we are on vacation

for a while…

but we will return someday.

apologies if there is little response from the Hunters.

Three Elephant Orchestrals, by Quilt

listen to: Disco Music For Trees

and (fictitious white): Elephant’s Tusk II

and then: Three (Untitled)

All three tracks are great, and from an upcoming release.

Quilt is from Boston and is performing around New England in August.

…

listen/learn more at Quilt’s: myspace

Soul-stealers, by Alex Seitz-Wald

…

see more photos from Alex: here

Field Notes, by Erin Gallery

“Rooms by the Sea, 1951″

This time I’m not going to say a thing

about Blue. It isn’t the logging days,

its centuries after. No dogs tracking out

in the bark-scatter and dust. Pilings stand still

in the lake, waiting to be docked. In New York,

John is at his desk blank words ticking by, and even

money has a seating chart these days.

In the slums of Florida, Hemingway kept

a cellar full of first editions, let them

rot of their own accord. Maybe roaches loved them,

made nests curled up and read. “Start at page one

and write like a son of a bitch” was not something

Hemingway said, it was Harrison

blind in one eye, Indian in the other

but hey, he’s not shot-gun prone

at least.  My father cried when I lost

a tooth. Do not spend a lot of time crying

over lost teeth that aren’t yours, is the mantra. But

I loved him for it, sunk down on linoleum tragedy

in the bric-a-brac and Pine Sol of modern-day.

There are asteroid tumors in the universe

of the brain which start large, shatter into smaller

fragments, spread slowly out. When scanned,

they glow like fireflies in glue. Vanessa told me this

in the waiting room, all its magazines

dirty with staph. One Hopper we saw

opens on sea, no steps down

just water and the doorframe. It’s a surprise

the room doesn’t flood during storms.

…

for another Field Note by Erin…

Soul-stealers, by Gustav Gustafsson

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see more of Gustav’s work: here

Bodies, by John Campbell

When I sit in my room & the stars burn themselves out
& the celestial collides with the celestial somewhere
outside my window, I am reminded every time,

of how, at age two, Picasso learned to draw churches.
How they were shaped like breasts. How he made them
reach for heaven the same way Pavlov taught his dog

to love something that wasn’t there. Yearning.
That they never called it. But Ursa Major/Minor
call to each other & I never hear them right anyway

like once at a bar when a friend said look at them dancing there
as Zeppelin came on and I heard look at them dancing bears,
which caused, instead of a looking up, a half-thought

Soul-Stealers, by James Mcloughlin

I.

II.

III.

…

see more of James’ soul-stealers: here

read his blog: here

Thanks a Lot, Margaret Mitchell, by Amanda Halkiotis

I have never been on a motorcycle but I think my hair would look damn fine flying straight out behind me while cruising down a highway.

Red wine makes my skin blotchy but I drink it anyway.

I will marry the man who teaches me how to drive a stick shift. Uphill.

I have fallen in love with more fictional characters than any number of real men.

In the winter I wear a men’s wool fedora and men’s brown leather driving gloves. It makes me feel a very vintage sort of sexy.

My hair on the whole gives me an unprofessional look but I refuse to straighten it or thin it out.

I have only seen suns rising, never setting, over an infinite ocean.

I love mixing indulgent fabrics for outfits. Like corduroy and velvet.

I don’t know what to say when someone compliments my hair.

On summer weekends I go to the park and pretend to read. I just

Soul-stealers, by Gregory

“Everything Falls Apart”

“Not Awake Until It’s Dark”

“Curtain”

“Cold Ways”

…

see more of Gregory’s work: here

Hand-mades, by Rachelle Cohen

“Land of Greener Grasses”

“Policy of Neutrality”

“Forgotten Map”

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see more of Rachelle: here

Field Note, by M M Greco

I spent yesterday alone

With John Coltrane.

The sky was a blank canvas,

Low and sad after the rain.

He was the only company I could bear.

 

His horn’s air blew through me-

Filled the space under my skin;

A sheet-of-sound wetsuit.

He searched and I followed.

He wept and I listened.

He floated away devotedly,

Losing me as the bass rumbled.

 

A Love Supreme ended

For the third time

And I’d yet to find God

As he’d intended.

Though there was something else,

 

Because today,

On stairways,

Streets,

Coffee shops, and

Sidewalks,

I am unable to look them in

The eyes.

Soul-stealers, by Jaime Martínez

I.

II.

III.

IV.

…

see more of Jaime’s work: here

Hand-mades, by Jackie Lehmann

“Meadowlark”

“Accord-o-writer”

“Page 35″ (from journal project)

“Hey Pigeon”

…

see more of Jackie’s stuff: here

Soul-stealers, by Megan Charland

“Barn”

“Bridge”

“Cornfields”

…

more from this series: “Constructed Landscapes”

…

& more of Megan’s soul-stealers: here

Poem for Charles Bannan, by William Nash

His old folded-in house comes riding over the hill,

humming its red soil song, and the ghost of Charles,

 

the last man lynched in the county, is on the porch

with a banjo hanging on him, all smiles, and singing

 

some god awful rhyming song he wrote in prison.

The chorus is his being oh so lonely but not so sorry

 

for killing the whole Haven family of six last winter,

and in their own barn. It was Jim Haven, the father, 

 

who took it all from poor Charles: the farm, the money

and then Mrs. Bannan. But the men in their ripped black

 

stocking masks are waiting at the bottom of the hill with their

caravan of one hundred wagons and one hundred wives

 

and four times that many children, at least. And the coward

up front is holding that goddamn golden noose, all ready

 

to tie it to the beam of this broken bridge and dangle

Charles over always dark, even in daytime, Cherry Creek.