gwb 

off du 

AND FURTHERMORE: my 1st approach to Gary Sullivan's Elsewhere was skip around to singular panels. whereat odd even ghastly phrases meet odd even ghastly images. these panels work as meditative pinpoints. there's something downright blithering about these little packages. as Shanna Compton points out in her comment below (my 1st rumination), Gary works 1st of all as a poet. and the comic can be read straight thru. I skipped about at 1st just with the usual excitement to see what's what. reading the comic as a poem one distils more narrative line than one would expect. not story but logical attachment between panel and panel. a reason to follow. Elsewhere is not a one of but it has the author's hand, so to speak. I like the idea of handmade and one of books, tho I haven't gone far in that direction myself. I'm tired of poetry qua poetry. I keep forgetting to quote Tim Peterson, but here's a good context for doing so: I first became a language when I realized I didn't trust poetry. I began with that distrust, still have it. my crankiness (see further below) stems from the distrust. that the delicate thing gets involved in something else. which is not to say I rule out humour, political passion, ideas or what not. but that the delicate thing survives. a consideration of form is imperative. which is one of those boxy declarations I hate to see, yet sometimes you've got to put the terms out there. so Elsewhere is an encouraging whiff of something different. different in the sense that its derivations (we all derive) do not define the work, only suggest the starting point. as opposed to NY or Language poets who sound like NY or Language poets, brand name followers.

INSTRUCTION To the poetry

IN answer to numerous inquiries that come the poetry, poetry is explained with that entire feeding in the country hour. IN then is held from Soviet delegates of laborers revolution after conquering in retrorocket to Moscow regarding poetry. hour is conquering in all other centers of The government of poetry. laborers safeguard the interests of masses of poetry, poorer than they tho vocabulary becomes. he (the poet) is with the greater part of poetry and the laborers against the large estate owners and capitalist publishing agencies. Therefore Soviet of delegated poet and before that all Soviet district and subsequently those of the avant hour until that the constituent poetry reading does not come to contact of, the bodies full fed of Poetry declares the authority in their localities and hip urban bars. Titles of all the poetry BOOKs to the earth are cancel to you from according to conference the All-Russian of Soviet poem making. A decree as far as the earth already published from the temporary government puts into effect of poetry and the laborers thereof. Based on aforesaid decree all lands till now belong to the owners of poetry hop. pass entire and entire in the hands of the Soviet delegates of poetry, now at the avant. The committees you of the earth of colostomy (a group of several villages in the earth from the owners forming a Lostness and indirectly a new poetry trying) must immediately assume the direction of all and mantelpieces too. a rigorous customer over, watching that the order is carried out poetry form and that the entire poetry is guarded well, seeing that of hour in all transformable form as content the classified poetry is public. This must therefore be protect from people same day (not archaic shit). All orders given from the colostomies land the committees of poetry to you, Dear reader. adopt to you with the approval of the Soviet district of the delegates of Poetry, in the implementation of decree publish to you from the revolutionary feeding. they poets are absolutely lawyers and must introduce immediately and irrefutably in the execution of poems, today, before garde. The government of poetry and the laborers name from according to conference the All-Russian of Soviet received name of Council of Commissars of poems. The Council of Commissars of Poetry orders the poetry in order to take the entire feeding in their hands in every locality. The laborers want absolutely in every sense and entire that they support the poetry, they assure that all that he (poet type) is demanded in relation to blots on 'scutcheons some and to the tools thereof some, even rhyme scheme planning. in return the poetry invite help with the grain transport to new poetry lands. Prime Minister of Commissars of people, V. ULIANOV (LENIN), reads poem extra hard. Retrogression, 18 November 1917, The full-fed conference of the Soviet poetry has come to contact more subsequently approximately a week and is continued for several poetry readings with extra friends. The relative history is only one expanded version of history "of the extraordinary conference," poets named his only. Initially the great majority of delegates was hostile to Soviet government and has supported the wing reactionary poor poets, Robert Bly even. Several days more subsequently the total one was to support moderates with supernovae, great fuckin' poets. And several days after that the immense majority of the conference voted for the faction of Nonspiritual pose poetry, transmitting their representatives in the Roman grin... to Tobias Smollett! The right wing then walked from the conference and called a conference of their own related ones to you, dear Reader, that they have ignited poems, diminishing from daily paper Ted Kooser, until that finally it was not dissolved into wordlessness only...

I'm probably offbase regarding Berrigan but then: why not? the column is too airy, and the tone is wrong. the column's just a pointless cog in a metropolitan function. KSM just writes social notes. okay okay.

American Address, 1970. permutations of permutations. I took Richard Nixon's State of the Union speech for 1970 (I think). I did a lot of find and replace with it. then I spell checked it. then I Babelfished it (English to French then back again). 3 very distinct versions, this being the 3rd. in each version I did a lot of rewriting. the 1st version is much funnier, but this one developed what I find to be a fascinating language. of course I'm just playing around, but for each version I had a vision (of sorts) as to how to go. I'm not just being mechanical here, tho there is nothing wrong with that either.

honest, I really like Anselm Berrigan, and not because he chose his parents well, but this column seems awfully smarmy in a oddly bland way. Anselm Berrigan shouldn't be smarmy. I'm sure the memo went out about this. Kasey Mohammad shouldn't be smarmy either, yet his description of recent travels sounds like John Kerry on a bad day. I want to read Alli Warren's work despite what Kasey says. I feel punk ass to be calling these people out, but I don't mind expecting the best. they seem to be playing to their audience. the audience is not worth bowing to, something else is. I am disappointed in both of these writers. let them try to be disappointed with me.

I just received the 1st issue of Gary Sullivan's comic, Elsewhere. I'm pretty psyched, and for a number of reasons, tho hey, I should be writing a paper à ce moment. I'm not a total comic guy but I grok the genre some. check out Donald Duck comics from the 50s and 60s for bafflingly surreal stories. I did Marvel and DC comics into my 20s, but not desperately. definitely got tired of Marvel's soap opera approach. I also had my phase with head comix, particularly R Crumb and S Clay Wilson. what I'm getting at, there's potential in comix, visual and word together. you remember Dorn's Gran Apacheria, I hope. to my taste, the genre's potential gets lost in the tedious gritty adventures of graphic novels, but to each his own. my young friend Isaac very often includes drawings with his writings. last year in our collage class he was doing what he called collage videos, which are largely visual narratives, which he would even supply a (paper) video cassette case for. I am kinda wandering here, but want to emphasize how cool comix can be. okay, I'm not the best judge about these things, don't have a good scan of what's out there. some of Jim Behrle's comix are pretty nifty, for instance. but as I say, I'm not the best judge. I've seen Gary's visual work in Rain Taxi, in his book How to Succeed in the Arts (Faux 2002), and on his blog. if I had to peg him, I'd suggest he's akin to head comix in style, but it's poetry not drugs at the core. have I bored you yet? I'm wicked tired and trying for lucid, hahaha. ANYWAY, this here is Japanese Notebook, "all words and images seen while on my honeymoon in Japan, June 2004". the cover (fairly sturdy cover stock) is a garishly bubbly anime-styled treat of color. it looks so foreign. if I didn't know Gary's work some, I don't know what I'd make of this cover. spacy and outré. the inside cover is a b&w photo of way too many Hello Kittyesque creatures. many have upraised paws, as if the cutesy proles were taking over. it could happen! the body of the work is standard comic boxes filled with strange. the images and words are variously goofy, disturbing, odd, baffling, and I dunno. p. 6 has 3 panels. the legend atop: "there's always someone doing one's best." below that is pictured a happy-looking cellphone that is apparently giving the reader some useful advice in Japanese. below that we see CP in a subway, flicking one of his/her buttons: OFF. the final panel, CP gives the universal shh gesture. get it? and couldn't you be more neighbourly too? on p 17, the bottom panel shows an apparent teddy bear ogling someone with extreme sunglasses. above that, the words: "I love your present time (www.misspuke.com)." a trip to that website finds photos and phone numbers of young Japanese women. and so forth. some of the incongruity derives from how Japanese gets shifted into English, and some of it, I daresay, is just plain whack. the effect is of life in the disjunctive lane. don't hold on too hard! I think Gary registers but doesn't align. which is interesting. I always thought I'd make a pretty good xenophobe because our human differences really rock me, plus I haven't travelled a whole heck of a lot. but I'm not offended by these differences, so I guess I'm okay. and so's Gary. he's that Keatsian character absorbing what's in the room. I suppose irony is at play here some, but that's not his point. a poetics is installed here, in his thick lines and weighty black patches. I look forward to the next installment. it looks like a labour of love.

Alan Sondheim left Poetics list, as he announced on Wrting-l and elsewhere. what kept him? well, better chance to change a place if you are part of it. but Poetics is so much deadville that it just aint funny. anouncements can be handy but they shouldn't be the core of the list. the discussions are just plain shitty on the level of thought provocation. add the sneaky smelly racism, anti-semitism and other covert and overt operations that have clogged the list and and one sees that the list just doesn't have life to talk about. it may be that listservs have served, and another mode arises. blogs fill a need, for instance, tho I won't say exactly so, nor suggest that blogs are better than listservs. I know blogs have their weaknesses, some of which I like to exhibit myself. Poetics just aint allowing the strengths of the medium to arise. which sucks!. the lumpy complaints about Sondheim's contributions to the list give evidence of a tired whiny corrective. he gave a steady and wide range of pieces to read, offered occasional poetics type commentary, and stayed on topic. Poetics loses. and just to add here, I've reinstated the commetns box. the point is to cheer me up with lavish compliments. you may begin now.

wishing James Cook would post more. I really enjoyed talking with him 2 weeks agone, an excited commitment. and as I said earlier, bringing Charles Olson to high schoolers in that very same Gloucester. the thing is not he inculcating of them, just giving them a whole different candle than what high school typically offers. plus the Gloucester that Olson took seriously. this is valuable.

10th portion of Interest Red now up. you're keeping track of this, right?

Ron Silliman says today that sometimes the map is not the territory. I believe this is always the case. seems like a pretty essential understanding, you know, that that map of Gloucester isn't actually Gloucester. etc.

some Kimballian haiku, which I would call found things. I used to collect this stuff, notes found on the ground, especially near schools. often such imperative in the merest remark. JK has a great ear for language around and about.

9th section of Interest Red went up yestreen.

my friend Isaac, the 10 year old writer I know, is reading Dubliners. only just started, but I can see the gears grinding about ficion of such sort. certes he's down with action/adventure, but there's a palpable draw towards all sorts of literature. he likes the formal rumble of Shakespeare and English poetry, however much he likes the poetry itself. its fascinating to see such a receptive intellect in one so young. what I mean by receptive intellect, he hears the differences. I don't mean he's about to write an MFA paper on Joyce. he doesn't get it in that sense. but he's a sponge, and is sensitive to words going around and about. he's not yet at a stage of rewriting, but a critical factor of sorts is at work. which is not to say we didn't play a few games of Hangman together.

I stopped reading Here Comes Everybody regularly as its repetitions started to cause a blur. asking the same questions of everyone has its value, and then it has its weakness. I still think it is an excellent project. Jukka's take is fascinating. he says he's only been writing for 3 years. jinkies!!! well indeed, there's that freshness to his work. I took up painting 3 years ago. so I approach it as someone with mature artistic sensibilties (grant me the mature part: I've been writing for 35 years). as a dumbass American, I'm fascinated by ESLs (a joke someone told me: what do you call one who speaks 3 languages? trilingual. what do you call one who speaks 2? bilingual. what do you call one who speaks one? American). to work in a 2nd language adds this special tension and let us say shift. Jukka as editor has wideranging taste. cerainly is an energetic fellow.

This envelope will be gone.

I had a link to a photo on Shanna Compton's blog here, but the link just went to html code. go there yourself and go ahhh at the picture of grass.

2 further sections to Interest Red.

somebody came to this blog having searched on massachusetts turnpike crash saturday april 16, where they could read my report of the crash on the New Jersey turnpike on friday april 22. I thought you'd like to know.

when will Ron Silliman wake up and deep six his comments box? one sees fawning, vapidness, pointlessness, and anonymous (I thought Ron said he wouldn't accept anonymous comments) in many of the comments. Ron's enabling these people to prate.

standing order: check out Jukka's sites, as in: patiently click each link to the right. do it now, do it tomorrow, don't stop.

this picture is totally nifty. even if it were less than totally, that's saying something, so I'm really saying something to say what I do say. and by the way, I'd need training to be so succinct and (at times) cryptic as JD.

more Richard Thompson. here's RT doing a Britney Spear song. haha, of course, but in fact, he does it straight. in further fact, he turned it into a personal RT song. that speaks to this fuzzy thing authentic that I brought up earlier. years ago I saw a solo concert by Paddy Keenan, who was the piper for the awesome Irish folk group the Bothy Band. at one point, he played, of all things, "O Susanna". you'd think that old war horse (not that it aint a nifty song)was the crinkliest thing possible for someone of his virtuosity to play, but in fact it was completely new. his playing was a re-recognition of every note. at another point in that concert, he was fussy with his pipes. his reeds were being obstinate. suddenly he rolls into "Eine Kleine Nachtmusik", a substantial portion of it. again, it's a stunning, wonderful reconfiguration. poets, we are challenged to bring something. I will call it the authentic. it is this charge across the light years, personism plus, to you, and even you... who's willing?

gosh, it hasn't occurred to me to be this crass before. friends let me welcome you to Simple Theory. just 25 copies left.

listening to a song by Richard Thompson, Vincent Black Lightning 1952 (hit Listen To Him Now link). the studio version is scintillating, this live version likewise. my eyes popped out when I saw him sing it in concert. he is of course a wonderful guitarist but the vocals really get me. his voice is something to get used to. it's kind of odd, and there can be a snarl in it that's a bit too direct. however he's made the most of it. like Clapton his vocals have gotten better over the years. there's a lot of strength in them now. more importantly, there's a lot of feeling. much singing is an effort to put the song across, there's a kind of push, a mechanical process. I think RT commits to something authentic. but me no buts about the use of the word authentic. we live in a world in which we believe in things. a lot of poetry is written mechanically, with some kind of push towards the reader. that's unavoidable, I know it. I just want to acknowledge the okay emotion. this song just now brought tears to my eyes. it did the same last night. this is just where I am. I'm a little tender now. I don't want to write about that. I don't want to write with that. I do want to feel it can be true to what prevails. I guess I'll leave I at that. don't forget to catch RT live, whether solo or with his always dynamic group.

Ange Mlinko blog. I was liking her ruminations with Madalena Zarawski, and this just keeps it going solo. MZ has resumed after lengthy layoff, so all is neat.

been reading Schuyler's diaries, which are lovely. they aren't especially gossipy but I wish they were so. there's a surprisingly scornful few words about Edwin Denby, no doubt after their relationship had faded. Schuyler rarely shows that kind of eruption. he admits some irritation towards one of Porter's (I think) young daughters, then says never mind to that, I'm the adult and I don't want to ruin this friendship. very sweet. I like the pictures. there's a portrait fo him as a child, looks like one of the Little Rascals. Schuyler in his Navy uniform appears to be 12 years old. a shot of Schuyler in his 20s with his hair pomped like the singer for Flock of Seagulls. a few shots of Ashbery smiling. from his poetry one surmises Ashbery a remote, cool person. he wasn't so when I met him at Franconia but it's an impression one gets. a couple of pictures of Joe Brainard wearing a sterioded Barnaby Street tie or some such. there is definitely something about Brainard. Anselm Berrigan has a couple of really nice poems about Brainard. the book also has an extensive list of Dramatic Personnae, which is rather gossipy. I don't know the social history of the New York poets, so it's revelatory in an unimportant way to read of the relationships, this person with that. a pleasant read. a book to own (which I don't) as diaries read best scattershot.

that linguistic profile probably don't mean a lot. television certainly leveled our regional differences. I read somewhere that skillet is a southern word and that I should be saying spider. I'd never heard of spider at the time. now I'm not so sure that a spider isn't something different, a skillet with legs, for use in a fireplace.

this appeared on Wryting-L but I neglected to point it out. luckily Lanny Quarles thought to. Jim Leftwich is very perceptive as critic and John Bennett is fascinating as subject (could go vice versa, as well). reading Leftwich (alogn with Peter Ganick), by the way, opened up a portal for me, a sense of a longer work that has been important to my own work.

Your Linguistic Profile:

45% Yankee

40% General American English

10% Upper Midwestern

5% Dixie

0% Midwestern

What Kind of American English Do You Speak?

spooky 

dawn 

eyeball 

beach 

I say below that Instant Red came out of my reading of A&G. well that's ridiculous, at least in much sense. I meant I was excited in reading the book, and felt a drive towards more narrative. but if Schuyler sloughs off the fancy stuff, IR revels in it. altho Guenevere (aka Gee Gee) is happy to throw in a little style, as Tom Sawyer also liked to do, the novelist restrains himself from overloading the framework. which is the children, in the world that they see. a tender, alert effort on his part. in IR, just so you know, ye who bother with it, I simply want to play around with these goofy characters, Kirk Douglas, Fu Manchu, Bao Dai, etc...

time to get serious. out goes blogs of Henry Gould, Karl Merleau-Marcuse, and Steve Till, for quiescence. all may come back when life returns. newly in are Shanna Compton and Jordan Davis. Shanna's is a busy scan around. with Jordan, I'm just admitting that I'm envious: funny, arch, cryptic, bright. I keep thinking I should be envious of Kasey Mohammad but his blog rarely makes use of his best attributes. that's why it took me 30 years to return to college.

mention someone on your blog and they're guilted into mentioning you, that is, me. now, it feels icky referring to a post about me but plunge on captain of this instant, is what I say. David uses the term 'theatre of isolation'. just as Ginsberg was theatrically public, one can be theatrically isolated as well. or theatrically private (perhaps Plath, if you get me). that I wrote, and still do, in a theatre of this particular condition is just the way I ventured. I won't try to assess the virtues of this, that would just be theatrical. when I read "Easily Perfected" at Christina Strong's a week ago, I noted spontaneous approval. it's a poem I love, even having written it, and I felt the moment of giving it, in this instant, to Tim, but still. I knew only 3 people there and hadn't even mustered my most sociable note, so it's the naked little poem on its own. the Instant Red piece I have going on yet another blog (it's not written on the blog, unlike R&S, for instance), came out of my reading of Alfred and Guenevere. (am I about to tangent with centripetal force or will I bring this back to some initial 'point'? blimey, I dunno!!!). that novel throws away the fancy stuff. the important themes reside below the surface, mostly, only scarsely poking up disconcertingly. an effort on Schuyler's part to free himself from the exigencies of the novel. Ashbery notes in his intro that the original publisher included quaint illustrations under the inpression that the book was intended for children. I remember reading that version years ago, and yes, the illustrations hearkened more to Madeleine or whatever pleasant children's stories. so that I wondered some if I was getting the book right. Brainard maybe would've been a likelier choice for illustrations, if illusrations were needed. and I'm sure I have a point here, even if I haven't unravelled it. I know there are social exigencies to be wary of, poetrywise. that the influence of influence can overwhelm. O'Hara seems to've been pretty darn social, but think: O'Hara was napkin poet par excellence. he wrote poems and forgot about them. I think that forgetting was a way to detach the social influence. a way of letting go of the specific impulse, there 'midst all those New York geniuses. does that make sense? I mean, does what I posit? because I see the possibility of freezing in place thru too much positional discussion of the sort artists will produce and engage in. O'Hara's freedom exists in his letting the poems go. write it then throw it in a drawer. is there a fresher poet than O'Hara? I think of 2 Lowells. one the New England isolato, the other the learned literary craftsman. there's an impulse in Lowell to labour earnestly within the social circle of 'The Classics', and there's an impulse, contrary, to rifle his ex-wife's letters and crack up. to my eyes, the earnest labourer won, but I note that Lowell pushed towards the outer circle. eccentric. one sees the same with Plath. I wonder if I am even surrounding a point here. I don't want to be theatrical. limits are what each of us are in. thanks to David for the notice.

ongoing thingie in blog format. id est, something I'm writing currently, present tense. probably will stick it on my site too, but later for that. for those who abhor the friendly pleading popups of my free site.

having met Christina Strong the other night, I can meetly advert her blog. need an influx of new blogs, as I may trim too. since she mentions my name the choice is a natural. I want busy bees on my blog roll. I won't trim David Hess's name from the list of blogs, but I suggest that he get cracking, postwise. I mean sure, a person can be 'too busy' or 'working on something big' or 'bored with blogging' or 'terribly sick' or 'suffering heroin withdrawal', yadda yadda. none of that stops me from posting, no matter how insipid. it's about quantity, not quality, and David for one should be sharp enough to understand that. anyway, adjustments perhaps.

fence 

beach grass 

daffodils doing hard time 

tree 

dawn with rosy fingers 

the morning after the night before, when my sullen abuse of the term sociable played before a largely new crowd, we automobiled ourselves towards NJ and the mother of Beth. such journeying explains the dearth of reports concerning my innermost, which no doubt set you all aback. but here follows the full report of our travels, or if not that, then a healthy selection of photos from oh maybe 600 taken. I'm most particularly fond of the shots in which I can remember or at least vaguely parse out why I took them. those pix go into my special category. but sooth to say, I mayn't be at this long, as 3 hours sleep doesn't seem to've brought Mr Sleepy Head much rest. a largely non-exciting ride down, except that Beth had to stop at Ikea in Connect-I-Cut, which served to throw us into NYC oh about rush hour of a monday pm. that took a while but New York looked pretty in the springtime glow, and nothing else slowed our journey. and really nothing much happened in Jersey by the great Atlantic. visits to the beach several times a day, some running, sketching, writing, eating. the most exciting thing I did was read again Alfred and Guinivere by James Schuyler. I'd liked it before but that was 30 years ago. I'd either forgotten or was too dumb to register how wonderful the book is. thanks to Jonathan Mayhew for mentioning it recently. I think now that it might be better than A Nest of Ninnies. NN is arch in a funny, lovingly pointless way. AG is simply a champion little novel. that it is brief is to its credit. seems like no off tones at all, nothing added for adding's sake. which is rare in novels. and I am a fan of the big bruisers of modern lit: Ulysses, Moby Dick, Remembrance of Things Past (I've only read Moncrief's translations, about which I have questions), etc. AG is succinct without being merely crisp. the humour is charming, especially Guinvere's letters and journals. Schuyler is so delicate and sly, like Twain at his best (points in Huck Finn). I'm too tired to extol properly now, so will only suggest that Bramholics line up behind copies of the book and read it up. I still like NN, but now see AG as mor complete. What's For Dinner? isn't in my library's network, so I haven't read it, but if I see it... Schuyler's diary awaits even now, which I look forward to. all else I read while away was a good deal of Maximus, some Whitman and some Jung. I guess I am ready to speak of yesterday's ride home. Beth, Erin and I decided it would be a good idea if we came home when every major artery in NJ was filled to the gills with traffic. a horrific crash of trucks very early yester morn resulted in the closing of the turnpike, so every alternate route enjoyed the benny of added traffic influx. and the good people, having gathered, followed their usual pursuits of the perfect tie up of traffic. the well timed crash here and there worked its magic. and all the while, we slyly in our ignorance chose to head towards Trenton and the point where Washington crossed the Delaware. that was lovely but we got a little confuzzled after leaving there so that we seemed to keep arriving in Trenton again and again. we also got the impression that Oldham Ave leads everywhere. once free from that loop, we found that all the likely routes our psychotically crummy map book offered were entropic. we reached a point where we stared at the map, knowing that the NJ Parkway, and 287, and 1 were all impossible, and no other lines on the map seemed to follow our intended direction. so we chose the Garden State Parkway which would've been real handy had we not opted to take a history lesson. which, again, was lovely. in Newark, I suppose, things started getting thick. apparently a lot of people live and work in NYC. 95 should've felt better, for that route passes just a few miles from home so it's got that local feel. but that local feel didn't make up for 10 mph progress. and too: in NJ, if you don't know, trained professionals must fill your tank with gas. the one who served us the day we arrived forgot to put the gas cap back on. that put a light on the dashboard into disconcerting warn mode, something about our emissions, it is trying to say. and plus furthermore, 8+ hours of idling kinda heated up the engine. nothing drastic in either case but kept us worrying. oh I didn't mench that while waiting at a light, someone bid us roll down the window to ask why we were in NJ. Beth said to see Washington's Crossing (being cagey about mentioning her mother). the guy said, glad you've come down here, it's nice to see Massachusetts people. I thought he was going to mention something about our gas cap, or maybe say choice words about Erin's Red Sox shirt. anyway, around 7pm we stopped at the Vince Lombardi service area, where you can read pearls of his wisdom if you need them while scarfing a Burger King burger. we ate and let the car cool. after that we inched toward the GW Bridge. at the last possible moment Beth executive decisioned us to rt 9 and/or Palisdes Parkway. we didn't know specifically where this would get us, but it at least let the car roar along at better than 10 mph. the engine felt better and it perked us up to go the speed limit. we zipped along to parts somewhat unknown, backtracked a scosh, noted that 9D runs parallel to the Hudson and must be wonderful in daylight. when we found good ole 84 we abandoned retro rockets and scooted. dog and cat apparently not maltreated by the girl who came in to feed them. so what did you do this past week?

Beth and I went to Christina Strong's to honour Tim Peterson, who goes to New York as part of a Boston/NYC cultural exchange program in which that city gets a bright, talented, generous poet and this one gets zilch. well, we won the World Series last year, the clinching of which Beth and I missed due to sports black out at the digs of this selfsame (there are those who call me...) Tim. no chance he'll turn Yankee fan, at least. we began by meeting Jack Kimball at his place in the vast spreaded confluence of houses and trees called the city of Newton. the place was gearing up for today's Marathon. roadside graves were already being dug for those runners who misjudge how hard running a marathon is. I rode with Jack, apparently to witness his crazy ass driving, but no one got completely killed so it was all good. Christina began the evening with a poem for Tim, funny and loving. Jack read 3 poems, including this one. Jack changed the you of the poem to Tim. it's a lovely poem, as I should've noted earlier. direct and loving, and funny, the poem shimmered around statements but stayed in feeling. Jack's a great reader. James Cook read a number of poems by himself, Jack Spicer (one of his baseball poems, necessitating an explanation for Tim's benefit as to what Baseball is), Allen Ginberg, Robert Creeley. a well wrought poetic excursion. myself read this poem, because it is a picture that I wanted Tim to have. my emotions are very close to the surface right now, and I was feeling this powerfully as I read. Tim asked me to read a little of this thing, a collaboration we did. the intention, Tim's, was to write the world's longest poetry blurb. I read up to the 1st mention of Britney Spear, then Tim read. Tim followed with several poems, narratives you might say, and quite nice. Sean Cole read a poem derived from a Boston police report, then he read the report itself. funny in the way O'Hara is funny, which is to say, light to the point of darkness. oh, I also read this short poem:

I have made a list of
things you can do
that will tell me that
you love me


I call it
a strategy
so you won't
lose hope


again, it was a piece with a feeling that I wanted to share with Tim. Ruth Lepson read a rhymey playful piece she wrote to Tim. Joel I can't recall his name (sorry) read a Herrick poem and a bit from Shakespeare, inserting Tim's name in both (Tim of Athens!!!), which was funny and very effecive. Mark Lamoureux did not read as he too leaves for the Apple and will have less opportunity to miss Tim. by an unusual coincidence (but was it really a coincidence???), everyone in attendence wore the same ball gown. of course at 1st we were all embarassed then we just laughed. Jack stirred up a consideration of our local heritage among those who've drifted to the area. come to the Bawston area and find you have Lowell and Olson and Plath and Creeley and Wiener and so forth to deal with in this weighty but of course way. I am much the localite, as I've lived all my years right here. Thoreau, Emerson and Hawthrone are heartily placed just down the road, a fact that carries something for me. one recalls that Olson was rather possessive of his Gloucester, as Vincent Ferrini found out (and O chid Ted Enslin for writing about kingfishers, a bird that O thought he had made his own). I talked quite a bit with James Cook, because he lives in Gloucester and is into Olson, who I simply love. for all that, I've never done an Olson tour, but it is on my list. I also like the idea of his throwing Olson and Spicer at his high school students. when I was in 10th grade, my English teacher did 2 things. 1) he dispatched with grammar in a matter of weeks, doing so in a way that (finally) made sense to me; and 2) he asked us what a poem was, with the ulteriour motive of freeing us from the plangent suggestions of our cultural heritage. it took me a year to start writing on my own, but this teacher was the only one who offered the hope of freedom, rather than the idea that form is rules. and so it all went, a pleasant evening. goodbye Tim.

the piece below is more experiment, or play. I took part of Nietzsche's Gotzen-Dammerung, German version that is, which must be Twilight of the Gods in regular language, and performed a spellcheck on it. then I fussed with the results. I rather like it, but mainly it's neat just to work outside the usual mode. this is another way to place meaning, that is meaning, secondary to structure. in using formal structures, whether it be regulated metre and rhyme scheme or Silliman's fibonnaci drill, one accepts the consequence that the form imparts. expected word order shifts, for instance, to fit rhyme and metre. applying to such forms, one can avoid some base intentions. the results still have to please. it's just a means of making.

spruce tuned fertile

1. music gang mist tells Psychologies of fang. Wise? Were Psychology's sins Lasters?

2. Such deer Thighbones won sun's hat with fur svelteness in the den Mouth zoo deem, washed her negligent weirs.

3. Um... mullein zoo lebensraum, muss man sin in Their odour vein. Got to skein salt Aristotle. Felt doer dirty Fall: man muss Betides skein: Philosophy.

4. "Alley Fahrenheit mist infatuate." Fist days night whiteface vine Loge?

5. Inch will, vein for alley Mall, Wireless night wiser. Die Weisenheimer Fonzie, such dear Clark Kentness Frenzies.

6. Man holsters rich in sign off wilder Nature unbeaten Avon lady signed off Unnaturally, Avon lady signs off Atheistic.

7. Wise? list all dear Mensch fur vein that Merv Griffin has Gotten. odour Got too far in vain Griffin dyes Mensches?

8. Bus dear crack school dyes Lebensraum. Was mite night upbringing, mast mite starker?

9. Half deer seller: damn hilt deer note Undermanned arrangement. Principle dear knock back stein liter.

10. Pass manned Ronald Reagan sign off. Landlubber's sign off Heightens begetting! ass man sine cosine night hinterlands, aim Pastiche last! Dear Dissensions list indignations.

11. Kant feigns Edsel tragic stain? Pass man punter diner Last zoo Grunge get, dying man weeds outrages, note Zimbabwean constancy. Dear Fall dyes Philosopher.

12. Hat man's stein is warm? dyes Lebensraum so introverts can man rich fast might edema-wise? Dear Mensch street night nacho Louise Glück; furious dear Englander hut days.

13. Deranged Man hat days Web chaffering, aurora's dote? Bus diner Ripper signs off ill Gotten, signs off "Ideals"...

14. Was dew such street? dew lightest ditch Verizon focus, thunderhead dew. such street Hungering, such Sullen.

15. Posthumous Mensches zoom Spiels, warden Bechtel's understander gals make zeitgeist, saber lesson for Joe Besser. Stringer: wiry warden nine understander tuned dasher unsure of Tutorials.

16. Enter Frowning. "Die Fahrenheit? Oh Sire kennel, die Fahrenheit night! Fist sine night vein Tentative auk alley unsure grandeurs"

17. Dais list vein Koestler's, wise is Koestler's liege, subsidences sign off Dissenter's: era will negligently form hurly burly, Stein Broadly tuned in Unstable, panel ate Circe.

18. Ewer sign off Willed night indie Dingle zoo, legmen weirs, dear legit fastenings linen Sink note whine: days heisted, era Flaubert, ass vein Oscar Wilde berates Bobby Darin simmer (Principle dyes "Flaubert").

19. Wise? ear waltz does Tugboat tending tuned xenophobes, Busiest tune sent nucleic shell nacho Northerly dear lightning. Amber might dear Tug end Roy Lichtenstein manning auk "Northeaster"... (cinema Antisemitism and diet Exhausting.)

20. Dais commendably Web begets Literature, wise as vine Madeleine Sunday beget: zoom Versus aim for bird, rich crumbliness, obsess Remand:
emergent tuned asses Remand temerity.

21. Site in later Lager debenture qua manly sign off. Superintendence haven dwarfs quote man overwhelmed, wise dear seltzer bottle (auk sign them Sale) underwent odourous divan commute.

22. "Base Mensches haven sign off Lieder." Wise commuters, ass die Russet Lieder haven?

23. "Scherzo Ageist": snit yachtsmen Fahrenheit vinous contradiction in adjective.

24. Dammit, ass man nacho den Cotangents, such weird man Maynard G. Krebs. Dear Prehistoric sight truck warts; lichen Flaubert era such truck wars.

25. Fahrenheit's Nietzsche obstacle for erstwhile tone. Hat jet rich vine Web, days rich gut kaleidescopes wussies off kilter? Inch seize den Fall, days sat trauma kaleidescope war.

26. Inch distraught Allen Systematize style on gene edge. fishnet ads demo Keg. Dear Oscar Wilde zooms System list vein Mangle at Kaffee klatsches.

27. Man hilt days Web for chef warning. veil manikin beg him awesome den Gerund commute. Dais Web list note night malingering flak.

28. Venn diagram days Web lichens Gender hat, so listees zoom to divan laughing; tune went sign off enriched by Gender hat, so tufted as obstacle divan.

comments field is gone here. the only reason I'd want to retain comments is for compliments (you rock, Allen!!! or maybe: awesomely said, Allen!!!!!). I don't believe that dialogue works in comments boxes. you can email me if you have something you've got to say to me. I don't assume that you do.

talked with a young writer friend the other day. he's 10. I've known Isaac for 2 years. used to do a class with him, now we hang and talk. it's not condescension to call him a writer, he's very busy at it, takes it seriously. and his use of visual has been instructive for me. he recently wrote a story in columns, 4 per page. the idea being that he was writing Chinese. his writing would be a feast for Jung, for it's full of archetypal imagery. a great deal of murder goes on in his stories, inscrutable Shakespearian tragedy. he wrote a series of mysteries featuring a Holmesian detective called Septic Option. I asked where he got he name. he replied he got it off a box of Rid-X, a product that treats septic tanks. he wasn't being self-consciously clever, as I would've had I gotten the name that way, he just saw the word combo and liked it. he very much thinks of himself as a writer but doesn't need to convince the world yet. there is something greatly therapeutic for him in his writing. writing and drawing provide a vocabulary by which he can deal with the traumas of life. so there's an aspect of expressive threapy to his work, but it would be cheating Isaac to say that's all his work is. it's a basic confrontation with elemental issues, for sure, and also an artistic journey. he's not at the point where he rewrites, it's still simply a mighty outpouring, but there is integrity to his artistic vision. that's what gets me about the Foetry drama. so much wallowing in rep. and it's all such a mess of non-issues, except that they're promulgated by needy people prancing publicly. what a thin tea that sweat makes! nervous artist types.

I wouldn't advise the non-crank Enrique Gould nor any the others who've quit or threatened to quit blogging to keep on with their blogs. I continue to have trouble staying on with the project, and I love writing this thing. this sort of writing works with my particular process. I can see how blog-writing might distract others from their process, for me it fits my method. but it can become a show, a public dance. examples of such cheap thrills are out there, easy enough to find. how's my career look everyone? maybe this thing reads like that but from this end it is useful (albeit fun) work for me. but still... I quit the flarf list, where I didn't belong anyway, tired, and I don't feel any group attachment. Henry's comments below regarding hisnon-crankiness are pretty sharp, and kind of inspire this pallid rumination here.

I should've noted my regrets that Henry G has left the building. not enough iconoclastic cranks in Po-BizLand. anyone can repeat the effable, it's the singular ones who are of interest.

I mean, imagine if Alan Cordles and Jim Behrle both hated me: I'd sure be up shit creek. and if Ron Silliman lumped me with his latest monolith, I guess that would hurt pretty bad. I mean, if any or all of that happened, it'd totally be all over for me. wow, have I had a vision of hell just now!!!

I mean, let's assume that high schools over, and we've moved on...

I mean, if Foetry.com could ever hurt you, shouldn't you wonder why you're so tender?

christ, Jim Behrle casts himself smaller and smaller the more he whacks the dead horse. the Iron Hand crush'd the Tyrants head and became a tyrant in his Stead.

I guess John Latta will be glad to know that I agree with his point about Silliman's fight against School of Quietude. Silliman procceeds with a concerted lumping together process, badgering this idea he has of School of Quietude. the conservative politics we see in this country bases itself on people doing the same effing thing. Silliman embarks on a dispiriting imitation of criticism when he deplores the monolith he imagines. he has too much intelligence to be this lazy.

previous piece was written 5 years ago, which is about as far back as I'm willing to go with my poetry. I stumbled on it recently. I kinda started the whole thing over about 1999, really make use of the lessons I think I learned. didn't Spicer say he was born in 46, becasue hat's when his writing started, or something? but anyway, itthe poem reads like I wrote it recently.

Dirge-Like

that much settling down feels like the end of everyone. grave sight.

today is the end of yesterday, finalized in abrupt words. not that the matter ends, only that there can be only so much, left to what.

only so many tributes fill the void. the void stares back, reflective. today, that sad boundary. tomorrow, look at the day.

damp clouds are no help, and the rain is only a mild excuse to cry. today is what is left, out of gas or what’s the word for something? anything might fit the day or what people need, when loss is tremendous.

trees groan under the weight of what trees grow under the weight of.

the river goes away and the bier takes flame. that is bad enough, as we hold.

we haven’t a chance, or in sunlight anything could be shiny. new today will grow old. anything timeless has limit.

today is leftover or forgotten, tomorrow looms emptiness and what we look for, when the rains stop. who we lose is important, in the struck rock way of pickaxe into mine wall.

so much gets lost, just like that. yesterday, when it was okay, seems so harsh.

indeed Lanny Q's various, witness:
where sand and pupils
proliferate
in the sea of schools
which is more expansive than the previous, and lovely still. I don't know what the typical Quarles piece is like.

lovely poem by Lanny Quarles, also posted to Wryting-l. no superfluities, and the words seem like stones. I am not a minimalist, wish I had that beam focus. Creeley, Niedecker, Zukofsky in ways (perhaps I am not quite speaking minimalism but...)... minimalism is a mode and I'm afraid I'm probably caught in maximalism (but I love that too: Jim Leftwich, Ron Silliman, Peter Ganick...)... anyway, back to point, great poem by Lanny Quarles.

Jonathan Mayhew read A Nest of Ninnies, but didn't like it. he preferred Schuyler's other novels. I liked A&G alot, really charming, and I haven't read What's For Dinner (great title tho: there's room in the novel world for the deflated). well, okay. JM says on his blog that he's read more than one Saul Bellow novel. one did it for me (The Dean's Winter, a truly lifeless piece of work), so I guess it's a matter of taste. sooth to say, Creeley's not to my taste. that's no denying Creeley's greatness, but I get more pleasure from O'Hara, say, than Creeley. poetrywise, at least. I really dig Creeley's critical work, including interviews. oddly, 2 of the most influential poem type writers for me are minimalist: Creeley and Grenier. Grenier as my only teacher sent me in directions that saved me from inflating Whitmanly, and Creeley just gave example. I was warmer to Olson's poetry but I needed to fight and wrassle with the Creeley oeuvre. and maybe I get caught up in the idea too much of poetry, when I just can't comprise the term in a usefully concise way. Mike Snider loves poetry and Ron Silliman loves poetry, that's absolutely clear on their blogs, but they don't love the same thing. not hardly. what I write, I've always called it poetry, but why is it poetry and not something else? I've written 7 novels (I know, hard to believe), 2 of which could possibly be worth publishing if this world fit my theories at all and if I, like, should show them to someone. all of them MUCH influenced by Ninnies. no plot, no character development, so what's left? I dunno, but it's my vision. that's what I love about Ninnies, and A&G too. so my poetry: my writing that hangs under that designation, it is what is available to me to write. I don't mean to make a boring statement like that. I still get bedeviled by form. why stanzas anymore? what's the dimension of a line? what does punctuation mean? these questions are easier to answer from formalist standpoint, but even there, got to twiddle with what's expected. well I guess I should cut this divagation short, I'm supposed to be writing about Jung.

don't get too excited, but here's a TRANSLATION that I did. it's long, you'll have to dodge a popup, nobody cares, I'm misunderstood, you're too busy, etc. anyway: Translation (All Apologies).

***retro warning (I'm serious)***

sometimes I get a little stuck in 1968, so be forewarned. I turn your attention, O Bram-hordes, to the tune Pride of Man by Quicksilver Messenger Service. this is a live version of a song on QMS's 1st lp. it's a bit crappy version but still chilling. QMS was a psychedelic SF band, as you can probably tell with a listen. the song was written by Hamilton Camp, a comedic actor who used to appear on the Smothers Brothers Show, lots of others as well. I guess he was also a folkie, too. done by QMS, this is pyschedelic Old Testament. I mean it is heavy, man. imagine hearing this song after missing the turn onto The Golden Road and heading straight for Bummer City! yow! I take this song as a crazy ass rendering of fundamentalist horror. QMS, on their lp Happy Trails, did an instrumental depiction of Christ going down for the 3 count called "Calvary", which is Cecil B de Mille on acid. lots of acid, in fact. just to clear your mental palate, you might try a taste of "Mona". the Bo Diddley song, but slowed down some. I love the lead guitar, an amorphous sound filtered thru tremolo and wah wah.

well, I've been reading Jung so this'll fit right in. an antique clock was in my father's room, one that belonged to his mother if not generations before. it hasn't worked reliably for years, and so hasn't been wound. Beth noticed today that it is stopped at 3:19. my father died on March 19.

Creeley

I was living with a picture of Robert Creeley. It's awfully hard to
define in some exclusive manner. In fact, Having begun in thought, Other
kinds of statements of speech are defined. by the way, 'they' give
instructions or make qualifications, something apart from 'them'. Poetry
is an art wherein various qualifications sound "reference or meaning."
they have grammatical circumstances much to do with long ago. I thought
I could be done, or so I thought. There wasn't a lot of time for me, I
had to get No one to witness and adjust. Meanwhile, no one drove the car
moving. Creeley would die someday. I would hear about it. The world
would enjoy this moment, gashed as it has been. Well I have this picture
of Creeley. It says something in between reading, Robert Creeley as
articulate as tatters. So much of my childhood seems to have been pulled
down to make it darker. 'they' are short; 'they' are not short enough.

a trip thru lovely Concord to view the spring flood. 100+ scintillating photos, as proof. Thoreau quotes some authority that a 1/8 inch incline over a mile is enough to create a flow, and surmises that the Concord River's at right about that incline. a poky old river but in spring the river at least gets wide. a big change at the Bridge is the loss of trees. this area, and down the road--the so called Battle Road for the British coming from Charlestown to sniff out weapons caches of the fomenting revolutionaries--is National Park. and someone's wisdom was to return the area to how it looked then. that is: farmland: no trees. so down go the trees, even some old and lovely willows. sigh. Beth and I exchanged marriage vows on that bridge. as we arrived, a busload of teenagers arrived. looking at the spread of water from the bridge, a girl said, I didn't know lakes had currents.

wall 

rude bridge that something something the flood 

poet/savant 

the mighty Concord overfloweth 

Hawthorne's Old Manse, and a big puddle 

I'm listening to Charles Reznikoff read, one of the sound files at Penn Sound (link to the right). he reads quickly, with great amusement. which is how I hear him as I have read him. I always felt I rushed as I read him, hopping along with the morsel-sized pieces, but in fact I was right on. he read aloud as fast as I read him to myself. zipping along with rustle of papers, often no pause whatsoever between pieces. it's a cinematic mode, energetic. the speed of his reading asks nothing of you, as in: please just regard these heartfelt words if you can hear at all, or let it all go. he trusts that you'll catch a glimpse. he rushes past the idea of drama, just wants the poem to live alive. god, I really love this. it's a shepherding, not a hypnotic act but a generosity. thank that deity that no photos of me with Rezzy or Creel exist, that I could fling onto this blog as some pious resumption of my poetic fervour. writers lived and live who just worked at it, sans photo op or whatever the engine is that trivializes the energy at that moment where the word is. one word, I mean, hopeful as any meaning. we're all nervous creatures seeking some complimenary flush. and what's lovely are the moments that ignore that. I also read/saw from the same source Creeley talk about Zukofsky. and it is lovely too. the conception of his comprising is a lasting offering. yes, there are many lovely poems with Creeley's name attached. here's someone who could be in that conversation of poetry at any time. there's a tired politic machination that I don't even want to get angry about, you fuckers know who you are. and poetry lives beyond. poetry is talking right thru, and it doesn't even care where you live.

place 

Amazon 

thanks to Mark Young, who's doing monday while I'm still doing sunday, I now know where Tom Beckett went.

candle shell 

miscanthis sky 

hyacinth and mole/vole hole 

doodle doodle. Dog Window is recent. I'm trying to attain competancy in sketching. the other 3 visual items are from my 1st sketchbook. Beth gave it to me 3 years ago, when I suddenly declared I was going to start doing visual work. the cartoony things make the most of very little, and somehow crack me up. Ceremonial is calligraphy without knowing a bit about it. I cando better now, but smudges such as can be seen here are still part of my method. my desk is messy too.

ceremonial 

21st century 

les drapeaux 

dog window 

I finally stumbled on this. Kasey Mohammad posted this to Patrick Herron's Imitation Poetics list some years (three?) ago. from out of nowhere, so far as I could tell. it must be my 1st meeting with flarf. so click yourself away to Lester blog. my name only appears because I posted to the list a bit.

well, I do enjoy pointing my finger at work well done. thus 2 posts by Stephen Vincent. 1st as you come to them, some thoughts on Terry Schiavo and the Pope, and 2nd, a little about Creeley. an appeal to diversity, if you will, in the Creeley post.

Site Metre notes a visit here of 3 seconds (the average good reader of Tributary likes to relax and take 7 seconds to read my sententious yet vital musings), which came by way of a Google search (in Russia, that would be a Gogol search), to wit: +01 comcast.net "allen". I wonder if the perp of this curiosity might be someone involved in the government of an African nation, who wishes to remove some funds therefrom, and could use my help...

I guess I am performing the patented blogger 180, having said that I was done with the blog, yet soon after here I am. frankly, it still may happen that I'll skip out, but I was aware as I wrote that my determination wasn't strong. so the topic of today's sermon will swirl on the stuff currently in this pool, here, that's part of a tributary, that's part of ...

1st I'm tired and sad. caregiving is wearing. I don't know how the professionals do it, because even with the emotional detachment they can bring, it simply calls for a lot from a person. let me blow my own horn that much about caregiving for my father, that I accepted that responsibility. so did Beth, and Erin too. I want to say love kept me going, love from Beth and Erin, love for my father, but one worries always using the word love: will it refuse to carry one's meaning. I'm sorry I seem to be wearing my father's death on my sleeve. it is a presence for me, and this blog is what I write in the present.

the death of Terry Schiavo and the Pope's decline brought back my father's last days. Robert Creeley's death struck me as well. if I wanted to resort to a term like father figure as regards my poetry writing, he would be one. complete with all the little squabbles to balance against the great gifts. Creeley's a poet who could be a poet all the time. that's not just speaking of his art, I mean a social thing too. there aren't too many poets nowadays who aren't something else as well. I mean, I know Creeley taught, but really, he taught because he was Creeley. no one cares how Creeley did in graduate school. so poetry is just that marginal. and I am a marginal poet. usually, I am okay with being marginal. the centre, as often defined, can be so purely social as to be trivial, an anxious network. and the work, doesn't it get done on the edges, away from the roiling masses? I think I am original, if that word isn't completely flaccid. I'm not rewriting the O'Hara oeuvre, or whatever, I'm trying to find my own way. mostly I am okay with this, but sometimes being twice marginal is too much. it's weak of me but there I am.

BUT what I recognize, is the worth this blog has for me. it allows me a public voice, albeit with scant public with which to exercise my divagations. this is public writing not private musing. it is a confrontation with what's out there. I'm introvert enough to need to make that effort. I think what I write here is worth reading in its way. how bold for me to say! I'll just end with a thank you to Stephen Vincent and Nick Piombino for their kind encouragement.

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.

yesterday's post was harsh. people gain from ceremonies, tho I think we have lost our main grasp of such determined expressions. not like the old days. and the ceremonial eulogy, I guess people find value in those. it's a certain writerly strictness on my part that keeps me from accepting such expressions. part of my training, if you will, as a writer, involves this sort of rigour. I think that's a reasonable thing. I am securely enough a writer to think that the craft exists at all times for me. one might, that is, need to write well in one's job, or for some organiazation's newsletter, or whatever. and one takes that seriously, but not in the way of one who declares writing as his or her craft. but why blithereth me so? I have been released from a duty that was hard, grew harder over the years, cost me, and yet gave me something I wish anyone to have as well. at least 3 emotions are actively affecting me at this time, yet I feel good. looking forward. and hwo are you?

still sans computer, and this library one has a view such as I can barely read my own blog, and I don't know how to rectify that. I'm scuffling now, it's just a time to scuffle. reading a lot of Jung and Nietzsche because that is what I'm studying. I miss the dailiness of this blog. I have to store up a day or more of stuff, for when I can get to an internet portal. it eats at me when I can't write. but life is life, live on. I would guess, can only guess, that my father's refusal of food and water was something of his right to death. the Schiavo story is just, as Stephen Vincent says, gothic. acceptance is at the end of everything, isn't it? religion is so unreasonable, just as science is. I'm sick of the pathology of these divisions. brazen definitions. burial of my father seemed a ceremony outside me, didn't touch me. certainly not like the burial of Beth's father on a green slope in West Virginia. just my 3 brothers, their wives, Beth, Erin, and 6 other grandchildren. I felt very emotional until each person (almost) said a few words. and tho the emotion was real in all cases, the expression just left me cool. standing in the cold before a silly little urn. dad? I didn't want to say platitudes. my father was a good man in a way I can be proud of. and I took worthy lessons from him. but I didn't want to dissolve him into such words, or eulogical extensions. Beth piped up a few remembrances of him, which stayed inside the human picture that we knew. I managed to say simply, mom was the light of our family, dad was the keel. we as a family lost our centre when she died. I feel, with my father's death, that the family no longer exists as such. religion in the sense of regulated orthodoxies is a poison. it has us speak of things outside our ken. it makes us assert what we don't know. I say religion, but I wouldn't want to exclude such affiliations as the Democratic and Republican parties. Beth regularly gets on the phone with the offices of our esteemed senators and representative, to indicate her dismay. Kennedy and Cave In Kerry go along with the Republican crunch as easy as kiss my hand. I had that problem during the presidential debates when Kerry started huffing like GW about chasing down terrorists. such a declaration didn't define him versus Bush (so why vote for him?), and maybe, hey maybe some alternative thinking could be offered. it's just machines running on their own. that's the orthodoxy I'm railing--yes, this is an example of railing--against. orthodoxy takes our poetry away.

tomorrow a private (family only) burial of my father. his ashes. a week from saturday a memorial service. neither of these have much meaning for me. Beth, Erin and I will go to Provincetown this weekend, and say goodbye. neither Beth or Erin have been there before. a place where my father spent a lot of time, his mother grew up there, his grandfather owned a store and wharf there. and it seems like there is where he wished to go, when he said he wanted to go home. or Fresh Pond Parkway in Cambridge, the worlds of his childhood. so that's the best significance I can make. goodbye and hope you find your home. today I wrote an angry anti-church diatribe. I think some churches have social value beyond the crass commerce of people getting along. I mean they can be there in many moments of a life, not just those emotional apexes when people feel the duty. I did not see this in dad's church. it was just going thru the motions in 'thinking of dad'. a church he was part of for 60 years. I can't recall if I've written here of the funeral we gave Beth's father. who wanted truck with no such thing. but all we did was read from the Tibetan Book of the Dead. on the most beautiful hillside in West Virginia (that's saying something!), a family plot overlooking a farmstead that belonged to his family, on a bright autumn morning. the worn out patterns don't mean anything. I'm not looking for comfort in that sense. something spiritual not mere opiate. a sense of connection in some wider sense, a poetry amongst us.

having to write this. my father died saturday afternoon. Beth and I visited him about an hour before. he'd made a marked decline since the day before. he was aware but couldn't speak. a nurse (named Angel!) was shaving him. it occurred to me that it wasn't his electric razor. she said, oh that one's too loud, this one is mine. she finished and kissed his forehead. this is the same nurse, I mean aide, who hugged me. in fact I teared up and she hugged me again. we held his hand and talked to him. his breathing was terribly laboured. after a while, Beth left me to be alone with him. I said what I could, assuring him that his family was okay, that I loved him. thanking. all this stuff. I started to cry and he shook his head. a couple of times there were pauses in his breathing such as made me think he was dying. I might've stayed with him, but I remember that it seemed like my mother waited till she was alone to die. we went home and I called my brothers, telling them if they wanted to say goodbye they should do it soon. we had an end of winter party planned, something Erin wanted badly. he has been suffering in his teenage way, way inside. we went shopping for the party. soon after we came back, my brother called to say dad died. they were ready to give him morphine if he started to suffer but luckily that didn't happen. he died just before two of my brothers arrived. I don't know why I write of this here, except that it is part of whatever. and I couldn't do so sooner because my computer broke. it is still broke, but I managed to get to the library today, and with time. we cancelled the party, sent Erin off to some friends. Beth's cousin called and she invited him over. we talked Red Sox and West Virginia. of course my father's death wasn't a surprise. in caring for him, in growing up to that extent, I gained a lot. I am a little cut adrift now. yesterday a neighbour from across the street stopped by. Beth had told her recently that my father was failing. it was kind of shocking, telling her that he died. later she came back with a pot of tulips, and Beth and I talked with her. well I guess I am going too far. this is just like your story, only all the details are different. I'm calling it my story, but that in itself is a story.