Saturday, April 6, 2013

Tip of the Knife, Issue 12


Helena Turinski
Massimo Stirneri
Nico Vassilakis
Cecil Touchon
Dan Raphael
Stephen Nelson
Bill DiMichele

Helena Turinski







Massimo Stirneri

4 elements from a photo-book in progress ("Raum frei?"), section "Schriften aus der Nachbarschaft. erkennt meine Fingerabdr├╝cke. Licht aus einer einzigen Richtung."

"Raum frei?" concerns one of my projects about experimental writing. Terms are inspired by philosopher and psychiatrist Karl Jaspers.
German language is considered "The" language of modern philosophy, so I use it to give importance and authority to all the traces, signs, marks, etc., that I find in the small rooms of my "cage". Doing this, I can also employ the technique of automatic translation, another interest of mine.

Nico Vassilakis

You know right away that you’re in for a hypnotic  dream ride when you start viewing Nico’s video “This Detached”.   At 3:17, his sense of timing is perfect; not as short as the life of a fly, and not as long as Lord of the Rings. 

So, having established formal structure and temporal parameters, we can begin our journey to and in Malchut (Hebrew, the Kingdom).  It begins with shifting greys, curtains parting on alien atmospheres, or just as likely, on human viscera.  Quivering lightning parts the aluminum sky as scrapes or gravity crushed mountains become visible on some planetary surface.  Landing, we appear to share the physical space with chromosomes, clinging to some misshapen molecular surface.  As a darker, dearer blackness eclipses everything in small time, the march of the sperm army heads up the Fallopian tubes and explodes with the force of a solar flare (it is said that the energy level of the sun is equal to the energy level of conception).  Then and there, at the very beginning of life, old style typewriter letters do a slow dive in and out of the shadows, partly contaminated, partly illuminated.  At that final second we find a word fragment, urging meaning, spreading you out, pulling you in.  So what is it? 

It could be the protolanguage of Cro-Magnon man.

It could be part of some incomplete scroll from Lemuria.

It could be the attempt of a mentally challenged child to communicate.

It could be the beginning of visual poetry.

And maybe it is all of those things at once.  Whatever it is, follow it.  We’re already part of an evolutionary process, but there are so many things still to see, to experience, to observe and embrace, in both the micro world and the macro world.  The search begins.

Bill DiMichele

These are as you would imagine chiaroscuro snippets, ephemera that for me contained some other-worldliness, and seemed right for putting in the same sequenced container.  There's string alum foil type, a black tornado focus, and out of focus space.

Cecil Touchon

Fusion Series #3272

Fusion Series #3273

Fusion Series #3274

Fusion Series #3275

Dan Raphael

[4 poems from dan raphael   (


you be quiet to us
you are in analysis

urban decomposition
sandstone bones
never quite here

avoiding the poem’s smell
its thousand attitudes, its delayed visions

rather wild goat, local anise,
always questioning what cuts

as the map of my hand
a new stone for every birthday

forget what you owe others
name yourself tasty or magic or don’t

I open my hand and see you
my hand    my wallpaper    my thawing dinner


cream of impetus
            blue sky sauce
  salt from the street corner
             sparrows w/ newspaper wings

bread has the week off
         the wheel of random berries
I cant eat til I’ve forgotten
            this plate isnt a mirror but
the right glaze & temperature so my hand
each table setting includes a tiny fire

           midnight jump rope
                 curtain of bristling oxygen
take the ‘b’ from butter
      tasting the aluminum in rain

between the exhale & the inhale is a doorway
like a disc drive in the side of my chest,
a lifetime made into a map, how when folded
we’re rotund with tiny feet

The Thicker theMmeat

if i could tell the thicker meat whose essence i inhale,
lungs like caves sparkling with the dreams of bats
whose bodies are too large to get out into the alleged night
they’ve never seen but smell in the messages their intentions send out
like food from the radio empowering my polarities 
i skip like two jump ropes braiding the air between all four limbs
as i cartwheel in a concrete hoop teaching me several languages
one character at a time, where i press to spring and spin through 
an undulating meadow of grasses and flowers fallen from the winds pockets,
flushed from trains passing with their eyes closed
between large cities threatening to cover the meadow
like a blanket as big as the sea, rolling in itchy, smothering waves
on my bare summer skin as i try to sleep in a crate
whose windows are expensive tvs i see my changing face
with narrative adventures elapsing behind me like colorful milkshakes
of ingredients i cant spell—like an orange but square,
like cinnamon but caustic-- when the  two women embrace
i smell thunder and sense a change in my internal demographics
as my right arm is a complex survey  teasing me with the power of pictographs
im from the wrong culture to grok—
i don’t draw i doodle, connecting the lines, jumping the shadow of
white paper as if a lampshade it take five days to get around, where the sun is on a string,
throwing off heat and music as it asks all the air it passes through
to help it stop or at least linger someplace long enough
to mend its lifelong suit too bright for us to discern
the splendid tapestry coating my throat
to influence my voice dampered by the weight of the lungs
 so full of eager expressions unable to form a line
thin enough to escape this narrow opening

Getting Some

america wakes up like a pomegranate seed with a thousand hungers
i open my throat to the columbia river without fish to jump through
without a lifetime of nuclear waste building like the first orchestra
when strings would cut before singing, when playing underwater saxophone
lead to early thought balloons with clouds too far away to read
coming down where my hair used to, a scalp like the five loneliest counties in montana.:
we tried to house-train the sun but it never comes when called

every blue-eyed blonde in the northern hemisphere dials the same number at midnight
crackling like a 10,000 watt wedge penetrates the slurred vocabulary of escaping what i cannot change
throwing it out the airplane then realizing i dont know how to land
an orbit that couldn’t clear the rockies, so stay local, slam a pint of seeds
into a bedroom 3 feet thick w/ soil, 60 years of compost too diverse to rot
crossbred into unsustainable complexity:
         when every morning im a different size,
i wait til im eye to eye before i peel off the strangers clothes
becoming the face on the drivers license, the thumbprint opening an apartment
blaring music i cant stand, so many petals dissolving in so little water

i dont see tomorrow but im ready to dissect 2 years from now
watching the plastic im wrapped in melt beyond black chemistry & a poorly maintained horizon
not to filter but avoid with highly random, the luck of the unfocussed,
when egg & sperm fuse a new micro-dimension ripples a mouthless yawn.
no one is coming for me. i’m a dozen places other than here

i go in huminskis grocery and gasp from the middle of the world’s largest costco,
as if the vatican was having a garage sale, as if the armed forces evaporated
 and left all the pentagons doors unlocked--the first things emptied were the vending machines

what digests my food wouldn’t make it down columbus' gullet.
im changing territory with every step. standing on the platform of what got away.
my body is my compartment. im in the middle seat between an over stuffed past
and a future wearing everything it owns.
        learning to speak the language
while someones still listening: a word no ones thought since the 19thcentury,
a tree built by someone whos never been above ground, never breathed wild air.
we havent the fuel to go to space but have a surplus of shovels, claws & dynamite;

in the future we wont plan beyond the next meal, the next storm
and how  tonights shelter wont protect me.
yet some hours I forget what  Im surrounded by and spread like a sleeping fire,
a fertile moon, a glass of something the glass cant handle  

Stephen Nelson

Below the Surface - for Marton Koppany

Integration 1

Integration 2

 Panda 1

Panda 2

It Must Pass

Bill DiMichele


Draw Blood or Go Home

                                          Email submissions for Tip of the Knife #13 to  Due date is June 3, 2013.