loosestrife and cattail 

mosaic 

Mothra at rest on coffemaker 

proof that I'm not much of an internet type: I neglect to follow all the links. case in point #1 being that I should link to all of 3rd Factory, Steve Evans' site, it's a pissa resource. I'll get to that soon. #2 being Shanna Compton's links. her DIY site got some stuff about making books and such like, which is an interest here at the Bramhall Bunker. that Alli Warren made Hounds bumps the interest of her effort, excellent book, further. poets: DIY!!! furthermore some Compton poems. index finger points to Mouth Made Out of Trees, as one exemplar. I don't know if it is me and having read this much 17th-19th century English poetry, but I can't read this without hearing an emphasized iambic trudge. I mean that nicely. was Shanna counting the syllables? I'm too tired right now to discover. it's a forceful, definite rhythm, probably built on the repetitions and limited vocabulary. it's nice the way it works, the words shape well to the mouth. to be read aloud, no doubt. the poem seems to be written within confines similar to what Dickinson employed (enjoyed?). the plodding music that was her (ED's) driveshaft commandeered and tweaked. I'm curious to know if Shanna set the form thus (thinking of Aaron Kunin's Mauberly poems) or if this is the music of that moment. the manner allows that music is important, and that meaning, if it exists, proceeds in and after that. am I reading wrongly? this poem is definitive in statement, yet the statements are curious, inward to pictures that are given, and, finally, outward. it teases with images that tease into saturations (from the repetitions), and red shifts of examination. (god keep me from blurbism). words in the wrong place sound just right: that's poetry!

----- 

Bunker Hill monument 

------ 

thanks to David Hess. I mentioned his appearing, via forwarded mail, on the subsubpoetics list back in aught aught. I believe his mission was to rattle the cage. he succeeded. I can't recollect the terms of the dialectic, but the manner, especially from David's side, was challenging. and the boys got into it, as boys will do. archives have been vapourized so you'll have to take my word. you miss little if you don't get the verbatim. I doubt that I joined into that part of the fray. me and dialectic aren't from the same neighbourhood. I did write something snide to or about David. my impetus being that here was a foreigner coming in to make trouble then off he goes. so yeah, I was a dickhead altho I could see even then that his charge into the Sub P ranks was an injection. he straightforwardly backchannelled me, which removed the public display factor, and he and I had some civil correspondence. this all occurred a week or 2 after the Boston Poetry Marathon. which was the 1st poetry reading I'd ever attended, and also my public coming out party as poet. insofar as I met a lot of poets, saw what many more looked and sounded like, and otherwise copped a glimmer of the social world of poetry. it was like freshman orientation for me. and Beth and I had just decided to get married then, so that gave a new and fresh to all. and now I'm not sure why this pass down memory lane, except maybe to note that there's a lot about poetry that isn't poetry. should I just leave it there? I would sooner trail after the words than push or drag them, if David wants my secret. in poetry that's a more intense and daring act, and so subject to greater failures. in this sort of journalated process, one wants to stay with the charms, whatever they might be. with the KJ/JB conclave, I note a lot of pushing and dragging. that poets, blogging or not, want some attention should pose no surprise. kinda goes with the calling. that anger arises is more perplexing and I'll say complicitous. anger being a 2ndary emotion, it asks for honest observation of the self kind. as I said, I had my dickhead moment re David Hess, and I'll have more dickhead moments with the world as time goes on. I'm from another planet so I really don't care what goes on here, except that sometimes things just get too lurid to ignore. that's my fault. the impetus to push or drag can be of a sullen power. I know there are other moments than ones of such perpetrated sweat.

how's my typing?

appearances to the contrary, I do go back and read my posts, to see, and often correct, my typos and mislocutions. oh, got to leave a few in, to give that lived in look to the writing, just as expert knitters throw a loop to show that no machine produced the item. which brings me to a point where I could use the acronym LOL, but I sure as hell aint going there. anyway. just now in the Ellis post I removed a 'u' that had attached itself to plainly, and changed them to then. I see that I wrote 'said my debt', when I must've meant 'paid my debt'. how fluid! my typing really has worsened since typewriter days. I'm no faster but much sloppier. invariably now I mistype the by dropping the 't', rather than the more normal, and spellcheckable, teh or hte. I don't always correct my mistakes, sometimes because of serendiptous delight at finding, sometimes because I can't fathom what I intended. or I just don't notice. the unavoidable mechanical aspect of writing. and my handwriting offers even greater challenges to the later reading, especially when the Muse is really jammin'. these concerns are present fairly often when I write, not as backburner as you might think. the sensation of the distance from where the writing comes from and where it goes to. which hazards into an area of Buddhist concern, but I won't play that chord.

guy on the left 

so it wasn't all a weird dream!.

I received today, from my friend Stephen Ellis, Oasia Broadside #105, which being a short work called "Athlete" by Stephen himself. I say friend in sentence 1, but I haven't heard much from him. periodically, Beth rouses me to call him (I don't do phones much, which is no excuse). he's been living in the part of Ohio where, I gather, no one lives. near West Virginia, where I have witnessed serious scantness of population. now he lives in Vermont, where, I believe, he was born. and so I go on, too late to make this story short. I just want to take this opportunity to point to Stephen's work. I really like it. back in the olden days, which is to say the year 2000 or so, Jordan Davis had an email list called Subsubpoetics. being a place to go if you weren't still infatuated with the Poetics list. for a while it was lively and generating. I recollect Jordan, Stephen, Henry (as in Gould), Nada (as in Gordon), Kent (as in wow, that guy), Gabe (as in Gudding), a bumptious visit by David Hess, I'm missing names of course, and even myself posting variously, and some good (I mean all of the posters). Stephen could be counted on, a very certainty, when and if. never frivolous, Stephen, always pointed, and also, you know, there's a poetry. alas the list hit crit mass, as does everything, and all that (sound familiar?), but I fondly remember. after some correspondence back in oh 1999, Stephen asked for some poems from me for his Broadside Series. well jinkies, the last time I'd been published was in 1972, in This 3. so much for career moves, but it don't matter no how. and I've plainly said my debt. Stephen is a terrific poet, would you take the time to find out? I would ask, in the interest of interest, and poetry, and whatever noble people do, to write to Stephen at:

71 Elmwood Avenue, apt 15
Burlington VT 05401

and request copies of his broadside, and ask about his backlist. backlist is crammed with names that you know. and it is an effort from the hinterlands, allowing that hinterlands exist. no, really. I am not against poetry scenes, but there are poetry not seens as well. hello, is this microphone working? and the point here is to point to the lucidities possible in a swerving language. here, then, is the 1st poem of the collected 12:

ORDER

My poems anymore aren't about anything
which is to say only they have become inevitable

falls into time. It just happens that way. The art
is stepping aside for the meaningless refrain

to complete itself. With interference
from the outside bleeding in. An internal

set-up for zones of heaven in leafy shade
made that much miore un-natural for the beauty of

their artifice. Things are what they are
supposed to be. Novel, if nothing else.

* * * * *

notice thinking, distributing, aligning, balancing, measure. I'm not a critical writer, sorry. I'm not scrivening with poise. I am amidst excitement. I think this is a writer of attention and collection. I am totally interested, but still ask that you look.

yeah so this is kinda funny. we're at this historical mansion in Salem, formerly owned by the head money man in Salem's mercantile Golden Age (go forth, sailing man, and sell this stuff, and be sure to come back with plenty of mon). on the wall are some old prints. one print is of Jonathan Mayhew, Dr of Divinity, circa Cotton Mathery wig or a little later. it was dark in the house so I managed to take pix of the wrong print. imagine my chagrin when I discovered this! you can almost pick out the name of interest in one pic, but, well, let's just say I fumbled that one and be done. I've given up writing poetry, by the way. I'm taking up plumbing and bicycle repair, but purely as a hobby. it's all for the better.

have you read Hawthorne lately? 

transfix (picture by Erin) 

welcome to the Bunghole 

Salem, MA 

shuck wave

I
rage with tumour popular.
And goad forest like temperature into gales of laughter, at least I think so.
And sleep past the internal heck convincingly.
And choose well ahead of form.
BUT
dogged natural patterns haven't a given name worth repeating.
Tired reservoirs move ideas past trenches into implied signature.
Dummy up is dated by the time we see.
THIS
freaks out the mavens.
They've been apt to control networks instantly, yet pry windows with sullen glee.
They've stopped at turnpikes for a glass of cider, which is really a plea for instant dock.
They've tumbled from the roof more than is sane, that's the thumping sound you hear.
We
love to emulate balloons, scatter action doles, pronounce carp friction, donate opulent scar, resist oodle machine, point with wavery list, scald as newborn drape, lambaste like equivocal dun, sport a fractured ringing, dust the absolute top.

It spaces out in duplex, our filing distance, the train of incipient blur while reading thru those cordoned denizen trails. The worst thing clicks on exactly with pleasure, plus a flame. Tying all together gains a moment for the run.

Our Town

Successful town buys collaboration. Foxes repair retreat theories, as rocks slide. Edible plants fail number. Read on! Flight of optic nerve seen as disturbing. Friends in neighbourhood begin hefting extreme notions. Byways look uncertain. Wild collisions promulgate an allure, experts note. Field needs a daydream. A child wandered across the dust, returned slightly. Barn door remains near tree. Effort tangled the high school, and all were allowed to go quietly. Some chairs were turned toward the last ray of sun. People called deliberation a freeing possible sound. Wet birds let evidence change. Gardeners were placed on boards, scooted over recent past statement, and watched yet again the weeds. Crickets were heavy with leg temperature. Lips are instant feeding, says expert. Study concludes. A leaf didn't fall right. Autumn would present a local idea. Someone had to explore the region near the brook. Finally, a wild look at squirrels! Trust becomes a momentary blister, a few pressed people argued. In range of a skunk, tables were turned. When the rain maximized, a lot of other things went different. Possible endings were found. The discussion finished with some real pieces of glass. A dog got away, but over the space of a few lopes, nothing more needed saying. Trusted coyote were as much as the books could stand. Informational systems became business as usual. Locks met their match. We started to ignore the resistance, lured by retreat, but left it all in place. This is the place, said one and all.

I mentioned address re Eileen Tabios. that is a specific of importance to me. Eileen addresses the reader, herself, loves, and these mentor lights (to use a nice fluffy term I just made up) in her writing. to instill, I believe, an active exchange. there is a YOU out there, inescapable. I use 2nd person a bit, and 1st person plural alot, in my writing, as witness to the directive in the writing act. also, I know, just to get the wallowing I out of the way, even just briefly. language, hah, what a concept! there's a way around the rocks in the path, or at least so it seems. wand'ring lonely as a cloud may not be as off the mark as could be. I've been thru the isolation, a good 15 years of writing outside any social writerly nexus. that's tough row-hoeing, and I do not recommend it, yet it forced me toward. toward what? well, that is the question, isn't it?

I mentioned discourse down a page or 2, and that's the wrong word: sucked in again. it's not discourse in a listserv, or blog badminton, or comments box. it looks like discourse, and sometimes participants think it is discourse, but discourse it aint. I don't need it in a serious way, only in the way grease fires sure burn fascinatingly bright (James Baldwin had the line, somewhere: the lurid brightness of a burning witch). it is some token of life, of seriousness, of whether or not. I mean oh my gawd, Blackwood's or whatever totally killed poor Johnny Keats!!! and Higginson made Dickinson totally renounce that part. attempts at convincing remind us of the other world.

totally obvious?

Geese are crammed, drams are occurred, loops sing dreadful meat, mung beans resist dynasty, apes hate finks, chums load clumps, bears endure silhouettes, bumps are for Martians, laughing endows mood rings with elated rings pangs of sputum, metropolis files past the policy, ladder days sit on tubs, chunks of dingbats need immersing, hot sauce sends the last string to the Mersey, junkies hate crocks, glassful has been almost honest, June bugs resist deeds, Jerry Garcia died for your reaction, monkeys have Cambridge, lucky names strum the goat's guitar, oodles fit schmucks, Doppler effect is for candy fanciers, Google has chains in its lump franchise, dopes need spray chance, junkies lure umpire fez diction, dum dum lurcher blog slices attribute centre till muumuu wow, your own clanging supersedes the trawl across Atlantic love seat, stumps refer to jackets, words are pulverized enough, Jesus was a vacuum cleaner born of different plopping sounds, church winks survive Ferris wheels: did you expect the wrench in training camp fad while you could only roar over resistor goo? moss begs the tree of north for flood of over light bundling, your coonskin trading. Thank the many merchants for the throng of pulling out.

sadly he goes on. laughing would be cruel

I've been reading Reproductions of the Empty Flagpole by Eileen Tabios. a good sign with any poetry book for me, that the reading makes me want to write. not a competitive thing; rather, the reading opens up something for me. this book has made me want to join that energy to mine. the book also makes me want to write about it, e'en tho I've not read a great deal of it. I like rushing my reflections, like smearing the first layer of dirt off a dusty window. I see a lot of address in Eileen's work, and that includes in her blog, which I think I can say everybody has noticed, about her blog, that is (community as working structure of acceptance rather than the name of the angry dilettante (famous examples supplied on request)). she enters, endures, and gives forth. I find the writing adventuresome. this book is pretty chunky, to the tune of 120 something: well and good! her latest book, I Take Thee, English, For My Beloved is 500+ pages. for me, that is a hell of a selling point. I love big books!!! I recently wrote of Tom Beckett's minimilist proclivity, which I admire tho so foreign to my own floodgate pleasure of writing it all out. and my teacher, closest to a living mentor that I ever came to, Robert Grenier, tended toward smaller and smaller. even Eileen herself, with her hay(na)ku, shows willingness to pare to minimum. but I have a taste for expanse, not that it's a matter of choosing sides. and Eileen cranks it. I think maybe-ish of Bernadette Mayer, who spurs her writing energy forward in a particular trust of experiment. for that matter, Virginia Woolf's novels, each one a clearly defined what if I?. I don't know where I stand in the Official Standing of Experimenters, but I am at least conscious that something ought to keep moving. I mean you know, there's enough writers who think, what if I do this again and again, world without end?. I picture Eileen running to different wells, the attention of discovering furthermore. so here's just the mere alert of having read some of her book.

"Either take up your axe and strike
like Ali at the gates of Khaybar,
or join these thorns with a rose:
bring your fire to God's light in order that
your fire will disappear in His light,
and all your thorns become roses."

--Mathnawi II:1244-1246
Version by Camille and Kabir Helminski
"Rumi: Jewels of Remembrance"

I didn't mench earlier, but Gary Sullivan's project sounds neat. sometimes the social forms in poetry world are a matter of who's got whose back, which is lame temporal committee meeting. here I think Gary's onto the more positive role of the social as collaborative potential. the Flarf list had a lot of cooperation going on it, for instance (tho myself felt a trifle out of touch, maybe it's just me), and Nick Piombino's blog, and Eileen Tabios', are examples of similar generosity. well, I said generosity, and meant it, but particularly in the sense of acceptance: commonals and song. which now brings up a question: Jordan Davis with his cryptic accuity (which sounds oxymoronic but to me it is scintillant) mentions bullying, but I can't discern here who he cites as the bully? whoever, the level of discourse scrapes pretty low.

thank you Drew Gardner, this is really neat. and the sidewalk is faintly coloured, you don't think of it as colour but a place. and the weight of walking behind, until you speak something, even the pieces that gather the career: this presses you to pause. in which moment, particularly, are you in? you work a few things into where you are, or think you are, feeling definite about 1/2 the time. the plan wants to survive, always. you just might get a litle tired, after all the crap in the in between.

whats the motivation in this scene?

I was sort of interested in John Latta's post today, in which Kent Johnson defends himself against Jim Behrle's bad review, except that I am not a lot interested in people defending themselves, and it gets worse as Jim Behrle defends himself, so that means cartoons and fizzle for a while, 2 agent provocateurs, I mean, I am sorry about local poetry, how small it wants to be, just best friends or doubt (which man is a man anyway? the one who worries more) but I'd mainly like to read John Latta's work on a large scale, the curious trip of getting here to there, not forgetting that orbs have no sides, but squares do.

and it was, like, 200 pictures taken yesterday. as I've said before, I feel intrusive taking pictures of people, I'll have to work on that. I think the greater part of the pictures that I take, I do so without reference to the viewfinder. I like relinguishing some of my directive, which is a good poetic lesson, I fancy. I don't think I will ever consider myself a photographer, no matter how many pictures I take. I'll stay in the realm of interested gathering, just as I've found myself collecting beach pebbles, paper clips, matchbooks, things on the ground. again, poetic lesson, leastwise for me.

Beth's niece visiting so we took her to Sturbridge Village in central Mass. it is a living replica of a 19th, or 18th, century village, like Williamsburg. friends of ours, the whole family, participated in an encampment, which being a gathering of various groups of reenactors. colonial militia groups (to which our friends belong), Redcoats, Civil War, camped all over the place. I think it is utterly useful to see life put into what we read about. the weight of it doesn't seem anachronistic, tho I suppose that's one carrying thrill for participants. there was a reenactment of a Civil War battle. I don't know if it was based on an actual one, or if it were a generic one. the reenactment gives you some scale to work with, like how close combatants were to each other. there were such touches as boots being covetously removed from a corpse, a deserter shot. a child asked, why are the Confederates running? to which an adult replied, because the good guys are winning. which is the simplistic sort of thinking you can get for free in public schools. one guy was bellowing, Johnny Reb wouldn't run like that, Stonewall Jackson's troops would never run. yeah, let's not forget that the Southern team had some good players too. look now at the mindless Support Our Troops sloganizing. the world is a little larger than this home team view. I believe in compassion, in case you're wondering. the machine needs no sympathy, however, nor do those who don't question that machine. after the battle, we watched a demonstration of a Revolutionary Era cannon. it's a loud noise. which is a lot of what we boil war efforts down to. if you've ever seen airshows, in which fighter jets show off their power, it is hard not to be enthralled. these vortices of speed and noise can suck you right in. hence video games, I suppose, except I guess I am too generationalized to get into video games. I'm from I remember when we usedta. yet zowie, what if you controlled all that? a swordfighting demonstration was interesting. the combatants had parrying knives as well as swords. the pace of their battles was about 1/4 of Flynn versus Rathbone, and mostly were over within seconds. I was also pleased to look at examples of colonial glassware, hear that our friends cooked up bubble and squeak, watch a fellow carve the handle for a bow saw. well, it was neat stuff going on. we plan to return when Massachusetts enjoys beautiful autumn. I think I'm trying to say here that there's a real world inside of what we think. I believe there are a lot of unconsidered words. kick out the jams.

Sturbridge Village 

rock hole 

picture 

he's right, you know. I was struck by the confidence of the work in "Hounds". confidence in the language in which she writes. I don't mean confidence in the sense of bluff push outward--for all I know, Alli Warren is as tentative as I am as regards her work in the world--but the intricacies, telescopings, primed logic, stunned honesty (stop me before I write a blurb), all these essences of her writing seem awake and aware in their life in the poem. I hope that doesn't sound farcical or gushy. I'm really impressed. I'm particularly taken by the concentration of her writing. a tough persistence there. ride on!

critter 

view 

guy + camera + too much time 

grasshopper 

flat patriot 

Carl Annarummo changed the name of his blog to the arms and ears of smoke, one of the best blog names yet. a blog I enjoy under whatever aegis.

David Hess's nifty quick portrait of Joanne Kyger jibes with my assumption. I think it's in the letters of Lew Welch, Welch describing her hiking a mountain trail with a broken leg, in a cast that is, full of gusto (Kyger, not the cast). for some reason, it took me a while to stumble on a collection of John Wieners' work, and I have never done so with Kyger. so I have that in the offing. time is not serial.

my note on Mark Scroggins' blog sounds a little pre-emptive on my part, like I'm stuck with Olson/Zukofsky/Pound. I still find those writers useful. it seems like some writers took me a certain distance then we parted at the fork, which is not to say I don't still love them. Creeley and WCW guided me well, but I don't feel quite the charge I did when I met them when young. were the palisades of the pantheon still erect, they'd be there. I still go to them, in modesty and tribute, but less often now. the point of this note is to recognize (that's a word I use a lot: somebody give me another) changing tastes, so it seems. Olson had a bullying sort of charisma that magnetized many of his contemporaries, but I didn't start reading him till after his death, about a year after actually. I've wondered how Ginsberg's poetry will fare in future days, for a lot of it doesn't seem that great, really, and he sure had charisma. so I've noted a fade re Olson. which is why I was so excited to talk with Olson aficionado James Cook, the guy who doesn't blog enough, at that party last spring. I know I haven't been battered around enough by Stein, by Rimbaud, by Zukofsky even, still feel I've got some investigation to do before I freeze over completely.

I added Mark Scroggins' blog to my links because: 1) he's smart,
2)familiar with Olson/Zukofky/Pound

Don't Blame the Reader

the intrinsic sense
of directing phones,
to which I'm off
in the bloom feature
of fettle, masked
argument of
Iraqi, burnished
lock over
tension drape, juiced
suddenness
while prancing,
stopgap economy
while dying,
stooped after effect
in regent time
spittle,
blushed season
after grating scene,
trusting gown
of looser frame,
bouncing integer
purporting
regicide,
glowing remarks
while sagging
poems, staggered
singly by excellent
swath, flipped
in kindling
drone, all for the
effort ranch,
the lubber detail,
the scrid in parlance,
the focus group
poppies: surely these
are reminiscent
of Digimon legend,
cartoon handicraft,
shitbucket mummery,
guff for the fancy,
doubling
of nothing...

hello phones
of plenty vending
network climbing:
I am near you...

NB: integral lines taken from Alli Warren

yes, Nada's parody is excellent. I also find her Laura Riding considerations well-thought and useful. and Alli Warren's furtherance. I am unwell read in Riding. I think of her some in the same way as Edward Dahlberg. they both possess a lengthy language, no 2 ways to say it. yet it crystallizes in a magma sort of way. might as well point to Mark Scroggins (several posts, and Henry Gould's interaction), a mench of Dahlberg. and Olson finally saying, you are not my father...

incipient haiku 

Henry Gould writes today: "Paterson : too much the willed effort? A rush job. Didn't soak the guitar wood long enough. Plays on the surface - drab, prosaic."I get a kick out of H Gould and his well-thought considerations. I think Henry well hits the nail head, and that's not to say I don't love WCW. Paterson has its moments but it is also WCW noticing the competition too much. his best work would be when he didn't need to soak the guitar wood for long (nice metaphor, btw). when he up and tries to accomplish something grand (say the 3 pieces in Imaginations other than Spring and All and Kora in Hell), the effort shows.

just to note that the inter view(s) at Antic View doggedly continue, 9 installments as of today.

a poem called Document Day. you can also access at my popup free blog site, here.

honour platter

Picture of a universe with leaves drawn across carpets where last words struck a bargain.

Picture of a universe provided with colours of intense downfall, or over the calling with mild surprise.

Resumption of a picture in the universe when trees seek latterly and the effort of blossoms seems stung, loosened, a pearl of lode.

Tradition of resumption in each universe squeak and ferrying, thru tremendous altitudes and even the best answer back.

Squiring of universe conditions while even the least seems better in the perfection of staying. Kiss is a spring.

Picture in the universe forever enough.

Plaudits on reaching a universe in so many words.

Piously portraying the conduit and fray in terms of a universe of reaching.

A debt all the while, as the last on a universe knows.

bee sip 

I'm not going to get my good friend Jack Kimball mad.

hey, how do you get this orgasmatron to work?

Mark Young said it before I could. more Leftwich and Kervinen. unlike with most of the blogs on my list, I do not go to Jukka's sites daily. I like to take them in a gulp.

I hadn't ought to have opined concerning the controversy in the post below. just more fizzle. for the record, as if there were a record, as if there were a readership (both are wild assumptions, but we all carry on), I appreciate what both Gary Sullivan and Kent Johnson write, both the poetry and the critical stuff (if there's any purpose to drawing that line). cross-blog conversations, with comments box sidelights, is some weird ass forum. j'ever notice? day one here at Tributary, the thought was I'd stay clear of that. admittedly I still like reading it, just don't see the whirling resolve. that was my point in writing below.

I like Kent Johnson well enough, tho never met him beyond a few emails (almost did a couple times tho). I am not jazzy enough for his fierce notice, but I recognize that he's a force and entity Out There, poking away. subversive at times, I like subversion. to me, Poet as Hero goes only so far. I know my own whingeing tendencies at times, having been very solo in the enterprise, to the point of feeling wonderful for the heroic persistence sans acclaim or even input from others that I managed, for years. but so what. Kent's political views shouldn't becloud the nature of his work. we generally agree, wide-minded poets that we are, that Iraqi slaughter is a bad thing, and the machine moving this country here likewise, and so on. in poetry, I don't think those moral points score extra. that's all part of the poem's entrails, not the live thing itself. Kent often uses the political anger well, which can be categorized as technique, which is not to suggest that the feelings aren't sincere. I don't want to take sides, yuck, but find Gary Sullivan's responses at his blog and in comments at Chris Murray's Texfiles(does anyone else see the difficulty of the medium here?) to be useful, poetically charged. I found no attack in his words, and so what about attacks anyway. Mr Johnson makes his own attacks often enough, this is what's on the board. odd for someone who has questioned the poet's identity to be himself trapped by the one inferred by the public. Nada Gordon wondering whether that Korean writer who posted to Poetics might just be a Johnsonian hoax. Kent is of many aspects, kinda human that way.

heads up

a serious side to me will start to emerge and, if I go with it, there is nothing I can't accomplish this year. altho some of the prospects may be overwhelming, I'll keep working toward my goals and progress will be made. I won't take chances while traveling, playing sports or operating machines.

acknowleged and concurred with, what Ron Silliman says is true, the disagreeable read from the bottom nature of Blogger. more crucially, what's the colour of your iPod?

Mark Young mentions reading Cape Cod by Thoreau, accent on 1st syllable, like I for one pronounce thorough. well 1st he mentions the US writers he aint never read, which brings the thought of assumptions of canon. he mentions never having read Faulkner, who I like tho don't entirely trust. Faulkner's viewpoint and milieu are foreign enough for me, perhaps moreso for non-American. Young said he came to Hawthorne (and Poe) by way of his taste for fantasy. that would be considered the backdoor. I remember reading The Scarlet Letter in high school, offical front door. the teaching itself seemed to be a dour puritanical rite. I suspect a school reading in other parts of the country, let alone the world, might focus differently. The House of Seven Gables reads like a fantasy or ghost story tho it really has no fantasy in it. the death of the antagonist at the end brings to mind the death at the end of Buddenbrooks, a long morbid consideration. sure I'm rambling here. I'm enjoying the chance to write on some writers to whom I feel close, and who, luckily, I didn't turn against in school. the Cape that Thoreau writes of has much in common with the present place, and much not. Provincetown still is a spit of sand well into the ocean, but the terraforming effort to vitalize that sand with trees and gardens, and a congestion of buildings has given an almost illusory effect to the place. as if erosion didn't exist, and the sands of time are staying put. on Memorial Day every year we used to drive down to Provincetown and tend the family cemetery plots. in those days, the Cape had no tourist trade between september and june. now the place is full to the brim at all times, a great place to study traffic and its effects. it is interesting to note, as Mark does, such great, canonical works that one has not read. Don Quixote is my downfall. it's nice to pass by the condensed version, Thoreau the hermit (given all the conversations with friends and strangers that he notes, obviously was quite chummy), Hawthorne the puritanical moralist (he flaired with the fantastical), and so on. and Dickinson was not a tender poet of delicate flowers, she was in her way ferocious and ambitious. and so forth. anyway, pondering on this. a couple years ago, I read Walden in class (adult learners). a large schism between those who loved it and those who plainly and vociferously hated it. a commenter to Mark's post associates with that latter category. the magnetic opposition iof those 2 views interests me.

at 7:51 this morning, I turn 53. birthday shared by Lt. William Clark, Herman Melville, Jerry Garcia. I'm sure you see the pattern there.

window 

painted 

Leap into the Void"

John Latta mentions Yves Klein. In an issue of Sulfur, I believe, is a photograph of Klein called "The Leap". that leap being a cascading sort of swan dive out a 2nd floor window, with a good French sidewalk underneath.zowie, commitment!

this is a wonderful picture. welcome to your world, and yet it has sweetness too. the Whole Earth Catalogue, or its magazine venture, once showed a single panel from a Donald Duck comic. Unca Donald and his 3 nephews in that convertible jalopie that the old duck drove, staring at a highway with was multi-layered overpasses, underpasses and futuristic overcrowding. and the 4 of them in chorus exclaim "WOW!!!". sorta reminded of that.

I like the loping, o'er rocks and puddles, or thru, or circumnavigation of a slightly big gtree, all in the course of writing, as in: John Latta's blog, which takes its routes, loves tangents to pity, gets chunky on you like Dahlberg or Riding, almost stalls, rumbles, grumbles, pops a freebie, turns around: and there you are. I don't mean this is the only definition of what, but one that certainly is localized for me, who am not succinct myself, tho I can honour that pledge too. anyway, just a reminder of the good road test of Hotel Point.

I have a series of poems online at Muse Appreciation Guild. the rest of the Spring release of MAG begins here

YIPES!!! 

alien evidence, or, sacred bathroom door of Turin 

fighting off a poison ivy rash, which reminds me of a few years ago. I'd gotten a super dose on my arms and was having trouble not scratching. I rolled over in bed one night--just changing my position, not scratching--and without leaving the land of Morpheus, Beth said "don't scratch; I love you; what's for dinner?".

Stephen Vincent says it well regarding influence, or he says concordance, of poets with the past. I hate to bring up Harold Bloom, who is such a dustily shaped portion of the academic wall, but his notion of the anxiety engendered by influence is a good one. Stephen relates Spicer to Matthew Arnold, of course Spicer was much confronted by the literature he knew. new isn't so new. I've always liked how Jeff Harrison spongily invites the sounds of his reading. I mean I have inferred his reading field from his writing and he has confirmed my guess. it is not an anachronistic usage, just as Spicer's is not. I would hate to pretend that the avant sweeps clean the slate, a foolishly parochial view if ever.

and just to keep the excitement rolling, Antic View, the Harrison/Bramhall interview, now has 4 installments. collect 'em all!!!,

moi blushes sunset red at the several mentionings by Eileen Tabios upon her wine streaked but well-filled blog. moi humbly speaks thanks.

still tolling up my books, I should say our books. found 5, probably have more, by Joseph C. Lincoln. you probably have not heard of him. he was a popular novelist in the early part of the 20th century (which sounds so historical, like I wasn't alive for almost half of it). my father read everything by Lincoln. they were set in Cape Cod adn were, I gather, roman à clefs, albeit kindly ones. piquant sense of locale, which is why my father liked them. when my mother's eyesight eached the point where she couldn't read, I began reading to her. at 1st just mysteries but we branched out. reading Huckleberry Finn to her opened my eyes, because I didn't really like it the 1st time I read the book, but it bloomed this 2nd reading. part of that was that I better heard, and enjoyed, the dialects. I read a bunch of the Lincolns to my mother and was struck by their goodhearted adventure. some of that adventure was of the sea and rescue operations (one of the books was made into a movie), and some of the adventure more like parlour romance, but with a humour and human plainness that, perhaps it is corny of me, I admire. my mother also gave me a similar gift, reading a favourite author of hers: Angela Thirkell. Thirkell wrote of village life in mid-20th century England. I think a bit of Jane Austen with Thirkell, tho without the desperate, draconian class structure of 18th century England (V. S. Pritchett referred to the romantic entanglements in Austen's novels as naval manuevres). at our sale, it seemed like folks were there to buy books to enjoy, not resell (having scored off our stupidity). which gets into matters of taste, so that I weary of frozen distinctions of what is and what isn't. I mean I have my distinctions, I just don't need to be proud of them. I came closer to both of my parents by way of the books that they enjoyed.

I forgot to mench that the younger book dealer bought this silly ass book on wrestling that I had. from the 80s, with all the rich cornpone prior to the sophisticated travesty of Vince McMahon's Kingdom. I knew he was buying that sucker for himself. this afternoon, I heard a car horn out front, and discovered that sickly elderly woman in her car beckoning me. she found a photo in one of the books she bought. not a treasured picture, I must've used it for a bookmark. considerate of her to come over. we had put what books that the library couldn't/wouldn't take out for trash pick up (sorry, everyone, but we had no choice), and she was inspired to work her way out of her car and peer amongst the offerings. she picked out several gardening books and a fruit basket for her friend, a few items for herself. she talked about the EB White book that she bought, and about Cape Cod. she seemed like someone who wanted to be happy. and yet. she mentioned the death of the longtime accordion player for Lawrence Welk (the Happy Norwegian Myron Floren). yesterday she told me how her car door somehow slammed into her, loosening teeth, breaking her cheek and knocking her hip out of joint. as she picked amongst the boxes I feared she'd topple over. she only had a cane, should have a walker. we've been wicked busy packing and cleaning but I couldn't not accomodate her.

announcing...

a new blog by Jeff Harrison and myself, called Antic View. Jeff and I interview each other. this is an ongoing project, to be twirled out as far as seems fit. it took me (the tech guy, hahaha, in this ménage) a while to get to setting up the blog, so the initial chunk is rather large. the turnaround on our questions has been pretty quick. simpático meets considerably different methods.

Ron Silliman hits 400,000 hits. which is just bobbled numbers in one sense, since it is not that big a deal that people agree with me, that Ron is worth reading. a lot of his numbered points don't apply to aught but he. amongst bloggers, I don't think many see unrequested books coming in the mail much (I don't know why Gary Sullivan sent me his comic Elsewhere, my one blog-related freebie, tho I am pleased that he did), or getting publication solicitations greater than can be met, or major spikes in reading invitations or much of anything that might harbour under the aegis of 'career'. not that I begrudge this of Ron. I have been reading, at times struggling with, often learning from, Ron Silliman's work for 25+ years, he is an important writer to me. certainly I appreciate this free and plentiful access to 'him'. I am not competing with him, tho, and not because my numbers don't add up. I am satisfied that my blog does what it can, what I can. I do agree with his sense, tho I don't get a lot of input, that this public presentation (writing on a blog), focuses my thinking and asserts an intrinsic muscle for me as a writer. and I would say that this is the case of many others who write on blogs as well. I recognize my own spikiness, which is to say, I'll always be at the edge of the social sphere of blogs. but I see my writing grow as it goes out there. I also see that blogs aren't for every writer, as computers aren't, as we all have our different ways and paths. commenters to Ron's blog sometimes sound like saps because their awe shows (or their anti-awe, same diff). I mean, there's this popular brand called Ron Silliman, to which all must react. a significant diletante (did I misspell that word again?) percentage amongst Ron's 400,000 hamburgers can be readily discounted. which only means that I don't need the numbers to factor Ron Silliman's worth to me. by the numbers, my blog is insignificant to the max. but it aint. my blog is seriously what it is, just as is Ron Silliman's, and down the list. I think that it is crucial that I say this, that every po-blogger say this. and you yahoos in the collective readership should say it too.