MODULO Nr. 1

March 20, 2012

modulocover22

MODULO Nr.1 | Front Cover

Service Updates

March 20, 2012

Olivia has been doing free-lance work for Power Poetry, an online resource and community geared towards promoting empowerment through spoken word poetry. The project was developed by the producers of the nationally-lauded documentary “To Be Heard,” which follows the lives of three aspiring teen slam poets as they come of age in the Bronx. The documentary is screening all across the country, and will be airing soon on PBS as well. We wish these guys luck!

Mike has been busy at work on finishing his book “Breaths & Days,” which will collect writing from 2006 to the present, as well as a photo-nook project. He also recently read at Jarrod Shanahan’s and DEATH PANEL PRESS‘s Reading Series at Cage83 Gallery in Chinatown on March 13th, which was well-hydrated and fun (and featured MODULO-contributor Andy Folk as well). Thanks again to the guys at DP for hosting Mike and MODULO. You should definitely check out their site and support a beer-run insurrection near you. A PDF of the poem-cycle Mike read is available here.

Back In Business

March 20, 2012

"A New Generation" (1892), Jan Toorop.

Greetings Past, Present an Future Modulators!

After a long hiatus forced of uncertain circumstances we’ve decided to pick up the pieces and continue where we left off. In the meantime we’ve produced and printed MODULO Nr. 1, which has sold slowly but surely at places like St. Mark’s Bookstore and Spoonbill in Williamsburg, and we hope to add more locations now this Spring. Please e-mail us if you’re interested in previewing and ordering the magazine – we really tried hard to make a finished product that’s not only readable but nice to look at, too, so we promise that you’ll be pleased with your purchase! Oh and yes – we’ve also got a reading in the works for April! Right now we’re coming up with a plan to snatch back some momentum with the site and our search for material that will eventually result in MODULO Nr. 2. We really want to offer flash op-eds and book/events reviews, and if anyone is interested in helping out in this regard, again, give us a holler. We could even talk commissions (aka: $$$) for articles tendered. But the main thing is that we are back on track with our modest efforts here at MODULO, and as always we’re so indebted to those who have sought us out, those who have contributed, and of course those who will find us and contribute in the future, adding to our shared vision of a fine, heartfelt and engaged literature. E-mail modulomag@hotmail.com for questions, comments, proposals and/or to sign up for our mailing list!

Thank you, and keep your modules squeezed for us!

Regards,

O&M

Misfortune

May 1, 2011

Vaihingen 6; Vaihingen, DEU; June 2008

As you can see, MODULOmag has been been pretty (that is to say, totally) quiet these past few months. This has been due to complications in the lives of the editors – in particular, Mike’s continuing (and worsening) health issues. Hence we feel it is important to officially announce that we are taking a hiatus from the journal until further notice, probably until the end of the summer. We plan to bring out a print journal of the fine work that MODULOmag has accrued over the last months around the August time-frame, and to host a reading then as well. E-mail us at modulomag@hotmail.com if you’d like to be notified of any news. We are extremely thankful to all the contributors and are honored to have been able to read, discuss and publish their wonderful work. Thank you, and wish us luck!

Have a great summer!

-The Editors

Because New Years is over and I still feel old

January 26, 2011

Few poets describe the act of looking back on one’s own life with as much tenderness as U.S Poet Laureate W.S. Merwin. I have come across this particular poem of his several times in the past year and each time it hits me in a way that only a poet both universally human and deeply personal could affect. -Olivia

In the Winter of My Thirty-Eighth Year

BY W. S. MERWIN

It sounds unconvincing to say When I was young
Though I have long wondered what it would be like
To be me now
No older at all it seems from here
As far from myself as ever
.
Walking in fog and rain and seeing nothing
I imagine all the clocks have died in the night
Now no one is looking I could choose my age
It would be younger I suppose so I am older
It is there at hand I could take it
Except for the things I think I would do differently
They keep coming between they are what I am
They have taught me little I did not know when I was young
.
There is nothing wrong with my age now probably
It is how I have come to it
Like a thing I kept putting off as I did my youth
.
There is nothing the matter with speech
Just because it lent itself
To my uses
.
Of course there is nothing the matter with the stars
It is my emptiness among them
While they drift farther away in the invisible morning

Happy New Years!

January 4, 2011

.

Wow, 20…11. The first decade of this new century, this new millennium, has officially come to a close – or, at least, it has for those of us that follow the Gregorian calendar (who knows what you other hipsters live by – I myself have always wanted to revert back to the endearingly imperfect Julian, but, alas, it’s not going to happen). Well, like I said, I don’t know about you, but it has been a long, hard decade: I graduated elementary school, had sex, got high/watched Lord of the Rings/played Halo, got drunk and moved to Brooklyn – I guess things don’t look so drawn-out (or glamorous, for that matter) in time-loop. I mean, look at it this way…we are just that much closer to Oblivion! As a consolation prize (or for your eternal torment) is this here article of P., which I versified late last year for a friend’s birthday, though which I think speaks for all anniversaries – that is, ostensibly recurring days. May all your bottoms be up!

.

Anniversary

 .

……………What had happened

was split apart, pulled and turned up by the years

like hands life-lines have yet to crease,

roughening themselves in a future harvest—

what do they know of us in our days?

Roots snagged while clearing the lot,

weeds sprouting as if wanting to be pulled,

soft, pliant loam that’s good for digging,

another view askance at the untillable range.

No, not yet, though maybe another day you would

cross them; mountains, undulating like waves.

.

……………The dream of anniversary, a once

returning, recurring day, the one in which you were

born—unrememberable, as if it all were already

legend: cut free, let-go-of, else. To fear no more

the heat of a sun that threads such strands as yours

through tapestries where you will stand with others, their light,

interwoven. The time is yet far off, when these sinews

will unman your own and moss answer each epitaph

in a glacier-flow of green, proving that even your world

is, as are your hands, made out of a single tree’s bark,

respiring somewhere between air and space.

.

……………And was exhaled—for you and I

all is wake. Though the pictures we took registered

the beloved’s face, our dwellings and the mountain ranges

beyond, one after the other was blurred, or turned away,

traveling at such rates that, every time, you had to

meet their pace, synchronous, yet you always missed,

for the delay affected by this attempt to touch

across an infinite distance the shutter could never

eclipse. And all that went uncaptured—shades, fathoms,

her smile—is nevertheless only as lost as you yourself are,

setting, fading and being together forgotten.

.

……………In our years it was a question

of runaway sparrows trapped in airport terminals,

small souls without countenance or name, playing

in their ends, setting our’s, all, in hopes of coming home,

trapped and free, a departure untellable from arrival.

And what day here returns that ever was, but marked

now for you by the calendar, and sung by friends:

the moment’s memorial in breath, me saying I love you,

that I will miss you, this, this all, particles paced as one.

These are the days, ours, that ever were, and drew

a circumference closed, drew across its distances: us.

.

…………….

-mike

In other news…

December 19, 2010

So, first of all, happy holidays!

Ho ho ho!

Good news! Mike had a few modest sections from his poem “Of Breaths and Days” published over at NYU’s The Minetta Review, though he’s worried about the loss of formatting (…), what a loser! Also, look forward to mini-essays to appear over the holidays on such fun subjects as e-readers, contemporary painting, James Franco and the cavification of Manhattan. Stay tuned, modulators!

photo me, photo you

December 2, 2010

Call for photography! Send your light to modulomag@hotmail.com

The New Yorker Building, NYC, 2008

Frankisches Freiland Museum, DE, 2008

"Discourse on Inclement Weather (Joke Title)," 2008

The Eagle's Nest, Bavarian Alps, 2008

“NZ,” 2007

"Ecuadorian Delegation at the Birthplace of Galo Plaza," 2009

"Schönbuch," 2008

Fireworks, Stuttgart, New Years 2009-2010

November 30, 2010

“An Intense But Patient Little Sufferer” by Mia Bruner

.

A molech

in a fit of delirium

……….wants to devour children, small animals

………….a soda can used for an ashtray.

……………………a friendly dog.

.

stubborn little knot (at the top of that gorgeous spine)

……….on the plastic sheets. there were tubes there and no bedpan

……………………………………………………………………..I could see.

………………..but she smelled like piss and baby food in that bed

.

everyone knows. ev-er-y-one knows

that everyone cannot see themselves really.

……….in motion. in time.

.

…………………………can’t see it but know it is everywhere

and

…..we all know that everyone is being a human  (those things of

…………………………………………………………………….big bangs)

.

then hips crack.

.

………these bones reassemble.

November 30, 2010

from “Bicinium” by Andrew Colarusso

.

VI.

in this weather………..…-bares your name

its small teeth…….confess they will never

.

be as sexually precocious……..…as in this

moment confess-……..…-as in this theater

.

confess a fear maybe…….you would enjoy

the sensation of nylon socks and sandals

.

staringat the hands on a strange pocket

-watch your face bearing some odd regret

.

VIII.

sunday-……….…….…….-the only adjective

for asking to lay deathly by you…..-face to

.

sun.……ears of grass and the grain in the

photos of your childhood..…..…-these are

.

sunday-….…-warm eyed foehn indifferent

when talk of bluing meant-…….-I hunger

.

sat God crying and..…….blue for company

wind gives lift to glass-on days like this

.

XIII...………………….unison

in hot flowers of zinc-………………..-wilts

the watchmakers hands yellow-….-hands

.

the country..-claimed only half an identity

two persons play chess-……-only one face

.

of the two is very visible………-swallowing

eyes a dancing horseman-.….-why do you

.

want his win like your own-……-we knew

we could love any well………..like our own

.

VII

we are things in parsing..….-age fantasia

and………….…..-here is not room for two

.

and hear a low and driving-..…..-whinny

from a depth of dark……………..and chase

.

something sallow-…….-forbidden undeal

ing from where we have come….diffident

.

when wakeless rasping mountain ranges

in fingertips over linen what day is today

.

XIII...…………………..unison

leavened black bread from the oven….-in

idyll placed on the sill to cool and……cut

.

clean your fragrant steam in black wisps

whipped from a black vascular….trapped

.

air before your skin..hardened-&-on that

sill the world will climb in-..-to each like

.

dream in idyll sun will climb glass-and

creep steady in to each like dream…..-like


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