you know, it occurs to me that I should just not post here anymore. I know that such a statement seems to be code for I will be posting more than ever but I think not. I won't delete the blog, at least not yet, tho that's a temptation. I don't have what it takes.

warily, I take issue with Jonathan Mayhew when he says that Olson is overrated. by who? not by me. Olson has remained a poet of importance for me for more than 30 years. I realize that Jonathan means the rep thing but I don't know how one measures that. I can't stand Robert Bly but I can't say he's overrated if people buy what he sells. okay, their taste sucks, but. I was reading Olson yesterday, still feeling the energy. his correspondences with Creeley and Corman have always given me a charge. I think of him like Jung, who I've been immersing in: both are scientifically minded crazy people. the rational and the less so meet. I had the benefit of some reading of Olson with Robert Grenier (in class, I should say, not to sound too much of a pal), with maps, and the flush concerted curiosity and drive that Grenier had as a teacher. I wasn't inculcated, I was inspired. Olson had undeniable influence on a lot of people, I mean real poets, which it would be hard to overrate. I recognize that others may not like his work, that his energy may be seen as bullying, but his work is an important consideration out there.

I also was reading Spicer, whose work I have yet to do justice to in reading, yet which I find to be utterly wonderful. not long ago Maggie Z wrote about going thru Spicer archives. I wish I were serious enough to do such a thing. I was thinking as I read last night, I need more of Spicer's work in me. one thing I already have, a sense of serial. I can remember long ago piling papers fresh from the typewriter into chrono piles. Spicer's use of books fits my own thinking and method. I don't have the energy right now to do much writing. as piddling an experimentalist as I am (but I am an experimenter: for instance efforts to make flarf), I haven't the push to do such. overwhelmed in feeling. maybe I should take the time to work visually. I've been sketching, which maybe I'll scan and post, when my computer is returned. at one time, Jung set aside a block of time everyday after lunch for play. child's play, even: playing with blocks. words don't exactly fail me now, nor I them, but I am tired. sometimes, there are too many words, or too many things for the words to do.

apparently Eileen Tabios snapped a picture of 2 reviewers for Poetry in her backyard! or did 2 foets discover where Jorie's been hiding?

a columnist for the Boston Globe wrote about Foetry.com yesterday. that pretty well indicates that the whole foetry thing is about over. when daily rags decide it's time to look at a poetry subject, you know that said subject has grown seedy. bring your Jorie books back from the bonfire, and discover other ways to be trivial.

I've admitted a powerful influence from Robert Creeley, but I am equivocal about him nonetheless. read Jack Kimball's take for good critical acumen concerning Creeley. Creeley is a writer who will be missed. he was an active, pro-active poet, out there in the lists. us cloistered types owe him that, for sure.

Nada Gordon relates a comment made about my father's death to the death of Robert Creeley. please excuse the smell of self advertisement here. Nada's words are apt, and that's why I write this. death is natural, as she writes. which is the crazy part about the Schiavo tug of war. in the Christian view of her proponents, Jesus' loving embrace awaits. yet the defense of her life is timor mortis. the sad thing is that stiff impervious sesne of fundament. but death is natural! we meet something unimaginable in death as well. just before my father died I sent to my brothers a picture I took around Christmastime. a lucky, lovely shot of my father sitting at the table. he looked with it, with the firm qualities I remember still apparent. the person lost in time, that was not the only father I had, tho at the end that is mostly what one saw. he's not to be at this table anymore, except as we might bring his image back in conversation. it's hard to wrap around that at times, as natural as his dying was. and Robert Creeley's gone? I've related my brief meeting with Creeley. it was just a moment, and I've offered it as a humble humourous glimpse, of me as well as him. some of Creeley's work has taught me keen lessons, some has angered me that I cannot fathom its reputed import or beauty, some has bored me. he did his work, and I did my work trying to engage it. there is no loss for me with his death, as his writing, all I really knew of him, remains. the influence of his writing resides in me, I couldn't eradicate that if I tried. what I can carry of Creeley is right here. I shan't hear again how my father met and talked with Benny Goodman and Glenn Miller at a Gene Krupa show. what I carry of my father is right here. I sound like someone who can't get past the news, but that's not so. I'm just trying to see the spectrum, and how the spectrum merges into white.

nice to see Ron what's his name mention Susan Schultz. I enjoy her poetry a lot and the stuff Tinfish puts out is wonderful, highly recommended. the design of Tinfish work is always frisky and fun. Beth and I met her and her husband and son a couple years ago. the boy, whose name is on the tip of my tongue, was sweet and happy, very into baseball. he and Erin played Pokemon together. I have so few author stories. I hope she is suitably mortified that Mark Magwire (jeez I can't remember how to spell his name) kinda embarassed himself while visiting some friends in Washington. Susan is a Cards fan. the Cards are the team that didn't quite beat the Red Sox in the last World Series.