Wed, 25 Sep 2024 18:39:45 -0700WeeblyFri, 20 Mar 2015 23:00:53 GMThttp://americanmustard.weebly.com/blug/how-mustard-works We solicit poems from poets we admire, respect, have access to, and for any other reason want to include into our evolving collective of both aspiring and established writers. The selected poems are all viewed as having equal weight, and are thus stripped of the distraction of authors' names until the contributors section, in order for the writing to appear as though it were a continuous movement of experience and thought, without anyone turning to a page to read only their friend's poem or the poem of someone from France or Maryland, for example. I mean, it can easily be done by going to the back section and looking up names, but ideally the readers can appreciate poetry for what it is, rather than who it is.

Months are spent debating the potential order, the beginnings, ends, and contents of each poem selected to spill flawlessly into the persona-free poems of its neighbors on the page. It's like assembling an eclectic mixtape, and we become deeply attached to the included poems and poets in the process.

As for production, American Mustard is intended primarily as a digital resource for the showcased poets to virally share with friends and fans. The journal is formatted in such a way that it can be adapted to print, by uploading to the self-publishing site Lulu, if anyone really wants to hold a printed version in their hands. Once the template appears on Lulu, no physical copy exists until someone pays Lulu to print it. It takes about two weeks usually from when a copy is ordered to when it shows up on a doorstep.

Any physical copy purchased is a bushel of revenue for Lulu.com, unaffiliated with American Mustard, and we've arranged to receive about a dollar from each purchased copy. We do not aim to make a profit in any way, just to hopefully make up for out-of-pocket expenses. As a digital journal, we found that opting for a print copy was a little bit of added fun. Each editor has to pay for their own copy as well.

One day, once we have achieved recognition and success, we'd like to be able to provide free copies for everyone involved (and break away from the digital/self-publishing model). Right now, we rely on our contributors to be involved in the process with us democratically.

In Mustard We Trust ]]>Mon, 16 Feb 2015 22:46:45 GMThttp://americanmustard.weebly.com/blug/second-volume-arrivesRound two is now complete, and has been ship-shaped for your online and print viewing pleasure. Stay tuned for details on the release reading, probably once again at Gatsby Books in Long Beach.

READ IT HERE.

The sophomore mustard packet includes a foreword by Zach Mann and new work from:

Suzanne Allen
Olivier Bochettaz
Alan Britt
George Gordon N. Byron
Marcus Clayton
David Diaz
Larry Duncan
Shane Eaves
Rick Lupert
Tamara Madison
Jax NTP
Rene Prade
Mae Ramirez
Kevin Ridgeway
Gideon Rock
Patty Seyburn
Olivia Somes
Lynne Thompson
AJ Urquidi
Janea Wilson
Cecilia Woloch
]]>Wed, 04 Jun 2014 19:27:36 GMThttp://americanmustard.weebly.com/blug/first-volume-of-american-mustardOur inaugural issue is now available! Check the Issues page to find some delicious mustard poetry culled from the finest seeds!

And if you find yourself traveling through the Southern California realms, stop by Gatsby Books in East Long Beach on Tuesday, June 10th at 7pm to hear and see the mustardites read their work.

The debut mustard packet includes work from:

AJ Urquidi
Bill Mohr
Carey Baxter
Casandra Hernandez
Chantal Lozano
Christian Vannasdall
Clint Margrave
David Diaz
Marcus Clayton
Michelle Slieff
Olivia Somes
Olivier Bochettaz
Ramsey Matthews
René Prade
Shane Eaves
Toren Wallace
Ursula Loscalzo
Zachary Mann

Check the Issues section in the next month for our soon print version

]]>Sun, 23 Mar 2014 09:44:17 GMThttp://americanmustard.weebly.com/blug/thank-you-for-the-submissionsSubmissions for the Spring 2014 Issue of American Mustard are officially closed. Thank you all for the submissions! We got a wealth of them, so now we are currently in the process of reviewing poems and seeing which ones will make the cut. This could take some time, but we'll send acceptance/rejection letters within the next week or so.

That's it. Now, let's all play "The Waiting Game"

BELIEVE!

Love,
Mustard.]]>Mon, 17 Feb 2014 18:57:06 GMThttp://americanmustard.weebly.com/blug/issue-1-call-for-submissionsHello all,

We invite you to submit poetry to our inaugural issue of American Mustard. Please submit 2-4 poems for consideration (Try to send us more than one poem, at least.) . Throw in a bio, too. Why not. We really wish to have this issue out within the next month or two, so please submit work NO LATER THAN MARCH 21ST! Here is whho you submit to: american.mustard.magazine@gmail.com. Please read our “Mustard” section to get a sense of what we do and what kind of issue we’re trying to put together.

We cannot guarantee all of you will get in, but we CAN guarantee we'll accept only the best!


Send us your stuff, guys!
Good luck!


Love,


Mustard

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]]>Thu, 09 Jan 2014 18:32:33 GMThttp://americanmustard.weebly.com/blug/some-enthusiastic-mysticism-withh-lysergic-acid-by-allen-ginsberg
Lysergic Acid (By Allen Ginsberg)

It is a multiple million eyed monster
it is hidden in all its elephants and selves
it hummeth in the electric typewriter
it is electricity connected to itself, if it hath wires
it is a vast Spiderweb
and I am on the last millionth infinite tentacle of the spiderweb, a worrier
lost, separated, a worm, a thought, a self
one of the millions of skeletons of China
one of the particular mistakes
I allen Ginsberg a separate consciousness
I who want to be God
I who want to hear the infinite minutest vibration of eternal harmony
I who wait trembling my destruction by that aethereal music in the fire
I who hate God and give him a name
I who make mistakes on the eternal typewriter
I who am Doomed

But at the far end of the universe the million eyed Spyder that hath no name
spinneth of itself endlessly
the monster that is no monster approaches with apples, perfume, railroads, television, skulls
a universe that eats and drinks itself
blood from my skull
Tibetan creature with hairy breast and Zodiac on my stomach
this sacrificial victim unable to have a good time

My face in the mirror, thin hair, blood congested in streaks down beneath my eyes, cocksucker, a decay, a talking lust
a snaeap, a snarl, a tic of consciousness in infinity
a creep in the eyes of all Universes
trying to escape my Being, unable to pass on to the Eye
I vomit, I am in a trance, my body is seized in convulsion, my stomach crawls, water from my mouth, I am here in Inferno
dry bones of myriad lifeless mummies naked on the web, the Ghosts, I am a Ghost
I cry out where I am in the music, to the room, to whomever near, you, Are you God?
No, do you want me to be God?
Is there no answer?
Must there always be an Answer? you reply,
and were it up to me to say Yes or No –
Thank God I am not God! Thank God I am not God!
But that I long for a Yes of Harmony to penetrate
to every corner of the universe, under every condition whatsoever
a Yes there Is . . . a Yes I Am . . . a Yes You Are . . . a We

A We
and that must be an It, and a They, and a Thing with No Answer
It creepeth, it waiteth, it is still, it is begun, it is the Horns of Battle it is Multiple Sclerosis
it is not my hope
it is not my death at Eternity
it is not my word, not poetry
beware my Word

It is a Ghost Trap, woven by priest in Sikkim or Tibet
a crossframe on which a thousand threads of differing color
are strung, a spiritual tennis racket
in which when I look I see aethereal lightwaves radiate
bright energy passing round on the threads as for billions of years
the thread-bands magically changing hues one transformed to another as if the
Ghost Trap
were an image of the Universe in miniature
conscious sentient part of the interrelated machine
making waves outward in Time to the Beholder
displaying its own image in miniature once for all
repeated minutely downward with endless variations throughout all of itself
it being all the same in every part

This image or energy which reproduces itself at the depths of space from the very Beginning
in what might be an O or an Aum
and trailing variations made of the same Word circles round itself in the same pattern as its original Appearance
creating a larger Image of itself throughout the depths of Time
outward circling thru bands of faroff Nebulae & vast Astrologies
contained, to be true to itself, in a Mandala painted on an Elephant’s hide,
or in a photograph of a painting on the side of an imaginary Elephant which smiles, tho how the Elephant looks is an irrelevant joke –
it might be a Sign held by a Flaming Demon, or Ogre of Transcience,
or in a photograph of my own belly in the void
or in my eye
or in the eye of the monk who made the Sign
or in its own Eye that stares on Itself at last and dies

and tho an eye can die
and tho my eye can die
the billion-eyed monster, the Nameless, the Answerless, the Hidden-from-me, the endless Being
one creature that gives birth to itself
thrills in its minutest particular, sees out of all eyes differently at once
One and not One moves on its own ways
I cannot follow

And I have made an image of the monster here
and I will make another
it feels like Cryptozooids
it creeps and undulates beneath the sea
it is coming to take over the city
it invades beneath every Consciousness
it is delicate as the Universe
it makes me vomit
because I am afraid I will miss its appearance
it appears anyway
it appears anyway in the mirror
it washes out of the mirror like the sea
it is myriad undulations
it washes out of the mirror and drowns the beholder
it drowns the world when it drowns the world
it drowns itself
it floats outward like a corpse filled with music
the noise of war in its head
a babe laugh in its belly
a scream of agony in the dark sea
a smile on the lips of a blind statue
it was there
it was not mine
I wanted to use it for myself
to be heroic
but it is not for sale to this consciousness
it goes its own way forever
it will complete all creatures
it will be the radio of the future
it will hear itself in time
it wants a rest
it is tired of hearing and seeing itself
it wants another form another victim
it wants me
it gives me good reason
it gives me reason to exist
it gives me endless answers
a consciousness to be separate and a consciousness to see
I am beckoned to be One or the other, to say I am both and be neither
it can take care of itself without me
it is Both Answerless (it answers not to that name)
it hummeth on the electric typewriter
it types a fragmentary word which is
a fragmentary word,

MANDALA

Gods dance on their own bodies
New flowers open forgetting Death
Celestial eyes beyond the heartbreak of illusion
I see the gay Creator
Bands rise up in anthem to the worlds
Flags and banners waving in transcendence
One image in the end remains myriad-eyed in Eternity
This is the Work! This is the Knowledge! This is the End of man!

Palo Alto, June 2, 1959

]]>Wed, 08 Jan 2014 22:07:31 GMThttp://americanmustard.weebly.com/blug/should-the-wide-world-roll-away-by-stephen-crane    X

Should the wide world roll away

Leaving black terror

Limitless night,

Nor God, nor man, nor place to stand

Would be to me essential

If thou and thy white arms were there

And the fall to doom a long way.

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