C. Allen Rearick Interview
C. Allen Rearick is published in Opium, Shampoo, Free Verse, Identity Theory, Mad Hatter’s Review and more. He has a new book out from Zygote in my Coffee’s Tainted Coffee Press
SK: Do you find that, upon the third syllable of an anapestic foot, how are you?
C. Allen Rearick: yes i do. by the fith foot, i find the sound of ants, under my skin, crawling away with my bootleg copy of "cool runnings" it starts to become too much. and when it's over, i'm passed out in a gondola after havin' shot up aids in my arm for the 4th time that night.
SK: Have you ever been closing the blinds and mistaken the final wane of drawn light as a forthcoming atomic blast and reopened the shades with hurried gratitude only to be disappointed because some fucking kid is just playing with his bike reflectors?
C. Allen Rearick: only on tuesdays when chickens walk the streets with protractors, lookin' to create papaer mache dolls. this angers me to no end. i want to take off my fake leg, wave it in an obtuse wayward manner and recite gallway. which always turns out to sound like benny lava snorting taco sause with a large muskrat on the snowy banks of a long day in vermont.
SK: Do sexy little binary codes within the horrible poetry at the poetry marketing scam site poetry.com, in which by processing these codes one can see the pederast-era clean beginnings of whatever youth is typing it, haunt you?
C. Allen Rearick: once, when i was five, i had a dream where i was a general in the war of 1245. horrible poetry was everywhere. it made my stomach feel like evolution was a fantastic coup in which god break-danced all night to the rhythmic sounds of euclid's geometric penis. this is hard to talk aboot. but if you read between the lines, you will find an elephant in the room. he will be placenta. he will call your mom by her christian name. we will all die under the guise of binary codes clicking a psuedo morse code under our townails as we spell check our own breath.
SK: How many animals not intended for leashing have you walked up and down the city?
C. Allen Rearick: 3. one was a man made out of chalk dust. he once spoke of unicycles as if he understood time was a e-zwider rollin' paper. such non-sence i thought. i gave him my only stapler. told 'im to celebrate kwanza when the sky becomes popcorn. eat up he told me. for tomorrow is a bible quiz which we will all fail miserabley if we don't repent and recylce our tin cans.
SK: If I am driving toward Ohio at 80mph at 7AM and it's 35 degrees outside, and a box train is sauntering West near I-75 at 15mph, starting from Dayton, will you help me burn the hair off my arms?
C. Allen Rearick: after timmy set himself on fire, we all laughed at candles. we felt like green tea leaves compressed in cow manuer. that faint smell of whey protein melting in our jaws. and this is not a love story. but a story aboot love's inability to check out library books. if ohio were real, i'd call you a liar. if dayton were a moon, i'd inject porcelin between my toes. i'd tell you to drive faster so as to catch the dung-beetles shivering like copy machines, lonely for another page out of greater cleveland's user friendly phone book. but i digress, your arms are like the sun to me. fresh daisies shaven of all leather boot straps. come to my house. we'll have a sleep over. we'll make fresh papya and masturbate eachothers' colons. 15 mph is a long time to wait for a clean shower.
SK: When was the sky replaced by sex we never had?
C. Allen Rearick: our sex was a unicorn strugglin' to walk on jello. you slapped my thigh, said you missed the way i barked out cat calls at the floor when we played twister with the radio playin' only tom jones' "invitation to a beheading". one day we will fly an airplane into the cleveland ghetto, we will crash it for the money and the fame. the grass will be freshly cut, like our eyes when we saw tiny flints recorded on ice sculptures. i want to love you more than suicide. i want to hold you till you contract pancreatic cancer. i'll put on some coffee. pour it over my goiter. i'll take a picture of it and eat the negative just to show you what it's like to be pnuematic.
SK: Do you agree that statutory rape is the only true art form?
C. Allen Rearick: statuory rape is an invention of christianity. I've heard the walls bein' tickled by the dahli lama. he is a psuedo han-solo lookin' to count sheep who only understand unscripted bible verses. the word rape is pure beauty. say it 5 times and it begins to sound like love. we are all victims eating jello-puddin' pops. giant eagle sells diapers for the elderly. how pretentious don't you think. jakdfja would make a fine lullaby. cover the dead in thick wall paper, for they will kiss ashtray lips covered in chocolate butcher knives. tell me we will be in love forever and i'll show you a man who loves nmailed postcards.
SK: Which poets advocate procreation on international cable?
C. Allen Rearick: bob duvany. jack guglem. christa mcwelling. fred batchula. dirk xertaka. beef steak. fried beans in chewbacca's beard. avail: 4am friday. cut the lawn naked. feel the way men's health makes you beautiful. charles newharder. my address book is lonely. my friends are all cowboys. put up a fence and call little girls whores. i love you t.v.
SK: Please describe your facial hair in both its current and past states since adolescence and beyond.
C. Allen Rearick: barbed wire. hand carved maple wood caccti. little trinkets that say howdy. wind up toys in an old shoe box. color me bad. empty garage sales. scooners. tick-tac-toe. nickle plated 45s. red engines that once were mauve. listen, this is the essence of everything...blow, blow, blow. pop, pop, pop. smile. my coffee is cold.
SK: Do you find that, upon the third syllable of an anapestic foot, how are you?
C. Allen Rearick: yes i do. by the fith foot, i find the sound of ants, under my skin, crawling away with my bootleg copy of "cool runnings" it starts to become too much. and when it's over, i'm passed out in a gondola after havin' shot up aids in my arm for the 4th time that night.
SK: Have you ever been closing the blinds and mistaken the final wane of drawn light as a forthcoming atomic blast and reopened the shades with hurried gratitude only to be disappointed because some fucking kid is just playing with his bike reflectors?
C. Allen Rearick: only on tuesdays when chickens walk the streets with protractors, lookin' to create papaer mache dolls. this angers me to no end. i want to take off my fake leg, wave it in an obtuse wayward manner and recite gallway. which always turns out to sound like benny lava snorting taco sause with a large muskrat on the snowy banks of a long day in vermont.
SK: Do sexy little binary codes within the horrible poetry at the poetry marketing scam site poetry.com, in which by processing these codes one can see the pederast-era clean beginnings of whatever youth is typing it, haunt you?
C. Allen Rearick: once, when i was five, i had a dream where i was a general in the war of 1245. horrible poetry was everywhere. it made my stomach feel like evolution was a fantastic coup in which god break-danced all night to the rhythmic sounds of euclid's geometric penis. this is hard to talk aboot. but if you read between the lines, you will find an elephant in the room. he will be placenta. he will call your mom by her christian name. we will all die under the guise of binary codes clicking a psuedo morse code under our townails as we spell check our own breath.
SK: How many animals not intended for leashing have you walked up and down the city?
C. Allen Rearick: 3. one was a man made out of chalk dust. he once spoke of unicycles as if he understood time was a e-zwider rollin' paper. such non-sence i thought. i gave him my only stapler. told 'im to celebrate kwanza when the sky becomes popcorn. eat up he told me. for tomorrow is a bible quiz which we will all fail miserabley if we don't repent and recylce our tin cans.
SK: If I am driving toward Ohio at 80mph at 7AM and it's 35 degrees outside, and a box train is sauntering West near I-75 at 15mph, starting from Dayton, will you help me burn the hair off my arms?
C. Allen Rearick: after timmy set himself on fire, we all laughed at candles. we felt like green tea leaves compressed in cow manuer. that faint smell of whey protein melting in our jaws. and this is not a love story. but a story aboot love's inability to check out library books. if ohio were real, i'd call you a liar. if dayton were a moon, i'd inject porcelin between my toes. i'd tell you to drive faster so as to catch the dung-beetles shivering like copy machines, lonely for another page out of greater cleveland's user friendly phone book. but i digress, your arms are like the sun to me. fresh daisies shaven of all leather boot straps. come to my house. we'll have a sleep over. we'll make fresh papya and masturbate eachothers' colons. 15 mph is a long time to wait for a clean shower.
SK: When was the sky replaced by sex we never had?
C. Allen Rearick: our sex was a unicorn strugglin' to walk on jello. you slapped my thigh, said you missed the way i barked out cat calls at the floor when we played twister with the radio playin' only tom jones' "invitation to a beheading". one day we will fly an airplane into the cleveland ghetto, we will crash it for the money and the fame. the grass will be freshly cut, like our eyes when we saw tiny flints recorded on ice sculptures. i want to love you more than suicide. i want to hold you till you contract pancreatic cancer. i'll put on some coffee. pour it over my goiter. i'll take a picture of it and eat the negative just to show you what it's like to be pnuematic.
SK: Do you agree that statutory rape is the only true art form?
C. Allen Rearick: statuory rape is an invention of christianity. I've heard the walls bein' tickled by the dahli lama. he is a psuedo han-solo lookin' to count sheep who only understand unscripted bible verses. the word rape is pure beauty. say it 5 times and it begins to sound like love. we are all victims eating jello-puddin' pops. giant eagle sells diapers for the elderly. how pretentious don't you think. jakdfja would make a fine lullaby. cover the dead in thick wall paper, for they will kiss ashtray lips covered in chocolate butcher knives. tell me we will be in love forever and i'll show you a man who loves nmailed postcards.
SK: Which poets advocate procreation on international cable?
C. Allen Rearick: bob duvany. jack guglem. christa mcwelling. fred batchula. dirk xertaka. beef steak. fried beans in chewbacca's beard. avail: 4am friday. cut the lawn naked. feel the way men's health makes you beautiful. charles newharder. my address book is lonely. my friends are all cowboys. put up a fence and call little girls whores. i love you t.v.
SK: Please describe your facial hair in both its current and past states since adolescence and beyond.
C. Allen Rearick: barbed wire. hand carved maple wood caccti. little trinkets that say howdy. wind up toys in an old shoe box. color me bad. empty garage sales. scooners. tick-tac-toe. nickle plated 45s. red engines that once were mauve. listen, this is the essence of everything...blow, blow, blow. pop, pop, pop. smile. my coffee is cold.
