Black Hole

by Rodrigo Garcia Lopes

O ponto e um buraco negro (A dot is a black hole) by Rodrigo Garcia Lopes

translation & drawing by Eduardo Ramos

Share this | February 26, 2007 | department: poetics, visual | No Comments |

NewVolution: _volutions’s sexy explosion: dynamic hypertext culture mag

by The Editors

Dear Ladies and Germs:

welcome to the reloaded Volutions , abandoning the issue-release days in favor of more bipolaroid solutions such as spewing forth content on a weekly (at least) basis. we hope to become your main hypertext culture magazine, or at the very least, a not unpleasant distraction.

enjoy the concrete poem by Rodrigo Garcia Lopes, and look out for more to come very shortly, including reviews and art from our dynamic contributors.

Share this | February 26, 2007 | department: News | No Comments |

Welcome to _volutions

by The Editors

Soundtrack: Pop your digital cheeriness with John Ribó/Kapow! Music’s well-trimmed tracks, tuned to the tuna fish of outer space.

Now we have floated down the easy river of PBR, and the year is the year of the Cross-Dressing Wombat, or 2007, and we are not sure what we are going to do with our lives besides our careers and continually making this online magazine. So the old were rounded up to make something new, and so take this, Issue 2.

In no particular order, G. Neal McTighe’s pastime is to lock us in cages of unusually bold C’s & O’s, feeding us a babelfish, and use Latin at the same time. Oh, C, B, O, AY AY, the dew drops done did drip downtown!

Rafa is wantonly prone to galavanting his poetic on the front-side of a 32″ LCD. Not to be feared. In Puerto Rico you can mix r’s and ’s, so he went to school in the US to learn how to increase his product placement. The result has been deep discounts in thought, so that nobody helps nobody, and the weekday special is that you are now called “You.”

Amy pranced to us via a peacefully-sensual-plain-sun-filled golden-zen-cow-meadow. On the way she plopped into a moon-cow-pie of language, and was smeared in the babble of all the tongues in her head. Somewhere in the songs she gave us you can hear the sound of her Inglish arm-wrestling her Espanish into a spiral.

Brian Howe occasionally hints at the rich aroma of freshly roasted coffee, multiple bean-origins, Guatemala. It is mythologized that his creation was a stimulus to peck at a keyboard key. Slinking into the mire of wampum, Brian is unafraid in his image-verse to duet with his ghost through a jambox. Who’ s calling the jam-box junk NOW, eh grandpa?

Eduardo Ramos’s identity crisis was exacerbated by the passing of his Canon digital camera, which was itself brought on by unexpected error E-80 and subsequent introduction to the hard side of a desk-top at a speed fast enough to jolt its parts into semi-functionality, just enough to be frustrating and useless.

Swarthy kiosk dial; here lies truth! At the bazaar, the spit (toons) from the middle of the week quieren decir toxic jaw in Roosevelt Island awe.

Share this | February 10, 2007 | department: Issue 2 | No Comments |

Ambient: Music for Videogames

by John Ribo

click the blue button to play, or the song name to download

Share this | February 9, 2007 | department: Issue 2, music | No Comments |

to the letter

by gringocarioca

To the Letter: Concrete poem by Marco de Oliveira (gringocarioca)

Share this | February 9, 2007 | department: Issue 2, concrete poetry | No Comments |

Cow Caos

by Amy Bueno

my love, Joaquín, on his birthday

At the bazaar las vacas se venden.
It’s not that they are sold, for they sell
themselves.  Una doncella canta
las virtudes of her calico:  My hide
is a sky, un cielo de vacas!  Su papá
stands behind her, vigilando.  These
cows don’t smile or frown, para no
asustarnos demasiado, pero sí tienen
una risa de vaca that moves through you
paulatinamente como arroyos olvidados
de tu propia mamá diciéndote: Túúúúú
es un acto that reminds you, you are mujer
of your mother, you should try it sometime,
at the cow bazaar where the calves
son todos niños bien educados that never
have tantrums or nightmares or even
sueños.  Para esas vaquitas estar despiertos
es dormir.  That is why I go to the market
& buy cardos, ortigas, the tags
from their ears, porque estos cows
me hacen sentir entumecida & cuando
los mosquitos me pican I say,
sweet cretinos quieren llevarme lejos.
Once a thousand mosquitoes landed
on the leather of una vaca tatarabuela
& todos mordieron a la vez, & empezó
a subir, como un globo bovino, un dirigible
en ruta de escape a las nubes de hamburguesas.
Jaws turning over the blades, the kin eat.
Ningún alboroto, ni un rabo de rabia. 
Se ceban el despido, tranquilos, sin mirarlo
la jeta.  So this is how you say goodbye?
In my world you must cry.  The tears
must come like a storm and you must walk
through the mall sobbing and buy
clothes.  Pero las vacas viven
en su prado interior donde se tumban,
lloran fuerte escondiendo sus muecas,
& beg the mud for rain.  Yo quiero
sufrir este paisaje contigo, acongojados
in a luxury-private-bucolic-ordinary-wholesome-
peacefully-sensual-plain-sun-filled golden-zen-cow-meadow.        

Share this | February 1, 2007 | department: Issue 2, poetics | 9 Comments |

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