Donna Reed

Looking at the sky over the Best Buy tonight. We hold onto each other when

things go right. On one of those tandem recumbent bikes. We don’t know the name of

the city we’re leaving or the name of the city on the horizon. 400 crushed Natty Ice cans

were just melted down in Britt, Iowa during Hobo Days to form a roof for our tandem

recumbent bike. It shines up to God. It protects us from God. It’s so loser we ascended.

Pedaling all slow. Our faces have name-brand sunglasses. Headed to Parade, South

Dakota for Blood Fest 2013. We have permanent hearing loss from all the dumb things

and all the years. We’re both wearing bootleg t-shirts that say “Country Grammar”. It’s a

Wonderful Life.

Bull

10 years ago, a guru in Ollantaytambo had a vision we would start a poetry

chapbook series, and that it would more or less incorporate DIY lo-fi rogue guerilla

transmissions from the American poetry underground. We met b l u s h riding the Delta

Queen to New Orleans when our bus broke down in Ascension Parish, LA. It is pretty

wild to see that vision realized now, so many Blood Fests later. Life is funny. Taste the

rainbow.

Soft Pack

We remember it like it was yesterday. Blood Fest 2023, we had 200 people on a

rooftop in Malacca. Walking around in our staff shirts, handing out paper cups of green

tea. We looked like a mix between cult leader and cater waiter. Everyone drank the tea

and formed into a circle. Sat down tailor style. We passed around “Soft Pack” by Jon

Leon and had everyone read a page until it was finished, except 29 people didn’t get to

read, since there are only 171 pages. How were we reading “Soft Pack” by Jon Leon in

2023, when it was published in 2025? Blood Fest is outside of time, baby. This shit is

all-time.

Communion

Blood Fest 2011 never happened. It was the only time we ever took off our staff

shirts. Our founding member had just been cryogenically frozen after Blood Fest 2010 in

Davenport, Florida. The team drove the 1,239 miles from Davenport, Florida to

Davenport, Iowa—the original home of our founder—to place the frozen chamber in a

cave on the Mississippi River. We took off our staff shirts to bathe in the Mississippi

River, basically following the prophecy to a T. Everything was going so well it was like

check, check, check. The cave’s mouth opened up in tans and grays, while the sky

above the cave was red, white and blue because it was the Fourth of July. Upon

entering the cave, someone was sitting on a gray rock wearing a hat that said “River

Rat”, along with a shirt and pants that also said “River Rat”—stacked 30 times on both

of the shirt sleeves, and both of the pant legs. We thought it might have been their

personal brand, but we never officially confirmed. With the frozen chamber on our

backs, we said to them, “We’re about to do something really important and really

spiritual, we think you should leave.” River Rat still sat silent before saying, “Well, I am a

spiritual being,” so we just let them stay. The junior members always bring out the

candles and the incense and arrange them, so that is what they did. Our numbers were

so large in those years that we had an altar up in minutes. Then it was finally time for

the big moment, and we appreciated the moment. We let it last. We painted the walls

with orange clay, and just kind of let it all flow for a few months, with no shirts on. We

called it communion. It was what life is all about.

Illicit

At the meetings the room is always dark. We pull chairs out for b l u s h and take

off their blindfolds. The movie Chariots of Fire is playing from a hidden projector, but it’s

only the opening sequence with that kick ass song by Vangelis. The opening loops 5

more times before we talk. Everyone in the room (undisclosed #) is wearing solar

viewers, because the image’s saturation and brightness are turned up to 200% on the

projector. Incense and candles are brought out on a candelabra. We turn off Chariots of

Fire and put on “Live Forever” by The Highwaymen. We pass around a wizard pipe with

something in it. b l u s h is so hyped from the music and the something they take their

shirts off and spin them around like helicopters. We decide to match the moment, so we

say, “There is so much illicit magic when we have these meetings. We wish it never had

to end.” There is an authentic feeling in the room. Their t-shirts are spinning so fast they

are actual helicopters. Then the projector turns back on and the logo for Illicit Zines

flashes across the screen in bright red sans-serif font. b l u s h isn’t touching the ground

anymore when they say, “This will be the song that never ends. A true freak-out mission.

We think it could save poetry.” And they’re smiling.