Issue 7 Feature : Mary With Halo

Art created by Photographer and Designer, Catalina Aranguren and Poet, Rescue Poetix.

Catalina and Rescue are both artists and community organizers living in Jersey City, NJ. They are actively involved in enhancing and promoting Jersey City’s vibrant arts culture. Through their work together a friendship developed which resulted in a desire to create pieces together. This is the first collaboration. Their bilingual and bicultural background was also instrumental to their relationship.


Catalina was born in Bogotá and raised in Caracas. She moved to Chicago to study at SAIC and did a semester at Spéos in Paris, France. She is a photographer, graphic designer, curator, event producer and community organizer.

Find here online here: Photography: @carangurenhome / Design: @our_casona / JC Art Walk: @walk_byeJCPC / Fundraising series: @plates4parksJC / Pride Alliance: @jcpridealliance / West Side Stories Festival: @westsidestoriesjc / Titus: @titus_great and on her website here: http://www.argia.photos/


RescuePoetix, is a first generation Puerto Rican born in New Jersey with deep family roots in Puerto Rico. She established herself as an author, poet, spoken word artist, event producer, artist manager, sponsor, community organizer and collaborator.

Dead Beats : A Series by Andrea Becker and Andrew Byrds

Spring

Dear A,

Escaped winter again, so I went to Hua Hin, where young women sat solemn
in the storefronts with rotten old American men—someone told me, “You
can’t eat love.” At sunrise, fishermen laid their fish on ice, women in flowered dresses
sat streetside under tattered blue and yellow awnings, shelling garlic and mollusks
for the day. Reddened old expatriates flocked to the beach, pouring out of
swimming clothes, skin falling over their dense silver bones like old drapes,
and for two days I laid among them in the sun, saying “Ko pun kah, ko pun kah.”


Departing, I saw a shantytown of corrugated steel, bent and glittering
beneath the new skeleton of a superhighway, exiting Bangkok to the west.
Between long rows of rust-flecked shacks, Thais bathed in tall cement pools –
they emerged, dancing, reincarnate clean, bare and lustrous in the copper light,
shaking the dew from their day-browned skins—I could almost feel the mist
from the train but in half a second they were gone, down the track ten meters
more, my window opened on a lone man riding the ridge of the skeleton’s back,
showering the darkness with steel-red sparks.

 
I thought of cornflower on the prairie as the last light melted below
the horizon and the women in the opposite seat dozed across each other’s loins,
communal baths and livable shacks, forlorn men welding infrastructure
onto their dreams, and asked myself, “How did I get here, really
what do I need?”

Missing,
A

/A

It’s one of those copper-flavored mornings and I slept 

On a bed rat-nested by old towels and torn blankets with 

The purls draped over from the sides fishing dust/tumefied food scraps. 

An overcast jeweled by slivers of travel, the neighbor’s birch limbs 

Stripped raw of their paper-skin—I remember I used to call them krispie

Trees as a child, their frames warmed in summer smelled exactly 

Like Rice Krispies, but no one else ever even gave it a chance. 

Anyway it’s seven thirty here trying my damndest to incite a vagrant

Gospel or some crude riddle furled out through sockets unravaged, but 

For Christ’s sake it’s too early for poetry and rosemary-tonic Epiphany. 

Allow me to lie in the piles of old clothes near the ventilation that accentuates 

The sugared-vinegar miasma of sweat from the cotton and notching my feet

Into the woodwork folding tongue over teeth a corkscrew of the flesh and 

Forgetting about the outside for a while, and letting go of everything. 

You always tell me how admirable it is to be this honest, 

And you ask how I can see the truth in those stoic little ways and all I can say

Is that there is no truth to find, no truth to extol, no truth to figure out. 

I don’t find the truth because it was never there, I find the beauty as best 

As I can and play god for some time if the mess the mess that comes out looks

Beyond repair—in this way no matter how bloodied and raped I become, I 

Can always mend and treat the wounds whereas others simply become the wounds.

After all, we are just bodies, that’s the only promise we were given.

/a

dear darling A,

it’s summer now.

where are you? are you happy? I worry

about your joy, you know, and just in case

you don’t know – here I am, here 

i am again and again

doing what i’ve done again,

but somehow i still don’t learn

to expect the curb where 

the mall begins.

my friends are chemists and working writers

and foreigners and vegans 

and fucking goddesses— 

i’m the waif missing

the paint-peeled porch,

your tawny locks, the wit behind your eyes,

the pith in your mouth when you tell

me about the books you’re reading.

here, in the university, pods, their stupas

laugh on the soft green lawn. 

i received a secret teaching in a pine-hewn hut

atop a berry strewn mount 

where the red-robed shaggy guru didn’t 

rap my head when he saw i was afraid. 

the pain is a blessing, he said,

and waved me off, laughing.

i opened secrets in myself, and they were strange ones:

like the pomegranate does not shed its petals 

in the heat, the flower itself is the fruit.

yes, here i am, if you come searching

worry not – i will seem the same, but know

something here was lost or gained.

loving you still, A

Process Note:

These three exchanges are from a manuscript that my longtime friend Andrew and I wrote together in 2017. We hadn’t seen each other in some time and decided to engage in poetic correspondence until we could get together again. This experimental exchange began in a Messenger conversation when I returned to Naropa to finish my degree after a three year adventure/hiatus: we wanted to satirize our own correspondence in the Beat lineage, so we gave each other nicknames (both “A”) and wrote these “letters” for the better part of a year. They ultimately culminated in two beautiful visits and a lot of really bad jokes about Boulder’s poetic history. Incidentally, only one reference to an obscure string of jokes appears in this selection.





Andrea Becker is a poet, photographer and full-time snack-eater living in Boulder, CO.

Andrew Byrds lives in Portland, OR and is a writer, actor, and the interviews editor for Entropy.

Dead Beats : A Series by Andrea Becker and Andrew Byrds

Winter

Dear A,

I heard the blues busked over by telegrams of salt-eaten cars 

Dead leaves slopped on the neighbor’s lawns, wires hummed

Beaten and tamed by rust in the walls. Music comes this way now.

The music is on the streets, but raped from the voices that used to play

From the heart—there’s no truth in that garden, and if anyone knows the 

Truth they aren’t saying a goddamned word—someone said there’s an ounce 

Of truth in every word, so what do we trade for this? 

Haven’t been able to sleep much since being back. 

Something about sleeping in an occupied room 

Where the rippling of blankets eases more than any white noise.

Box fans don’t make the cut anymore, bending hardwood downstairs null. 

There are days when I’d trade my peace of mind for a piece of ass

Do you know what I mean? How unity for a moment in the sleek, sweat, fever

Of it all surpasses months of sanity and you could conquer anything knowing 

You championed your own flesh for the pleasures of another? 

Listen, we need to get on top of these back-and-forths and figure out what

The hell this all means, what are we doing, what are we doing, what are we doing?

Where are you right now, and are you happy? Who speaks for you? 

Is it Allen kicking pricks over East Village vitrine while his mother lies dying

In a hospital, mind studded with delusional pleas of Christ, 

Or Jack burning incense at a cottage in Big Sur, blessing his guts the Canadian 

Way while his daughter grows up a stranger who only wanted his name?

Or has Frank come to your window at night and offered a cigarette and a

$10 story he could only whisper over coffee?

When was the last time you saw blood and didn’t flinch? Where are you going?

I’m boring myself. Everything sounds the same—my nails’re growing long, 

People I know are fading or getting married, days gone by, days gone by.

This is the best I can give you now,

A

Dear A,

From this place, before the solstice, you can almost pierce the fog exhaust

and smell the highland air. Boulder is as packed as ever

with its indulgences—malas for jewelry, amethyst, obsidian,

celestite to drop about the corners of the room, nag champa 

to awaken the senses away from the muted stench of glib truth.

You can almost smell the subalpine air, elk graze a meadow somewhere,

filling out their winter coats with the last of the season’s prairie.

Vendors push carts of dollar books onto the sidewalks, 

academy courtesans and chattering friends huddle together

on the patios, weaning themselves from thin-walled paper cups

before the sun sinks into the canyon, tempering them toward television

that pulses through the city’s windows, they drift awash in blue.

Two weeks and I am gone again. Your song reverberates in my hollow chest,

Where are you now, and are you happy? Where are you now,

where are you, and are you

happy?

The truth is that I don’t know anything, even before I left home,

every moment a sojourn. 

There was the art-house, the road, the mountain,

the subtropics, cornscape, the capital, 

niagara, and the twelve-hour-flight.

I sang cyrillic in the land between the seas, then 

there was the little island, the big one,

a cyrillic spring, long island, niagara, and the heartland.

There was sorrow, and Hammond, the protest camp,

the long train, niagara, the tete des morts valley,

the land between the seas, the big island, cornscape,

music city, mountain again.

Now home, Thailand and the Himalayas wait,

(but I am dreaming Leningrad)

Sometimes people ask me: A, when are you going to stop?

It’s time to accumulate accolades 

and wealth, and save

some time for us. You can’t run forever, 

you’ll get caught somehow—but you ask

where are you now, and are you happy?

You, traveler of a different sort,

don’t waste your life on lonely sojourns!

Just pour another poem in the churn

and meet me in the stubble

where the corn stood

just two months ago.

Can’t wait to see you again.

xo,

A

Dear A,

Someone once said that someone once said that

The makings of a great artist branch from the suffering

And forsaken nature of one’s craft, copulating incessantly through 

Swathes of blind lust scaling the pricks of their stuck fingers until it 

Distills itself  into the one true voice of this human condition. 

And so we preamble these worn streets, dagger-eyed and silver-tongued 

Begging for a spool of rust to trade in for a bit of poison or some such regret

Because all one can understand is by means of minor mutilation or self entropy. 

Come hell or highwater, that’s a load of bullfuckery if I ever heard any in my years, 

And for what it’s worth I believe my tribulations and graces mean just as much as

Those already written and tattooed upon the flesh of my brothers and sisters in the wastes.

We have these experiences blistered on the mind and softened by the wrists always arching, 

Reaching outward for another warmth by machine or lover in places where otherwise our 

Voices would be a drop of oil in a drum, the demarcations in these verses unfurling into 

Something godless and pure, have you ever felt this clean, and where are you now?

Are you happy? you ask again and again, and I say unto thee, I’m a little cold but I am 

Getting there, death feels distant for the first time in ages, there’s money in the bank, 

I’ve eaten at crowded tables with familiar faces and laughed, and I’m always asking you 

To feed me a little bit more with your comforts—the crows fly in a fever here, you’ll see. 

A





Process Note:

These three exchanges are from a manuscript that my longtime friend Andrew and I wrote together in 2017. We hadn’t seen each other in some time and decided to engage in poetic correspondence until we could get together again. This experimental exchange began in a Messenger conversation when I returned to Naropa to finish my degree after a three year adventure/hiatus: we wanted to satirize our own correspondence in the Beat lineage, so we gave each other nicknames (both “A”) and wrote these “letters” for the better part of a year. They ultimately culminated in two beautiful visits and a lot of really bad jokes about Boulder’s poetic history. Incidentally, only one reference to an obscure string of jokes appears in this selection.





Andrea Becker is a poet, photographer and full-time snack-eater living in Boulder, CO.

Andrew Byrds lives in Portland, OR and is a writer, actor, and the interviews editor for Entropy.

BIG Sculpture from Maternal Mitochondria

Two of our Issue 7 Collaborators!

Miriam's Well: Poetry, Land Art, and Beyond

This has been several years in the making–the concept, that is. Suddenly Isabel Winson-Sagan is in full production swing. She says: “Made out of recycled materials, this site-specific land art sculpture will be the inaugural piece at a new open-air gallery in Santa Fe called “The Poetry Yard,” a place to celebrate poetry, sculpture, and performance.”

I’ll add that it is three tree trunks, covered in the bottle caps of baby formula. The poetry text is (there was a triangle) between me, G-d, and the water. Isabel dropped off the first bit and essentially just created the triangle. The words will appear on small metal signs.

Isabel adds: “Sculpture in-progress… Thinking about parasitic and symbiotic growth, mycology, saprophytic nutrition, how oil/wood/milk feed us and keep us warm.”

The official name of the sculpture isDesiccation: Dormancy: Deluge

Earlier stages:

View original post

Dead Beats : A Series by Andrea Becker and Andrew Byrds

Autumn

Dear A,

I lost this poem two days ago, and here it is in bed with me again.

Let me recount it

and go on

I gave up sleep last night for an un-enameled verse,

crude as the pot drinking its own tea,

I called myself the void

rustled all night parkway whining

round the asphalt corner.

When you come, we’ll share this bed,

and in the morning walk the yellow knolls

clipping cedar boughs and prairie sage,

cursing the old men who decapitated the ridge

and built opulent boxes

looking down upon the earth as if they owned it

as if meadow, goshawk, titian trees

were their charges… as if 

goldenrod seeded

land for their pleasure

and not because it longs to live.

Yes, come, it’s time for you

take your reprieve from the city

where you drink your solitude

barter thoughts for mine—here’s one:


How is it that we feel so lost

wearing heels of rust, blood

along the obdurate lines of the old

familiar grid,

and home when we emaciate ourselves

in labyrinths of hemlock?

This morning I went to the Island on a wire

palpated last in spring,

watched my friends have a drink in their night

now I am filled with longing:

how I long to dress and lounge upon these poems,

to unearth cognizance from the rich soil

of another tongue I hear and taste each day.

I lost everything and came to rest on this plateau

ready to eviscerate my skull

and find poems gleaming among my flesh.

When you come, there’ll be no need for letters—

we’ll walk the twilit market streets

with something shining in our pockets

laughter will swallow

longing, as if 

the world was built for our pleasure

but it wasn’t

it simply wanted to be what it is.

Oh—with love,

A

Dear A,

The other day Emma and I drove down 81, jewels pointed 

At the gasoline-coloured sky, pulling triggers on old and current lays

Beyond the crown of trees made asterisms with the fleeing crows, spurning. 

We spent the day in Iowa City hemming septic pasts and wounds, 

But a few dollars a full stomach fix anything nowadays it seems, rain 

Came and went in spates, all the while I told every story notched in the cornerstones

Of coffeeshops and thrifts, the one semester I spent at Iowa and the faces I bled. 

Later we went home and validated our soft pockets, wasted showers on sex 

Gleaning something we could never call love from our teeth and tongues. 

And then nothing happened for several days until you asked me for a poem so 

Here it is without any of the bullshit.

At this time it’s almost Halloween—I’ll see you for the first time outside 

Iowa and hopefully making our way through the dead-leaf streets of Denver 

Looking for a joyous fix, drunk on the altitudes Sky warned me about.

You know by now my friend’s sister lies brain-dead in a hospital,

Jones’d on heroin this morning. I had no idea what to say but be angry

As hell and confused, drag nails against the eyes of the world until you understand. 

I want to see him before I leave, but who knows when he’ll get back—

Listen, listen, listen, listen. This all feels so important and I have no idea why. 

The last few months I nearly died by my own hand or at the choke of disease. 

And I can’t believe I’m finally leaving, and I’ll see you as you are. 

Maybe when I return everything will have gone to shit and nothing changed.

Maybe we live a few days, preen or fuck about these haunts 

Surefire in star-stitched glances, ambient thaw from lungs blistered through 

Nested swathes of bastards and sad cons. 

But I maintain the idea that a bastinado means nothing to the vagabond whose soles are

Already calloused, sheathed in old flesh working towards distant cities. 

I’m coming for you, and I have no idea what will come next. 

Love, A

Dear A, 

This airport has an art installation that reminds me of those rose petal candles you’d find near the porcelain sink at grandma’s house, all stitched up and pale from the ceiling in a skeletal corkscrew. Must have looked brilliant on paper. My eyes feel propped open by barbed stones, this Kerouac novel is simply decoration, calming me from security who might mistake anxiety for domestic terrorism. 

My bags full of seventies chic and flannel, hustled from the abandoned closet of my old bedroom, each with a different scent from another time, scratching through the pried fabrics, remembering the cedar or amber of last year.

In three hours I’ll goose-step into Denver, buzzed on anticongestants & sore from polythene seats, fixed toward an unknown city, anchored clear by your face. No fear, rather lush fascination with what’s to come—I’ve no idea. And nor do you, I believe, which makes it even better. 

I have some sutured paperbacks by old white men and a player full of Bebop & spectre for you. 

Let’s maunder awhile, shall we?

Whatever the soundtrack is it can’t possibly keep up with us.

Be jazz

Be cool

Be the new school, 

Etc etc 

Xoxo,

A

Dear A,

I’ve reassembled
the bed since your departure. You are somewhere 

an hour from the river. 

There’s nothing really to say, except

there’s no one now to share my spiced porridge with.

wish/glad you were here

I hadn’t heard someone sing so close

in a millennium of wakeful nights

and cracked yellow dawns.

the place still smells of cinnamon

no echoes but those of cinnamon & you.

missing you already, 

A

Process Note:

These three exchanges are from a manuscript that my longtime friend Andrew and I wrote together in 2017. We hadn’t seen each other in some time and decided to engage in poetic correspondence until we could get together again. This experimental exchange began in a Messenger conversation when I returned to Naropa to finish my degree after a three year adventure/hiatus: we wanted to satirize our own correspondence in the Beat lineage, so we gave each other nicknames (both “A”) and wrote these “letters” for the better part of a year. They ultimately culminated in two beautiful visits and a lot of really bad jokes about Boulder’s poetic history. Incidentally, only one reference to an obscure string of jokes appears in this selection.

Andrea Becker is a poet, photographer and full-time snack-eater living in Boulder, CO.

Andrew Byrds lives in Portland, OR and is a writer, actor, and the interviews editor for Entropy.

Issue 7 Feature: Glimpses of the Memories Series by Jamie Price

I spent hours exploring the life in the creek.

One day, I noticed a bunch of snails.

I asked them in their mom loved them.

A large empty field, and a small creek separated my block and my school.

Our parents preferred we took the longer way to/from school

since it was sidewalked and didn’t involve cutting through a creek.

Some days my brother and I would walk through the field to get home

since it was much faster and frankly more fun,

also our parents weren’t home anyway, so how would they know?

In Winter/Spring, we would try jumping onto the ice floes, dance, and jump back.

The last time we played this dangerous game, the ice floe cracked

and started separating between my brother’s feet, he barely jumped off in time.

One of the only times I saw fear in his eyes.

We walked home in shameful silence, I looked up,

and the spotlight’s gaze down on us felt contemptuously omnipotent.

My brother came home from playing outside

and told us the other boys were dropping rabbits

from above the creek’s tunnel, breaking the rabbits’ legs.

Now, I wonder if he gave them the idea.

“These three images come from my most recent series, tentatively titled, “Memories”. This series uses  collaboration by combining poems of personal memories with almost portrait-like photographs of  landscapes or man’s effect on nature. The photographic transfer process used throughout the series  encapsulates memories and how time and perspective factors into how we remember. With pieces  that speak to the vulnerability, loneliness, boredom, and mysticism of childhood, from the insightful perspective that comes from adulthood, this series opens possibilities for new interpretations of the past. “

Bio: Jamie is a queer visual artist currently living in Chicago. In the past years, she’s been working on  projects that focus on intimate and public explorations of femininity, queer identity, race, as well as  on ideas about ecology as a critique to the dominant and oppressive societal values.

Issue 7 Feature: Light Painting Triptych

Light Painting Triptych is an installation experience by artist Francesca Edwards.

Process Note: Studying the Interaction between Digital Colours and Physical Colours.

“I am an abstract mixed media artist from England, focused around the concept of digital art vs physical art, and how utilizing specific techniques can transcend the viewer into a sensory, physical or psychological state. Creating an experience is one of the most important aspects in my practice, I want the people viewing my work to feel immersed in it, and remember the experience long after they have left the gallery space. 

In June I completed my BA Fine Art Degree at Loughborough University, and I am currently studying for my Masters Degree in Curation at the University of Essex. Expanding my knowledge of both art and how to curate the art is important to me, alongside furthering my own artistic career within the contemporary art field. 

Stimulated by the concept of colour interaction, my installations explore the dialogue that is created between the painted surface and the colour illuminations when colour changing sequences are projected on top of the canvases.

By combining abstract painting with colour changing projection it allows me to see the direct affect that digital light has on painted colour, and how changing the hues of this light can create immersive colour transformations. My gestural paintings are photographed, digitalized and then projected back onto the original canvas. This second layer depicts an animated colour sequence that illuminates the painted colours, creating a sense of movement across the space.

‘Light Painting Triptych’  favours the audience viewing from the entirety of the space as the wide-span projection bleeds off the canvas it fills the room with changing hues. The employment of 3 projection paintings working simultaneously together ensures that the space is filled with a range of hues that directly complement and contrast each other. My aim is for the viewer to enter the space and feel completely submerged in colour.”

Bio: Stimulated by the concept of colour interaction, Francesca Edwards’ installations explore the dialogue that is created between the painted surface and the colour illuminations when colour changing sequences are projected on top of the canvases. Find more work online francescaedwardsfineart on Instagram.

INTRODUCING –– THE TINY SPOON BLOG

Welcome to the Tiny Spoon Blog! We are excited to announce this online expansion to our literary magazine as a space for further creation and community!

In reading submissions for Issue 7 Collaboration, we were absolutely dazzled by so many of the art projects shared with us. They ranged from event-poems captured in film and video to art installments of shifting colors projected on a canvas. Many of these multimedia submissions would benefit from color presentation or even video and audio accompaniment. Our excitement to publish them led to our desire to create a blog that would not only meet our needs to expand Issue 7 beyond its print edition, but to allow our vision of Tiny Spoon to continue to expand and grow. 

With our first round of upcoming blog posts, we will be featuring work of Issue 7, some of which will also appear in the print edition. With the nature of many of the projects, an online forum will allow them to be appreciated in their expanded form. We’re excited for the interaction between our print and online editions–– the print will house the work’s physical form and the online blog will expand on the work, including multimedia material so a piece can be viewed in the round. 

Within our new blog, we will also cultivate a space of conversation with opportunities to share more voices on an online platform. Soon we’ll be featuring interviews with contributors and community members. We’ll highlight our contributor’s creative processes and projects, to give them space to share their stories. We want to not only appreciate the literature and art created by individuals, but to learn more about what drives all of us as creatives to do what we do.

Tiny Spoon is incredibly excited by this new endeavor which allows us to pursue our vision to be more inclusive and accessible to our audience and contributors alike. It is just one way that we are inspired to foster community and support the multitude of creative practices that you share with us. 

Stay tuned for all we have in store! Please comment with suggestions, curiosities, and more! We want to hear from you!