Carlos Lara

excerpt from SEVERAL NIGHT


You must have a mind full of dollhouse miracles, it means nothing I know of, I providence hazards & if the sky rays, what of beauty, what of Baudelaire.

These are just a few lines from my fathers, I have convinced myself that it wouldn’t hurt to say here we are & to allow myself to breathe & see.

Confessing silver & gold, I go for the most obvious always & fuck subtlety, like oak of oak, so what, & all of your minotauresque art is fake.

To have an idea of what could not is passion for me, am not gone, am lying old myself by the sun-finger in this life to live, to swap with the dark & the frank, looking into books of asymmetry, sorcery, remembering her loveliness with apparent chipmunks.

Lines, & lines like the heroin of lover, thunder bullying whatever dark virus says the poet, of course the second such luxury of held presence, in outer people without being people to hold, for night is letters from hell.

& the books, today we wandered, & at least carelessly, & there were signals within a junky proportion, a without-theater & without the girl-wine.

The rainbow-woven & the parakeet of death & the mental car & the dear freezing night meat of my blood, are you not an over-occurrence of fact, are you not the same as a chocolate thing.

The worn outward aspiration, wives unwinding a glimmer week, forgoing trauma markets, distinctly showering frantically the messianic hoodlums of you, I said the records smoke in slow-wristed time.

She has red paintings that sway also, like snakes of lunar distress, & him, his diamond month, did you hear the accrual, trustworthy ludic potential possibly, the coronal dream archer with five o’clocks, with both hands whip-drawn, as I tamper with sentimental assets.

There is no more art, only dental work to be done.

This is terrible, writing little virginity of chaos, & the mind posits, & precious stones in public, & that was enough.

Either way my shadow wears shoes, & numinous projectile clouds frequenting Luxembourg without idealess truant sample corners.


Willing refraction & apparency, the light in your bandana, the trees, & sexual rediscovery of desertion, there is not a single sun that does not hear its passage & ignores a text, as one cannot unwrite the word wendigo.

These offerings right here seep into you, escape the mundaneness of real theater, the least likely of revolutions, when islands of maturity were going to be good, were going to be good, at least years pass.

Then she lets a genre of her shining hands in, in my understanding of morning coffee, & a wholeness feeling like one swan, the young woman is seen by another, not a poet but a lover of poets & their love object, let in by her own beauty in a fever of doings, continuing to imbibe actual visual fields, the fields writhing in actual time & place, the memory of seizure of site for its fervent formations, the situational lies turning into these several days, & awakenings ask me if they are stunned.

I should be allowed around negatives of night, to torture the ground, half-man, half-constellation, fame a miniscule point of leisure, & I love that I will find death in its oblong sunshroud, may very well dive from your memories if they signify essential flash, that I could leave you now, turn the light feel, & sleep like the broken arm of fame.

Become again the system of lightning glass change, making night fluctuate, minimalism of no line breaks, there is no red, no wheel, but the sound of them produce a showless audience of glowering, ones & twos, a thematic of unlust, not our equal.

Day wears a blue rose face behind the face-woman walking down abstruse streets of day, unfolding the structure every time your eye does, if there is no eye & you are not there.

All the way holding my chest but was hateful, open your eyes, the celibate room, the caramel sphere of self is precious immigration, working-class imaginations tending to pronounce.

The temple of easy misogyny, as ego embarks from the auras, callers of acclaim want want too much to receive the same.


Truly a yearning of sympathetic repair, asexual bond, without-obsession of name, impossible introduction

Or affective angelic, data relieving future writers from putting on a face, allowing them a looseness of number is animal

Without the bread of familiar eyes this could, you call the ozone a coroner of beauty, I call it used up & rife width.

Ossified in weather is one Atlantis, or hunger could debate about, you love too much, or I don’t know what else to say, & my death you assume is, as anything would have justified conscience by now, I am repeating myself.

Notice the small parties overtly pretending an absolute abomination of theater, shadow, speech & its combine, with the years to come, a sort of kitchen with, & all the while firearms too, but you are you meaning locked in grey express, formed & wet with lulls of surety.

Weird sirens, & there is an outside worth mortifying, forward fades like hair is just explosive moons, the evidence mutations like music looping the dream archer of dreams, then went nowhere.

This is hardly inverse Olmec, breakable, to these words only leaning in the trash of keeping lexical.

Function-machines notice us, having so much more to do, & ready for whatever’s next play, & what is the dream if it does not involve consumption, self in the habit of self, tradition as only what the dead see, natal pause.

The gorgeous bloodcloaks in the bloodface, knowing the sentence-season of force & chance, to merge with corpses for three or four destinations.

The silence reoccurs & goes beyond the woman you is & is not, with you lives & breaths are the double eye of incurable forwards, similar to this monologue of another destroyer, but the head’s demeanor, shaper, the remainder, lover, there you go again, there you go & not without a train.

No one calls me in the obscure weapon of the future, no one loves her but I did.

Artist’s Statement

This is an excerpt from a book-length poem called Several Night. The finished work is the product of deep audition: hearing many different words and sounds, both personal and public, emanating from a variety of atmospheres, both personal and public, and allowing the phonemes to mutate, hybridize, disintegrate, etc. The title conveys a sense of struggle between unity and multiplicity that I believe is at the core of the poet’s art i.e. “making it all cohere.”

Carlos Lara is no longer a poet because writing poetry is too easy. His work, including translations, have appeared in Lana Turner, Aufgabe, Gulf Coast, Paul Revere’s Horse, etc. etc. etc. He once co-wrote a book with Will Alexander called The Audiographic as Data, the manuscript of which is sitting in Google Docs waiting to be published by someone somewhere. He manages to survive in the city of New York, possibly the most boring place on the planet, where he is often seen driving from one BBQ joint to another with Michael Keenan. He’s currently translating two books by Rene Crevel and putting together his 10th unpublished manuscript. He is also collaborating with Keenan on an unproducible screenplay called Return to Alchemia, featuring cameos by Roberto Bolaño, James Joyce, Bullet, and the Chipotle at Union Square, along with many others.

Editors’ Notes (Posit 8)


Welcome, readers and viewers! We’re delighted to ring out the end of 2015 with the extraordinary poetry and prose we’ve gathered for this issue of Posit. It’s an honor to publish such a rich mixture of innovative verse, short fiction, and poetic prose by literary masters at all stages of their careers, to wit:

Doug Bolling’s Scalapino-esque “…words carried from a valley a stream a mountain / just to be there cherished, fondled” by gorgeous metaphors creating “a poem of unknowns / a Magritte refusing all margins;”

Susan Charkes’ wry compendia on Practicing Panic (“adopt aroma of freshly cut cucumber” and “elude infinity”) and Unreachable Planets such as the PLANET OF CONSTANT DOWNDRAFTS (“Gravity: not an issue”);

Norma Cole’s ferociously beautiful narrative fragments of a fraught nation kept together and apart by the ‘Surface Tension’ of an iconography of sentiment and violence, in which golden angels and grandchildren eating butterscotch sundaes give way to women sleeping on sidewalks, Halloween “or some / other masks beheading,” and “the mortars again;”

Christine Hamm’s magnetically surreal texts, in which “You said the antlers in the bucket were part of you, asked me if you should burn your necklace, the one with someone else’s name;”

Zeke Jarvis’s masterful short story about art, artifice, and free enterprise, Las Vegas style;

Halvard Johnson’s disturbing ode to The Art of Deference with its haunting last line, complemented by the resonant compression of 14 Interventions, in which “poem grenades,” like “old leaves,” “turn to / reservoirs of life;”

Carlos Lara’s virtuosic excerpt from Several Night, a “monologue of another destroyer” “ready for whatever’s next play” and populated by “numinous projectile clouds” as well as “music looping the dream archer of dreams;”

Anna Leahy’s “exacting forms” “pregnant / with possibility of motion” mirroring the beauty and menace of nature as well as “the spark of brazen imagination;”

Christina Mengert’s mind-meld with Spinoza, yielding remarkable hybrid philosophical/poetic ‘Definitions’ “by virtue of mental trampoline, / bouncing into idea as a consequence / of grace” via a collaborative “intelligence / conceived through something / more itself / than itself;”

Carol Shillibeer’s magnificent “loyalties to worlds, words and their pleasures…” posing the question, “What work has there ever been but perception?”

Danielle Susi’s brilliant juxtapositions, in which “Volume sleeps on my tongue today / because teeth can sometimes look / like pillows,” provoking us to wonder “When two sides of an abrasion stitch / back together, what do they say?”

and Derek Updegraff’s haunting and suggestive story Café, “about him and her. That’s all” although it somehow manages, in 350 words, to open itself to the far reaches of the universe.

As always, thank you for reading.

—Susan Lewis and Bernd Sauermann


It is my pleasure to introduce another wonderful selection of painting, photography, sculpture, and video in this issue of Posit.

Meryl Meisler has been taking photos since she was a teenager, chronicling her youth in Long Island and young adulthood in NYC in the 70’s and 80’s. Her keen eye has captured moments that are funny, moving, and offer wonderful portraits of an era.

Helena Starcevic’s carved and fabricated sculptures reflect a distinctly modernist sensibility. Cool and stripped down to their essence, these are elegant objects. Working with a restrained palette, she conveys the beauty of the form, using the contrast between matte and shiny surfaces to allow light to caress the contours of her sculptures.

The haunting videos of Pierre St. Jacques delve deep into the psychological realm of human relationships. The Exploration of Dead Ends, from which we present an excerpt, as well as still photographs and video installations, is a beautiful portrait of a man caught in the endless cycles of his life. The result is visually stunning and deeply moving.

The sweeping gesture of Heather Wilcoxon’s hand can be seen in all of her energetic and evocative paintings. Strong and committed markings typify these works. Human and animal forms live harmoniously amidst swirls of color and form in compositions dreamily reminiscent of a life lived near the sea.

The sumi ink drawings of Katarina Wong are bold, thrilling and often a bit frightening. She brings us face to face with an Inferno of emotions that swirl and whirl across the page. Recognizable human and animal features emerge and then sink into the energetic darkness.

I hope you enjoy!

—Melissa Stern