Kristine Snodgrass strips bare social media advertising this powerful series of images. She tears apart the commodification of Feminism and reimages it back into a viable message. Through Glitch Art she remessages marketing whitewash into an Asemic Poetry of power. She tells a new story for Americans as she redresses a gimmick of fashion back into a statement. She is the writing on the wall.
~ Yrik-Max Valentonis, author of this is visual poetry, iDEAL, and 120 Days of Gomorrah
Kristine Snodgrass weaves some interesting glitch pieces in her new collection, American Apparel. Each piece is extremely detailed and you can tell she put a lot of work into these very unique and beautiful works of art. Highly recommended!
Blackberries in glass are the strongest voice out there
A snap of long fingers and blackberries in glass
Past The Lumber
Ghost ride your voice past the lumber ghost ride your choices past the factory stoplight is changing red to green back to red from yellow past the calendar ghost ride this mess past the lumber absent with some minor regrets vacancy where there used to be streetcar and loose gravel
hot water earth blanket wrapped around her
gold trinket lightning strike racing to fall to earth
ten times the avalanche silent comes forever
pillowbox daydreams keystroke thunderstorm
wavelength plays rhythm to ringing ears over here
Behind Red Mad
Sparrows follow hollow bones to water edge setting fire to salt lights the night sky burying faces behind red mad draperies and disguises setting fire to night lights streets and eyes sparrows follow anyone home
Steve Brightman lives in Akron, OH with his wife and their green parrot. He firmly believes that there are only two seasons: winter and baseball.
John Drudge is the poet as social worker. John writes, “pain will always pursue us” preventing us from knowing our true selves, and our higher purpose. These poems confront the reader with the certainty that many are running from damaged pasts and find no comfort in nostalgia. Nor is the hope for a better tomorrow served by clinging to idealistic fantasies. Beauty may be found in this world, by those with the courage to accept reality, and the capacity for honesty. For those willing to seek the good in this world, there are New Days ahead.
– Jason O’Toole, Poet and author of Soulless Heavens and Spear of Stars.
We are rudderless And lost beyond The bounds of religion Soulless and sterile Impertinent to judgement Cold rolled fragments Of modern intoleration Where the sickness Is internal And we must heal ourselves Before we can heal The outside world A contagion Of disintegration A metamorphosis of the gods Quiet and repentant On the path That leads us home
Dismantling loyalties And attachments To ideas To find the candor Buried in our privilege A failure of vision And compassion Dismissive And deconstructive Emblazoned with hate And false morality Both wrong and right In the illusions Of our truth
On a tilted chair In the Luxembourg gardens Beneath the chestnut trees With my dreams Playing out Under the cotton-ball clouds Of a mid-day sky I longed for her To come to me Like a faint wind Gently rocking The lone toy boat Marooned on the pond And long forgotten In the cerebral stillness Of a stagnant summer day Next to the pretty street Who’s name I’ve long forgotten
A Slow Roll
Into this Creaturely existence We are subsumed By fright Divided By Arrogance And tapped down By the eternal struggles Of an ancient morality A slow steam train Rumbling down The railway line Through the instances Of small changes And the long hibernations Of our courage Gathering speed On faint hope Like ripples in the mud
We are our Mistakes
I remember Those times That defined us I remember The mean clouds That barked black Upon the summer’s Fading light And nipped at our heels As we retreated Into timid shelters And I remember When you came to me Broken And wrapped In forgotten dreams To make New mistakes In a messy world
Objectivity is a lie And everything Is subjective It is the heart That beats the beat Of distance Between us Far away From the breathing That creates us
In for a penny In for a pound Round and round In blind ambition An eye for an eye And begone Nation states In perpetual motion A clash of ideals In a mad consumption Of ideology Locked in dance step To the suffering tune Of childish sorrow With one world Silently waiting On the ever flinching Horizon Of tomorrow’s Quiet lament And eternity’s Last desire