry Society, for those who think poetry is a crime”), ball caps, a reading series, a heuristic Black Bart Poetry University, and so on.  One might reassemble that old saw to say “it only takes an idiot to think a village”.  The newsletter came later.  And none of the foregoing and potentially money making ideas ever got off the ground.

John-Ivan Palmer’s novel, Motels of Burning Madness, Confessions of a Male Stripper, has just been released by The Drill Press. Palmer, a stage hypnotist, has been an odd figure in the literary world, publishing fiction, poetry, essays, interviews, and literary criticism often perceived as performances in the Devil’s Theater. But his approach is that of a pilgrim seeking salvation in self-discovery. He has just completed his latest non-fiction work, Wild Ruins of the Waking Sleep, Experiences in Stage Hypnotism, parts of which have appeared in this and other publications. The interview that follows took place on New Year’s Eve, with Palmer by cell phone en route to a night club engagement and Bradley in Japan.