Author Topic: The Cenacle | 98 | December 2016 *Just Released* Plus Burning Man Books 2016  (Read 726 times)

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Offline cenacle

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Hello everyone,
 
Finally released is Cenacle | 98 | December 2016. This is a much more on-time release than the previous issue, & goes for a kind of old school black & white theme. Samples of this new issue’s fine contents are given below.
 
Also released are six new titles in the No Borders Bookstore - Burning Man Books series, first new group in 7 years. These titles are listed below.
 
1.            The Cenacle | 98 | December 2016 (samples)
Reading link: https://issuu.com/scriptorpress/docs/c98_final_online
Download link: http://www.scriptorpress.com/cenacle/98_december_2016.pdf [Size = 31 MB]
 
From Soulard’s Notebooks:
Donald Trump, I believe you are a brute & a bully. You ran a scorched campaign for President, & you won enough Electoral Votes to clinch the election. But more who voted overall voted for Hillary Clinton than you. You won based on a system that is unlike how we in the U.S. elect any other major office.
 
Feedback on Cenacle 97:
I can’t take my eyes off Kassi Soulard’s photograph of the dragonfly, which decorates the cover of Cenacle 97. This makes shaving and driving dangerous, makes eating meals messy, and obviates watching television. I ordinarily use my eyes for these other things. Perhaps I should put this Cenacle on the shelf for a while . . . I can’t take my eyes off that dragonfly! [Joe Coleman]
 
Prose by Charlie Beyer:
There was only a two-week leave from the imprisoning corporate world to establish my multi-million dollar gem mine, and begin my life in the luxurious style that I deserved. The vacation time was pitifully accumulated over a year of enslavement. Already I had frittered away some days in Seattle, visiting long forgotten people who barely remembered me.
 
Poetry by Judih Haggai:
in sight of front door
navigation through darkness
foot meets hedgehog
 
Notes from New England by Raymond Soulard, Jr.:
It’s been four years I’ve been writing on the Tangled Gate myth in various forms (Many Musics, Labyrinthine, Bags End News, Dream Raps). Decided to spend several days re-reading it all, and see what I came up with.
 
Prose-Poetry by Victor Vanek:
We will never be like the pipe smoke and sweet black coffee of our grandparents, as much as we try. Instead we are covered in the scent of our work, burning the insulation from electrical wires for that tiny bit of money it brings. We have the lingering flavor of hemlock and monkshood.
 
Travel Journal by Nathan D. Horowitz:
Every time we think about death, it’s a premonition. We perceive it moving toward us. It emits waves, it has prepercussions. We experience these as pain and fear. But that’s OK. I know death now. I’m not afraid.
 
Poetry by Joe Coleman
We savored our fine blend there
so many times
until that one day
that one certain strange cup of coffee.
 
Bags End Book #6: The Grand Scheme of Liberation!, Part 2 [fiction] by Algernon Beagle:
This story about Betsy Bunny Pillow & how I got mixed up in it has gone on a long time. I don’t know when it’s going to end either. Because I am a beagleboy journalist & also that Betsy is mah friend sort of I have to keep on going. So there I was, on the road to the Bunny Pillow Free State, which used to be Farmer Jones’ Bunny Pillow Farm.
 
Poetry by Jimmy Heffernan:
Something from nothing, a relevant theme,
Holding two ends together, a sensible scheme.
A common thread tied into all nature’s weaving.
Also tied up in the soul’s set plans for leaving.
 
Hartley's Righteous Rants by David Hartley:
You’ve got to have a plan for disaster survival. Pack a bug-out bag. Weather radio. Crank light. A dozen cans of Sterno. Short-wave receiver.  Rifle. And most importantly: Spam, Spam, Spam, and more Spam. I know the shit is gross but it keeps for many years, doesn’t need cooking and, when the sun farts in our general direction, you got options. Just saying.
 
Poetry by Colin James:
And the rocking chairs are masturbating
all over my perishables again,
having never made peace the first time.
 
Classic Fiction by Richard Brautigan:
The sun was just setting and the pond was totally calm. I could see the old man standing on his boat dock across from us watching. He was motionless as they unloaded their furniture. Everything was shadowy on his part of the pond and he was just another shadow textured among thousands of other shadows. They took a box of food and cooking things off the truck and a small table to use for preparing their evening meal. The man started fire in the stove. They even brought their own wood. He was very good at starting fires because the stove was hot enough to cook on momentarily.
 
Poetry by Martina Newberry:
While you still hear me,
there are things you should know—
they may be bruised,
but there are still apples, tart and cool from a tree,
and while the sky is definitely falling, there are,
now and then, patches of beryl, cerulean, and iceberg,
still haunting it. 
 
Prison Education from the Inside Out: An Interview with Casey William Hardison
The first time I got arrested was in my car on the Fourth of July, celebrating freedom, life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness in downtown Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. I got pulled over and I had a small jar, a glass handmade blown glass jar from a friend of mine with marijuana in it, and they didn’t like that, so they arrested me. This was ’94 or ’95, and I realized this was not going to stop. This was going to keep going until people stood up and said, "No, this is not acceptable."  I think that’s when I first realized that I was a target, properly a target. I mean, there were hints that I was a target as soon as I started proclaiming I was going to school to make drugs. People were like, “Shhhh, don’t tell anyone,” and I knew then that I was involved in something that was going to leave me subject to the law.
 
Prose-Poetry by Tom Sheehan:
This star reconnaissance began on the fourth of July, quick morning soft as a fresh bun, as warm, air floating up stairs and coming across my bed in the smell of burnt cork or punk as smoky as a compost pile rising upwards from lawn debris night had collected, spent rockets askew in gutters throughout the town, wide clutter of half-burnt paper and tail sticks themselves once afire in the nightly sky, signals that gave darkness a newer dimension of lightness and sound, and the explosion of circular flares too bright to look at, as if the sun had delayed departure for the heart of our celebration, as if stars had loosed their final demise amid the spatial junk they might encounter in outer reaches, friction of them in the measure as silent as Indians in the past on these fields and paths of flint and rock, even as children younger than I was went secretly about their ways—
 
Labyrinthine [a new fixtion] by Raymond Soulard, Jr.:
They found a beee-uuu-teee-fulll Garden. It was an underwater Garden, and yet, if you looked at it, it was filled with beautiful blooms. Now, admittedly, they were wavering in the movements of the Sea, not the movements of the wind, but they were still beautiful. And there were rows of them, the way you would have in a garden, & things looked orderly. And then they found a little hut.
 
2.            No Borders Free Bookstore: Burning Man Books 2016
Download link:
http://www.scriptorpress.com/No_Borders_Bookstore.zip
Full titles list:
http://www.scriptorpress.com/nobordersbookstore.html
 
New titles in this series include:
#67 - Violence and Human Nature by Howard Zinn
#68 - Entering Dreamland: A Brief Anthology of Writings About Dreams
#69 - The Book of Pooh by A. A. Milne
#70 - Like Homecooking: Selected Short Fictions of Richard Brautigan
#71 - The End of Art is Peace: Selected Poems of Seamus Heaney
#72 - Singing Our Way Through the Wilderness: A Twelfth Anthology of Writings About Psychedelics
 
Email comments to thread—or reply to me directly at editor@scriptorpress.com
 
Peace,
Raymond
 
« Last Edit: June 01, 2017, 10:13:03 AM by cenacle »