345th Street

There is a man on 345th street with a bomb around his neck. The bomb looks like bowling ball and is worn around his neck like a necklace, the man has lost his job and is feeling the blues. The bomb’s digital read out reads 00:05:64:24. Or Five minutes sixty four seconds and twenty four hundredths of a second. People say he is crazy. Gone bonkers. He does look strange, wearing a bowling ball and smoking a cigarette, his hair matted down with Brylcreem.
The city is large and could be two cities if it wanted to be. Yellow cake snakes around the tops of buildings so the sky cannot be seen most days. Afternoon view becomes a yellow tint of everything.
The man holds a sign:
Needs Bride
City Explodes

His head feels like a tangle of shapes manipulating and pressing intrusively against the current of proper function. No one goes near him like he has a disease and his stomach churns and grumbles from weeks of eating only government issued space food. He’d never even been to space. Poor fool accidently signed up for a years worth of space potatoes. Damn that television ad where the pretty woman in the blue dress eats the stuff on the moon and smiles, “It’s like being on the moon,” gigglegigglegigglehee.
The cars of 345th street were now starkly abandoned, posed in their traffic jam positions, their owners hiding by trashcans, benches, and corners of alleys. Watching. Watching. Waiting.
At 00:04:23:22 left until explosion a robotic officer programmed for sympathy and reason approaches the man. The robot has synthetic human flesh sagging here and there, and half a mustache hangs off his upper lip. The bot offers the man a steak and a beer as a substitute for a suicide bombing. It almost fools the man but he quickly realizes the offer to be coupons for Daryl Dicks Steak House. A marginal steakhouse susceptible to twelve year old humor.
“The coupons, sir. They are worth two free steaks and a free beer at..” and here the robotic officer turns to address the sheepish onlookers, bellowing a deeper-louder robotic voice, “Daryl Dicks Steak House.”
The bomber spits in the face. “It’s not food I’m after. It’s this whole god forsaken city! It’s this god damn yellow cake. It’s being alone for ten years!” he opens his arms audaciously and looks over everyone, the bomb swinging left and right, “Aren’t you all tired of the yellow cake? When was the last time we saw the sky? When was the last time any of you left this city? When was the last time you loners were not alone? Government issued bride? Mine died ten years ago. I never knew so much as her middle name when she was there but at least she was there. And now they say I have to find my own?” He laughed manically and shook his head, “And where in this cluster fuck of cluster fucks inside of cluster fucks am I supposed to find a suitable woman? They’re not here. All of ‘em taken, here. They’re all taken here and all I have is my god damn one year supply of space potatoes.”
The people stare while the robotic officer lurches forward with the coupons tightly gripped in his metal fingers, “Daryl Dick’s Steak House invites you to come in for free steak and potatoes.” He releases the coupons mechanically and takes three clunking steps backwards.
The man reveals a tiny flame thrower from his back pocket and gas and flames hiss across the robot. The robot raises his hand with one slivery finger pointing defiantly up, “You are not complying. Comply or face consequences.” His face skin melts and his mustache drops down to the ground like a burning asp. The crowd is halfway disgusted, to see the machine deteriorate like that, tubes and circuits and pipes hanging like the red ribbons of a carcass. They all unknowingly share the same feeling that moment, something in between realization and disappointment, having fooled themselves all these years that the officers were real.
The clock on the bomb reads 00:03:22:22. Or three minutes twenty two seconds and twenty two hundredths of a second.
From the third story window of the closest building you would be able to see the bomber pacing around the burning metal. The smoke rises in black-thick curls, mixing into the yellow cake. A news paper whirls through the silent scene like some kooky visitor unable to stop its passing by, forced only to look quickly at the scene, before disappearing into dead yellow sky down the street.
A woman comes and she is really a hologram. She has hazel hair and brown eyes. She carries herself like a flower. Her projection, or body, is illuminated by a white glow and a white dress drapes around her feet. The bomber thinks her an angel. She only smiles. The bomber cries because he does not want to blow her up, even if most of him knows she is only a hologram.
She moves her fingers smoothly over the bomb, caressing the round surface with the care of a woman. The bomb reads 00:02:21:66. Two minutes twenty seconds and sixty six hundredths of a second.
“Please.” He pleads, “You’re not real. Don’t do this.”
She kisses the bomb. The man fixes his eyes on the tiny specs of pebble in the concrete and for one second her hologram image flickers off and back on. The bomb reads 00:01:57:22. He lays down tired and realizes he is crying. He curls into a ball and is smitten for the illuminated woman with joyful tears. She leans down and whispers “Why is it like this? It doesn’t have to be like this.”
“I know,” he says sniffling.
“Give me the bomb,” she says looking down at him. Her hair waves magnificently with a new wind stirring through the city. The yellow cake is moving in a slow current now. So much so that you can see clear afternoon sky emerging in patches.
“No, your not real.” He cradles the ball closer to his chest.
“Come on now. Hand it over. I think you and I, me and you, should be together. You and me together in our own loft where we cook and talk and share the details of our day. I have had a good day today. How was your day?” She says with programmed smile 23.3333AAC.
The bomb reads 00:00:59:24.
“It’s not fair he said. I didn’t want this bomb. I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I just want my wife.”
“I know. It’s okay.”
“It’s not. It’s not. It’s not okay. It’s just not fair. Nothing’s fair.”
The bomb reads 00:00:31:22.
She whispers a hot speech in his ear and he swears he feels the tip of her tongue faint on his ear, “dismantle the bomb,” she says lovingly.
Like a wired up toy he jumps to his feet to remove the bomb from around his neck and cracks it in half, against the concrete, like a coconut. Triumphant. Inside are wires meshed together with more wires. He fiddles with the contraption, operating like a surgeon, meticulously re-arranging and searching for the one wire with all the power to stop the whole scene. The bomb makes clicking off noise and reads 00:00:09:27.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” She says with her hand almost on his cheek.
He laughs and sniffles, “No. Not at all.”
“See. It is fair. Everything is fair,” she reaches down for his hand.
He laughs manically and rolls on the floor. Rolling and rolling on the floor. “It is fair!” Just then a hologram of the bomb exploding with confetti materializes. It is hilarious. The whole city can’t stop laughing and smiling and crying joyfully. On windows and corners of alleys they laugh and shake hands. Kisses on the cheek. It’s over they say.
“What a close one. I thought I was going to blow this place to smithereens.” Says the bomber.
“I know. That was close,” she says and her body’s image flickers two more times and then three more times until blinking out. The man does not notice this and his hand cups where he thinks her hand to be. For the first time in years the man sees the yellow fog completely dissipate and a blue sky is revealed. The pedestrians look up momentarily and then move back to their businesses of moving. Traffic proceeds and the great giant clouds glide on.


Catch Up : Louisville

The first issue of The Gold County Paper Mill's Catch Up : Louisville is OUT! Poem by Jak Cardini Art by William Cardini


T Shirts : Drawz by William Cardini Screen Printed by Sarah Cassidy MastermindSupervised by Jak Cardini

Walgreens Work Shirt


East Austin

Mark P Hensel set up shop for the East Austin Studio Tour.


New ATTACKS Comic Published on hahacleverdotcom

William Cardini's newest ATTACKS comic, The Floating Crystal Witch ATTACKS the Miizzzard of the Year 2978, is up at Reynard Seifert's site for comics, poetry, and short stories, hahacleverdotcom.

Reynard puts a bunch of great shit up there every other Wednesday, y'all should keep on top of it.

Here's a preview of Bill's comic:

He was trying to reproduce the effect of a three-color screenprint image on the computer.



There is a view in front of the third street academic building main entrance
I've always wanted to write about

Beneath it :

An orange wheeled machine
with its arm or neck or back


I have no idea how
she prepared such a bed
or why there are
ugly engines
of blankets
under it

Cars under trees
like fallen silver fruit
hot in gears and juices

Back in the kitchen,
flarf falls out of the freezer
embarrassing stacks of
melamine plates

Yellow tubes pour out of the
Louisville Free Public Library Building
surrounded by the Okalona Fence Company

Like Galactus is eating all the books
Like book worms are a monstrous reality

By the traffic

Traffic that could kill many things
like machines, or views

I just cant imagine
finding a use for all these
layers and sheets and pillows,
placing it so close
to the night stand

From here,
I can smell
tuna cans squirming
in the trash
under banana peels

Coffee cups spin
in the cupboard
trying to work off hours of
late night conversation

fences are killing innumerable views

A building on the corner
of and
is haunted
by the relaxed ghosts
of chairs
pressing themselves
through curtains
into the window panes
of every room
from this
hot parking lot

If I were at work
right now,
walking the cold garbled aisles
of blue mylar strips
dressed in toothbrushes

I'd start 'facing' this bedroom


Comix On Sale In Louisville

Just dropped off issues of HypperBoxx, Impossible Objects #1 and MASKS at Ultra Pop, locatted at 1414 Bardstown Rd.



I Should Pave My Front Yard

I walk across the alley
and begin explaining
The Singularity
to my neighbor

he invites me to a dinner party
someone there
tries to sell me a computer

I take it home
and put it on my lawn

I cover it in trash

and wait

a tree grows from it

I spend the day
carving oars
from its limbs

I spend the next
coating them in

I let them rust
I hide them in a basement

I disconnect my phone

Im at work
watching goods
fill buildings

helping transactions
empty them


Don't Have A Dinner Party

You'd over do it
There'd be dishes

You'd scramble
to find things
to fill the evening

and run out of things
to keep
to yourself


Froghead Hangover Review

William Cardini's Froghead Hangover comic got reviewed over at Optical Sloth, here's a quote:

I’ll just say that any ambivalence I had about the last issue is gone with this one, as this is a pile of fun. Those frog eyes will haunt you if you’re not careful, if you read this you’ll see what I mean.


The review is on the same page as the review for TRANZ, so if you scroll down you can check that out too.



First, I'd say the week of the MFA residency was rushed and hellish. Every moment on campus felt like I was being followed by a swarm of bees. Like every fire alarm in the city had been pulled. I saw a dude's sweat drip into his coffee, followed by his creamer. Loose leaf paper wandered the school, looking lost. It coagulated in the thresholds of every door. I imagined it clogging, blocking students and lecturers, piling them up in fleshy messes through the halls, only to break and seize, giving the institution a mild stroke.

I'd planned my entire week around poetry. Twelve hours of poetry, bees and paper. I fetishized the MFA itinerary. I thought about Louisville erupting from the inside, flooding Bardstown Road with writers and coffee and name badges. I'd been to music festivals and comic conventions in Texas; this would be smarter and cooler and radder. It was gonna be Wonder Boys in real life. Everyone would be meditative and intense and challenging. I anticipated getting my ass kicked in some style lecture for my juvenile comments, and I was excited.

The first day, “Ways of Seeing”. I sat next to you. We were listening to someone tell us how to brainstorm. I heard you giggling and scribbling. I thought about leaning over, stealing an idea you had, then putting it in this paper to impress you. Half way through my glance I realized “I wont be able to read it anyway”. I immediately starting taking notes twice as fast. I was racing you. Out scribbling you. The lecture sounded like a scribble. I was told to transcribe entire chapters of my favorite novels. To cut poems into paper puzzles and move them around on my carpet. To do any sort of awkwardly contrived trickery in an attempt to coax timid pieces of writing from our stomachs.

I began to worry. A fear arose from my paper, up into my face. Being less dense than air, it floated out over every listener. It was an inky smog. A cartoonish speech bubble, burped from a notebook. It said “Snake Oil”. It began to drip. I wrote the rest of my notes with it.
My cynicism can be a rather haunting specter. Something of a nagging cough. It drags me outside to smoke in the parking lot. It helps me predict the countless ways this next week could possibly suck. My itinerary looks less like a spank mag and more like a “To Do” list. I listen to Kanye West, eat an apple and smoke again while sitting on a rail next to the library. I decide to have my poems bright and ugly like neon fanny packs.

Diane Aprile is standing behind a podium reading down into her chest. She wrote this story while she was on a magazine assignment. My notes say “The 150 yr old Proto Abbey.” I remember listening to her and thinking “I'm not going to remember this.” I don't. When thinking about it, I see my newly disappointed self staring blankly at the stage, unable to take notes. I remember wanting to meet the people who would like to have stories told to them this way. I remember imagining this book's cover. It's of a book on an endtable that is covered in a lacy doily, surrounded by candles. Vaseline was on the lens when they took the photo. The piece moved arduously through vanilla images of boring landscapes. Everything worried me.
Greg Pape was next. He was supposed to read poetry. In actuality, it was a story. No matter what he says. It has something to do with being young and hurting himself somehow. I remember an image of blood whirling in the bathroom sink. In my notebook, under his name I wrote : “what are you trying to make me feel? If I feel it, will I be less bored?”

As Jody Lisenberger shifted through her papers on the podium, I was answering several different text messages. I was eating part of an apple and a NutriGrain bar. I was doing nothing that could be mistaken for paying attention. She starts cussing. I look up. Her story is two women arguing in a kitchen, after the funeral of a man who has committed suicide. Someone was gay and someone else covered it up then someone killed themselves. The room was sweaty and anxious. The women were in real pain. It was a great story. I wrote : “wonderfully caustic at points”.

The rest of the readers were more of the very painful same. Instead of listening to them, I spent the time reflecting on my poetry. I tried figuring out what exactly it was that made them so boring. I began to worry I was too. Boring in a way I couldn't detect.

Philip Deaver is a poet. He is in front of me, smothering me in the most overwhelming narrative I have ever heard in a poem. Here, I think about poets incessantly recording their lives. Breaking bits and pieces of their experiences into nicely rounded morals. They constantly reflect. Their existence is one meta narrative. That wasn't a metaphor. Here, I'm deciding to be even more bizarre with my pieces. I start to worry about being too dada. I think about all the postmodern pranksters. I think about Koons sculpting famous pets of pop stars, then doing his porn star wife. I write down this quote from Jim Kuntsler : “Irony was the ethos of the 20th century. In the future, it'll prove to be a luxury we can't afford. This shit isn't funny anymore.” He's talking about peak oil. I thinking about peak art. I feel pretty moderate.

The first day of the residency is over. Casey pokes his head in through the double doors at the other end of the auditorium. He sees the table of snacks and water and reading assignments. He grabs a bag of goldfish, waves at me and walks back out.

I can't honestly say the rest of the week was much different. I went to a few graduating student lectures. They all kinda meshed together, like a week of book reports. Langston Hughes' biography. Nature poems. Short films that inspired shorter poems. I listened in as the students prepared to go to the Speed Museum. Writing poems about art about poems about art. The entire week felt that way. A simulacrum. The handouts were copies of copies.

I started to worry about being a writer. I thought about my craft, and smoking, and my girlfriend, back home in Texas, all summer. Kanye West. I was not looking forward to the student readings.

I was at the student reading. I didn't write down any of their names. They washed into one another. I heard stuff about skate boarders from a thirty something suburban mom. An awkward girl in huge gothy raver pants, covered in zippers, read an excerpt from her fantasy novel. It was mostly not-very-creative-non-fiction. I think that might actually be a genre study for the MFA. I was thinking about these students trying out the countless tricks and gimmicks they noted in other lectures. I imagine the goth girl in her pajamas, remixing medieval plot elements on colorful construction paper, on her carpet, with her cats, listening to ambient techno, trying to solve a puzzle.

I should mention Greg Pape again. Sometime during the week, I went to his lecture on “Shaping the Poem”. He was addressing the use of “forms” in poems, to, I don't know, make them better. He kept saying “I like to say analogue forms”. It sounded like a term he had defended in the past. He gave us examples of poems written mimicking the structures of other things, not poems. A recipe. A train conductor. A police report. I suddenly thought the word “ShamWow” then “OxyClean” then “WonderPoemWritingThingy”. This is the only time I addressed a professor, directly, all week.
“Isn't there a concern with these 'analogue forms' dominating a poem, rendering it's voice a little contrived?”

The remainder of the residency was left to readings and other random presentations. The last day, I was to meet up with Mary and Tatum in the unitarian church. They are both nice and nothing like me, something I think they are well aware of. This was the most pleasant day of the week. Everything seemed over. The church was cool and relaxing. The organs and stained glassed. We were here to worship, I don't know, something. Which , actually, is a rather suiting sentiment for a unitarian church.

I sat there, looking at my notes. I drew little robots and filled their thought bubbles with abstract shapes. I'm scribbling over everything. I'm transcribing my favorite Kanye lyrics. Im wishing he had a song called “Snake Oil”. I'm texting random lines of a new poem to friends. I'm looking at the itinerary, thinking about my week, in a church, with some robots and some poems. I'm watching the students file in, taking their seats. I'm listening to a speaker talk about her book tour. I'm reaching into my bag to adjust the name badge on my work shirt. I draw myself, as a robot, in a creative writing lecture. I'm wearing a blue Walgreens polo shirt. I have a speech bubble.

“We Can Still Be Who We Wish We Is”


Froghead Hangover Review

William Cardini's Froghead Hangover got reviewed as part of a mini-comics round-up over at High-Low, the temporary home of Rob Clough's sequart.com comic column.

"Despite this comic's absurd title, it is absolutely an accurate description of its contents. Reminiscent of somewhere between Mat Brinkman and Sam Gaskin, Cardini tells a story of a video-game playing humanoid who wakes up from a bad hangover to find that a large froghead has somehow wound up in his house."




Hey y'all, William Cardini's comic SHAMANMAN


has been included in SMOKE SIGNAL,

the newspaper-sized comics anthology published by Desert Island Comics in Brooklyn. You can pick up a copy there, at other select locations in the borough, or order it online for the price of postage.


We Can Still Be Who We Wish We Is

On a register in the afternoon counting too many things and placing them in weirdo external stomachs, I sanitize my hands, your receipt and the counter. All while being watched. While having everything about me counted. While having everything I think about you come true. I'm “trans acting” you. We'll drink hand sanitizer. We'll admire coupons. We'll be together. We'll reprogram the reader board. It'll say something about. Gallons of plastic easter chocolate. You, me and your receipt will count the seconds between each message. The awkward carts behind you will count how long they've been waiting. How long it'll take us to notice them. How many curse words flash and die in the reader board. I'm holding your credit card. I'm contemplating never giving it back. Thinking how ugly it would be to be inconvenienced with you. Holding this card, you and this line, up, forever. You take everything I've just given you out to your car. I shout after you. “I'll wait here!”. Another uglier you slams all the things you forgot to buy on my counter, waking up my register, spilling my hand sanitizer.


Froghead Hangover at MoCCA 2009

Here's the cover and a couple of pages from William Cardini's new comic FROGHEAD HANGOVER that he'll have (pending pickup from the printer tomorrow) to trade at MoCCA 2009! The comic is a true story from when Willy C was living by himself in a small apartment in Austin back in 2006 ... When he gets back to the ATX he plans on screenprinting a different cover for the for-sale version!

Froghead Hangover Front Cover

Cover for the trade edition.

Froghead Hangover Page 5

Page 5 - Dr. Chuch do you remember when you lived in Austin? Those were the days ...

Froghead Hangover Page 10

Page 10.

If you'll be at MoCCA and you're exhibiting, be prepared to be handed a copy! Here's a snapshot of William Cardini in the wild:

My Face Paint


Zygote In My Coffee

Jak Cardini got two totally dope ass poems in this months issue of Zygote in My Coffee! Read em. Tell yer friendz.


TRANZ Review by Optical Sloth

William Cardini's TRANZ got reviewed over at Optical Sloth, here's a quote:

"Everything looks great and William/Mark is certainly not short on imagination, I guess I’m just more old fashioned in my comics reading, what with my general preference for linear stories and all. Still, there’s a lot to be said with the 'where the hell is this going to go from here?' school of making comics, and I’m all kinds of intrigued to see what he does next and what he’s already done that might or might not be more accessible than this to the common folk."



When Everything Here Is No Longer Alive

I see troups of lost

Snipe hunting
in vacant lots

And if you weren't dead,
I can tell
Youd want to be there

Like, right now,
you are trying to

will some awkward
imitation of yourself

to say things like

"I'm receiving a transmission from another planet"


"It's being dictated by an historical figure"

you seem unsatisfied.
It's not working for some reason.
Like a note stuck in the back
of a philosophy text book.

it's missing


To them,
you appear as someone
experiencing an earthquake

You have 2-3 different voices.

You are five random words.

Their flashlights are growing dim
Their bed times are arriving

and they are tired of
trying to interpret you
as you attempt to tell them
their future.


Craig Arnold


Mawwwr TRANZ

Although William Cardini drew these pages for a show to benefit an art space, they're a continuation of the ideas that he was dealing with in TRANZ:





William Cardini has started working on a new twelve-page comic that incorporates the MULTIPLY idea into a longer narrative, we here at the GCPM are super stoked about it! He plans to have it ready for when he goes to MoCCA Fest 09 so if you're coming/tabling be prepared to trade him a zine for it!


The Medicine Men: Dr. Chuch & Davehat


STAPLE! 2009 Recap

Belated post of some picx from STAPLE! 2009...

Here's William Cardini and his lady, she sold her wonderful glademade products alongside ours.

STAPLE! 2009

Here's summa the stuffz we had for sale.

STAPLE! 2009

Here's the boyz (left to right: Dr. Chuch, XyphaP, &myself).

STAPLE! 2009

STAPLE! was a real good time, we moved plenty of product and wayyy more ppl showed up than last year, so thanks Austin and Uncle Staple for making it such a success!

Ceiling Fans

Today I ventured out to the home depot store and purchased an industrial sized ceiling fan. The fan blades themselves stretched a ten foot circumference. It came in many boxes and pieces, making assembly a labyrinth of springs, gears, and wires.

Once installed and powered up the great blades made big bellied whooshes. Whoosh Whoosh the fan said. My room became a clutter of trash like a band of chickens had just swept through. If chickens feather’s were made of beer bottles and laundry.

It was a marvel of the modern ceiling fan. If there was a ceiling fan magazine this one most certainly would have been on the front cover.

New Ceiling Fan

Rocks Your World

Picks Up Your Baby

Like a Particle in the Air

To get a better appreciation for the fan I stood on a chair and let my head of hairs just barley nick the blades current. What a rush I thought and called my best friend Jeremy to explain the new discovery.

What a fan he said.

Check this out. I put my head near it again. This is a rush

He did the same. What a rush we said.

Jeremy went out and bought a fan and had trouble installing it. It was the number of boxes that it came in that made it so overwhelming. Maybe six or seven in all.

Christ almighty I just want to install the fucking thing he said.

I stared at my fan, in trance at the power of metal blades running circles and told him it was worth it.

I installed handle bars where the blades meet the engine’s housing. I let it swing me around til I threw up in a corner of my room. What a rush I thought and told Jeremy about the upgrades available for the fan.

There was the handle bar, glowing stars, a swing (illegal in parts of Florida), a stirrer for any industrial stirring you may need, lasers for ground effects, a kaleidoscope mod, a net to catch flies and a bowling ball attached to a string--designed for cat burglars.

I had everything except for the bowling ball because I had no intention on ever leaving the fan’s sight. Jeremy said attachments are for wiener gnomes. I stood in the laser beams projecting live images of whales and oceans beneath my feet and said, by God then I am a wiener gnome, Jeremy. I did not bother asking what a wiener gnome was.

One afternoon the fan’s motor’s housing was beginning to lose its hold to the ceiling, just enough to thump an annoying batting noise in its rotation. I turned off the fan for the first time in three weeks and thought to inspect it with techniques my grandfather taught me during the civil war.

I called Jeremy to see if he would help trouble shoot this thing but I only heard the newly installed fan, the blades whoosh whooshing behind his speech like loud wind inside a doughnut mountain. What a rush he said, lots of horses of power.

I can fix this thing I thought. I thought back to advice Grandpa had given me, nodding in his chair, gibbering southern speak like a grumbling child, "Keep your musket off my land and my girlfriend and I’ll keep my girlfriend and my land away from your musket."

Thanks, Grandpa. I decided to bang the life back into the fan. I hit it with a hammer. Nothing. I hit it two more times. Nothing. Of course, throw the hammer into the blades. I turned the fan on and wielded the hammer into the blades. The hammer clanked in between the blades and drove itself into a wall. Nothing.

I decided it’d take more than a few hits with a flower sized hammer to get the thing to work. I retrieved a sledge hammer from my mother’s kitchen and went to work. Easy does it. Violent swings the sledge hammer against the metal Tyrannosaurus.

After a few good whacks the fan hung dramatically from one lone red chord connected to a hole in the ceiling. Wires from the motor stuck out, wrapping themselves around the housing unit, curled out like little slithers of electric life. The fan itself was cool and calm like every good powered down machine should be.

I stood and watched it in silence. Fan you will be fixed. I gave it one good thrust with the ol’ sledge hammer. The great metal construction split from the red chord, landing heavy on my chest. One of the blades, warm from the engine, inched down my leg, shaving my skin to bone in a clean peel. Fine peel. What a rush.

God damnit. God damn you fan. I screamed like a dying banshee. I used my muscles to remove the fan but I was no match for the great machine. It laid on me like the weight of some great planet. Scream like a dying banshee.

There's no answer at Jeremy's beacuse Jeremy is listening to his new fan whoosh whoosh.

Scream like a banshee I say again. What a rush. Scream like a dying banshee.


BoHo CoCo Shout Out

Like to give a special word up to our Texan buddies over at Austin New Blog / BoHo CoCo. Currrently, they are celebrating DaDa Month and more importantly, their 500th post. Play on playas!

Austin New Blog / BoHo CoCo


Herr Ln @ Westport Village Facing: N

Jak Cardini will be reading April 3rd at 2:45 in the Ekstrom Library, Chao Auditorium on the University of Louisville campus at part of "Humanities and the Arts: Cultures and Controversies". I landed this reading for my collaborative efforts on a TARC bus station poster with Alexia Serpentini. Look at it.


University of Louisville reading

Jak Cardini will be reading April 3rd at 2:45 in the Ekstrom Library, Chao Auditorium on the University of Louisville campus at part of "Humanities and the Arts: Cultures and Controversies". I landed this reading for my collaborative efforts on a TARC bus station poster with Alexia Serpentini. Look at it.



watch out nephews

there are attics
full of
Artari 2600s
that you will
never visit


Jak's Poster on http://shelterpoetry.blogspot.com

Greetings From The Future!

*Before Consuming the Future You Should Know

That the future is opinions that are not allowed to be shared in any way. I have, thanks to evasive maneuvers of primitive man, evaded the higher order of police for the past few days to secretly bring you this blog. If they caught me they could infiltrate my brain and re-arrange my entire thought process into a mushy mush. I bare this information not as a warning but as information. You should see what I have seen.

I just want to say right now that the future fucking rules. I just saw a guy with a double neck tie. That’s right, the double neck tie prediction in Back to the Future II is correct and flourishing in the year 3092. And all the while I’m writing this, I’m writing it with my mind, projecting a series of thoughts onto an advanced Super Luminary Hydrogenated Pocket Screen. The thoughts are captured by a photon imaging device that emits a high frequency of light out of my forehead. In this light’s particles my thoughts flow as free as information in a computer. And these may be transferred where ever a host, such as my Super LHPS, may be.

Rather than eating food, pretty ladies dressed in only what your mind imagines, bring you a pill. The pill disperses a series of fats, proteins, and other nutrients throughout your body. Not only does it sufficiently nutrinomize you, but it also gives you an entire simulation of what the meal would be like eating it with your favorite celebrity. I chose Christopher Lloyd just to tell him I am in the future. He just kept saying “Great scott!” over and over until the dinner was over. Some glitches still occur within the dinner program.

When I introduce myself to people they say “Bondorazomariocoaza.” At first I was almost offended until everyone continued to say it. The future is so friendly! Everyone smiles because if you don’t the government will administer a pill to you that simulates shame and humility.

I sit by the mechanical trees that breathe the way heavy machines do. The rubber bark that has been worn off reveals the trees inner machinery. I listen as the trees blow and creak. The night sky, which is the only thing that reminds me of the past, glows trails of white against space’s black.

A helicopter comes in from above and lands next to me. You’re under arrest. Filtration process begun. Do not disturb public’s brains. I’m looking up at the sky. I’m looking at the moon. Filtration process, re-arrangement in order, do not struggle the flows of time waning struggle error disruption. Do not struggle you are under arrest.


William Cardini Q&A with the League of Extremely Ordinary Gentlemen

original enclosure

William Cardini is the second person interviewed.

Karen Cassidy

the antelope was out in the fields and he came across a cantaloupe. then he ate it, and his rude evil brother told him that he ate a baby antelope egg. antelope fainted because he thought a cantaloupe was an antelope egg. he ran away, thinking he shamed his family. he met a caterpillar, who asked why he was so sad. the caterpillar said it was okay, and that nothing is as bad as it seems. without pushing the subject, the caterpillar stayed friends with the antelope, hoping one day he'd open up. after months, the antelope finally said what he had done. the caterpillar laughed so hard he died.then the antelope realized he really did do something wrong. running away again, the antelope went to a village where there was a little boy that had a chili bowl haircut. the boy was carrying a marshmallow gun, and said "freeze" to the antelope, or he was going to eat him for supper. at this point the antelope was so tired from running, and broke down crying. the boy thought he had scared the antelope, and went over to hug him. the antelope had never felt better in his whole life, and became good friends with the boy. they did everything together.then one day there was a female antelope, and the male antelope had to go out and see her. he ran out to the other antelope and did what he was born to do. he impregnated the female antelope. months later he was very happy to see that a baby antelope was not cantaloupe at all. it doesn't even grow in an egg . so him, the boy, the baby and mother lived happily ever after. they laughed about it a lot. how silly it was that he thought the cantaloupe was a baby antelope. also, they went and killed his brother.

moral of the story: don't forget to live your life. also get revenge.


Bus Station

Jak Cardini recently had one of his poems used for a TARC poster in Louisville, Kentucky. TARC teamed up with UofL art students and local poets in a collaborative public art project. The posters will be display on downtown bus station starting early April.

The Gold County Paper Mill would like to thank Alexia Serpentini allowing Jak to participate in the project, and for the phat showt owt at the bottum of the page.


Poo Tee Weet

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Poo Tee Weet


STAPLE! 2009

Here's all the stuff that we'll have for you tomorrow from 11-7 at STAPLE!


From left to right:

Hyperbox #1-3 by William Cardini

Jak Cardini Achieves the Narratological Singularity by Jak Cardini, book design by Paul DeVay

TRANZ by William Cardini with assistance from Glade Whitworth

Masks by William Cardini

Coyote by The Medicine Men (Dr. Chuch and Davehat)

OMNI by William Cardini and Lanneau White

Impossible Objects #1 by Jak Cardini and William Cardini

See y'all there!


TRANZ Sample Pages

William Cardini is planning on having this comic ready for STAPLE 2009 ...

TRANZ sample page

TRANZ sample page

TRANZ sample page



Celebrity Magazines

dont believe in magic
like pressure

A forest of levers
and their

we are but
haunted bodies of

tangled in a static web
of power lines

heavy and transmissionless
above our heads

connecting living rooms and telephones and empty t.v.s
to emptier outlets and sockets and chords

all entangled
in toadish homes

under ugly broken trees

to more

gray paved networks
of unknown neighborhoods

I do not understand anything about writing

or anything else

like narratology
in poems

Around my house
every tree limb falls
to the street

now oars



and we were in a living room eating fruit. from a bowl. An outside grew overwhelming and intrusive. A long, arduous thing, mostly gibberish. A club. As a huge hovering nothing attaching itself to the tops of buildings.


There are tired screens. Some fruit. Some senseless horizon where tomorrow we’ll be jobs. Trees will impose on a wake. An oar.