November,

"She gladly took the hand, rough, sand, silt, adhesion. The eyes sliced through her and she could feel not only her baby but her conception, an act of love gone to ecstasy--high unencumbered thrill and mortallic epiphany that let the two forget who they were and how 'good' they were supposed to be. She screamed, and only then did a passer-by slow--but so they could curse the scene and broil the couple under complaint, and the assignation of the defiled (for now the future mother was seen as compliant in this vagabonded lifestyle--if you could call it life, and we do). The eucalyptus knew this scream, bending and braying, their oils liquid and vapor by turn of combustion, wind almost snapping the thread from the straw, ice breaking down the deep center of a fjord.

To save what's in you is an eternal thing, the snow that makes a deal with the flame, the skin thick enough to hold a place for the soft."

I returned to this section of Che again today, gray day--softness of what seems a stagnant fog occupying the full head of what we know is, under there, rock and mountain. p. 130, Che.

Word travels if you encourage it. http://www.blazevox.org/bk-pm.htm

Soon to be published, finally, the Underground novella Che.

It's a foggy morning in Vermont.  My head is in this too, waking.  The fog--a mass from San Francisco it would seem, a screen ready for a daytime movie, is set now on top of my mountain behind me and shows only a strip of trees like footlights (remember footlights?) around the bottom--where ankles would be if the mountain were human.  The California coffee I had this past hour is too strong, a rare thing, for this body did not take in enough water yesterday, while proofing Che.  Now I'm watching a documentary on Iran, from Link TV--vital to me, over these past years, since 2001 (in part this connectivity set me on my international journey, and the bridge from poetry to fiction--which you'll feel, I hope, in the landscapes or threads of Che.; but, also, I am easily reminded of my own travels, just out of college, when each glance held a word, words, and all was sensual before it was intellectual).

Trails From The East, this is called (the film I've got on).  I have another book (other than Che.) I need to get back to, new poems by Saadi Yous[s]ef.  Sinan Antoon and I have passed these poems back and forth.  We hope, with Saadi's encouragement long established, we'll bring these poems to you soon. And it is Saadi, and "the East", that brought me to Che.:  A Novella In Three Parts in the first place.

Traveling to India and Egypt, New Zealand, Australia, Spain, Italy, Greece, Cyprus, Ireland, and many places near and between, I knew the world "out beyond" my borders was an essential world (in language, drama, "punctuation")--and one layered with experience that was kindred, tempting, and alluring in both sad and gorgeous ways.  In Vermont, the mountain in my town "rises"--like a stranger, or a location to the traveler (think Calvino)--"out of nowhere."  My traveling, then, is always present:  the mountain is a pyramid, it's a tsunami, it's an altar, it's as it was this morning a blank screen--an obliteration, a bride's fabric, closed eyes, a sheet of paper.

The underground novella that emerged in 2006 with twisted paperclip bindings and then became a tiny perfect bound paperback in an edition of only a hundred is now being brought out--in all three sections (for the first time) by BlazeVOX Books.

Che. is friendship(s) through language.  Not controversy but content.  Visceral in subject and a daydream among intimates.  

If poetry were fiction this is what it would look like, in which the possibilities outlast the barriers.

Look for Che.:  A Novella In Three Parts by Peter Money this fall from BlazeVOX Books (www.blazevox.org)--soon.

Thanks, and please spread the Lit.

Archived info & interview:  http://www.cervenabarvapress.com/PeterMoneyinterview.htm