Jesus and Batman by Jonathan Sanyer

I wonder if Jesus appears to men who have affairs

I wonder if they realize that it’s his fault and not theirs

I wonder if he came that night
we sat awake on the stairs

I wonder if he could taste
my mother’s tears

and if superheroes fight for kids
the way child services fights for kids

I wonder if Batman could hold families together
with the same strength that my mother did

I wonder if babies have healing powers
when the world is shit

and when they shit themselves
there is always enough love to change them

and give them a chance to do it again.

Insomnia by Jonathan Sanyer

Come gentle mistress

undress with your gentleness and impress your memory
on my mattress

Come daymares
awake in broad midnight
asleep in silence of sunlight

knees meet floor and pray
bare feet meet coal and stay
this sunbaked asphalt, this dreamer’s road

walk with me, let tar settle between our toes
and let God be inhaled through our nose
and let life reek from our clothes

drown in the maybes the yeses and the nos
suffocate with first goodbyes and last hellos
feel the sting from the pitch fork

and the burden of halos
be a sinner like me
be saved and damned and saved again

what’s worse
idle thoughts
or idle hands?

When we lay down to sleep, where blinded within.

Become blinded with me
guided by the insanity
that we could only plan to be

lie to me, lie with me
sleep as I lie awake
sleep as our bodies ache

yours from satisfaction
mine from insatiable lust
sleep and let your sleep be enough, for us

because I am a zombie
I am a vampire
I am, tired.

Come with me
come here when I beckon
be good to me

refuse me

Jon Sanyer

The Poet and I by Ted Goad

the poet and I talk face to face
he isn’t there

arms make the man I sing
light dark pro anti ambiguous inconsistent
not when but how the bough breaks the sow wakes the belt makes him
pain(t)ed pride (?)

the poet and I fight hand to hand
it isn’t fair

quit/died low/grand (prof-mund)ane/sacre-ligious (i before e except after see)
countless kisses—arguments—proofs—bodies
s.he’d have done (me) better if s.he’d finished (me off)
I hate and I love potion
live in secret · love in public

the poet and I walk side to side
three dozen pair

thousand ships
thousand lines
thousand lies like the wine-dark skies
teacher preacher lecher loathe her
(nod, doze, sleep alone with the moon)
loosened limbs, numb tongue, fever pitch tents-ships-battle
cities fall when she looks (at him) ta-
king her (in)
unitarians never had that much fun anyway
sing me a woman this time

the poet and I look eye to eye
she doesn’t where

What is Architecture by Michael Southard

Architecture is old. Old. Like beer making and prostitution old. It is something that has been with us since there was an us. Shelter, dwelling, place making, and architecture were all fused together then – in the old days. Architecture was an unexplainable expression of the people who created it. Now, in the aughties, architecture is not so easily swept under a socio-cultural-politico-economic-anthropological-materialist rug.

Metaphorically speaking.

Something has gotten in between it. Context and structures have drifted apart creating roaming zombies in the place of dwelling. Cosmological order has been attacked by the march of reason, industrialism, Taylorism, and globalization. It is a complicated story involving the suburbs of Levittown, urban renewal, white flight, deindustrialization, Bretton Woods institutions, advances in communication, international travel, nation states, wars, power, and lots of beer and prostitution. Something has happened to architecture. Right?

Is it a case of longing for bygone days that never existed? Was architecture really all that simple way back when? Was the human species any more simple? Yes. No. Both. Contradiction is inherently human and highlights the complexity of the world in which we find ourselves. Talking about architecture is complicated and riddled with contradiction. If trying to dissect it in a straightforward fashion you will be frustrated with inconsistencies. Better to avoid the black and white of what architecture is and embrace a strange narrative that parallels the strangeness of being alive.

Darkness is the proto-genesis of my architecture narrative. In the womb it was dark, warm, and safe. And, inside of the womb, I was inside of me. Also dark, warm, and safe. I was born into a world of enclosure, an echo of the body and the womb. For there to be an inside, a static stable world, there must be an external. A world of light, wind, and flux. This is the beginning of architecture. A world of inborn sensual stimuli. This is the filter by which archetypes arise and go on to inform our emotional impressions of our physical world.

From here, it is all beer and prostitutes.