Kerri Pullo 4

 (Click on images to set them on a background.)

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Kerri Pullo is a former psychologist born in the American Midwest. She is an asemic writing artist and visual poet who currently resides in Tucson, AZ, USA. Kerri describes her work as calligraphic nonverbal written expression and rhythmic writing. Her work reflects the study of thought without language and the psychological effects of both creating and perceiving asemic written art forms. 

Materials: Most often I create works using ink on paper. I use all different types of writing instruments such as traditional pens, paint markers, gel ink pens, inktense pencils, and sharpies. The paper I use also varies widely including painted recycled paper, watercolor paper, and basic copy paper. I also enjoy experimenting with a combination of acrylic paints, inks, markers, and found collage materials on larger canvas or board. I also consider music to be an important material in my process.

Kerri Pullo 3

 (Click on images to set them on a background.)

_______________________

Kerri Pullo is a former psychologist born in the American Midwest. She is an asemic writing artist and visual poet who currently resides in Tucson, AZ, USA. Kerri describes her work as calligraphic nonverbal written expression and rhythmic writing. Her work reflects the study of thought without language and the psychological effects of both creating and perceiving asemic written art forms. 

Materials: Most often I create works using ink on paper. I use all different types of writing instruments such as traditional pens, paint markers, gel ink pens, inktense pencils, and sharpies. The paper I use also varies widely including painted recycled paper, watercolor paper, and basic copy paper. I also enjoy experimenting with a combination of acrylic paints, inks, markers, and found collage materials on larger canvas or board. I also consider music to be an important material in my process.

Kerri Pullo 2

(Click on images to set them on a background.)

_________________________________________

Kerri Pullo is a former psychologist born in the American Midwest. She is an asemic writing artist and visual poet who currently resides in Tucson, AZ, USA. Kerri describes her work as calligraphic nonverbal written expression and rhythmic writing. Her work reflects the study of thought without language and the psychological effects of both creating and perceiving asemic written art forms. 

Materials: Most often I create works using ink on paper. I use all different types of writing instruments such as traditional pens, paint markers, gel ink pens, inktense pencils, and sharpies. The paper I use also varies widely including painted recycled paper, watercolor paper, and basic copy paper. I also enjoy experimenting with a combination of acrylic paints, inks, markers, and found collage materials on larger canvas or board. I also consider music to be an important material in my process.

Kerri Pullo 1

 Kerri Pullo's asemic work has appeared on this blog nine times. This post is the first in seven that will feature more of her work, including two videos of her "drawing" asemic letters. Thank you to Kerri for generously participating in this context over the years, and thank you to her for adding, complexly, to the beauty of this world. (Click on the painting to isolate it in a field of black.)

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Kerri Pullo is a former psychologist born in the American Midwest. She is an asemic writing artist and visual poet who currently resides in Tucson, AZ, USA. Kerri describes her work as calligraphic nonverbal written expression and rhythmic writing. Her work reflects the study of thought without language and the psychological effects of both creating and perceiving asemic written art forms. 

Materials: Most often I create works using ink on paper. I use all different types of writing instruments such as traditional pens, paint markers, gel ink pens, inktense pencils, and sharpies. The paper I use also varies widely including painted recycled paper, watercolor paper, and basic copy paper. I also enjoy experimenting with a combination of acrylic paints, inks, markers, and found collage materials on larger canvas or board. I also consider music to be an important material in my process.

The Casual Abandon of a Particular Dandelion

 by Jefferson Hansen

written on a picnic table at a solo picnic

"Thus are the world’s troubles due to the love of knowledge.” Chuang tzu

The scent of Cutter

insect repellant. A chittering,

the sound, I guess,

of some insect.

Someone with a degree, somewhere,

knows. But that person isn't here,

now.

The state of the world

hangs in the balance

over insects. This I believe

though I can't prove it

in a formal kind

of way. But it's here,

now. Because things often

seem stitched together

by the smallest things,

the particulars. The insects

hold everything we call "everything"

together. I push them

away with repellent. Farmers

kill them with pesticides,

not unlike bombing the

microfauna of the gut

with antibiotics. A bird

titters; I can't identify.

My knowledge has splattered

onto the grass, beneath

the picnic table, and lies there

as pointless as it has

always been. After days

of looking through search engines

for an article by an academic

who could support and aid

credence to an insight I had,

I found the trail starting at 

Wikipedia. She makes the same

argument I do, but with

a credentialed oomph. Yeah,

we need that sometimes.

Her book is on the way.

The insects are repelled or killed.

The birds twitter because

they twitter. And I write for

I write. I once described it

as akin to breathing, for me.

I would say, "screw the system,"

but the system isn't worth the effort.

There's a wide river nearby.

I hiked four hours this morning.

Some larger force, perhaps larger

meanings, I don't know, propels

all of this in myriad directions, 

and it is not close to human—

some magic dance we participate in

well beyond our possible ken.

And the insects will die.

And the fabric will tear.

And it all won't matter

to ahuman meanings, that

went on before us, that

go on beyond us, moving

from insect to insect, from

alpha centauri to a single

blade of grass, from the bleeding

moon to a plastic bag

rolling across the asphalt in

the breeze. It is all so

much beyond us, all of us.

I surrender all my knowledge

to the meaning inherent in

a single dandelion, announcing

its yellow with a casual

abandon.

____________________________

JeffersonHansen.com

Tea Party? For Real?

A cake of white tea

A gong fu tea set, according to what I was told

So we had a tea party on May 11, 2021! I was excited because I am a tea nut and during the COVID lockdown, I had nobody to share my green and oolong and Pu'er with. It bummed me out. But my friends came over today, and we drank tea and read poems for each other. Since I'm such a ham, I videotaped my reading of one poem. Given that it was a tea party, I was, of course, appropriate. The poem is delicate, witty, and, oh, so civilized. It is called "Your Majesty the Motherfucker." Hang on tight! —Jeff

If you're new to the blog and wonder who this ragamuffin is, my website is below. I would describe myself as a wayward and off-the-wall writer-intellectual, and I have the rather bizarre and conflicting credentials to prove it. I hold a Ph.D.—having studied with major poets and a leading philosopher—and have, essentially, been employed in working class jobs in the human services field for the last 10 years. All people's lives are absurd to a certain degree, but I do sense that mine is especially absurd. I choose to embrace the absurdity and ride it all the way to what could be called home, like a surfer on a great wave. That's the existential place where the ironies contained in the very title of the above poem reside. 

I read widely and write in a variety of forums, some under an assumed name. I use the assumed name not for aesthetic reasons, but for eminently practical ones. I like writing essays, some very wild and some quite straightforward, and examples of them are on this blog. For more on me, see JeffersonHansen.com. Text of “Your Majesty the Motherfucker” below.

Your Majesty the Motherfucker

 

by Jefferson Hansen

 

For carissa who, sadly, heard me come up with the line

design of detriment & vehicle turning at sharp corners to whistle around the last loop of lions loosened from the zoo's hold—do you wish you had your mommy tonight?

 

        being accosted

    on the corner by

             Christians trying to save you

                 & you go on a

               lecture about how

if there is a God

   He is the God

                   of Job

              of cruelty

                  who plays with us as

tumbling dice

 

you call yourself

          "Your Majesty

   the Motherfucker"

      and recite a poem

          about facing down the red

 eyes of death

& explain you would

      rather live knowing

         death is the end

             making all this

   so much more

                than mere preparation

 

malingering mitigation running the risk of misaligned priorities & attempts to scale a parallel universe that only might exist because we are what we forgot we were

 

      they ask if you,

 Your Majesty, believe

         in sin and you

      ask if a master

    raping a slave

             is sin

        and when they say, "yes"

  you say, "Then

      Abraham is

 a sinner by your

    Good Book's

          own account."

 

You ask if

   setting up a friend

      to die

     in order to steal

  his wife is a

          sin

     & say into their

 startled eyes,

"If so, then

       King David is a sinner."

 

excoriated renditions running down the night of intrepid violations and witchcraft revelry when lions go wild because suppression and repression lead only to life as skipped & skimped, weakened & wizened, haunted by shadows of what could have been

 

     they say,

 "you need saving"

you ask "from what

 a God cruel enough

       to kill Job's kids

   just to mess

       with him so

             that he might

        prove a point to

    Satan? It's in

  your Good Book"

 

  they ask if

you love Jesus

        and you counter not

      if he denies

    loving

        if Christ hates loving

  I would rather

be anywhere 

  than with him even

 hell itself

 

haunted by the passing of the pauses and a pristine juggernaut as untimely meditations about the sideswipe and the cranked craft tripped at just this angle to move you where you didn't go

 

         the Christians ask

    that you read

the Good Book

 & you say

     "I already read

  the stupid

thing three 

      times & I have

  no desire

        to get saved

on its terms"

 

          you walk on in the

    night cracked

urban sidewalks

 blaze white

     a man pours Pepsi

   onto his hand

            could it be

         an antiseptic?

 

the moon the man child the missive of darkness demanding of you a stance posture that gives into the tension of passing taut as tiger skin supple as peppered leather

 

down the street

   dust blows

          into the teeth

      of breeze

  leaves swirl

up and around

     and reattach

    to branches

 other leaves roll

   down the street

 rustling silently

 

      skin pricks

to voice of man

   graveled

        over electric guitar

    crude battery amp

 squeaky sounds

seems to know 

   about four songs

 

sideways through skinny door in ether another place where balloons pop inward & food is ingested through pores of skin where gravity goes parallel & you whistle from belly button

 

     you dive into

hole-in-wall

 saloon where

        first time ever

     you hear Captain

   Beefheart over bar

speakers 

     chunky beat slashing

    atonal guitars

   bass clarinet

         squirming as snake

 

      obscure Doc at

 the Radar Station

   album “She’s a

       hothead/Sizzle

 on a spit/

tsssssssssss”

     goes Captain & I

 peck at beer

thinking of 

    spastic

         dandelions

 

living where you don’t & trying where you can’t growing where you shrink & the downward trend of upwards say the stocks will ripple their profit through this night only tonight & the crowds on the street dance to the beat of the ticker whether or not they care to notice

 

      “genetically mean”

 says the Captain

     & you turn to

   the woman washing

  dishes behind

         bar ask if

you can entertain

     while she works

 

  tell her of

the story of

   the Christians

identify yourself as

    “Your Majesty

the Motherfucker”

  she turns purple as

      the dishsoap

     and swirls into

 disappearing

 

if the cry considers the alternate crash the way out of the attic cramp the basement banter insisting on its rasping voice with the Captain himself “best batch yet”

 

    bed beckons

after beer

  & you wander home

        fall onto mattress

 on floor

        to dream of the

  whistle of whiskey

fog of

        forgotten

    identity

 the key to “freedom”

 

 

Office Sorrow

 by Christy Merry

Grief gets heavier each time around
as if it invokes the combined losses of your lifetime.
Too many hits and you are under brick weight.
Movement, joy, seem improbable occurrences.

I return to the dance of the scanner.
I think of you, my cousin.
I think of your husband who left the earth
last week, in an automobile accident.

I think,
there is probably not enough tape for this.

_________________________________

This poem is part of Christy's chapbook Before Cancer Comes For Me. Christy writes, "As for buying the book, the details are at www.christymerry.com/books - basically, if anyone donates $10 or more to Jessa Roquet’s gofundme or her Venmo so that she can pay her medical bills to fight her liver cancer, and forwards the email confirmation of that gift along with their name and physical address to me, I will send them the book. I published the book to be used as a fundraiser."