Friday, September 16, 2005

up to section 27 at Antic View.

Thomson City

trans scarlet uncaring: gauntleted up to 150 words:

On our doggonest streetcar, a carny in athletics carbuncled the sky.
If carny scarlets for the boondoggler works, starlets yield to brittleness.
All must bleat gimlet inlets like Bartleby—Bartleby-littleness--and
Hostile arithmetic car hop. let scarlet testcard go, caring who would diet.

Let toiletries card athletics.

my car clarinetist manufactures bulldozers athwart lettered scarlet city of enormous night, with eastbound fletching card leafletting car pimientos from the last scholarships in everything: disastrous fight. "I trundled dumb card with letter singlet inlet, palette islets of the late infarctions while athletics and voiceless Smollett qualify for devil-may-care." do you know where to put outlets of car brothels, spring scarlet wild and unsatisfactorily melting outside Dustcart? Scared brotherhoods of Ore. I scarleted painfuller toiletries and coverlets with odorlessness? Scary Ferlinghetti! newsletter cannot bleat to which gullet immersion remains forgettable to it. No opportunistic byword of a carny cairn gimlet will include trundlers that let their cargo of settled thief scarlets in, although athletic varlet proclamations fill carloads for leitmotif. they let city its cart night. Plutarch pleads carbuncle. Plutarch the thief leads diet cart but it is clarinetist's cart night. for toiletries the thief of supercargo's farthings makes carnal athletic comets in morning suicidal rattletraps that lesser thieves of cold career settle as varlets of frowning coverlets with socio-economic numbing: they let moon card postcards and carnal shit in by inlet toiletry disdainfulness or pity the thievous sun's runlet's chairs in unvisitable cart city belt carousal. if redissolved in scary light of diary, trend carries uncaringness--gauntleted up to 150 words. That's the max.

Thursday, September 15, 2005

these, by Lanny Quarles, are wonderful.
sly, thoughtful sermonettes from Jack Kimball today. which see.

Wednesday, September 14, 2005

Carl Annarummo used Blue Cheer as part of a fumigating process. that's what I infer, and I can see it. Blue Cheer claimed to play louder than anybody. their achievement kinda begins there, see where it goes. they did "Summertime Blues". the drummer scrambles to be heard over guitar and bass. you can hear the snares rattle to the hum of the amps. Eddie Cochran did the song so that you could dance. BC so's you could break rocks, or believe there's an upside to obliteration. The Who went epic with the song. Joan Jett sped it up and watched it run away to the pop fields. funny sea changes, identify the times. I've been listening further to Led Zep. Erin hears "Rock and Roll", which he knows from the endless commercial redactions, and wants to borrow the cd. the song is 'today'. in their jams, LZ goes from noodling to something almost carefully blue. Zep is some monster dictator, complete in command. sometimes Jones and Bonham don't know what to do, because the other 2, the principles, are engaged in their spatial matter. wait for the heroes to come back. Plant wails in high honky fashion, and gets away with it, admittedly, and Page is guitar god. Page does some runs that are exactly 3½ times faster than any reference to the song. it's giddy, and I'm not 15. BC were noise, let's don't get lavish. they pled Marshall amps at 11. you feel a force, the dictum of some woozy philosophy. LZ, those guys had the stage and kept it. I almost believe the biz of their selling their souls (except Jones), tho a different transaction maybe than Robert Johnson. I saw Sonic Youth wow 10 years ago (and they were old then!). I likened their 2 guitar fever fest to Richard Thompson. different means to a similar end, that is. the sort of split the air with musical effect kind of experience. Thompson could do it with speed and grace, SY with noise diverted towards eloquence. it's fun to believe.

Tuesday, September 13, 2005

great! in "The Gods Must Be Crazy", a woman says "do the voices in my head disturb you?".
I'm down with the man, KSM (just his initials tell who I mean), but I would add a 5th possible reviewing function: how the reviewer as writer makes use of or applies him/herself to the reviewed. okay, I just went lumpy in my phraseology, sorry. I've recently put 'reviews' on this blog, of Warren, Tabios, Ellis, Koeneke (German pronunciation) and Larsen. also I was much taken by some of Jack Kimball's recent posts, a poem by Shanna Compton. I met each writer in terms of my own writerhood. what can these magicians offer me? not so much a supermarket offering, but I find myself likening my effort to theirs, comparing the distinctions, trying to incororate different ways. I approach this well-meaningly, I'm not doing an I'm better than (I mean, do you think so???) in my book commentaries. Kasey's characterizations are absolutely apt. I don't feel qualified in them, however, as regards my own reactionizations, public I mean (of course I love what I love). but I know I read with interest, and my interest bears on my writing. this is solipsistic, yup, but I do not proceed with a pretense of objectivity. the gas about the Johnson/Behrle et al contretemps is that in the merge of self-defense and radical defense and overt offense, etc, it's not clear what the honest instigation is. i.e.: is it the poem that bugs you, or the moustache. I don't want to prance in the bungalow of my own integrity, but I know vis-à-vis the above writers, that I approached their works with a defined interest. my interest in writing, and how their work touched beneficently on what I want and hope to do. I have failed if you, reader lovely, don't see this. Kasey's right to enumerate these possibilities, the reader should be so aware. I think my addition usefully extends his consideration.
memo to J Mayhew: in the waiting room slush pile was, of all things, Golf Magazine's Fiction issue. nestled amidst the fictionizers (John Updike, Dan Wakefield, and a bunch of sports writers going genre hopping) was a poem by David Shapiro. over and out.
24th installment to Antic View.

Monday, September 12, 2005

somehow, Glen Baxter just sets things right.
I looked at recent Lucipo archives concerning teapot tempests, but found my energy quickly lagged. defense and counter defense enacted with longing. it is fascinating, and Gudding's study brings light upon. I'll try ot keep my nose clean and just leave it at that.

Sunday, September 11, 2005

I guess Gabriel Gudding has earned a place on my links. I bestow this honour because he finally seems to be pulling the oar regular. furthermore, this is a pretty good punch. I mean to me. I feel like a tacky look at me for my in-the-moment reactions. here. on this blog. not enough expanse in my outlook. well, not to discredit my capricious vitality.
well I stumbled on John Latta reborn, tho no posts for 10 days so far so I'm not gonna fuss the template (grim biz) till I see some dedication. this is blogging, not writing!!! and yet, a Glen Baxter mention. Baxter absolutely frays me. zany koans.
oh, this from the Larsen Faux/e pub (from "Joke Paige"):


A. "FLOP".
Click here to learn about the Customer Experience Improvement Program.
it disconcerts me to learn this bright fine New England sunday that Professor Mayhew is potentially my own worst nightmare. I shall try to avoid that side, hoping I haven't already tumbled to my doom.
these 3 poems seem like literal translations from Chinese or Japanese. I mean, maybe yes, maybe no. and the images with them are odd interceptions. Lanny Quarles' work provides a wide range of vivid oddity, almost swampy attestations of life in the flurry. the weirdness comes with a specific tension and knowledge base. some of the weird is my ignorance of that knowledge base, some due to the joyful exuberence of putting it (all) together.
I got The Thorn by David Larsen (Faux Press 2005: fresh meat!) yesterday. Larsen possesses one of those names that have interest attached, as in: sounds interesting. I liked his guest blogging at The Ingredient, where he presented some odd writings and nifty visuals. I read blogwhere that he performs his poetry well, and that he does so from memory. perhaps that (memory reading) suggests a sense of stance towards the work, or just that he's wired special. one thing he does: presents many of his poems handwritten. here are some illustrations, one of which appears in The Thorn: "Glory of God". what's generative in handwrit? I don't really know (possessor of sloppy handwiting). but, well, you see (infer) the pulse. it also unnarrows the possible. poetry exceeds format, that's the whole point. Larsen's poetry? it is directed from speech. one poem, a long one, calls itself "Wild Speech". formative tussle:


(note: Larsen's handwrit caps come across less shouty than above).

I hear KNOW in NOW, not that you need to. I choose not to fight with Larsen, for he seems like a facing toward. I'm trying to picture avant-garde as personal, a step toward and into, not the coagulated aesthetic insularity that each generation wallops as needed. for Larsen gives me a sense of facing, forward even. the above quote seems like working advice. which sounds blurby so let me resay that. the voice in these poems is particular, ranged directly with and towards the general. a gravitational dance? it's a way that oddity feels familiar, and familiar feels strange. look especially at his prose pieces, which come across as skewed term papers. "THE DIVINER SATIH" (Satih has accent marks that I can't reproduce) is all this info regarding Islam, and I dunno what's 'for real'. it's all quite certain and shaky at the same time. he cites the prophet Anna as a particularly interesting New Testament character, and concludes "And she recognized the infant Jesus right off the bat." that colloquial phrase unsteadies everything in a most useful way. you can feel the writer's satisfaction at being so brisk and conclusive. I mean the any writer who would be boiling Islam down to 3¼ pages. this poem is on the back cover:


well feed me too, Seymour. I get this rush of sensations: goofiness, surety, entanglement, posture, energy. his language goes somewhere, yet it stays somewhere. does that sound plausible? it is the consciousness that he retains within the swirl of saying. the tension of which is rather important, and loving.

I want to say once more, rules of this court, that when I write of poetry here, it is off the top of the head. mayhap I have no depth. I like to take these opportunities with new work. take a stab at it. and publicly, just because privately I mayn't go to the trouble. when I take notes for myself, I leave a lot out. but in imagining a reader of these words, I try the outward a little more. the import of my writing here is interest. so if I am lame here, don't let that dissuade you from the writer. I'm just trying to parse my own confusions, and recognize the resilient light.k?