zowie, that's some typo fest in the travel notes below. let's just say it being my 1st post since my birthday that I decided to celebrate in the style of my co-birthdayist Lt William Clark, the world record holder in spelling eccentricity.

Mark Young, in the 2nd issue of Otoliths, has kindly published a series of alien poems from the typing fingers of yours truly. here is the contents, but read my piece 1st.

back from a walkabout sort of week plus. Beth and I headed south to New Jersey on wednesday. rather than 84 to 95, we opted for the various parkways (Merritt and Huitchinson) into the city. it's a lovely ride and skips some of the crappy parts of both 84 and 95. the bridges you pass under must be the gifts of CCC. each one uniquely decorated with whatsis and crenellations. and holding up a wee bit better than the Big Effing Dig. tho on a positive note, I don't think anyone died due to Big Dig Malfeasance today!!! shady tree lined parkways right to the foot of the George Washington Bridge, highly recommended. we went to NJ to paint Beth's mother's home but the job shrunk so we didn't need to slave at it. I managed to read and write some. I also had a birthday, it couldn't be helped. one day Beth's mother and I went on an errand. in the offing were some wonderful clouds building. I could almost believe a tornado was brewing. the wind had jumped to say 30 mph judging by the snapping horizontal flag I saw. I was wishing Beth could see it, she and I share a love for clouds and weather. she did glom a view out the window of some whipping up, which, finally, threw a quick stunning bucketful onto the ground then moved on. whoosh. in a parkng lot I heard the clicking of someone's car lock, then I noticed an elder man waving his electronic key thingie around like a wand. he muttered generally, where's my car? I pointed and he plodded on, found his car and said, thanks buddy. the world grows more difficult. we left NJ's cramped shores on tuesday, my birthday. we aimed for the Catskills. we stopped at the Vince Lombardi plaza, just before the GW Bridge. I went back to the car to lock it, and witnessed a bust. a cop had a drawn gun aimed at someone in a car. the car was pinned in by a police car. fascinating. keep your hands in sight, said the cop with the gun. all the while folks are passing by. I admit I wanted to get close and watch but Beth kinda thought good sense ought to prevail. after a couple wrong turns we got onto the Palisades Parkway. gosh it's lovely. wicked hazy and hot. pictures from the overlook are fuzzier than I would like but ne'ertheless. we moved onto Rt 9W, essentially parallel to the PP. and wandered hither and yon. stopped for lunch in Piermont, then drove along the river past fascinating houses and such. I realize I'm writing slackly here, tired, but it was fun to absorb. the Hudson's lovely, even in its rather wrecked state. by which I mean, the commercial crush that has occurred since Thomas Cole packed up his paints. Cole and the Hudson Rive school were the first painters that attracted me, back in high school. nature at its most stunning and overwhelming. we wound our way into the mountains, which were impressive, but even there it was hot. we stopped on some ridge overlooking a hazy view of potentially everywhere. some buzzards flew about, and Melville's Catskill eagle did, and legitimately, occur to me. just a few feet above our heads but seveal hundred feet above the ground. we took a motel in Ellenville. the area lacks options, it's pretty distressed there, but what a crappy motel. looked okay from the outside, but the room smelled and and and. a wholly unnecessary meanness, an economic stupidity. things like no srinking cups, to save money. we proceeded to Phonecia, where we ate breakfast. we stopped at a Tibetan store there run by a rug weaver who regaled us about everything. it's a manner of sales that is engaging. he certainly did his best to interest us in his rugs, which indeed were wonderful tho outside the presumption of our paying power. I think he kindly sets aside sizing up his customers, which is wise, because you never know who's got the moolah and the inclination. Beth and I stopped in a rug shop in Waltham once, just curious, specifically about some thangka in the window. the proprietor talked with us, showed all his wares, explaining intricacies, made us cups of saffron tea. we did buy a bit from the Tibetan, and the transaction felt genuine. we meant to toddle over the mountain there but were advised that floods had taken the road away so we aimed for... wait for it... Woodstock, NY. we stopped at the information place, where we were helped in our search for a place to stay. I asked the woman about Big Pink. she said the place is privately owned and in fact has a fence around it so you can't see it. not that it is a Mecca for me, I was just curious. but it's a historical fact of the town. we never saw the site of the other historical fact of the place. we stayed in ascrupulously clean place near a brook. the town seems well filled with burnt out hippies, and future bums of America. the latter being kids just dully, tho with attitude, hanging out. I'm probably overly sensitive, it just seemed slackly hip in a way difficult to maintain. the place has a cash cow because its name. it is overloaded with art galleries. quain tho. I got old last tuesday, officiall so my opinion is probably besmirched. Beth and I had this cool idea of having dinner but jinkies, but surprised to find that several of the restaurants in town don't open on wednesday. well don't that beat all! we survived on burritos and whatever Beth had. while we ate a fellow came in with a backpack and frame on his back, with a wool blanket over that. time warp, he looked exactly like someone at the famed concert. he 1st Phish concert I went to, I seemed to be about 20 years older than anyone else there. and I saw so many kids who looked like kids I knew back then, even saw myself. and I wasn't even stoned!!! we stopped at a bookstore that proved better than I expected. the poetry section was small but it offered a number of books I would not mind owning or reading. there were at least 5 titles by Ed Sanders. I asked the woman there if he lived in town, I couldn't quite recall what I'd heard. she wasn't sure but he comes in regularly. a blurb on one book said he indeed lives in Woodstock. I bought volume 3 of a lengthy history of America series he's writing. 1961-1970. an intersting era and furthermore, I'm currently reading Beat and the Brightest by David Halberstam, about the long journey into and into Vietnam. Sanders' book is a neat companion piece. Sandeers is a lot like Ginsberg in being so connected to and aware of so much that was going on. I remember seeing Ginsberg on the Merv Griffin show in the late 60s talking about global warming and the ozone layer, definitely ahead of he curve. I really like Sanders' project. of course it is opinionated: that's its virtue. why not take the idea of 'istorin seriously? Sanders shows some interesting paths. I'm really psyched by the book, which being also of an era that fascinates me. we left on thursday, taking a poky route that included the Rip van Winkle Bridge. earlier we'd gone over the FDR bridge. I love bridges. now household back to almost normal (Erin's still away). a girl comes in daily to take care of our quadripeds. neither dog or cat likes being left. the dog gets walked and played with but our cat doesn't like strangers. the girl has never seen him. both animals know that we're going to leave, and when bags come out, that's critical mass, especially for the cat. he takes to our bedroom closet and looks as sad as can be. the dog of course has a nutty when we return, but the cat usally goes sulk-mode for a while before deigning to join us. and then remains inches away from us.

there shall be an impediment in Tributary's flow for a week or so. Erin's off to see his father whilst Beth and I travel oot and aboot, New Jersey for sure, West Virginia possibly, parts unknown maybe. we took Erin to the airport this afternoon. only one parental unit could accompany him to the gate so I waited in the concourse, writing a little bit and watching people. Beth finally came out to say trouble. in Erin's carry on the crack crew discovered a weapon. the weapon was some costume crap he picked up at Anime Boston. sort of plastic brass knuckles. not markedly more weaponlike than human knuckles, more breakable in fact. Beth and Erin went thru the wringer for 45 minutes. they were asked trip up questions. even looking at his learner's permit and hearing what he said they're asking, so your permanent address is Idaho? and what's this sir? they asked him, to which he replied: a headband. Erin's a brown belt, this far from a black belt, in kenpo karate: he may not have to resort to attacking people with headbands. not that he gets in fights. for sure, Erin shouldn't have brought the thing. he's so innocent. when he got them, I told him, and Beth told him, that they will be construed as weapons. he just sees them as cool, part of the anime ambiance. that's what they are to him. I wish the world could really temper the wind to the shorn sheep. Erin doesn't get certain things, the social cues or whatever. he's as sweet as can be but this marks him. Erin is 6'5", 250 pounds, but he's young, younger than his years. the other day he picked up a sun hat, for the hiking he plans to do out west. it's made by some well known outdoors supplier, I forget which. a perfectly functional hat that he thinks is cool and many people will just see as an oddity. which trips the bell. score that as big galoot with a funny hat. it's like playing author picture snide, except that he's a kid and he's been hung with terms like Aspergers or Non Vebal Learning Disorder all his life. those are the polite terms, imagine what the assholes say. where is poetry anyway? as in the electric word registered in its distinct situation? rather than accepted as unbending indictment. Beth and I have to wish that Erin lose his innocence and openness enough to realize that funny hats spell doom. funny hats fail crush lists every time. that's the network message, bounced from antenna to antenna: mark the one that's out. I hate this shit so much. poetry is a serious event. not the people of poetry--fuck em all, me included--but the pleading of the langauge to be serious with us. but that plee must engage in a direct scorching honesty of energy. I mean an energy that overwhelms, pestering the stasis to pieces. poetry is broader than complaint, it's an increment of demand that involves language's completion. as opposed to the horrendous language clumped around missiles aimed at hospitals or what all. something is as serious as pang here, and it demands a constant and humble attention. I don't say I got it, only that I feel the necessity. anyway, I'm away for awhile, with camera, with computer (tho not connection), if only to charge my iPod and download the day's blurry pix. prolly have a birthday in the interim. fight the good, not the dickhead, fight y'all.

we did a paint class at the adult daycare again today. we used to do smaller classes but now people are being herded in. that sounds bad but people, especially elders, reach a point where everything is beyond. falling asleep in a chair is easier than connecting, the world around Alzheimers or strokes or Down's syndrome tells you so. you write poetry now? make it your life, pour into it, not for art but your life. art connects, desperately. poetry, knitting, whatever, the adventure into something where value is measured in the most human terms, that's art in life. not to say it won't all go away, life is tenderly risky, but give yourself the best opportunity. several of the people we meet are regulars and have a ball. others need coaxing. one woman, who has been to every class we've had, is very lively, a hot ticket even, absolutely supportive of everyone, but she's often quite stumped what to do herself. she's lost some connections, tho she sees their shadows. her husband keeps her supplied in material and frames what she finishes. I like to see that understanding. one woman really gets me. she sometimes uses a cane but is one of these quick moving people. I'll place her age safely at 70+. as an infant she was left on a doorstep. I think later she was reunited with her family. I don't know if she was ever married or other such facts. I just see this bright tough woman still inquisitive and energetic. today she did a rainbow with flowers growing at each end. a simple but pleasing form. she worked painstakingly. there's something terrific about her strength, which you notice just talking with her. whatever her losses, she has learned to comprise them. is art about bitchy, ambitious dickheads with the self advertisements and paranoia displayed right and left? whoop, rhetorical quetion. no wait, what does your theory say??? nemmind, I don't want to hear. I think art has something kindly in it, something to the left of its commodity. I urge the painters to sign their work, take credit. several signed with a jumble of letters, synapses misfiring. woman told me, as she did the last time, that her parents had died last night. and she cried and cried. loss, yes, but what she lost was something else. we saw this with my father, who frequently wanted to go home, which was not just Fresh Pond Parkway in Cambridge, but 70 years ago. all gone. this woman was the same. she felt that she had no home, no friends or family. of course that could be literally true, uncomfortable propositions often are shunted aside, but no doubt there was an internal and physiological loss involved as well. I could go on, and send some snideness to the promoters of discord but I'll just leave this snapshot. I do know that I've been wrung.

jumping around reading. still at Hogfather, which I seem mostly to read whilst walking he dog. 3 times people have asked me how it is possible to read and walk the dog. it is true that I cannot walk and talk on the cellphone, but then I have trouble talking on a cell while sitting. when I had my rambling labrador, with whom I'd go 5-10 miles a day, the feat was as nothing, since she could go unleashed and would come when called even if a deer was in sight. the present canine comrade, tho elderly, cannot safely go unleashed, wild guy that he is. but I can read a few pages as we poke about. wonder why people approach me on such a point, tho, strangers that is. I recently read Gilbert Sorrentino's essays and selected poems. the essays excel, thoughtful and embracing. he's the sort of writer who can give you handholds for difficult writers, and freshness of perspective. his poetry semed to arise from an overly determined place. this is an influence, I think, of Williams. an active, or activated, presence in emotional situations. I guess you see his intention too much. compare to Creeley, who wraps himself into the fuzziness with such insistence that he derives a clarity. I think I speak of a certain forced facileness that I detect in Sorrentino's poetry. he overmanages the poem. I'll bet he was a good teacher, tho. currently reading 9-11 by Noam Chomsky. derived from interviews that Chomsky did soon after the event, and hurried into print. I like that idea of immediacy. so much chatter in those days, remember? I wrote a great deal at the time, really a lot. I'd say the events of 9/11 hang over it all, but I was unable to relate specifically for quite a while. I patentedly wanted to avoid the mock suffering, the exhortation, all the nervy emotional outpouring that such events naturally inspire. I didn't want to make literary hay. someone like Chomsky was unfazed by the shock, had perspective that could guide. 5 years later, the immediacy of the evetns still live in the book, tho I think he undervalued how much the administration might subvert the Constitution. anyway, a minor book round up there.

survivor of Pirates 2

we went to see that Caribbean Pirate thing. sure, I liked the 1st. having no expectation, and the thing just wiggled and waved, lots of fun. this one came with anticipation, e'en tho I knew they were thinking franchise endowment all the way. partly they pay off. it's all in the eye, these vivid set pieces. the humour seems to be bullied from recalcitant creative types but I guess that just proves that the hard work reaps. the perception derived from this videoscape is that a hurried agitation slurs over the mass of it, but that's the sort of feeling that's bound to arise. you feel that Depp was under orders to do Depp-as-Cap'n-Jack-incorporated. certainly there was much in the way, going on at rapid intake of corporate breath. I know, I know, these were all filmed at once, including the now much not anticipated part 3. mucho set pieces, hyper and comedic, and pretty good even if there were an implied ratio to french fries served, not to forget popcorn and god knows what action figures. none of this being eyeopening, just present like death. Depp's Sparrow is still a wonderful character, with his drunken sashay and despite those heart almost felt moments with Keira. plotwise, they decided to utilize several writers, who didn't consult each other. I'm sure it is humanly possible to extricate a plot out of what we saw. we went with 2 of Erin's friends and they all worried the question as best they could but, bright as they are, I don't think they solved the conundrum. for me, it was more like reading stage directions, in trying to suss the plot. visually it all worked, big screen suck in. the ending, which is to say, the invitation to throw another wad at the theatre owners for the ritual expiation of the 3rd installment, brought a Bronx cheer from the depths of my curried soul. well, you will see for yourself, no doubt. I had a moment of seeing Keira as Star Wars Portman, in the bad sense (forced to provide a central dismal "emotional" core, interpreted as closeups to a stricken face). Orlando was like lunchmeat too, tho he looks good in sword play. not knocking either K or O, both are plausibly spunky, but the corporate logic only wanted star quality on glossy magazine cover, something to take home. don't miss it if you can.

speaking of remiss, was going to add Joshua Clover's blog, but a ce moment it is visually unreadable--what's up with that?--so I'll wait. I like his slightly oblique and ruminative.

I've been remiss about linking to Galatea Resurrects. I liked the idea right off: informal reviews of poetry books. I thought blogs would be rich in that sort of thing, but in fact there aint much reviewing, of publications or readigs, going on in blog world. or (give up the ship) the Poetics List. instead, you most often get these implemented treatise, which are mere siphonings from class. I like the variety of approaches to poetry blogs, and don't mean to say blogs should do anything. but I expected, and would find useful, a stream of informal reactions to the poetry that people find. so Eileen Tabios offers this model for instigating the critical side. if nothing else, it puts readers in front of review copies.

Jeff Harrison and I have completed the 79th installment of Antic View. the world record is 80. lots of ANTICipation here, wooee. please read our interview blog and find out who we think we're better than.

reading Hogfather by Terry Pratchett. I read the 1st twenty or so Disc World stries, roughly as they came out, years ago. I've always been interested in humourous writing, but you know, there aint much really in the more "substanial forms", like novels. I used to plunder the local used book store for anything (almost) with blurbs suggesting hilarity. apparently we have variance in the definition of the term. I'v e alwasy equated hilaity with some effort of humour, silly me. so, however I got onto Pratchett, I stayed with his yearly appearances. I stopped reading them a while ago, because I just wasn't reading many novels at all. but I turned Beth onto Pratchett, so that she ends most days with a read of himself, and she's read everything he's produced Disc World-wise, several times o'er. I love how Pratchet's themes are so apocalyptic. he's got himself a s Yoknapatawpha world. I liek Faulkner too, tho somewhat leery of his self-conscious fetid lushness. Pratchett plays his worldscape really well, new and old characters twining merrily. this touchs my poetics, tho I won't bore you with that now. well, only to say one's interest carries.

yesterday, friends, we forced Erin to North Bridge in Concord for a little history lesson (homeschool, remember), and into The Olde Manse Inc, which portions of Emerson's family owned for 150 years, with an interim 3 year rental by Hawthorne. owned indeed by a non-profit holding company for interesting properties (name forgotten at this key time). the Manse, from which Hawthorne extricated Mosses, sits on a slight rise at a safe distance from the mighty floodable Concord River, which Thoreau (accent on 1st syllable) states probably rushes at the lowest possible flood: one inch incline to the mile. yet this is a watery sprng and summer hereabouts, so the river shows no slackitude even yet. but anyway. disgruntled colonials versus disgruntled Hessians 231 years agone. remnants. I've always loved this place. Beth and I exchanged marriage vows (poems, actually) on the very Bridge here, winter solstice 2000. but I, for all my years in this area, never done the tour of the Manse. the 4th seemed the right day, Hawthorne's birthday. the upstairs back bedroom where Emerson set his desk atween the windows to look out towards the river (the essay "Nature"), yet Hawthrone chose to set his desk on the opposite wall, with view of said wall. and the windows etched by Sophia (long I for 2nd syllable) Hawthorne, using her diamond wedding ring, playful, permanent graffiti. the bodies of Sophia and daughter Una were just last week brought back from England and reburied at Sleepy Hollow cemetery where Nathaniel. lots of flowers there sunday when I stopped there with camera. calla lily bouquet on Thoreau's grave. sometimes I feel preternaturally New English, including the comfort of the low ceilings and colonial style (never lived in such, myself). yet I feel that I should apologize as well, as if I were trapped in such a concept. then, apres diner, we zipped into Boston for a desperate atttempt to see fireworks. and we toured around, not zackly sure when festivities would be. we saw the various sights of Cambridge near the river till we finally set the chariot to rest, walked a mile or so and beheld what looked like Gandalf versus Balrog in the offing behind buildings and trees. and it seemed just about right, and our own family way, to put the fourth in such perpective and activity.

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

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under review

  

I've had Musee Mechanique by Rodney Koeneke (Blaze Vox 2006) for a while, reading it in my poky fashion. I really liked Rouge State, his 1st book, from Pavement Saw (2003). here, he's doing these flarfistic modalities and executions that have been discussed and HOYed by the child himself (I mean Dan Hoy beginning to read). I think methodology has been overweighted, flarf-wise, insofar as Koeneke's pre-flarf work rings well and with amplitude, just like this consciously flarf-inflected work. I for one am tired of the debate re the political lines of making poems the right way. the right way appears in the poem as poem, live electric. see, it's just a wasting to need all this defensive intro, hoping for readers who will just handle the trouble as if it were worth it. I mean, a poem in sight, thus to comprise what it has. it is ever fucking thus, I know, this prevalent resistance, which is such a historical truism that it shouldn't need to be iterated. and yet boundaries, ugh, how we sanction their security. perhaps I could speak of the poems now. 1st lemme say that this book comes across somewhat as a companion volume to Mainstream by Michael Magee, insofar as both share a Blaze Voxian look, and they clearly endure with a flarfian metre. also, both have useful, thoughtful afterwords, removing smoke and mirrors from the equation. both credit the flarf list of the time, where a collaborative energy prevailed. but having said that, let me acknowledge that these are separate works that needn't be lumped. needn't, that is, unless you're working on your crappy grad thesis, good luck on that, or feeding Harold Bloom his latest 'ideas. I'm still at the superficial stage with this book. I do not want to be definitive, I've seen where that shit goes. I like the frisky multiples of distraction that bubble up in this book. the poet survives incoming, if you see what I mean. all the cultural shit and busy busyness. kitty + pizza, for instance, howe'er canst one make poem from that??? poem, is the reply. a section of poems is entitled On The Clamways, referring of course to On The Nameways by Clark Coolidge. which is a fun, snapping release by CC, after tome after relevant tome of big stuff. Koeneke rings the friskiness that Coolidge explored (language as immediacy), but scoots along as well with a preposterous clamminess. why clams??? and then you realize that clams are dirty, funny, unexpected. "And by the way, clam culture as it happens / Is ruled by this bitchy little number called 'Snappy / the Clam'." why yes! much variety imbeds itself in CLAM. notice how hilarity cues something dismal and politically crushing. notice how innocuousness borders on desperate, and desperate gives you republicans. I'm not chatting up Helen Vendler here, nor trying to formalize. I like the idea of the reading process as adventure, somewhat courageous (don't make a big deal of that, please), and possibly even enjoyable. I'm saying read with adventure, because here we have that exactly. so this isn't a review of Rodney Koeneke's 2nd poetry book, it is more an advocation of the reading process, which invites feelings of curiosity, openness and confusion. I needn't refer to Negative Capability, need I? a poem is music, surprise and hilarity, which is to say a healthful disaster of formalized expectation. approach, I'm saying, these poems thusly, and see what wiggles. I sound blurbish here, but I only want to suggest an evolving process begun. these poems are really really, and the book as well.

  

  

  

last year Jordan Davis posted a picture of his son looking out on a jostled, ramshackle view of things (the world). this photo seems to follow that one. a zigzag path, lines pointing every which way. the play area looks more like a stockade, and the path veers away. whereas the earlier picture showed wonder, this one shows rigidity and restriction. striking.

I like this reminiscence by Joel Sloman. rumination from a distance in time, tho time's got porous boundaries so... I think particularly for writers, because the word/thought thing (we think (a lot) in words), have this slippery what time is it quality to deal with. is this my thought now or it is from then: that sort of fluidity. I am fascinated by all my visual work (paintings and collage), even the crap, because of the immediacy and visceral effect of colour and form, whereas I choke on the crappy writing of (my) yore. I think that's in the nature of writing. when I used to enter Grolier, not often but always with anticipation, it was a stunning world of discovery. when I visited saturday, it was different. I put aside that the selection needs refreshment. I give Grolier a mulligan on that point, assuming that some funding will now be ultilized for improvement vis-a-vis. I now know the names better, whereas back in the day I'd have to pick up and peer thru a Mary Oliver book to see what up. so the magic... and yet... magic is the word, really, at the risk of sounding like some dread provocateur of poetry. in his post, you can see the younger Sloman struggling with... something. I recognize that. it took me a long time for my intelligence to catch up with the dynamic energy of writing. I wrote lots and lots but, you know, please don't look at it now. young writers (poets especially), unless they have a keen ability to imitate and pastiche (a legit learning means), must suffer thru a period of blurry amorphousness based on the sore point of what, exactly, a poem is. I envy those who seem so clear on the concept, but on the other hand, no I'm do not. I want to go as long as possible without firming up my definition of poetry. method is adventure or, you know, why bother. anyway, thanks to Joel for the madeleine.

venerable Brattle Theatre in venerable Cambridge had an anime festival today. ongoing, it's a 24 hour affair, but Erin and I are content with our 9 1/2. the Brattle has for years been home to your basic hip showings of Bogart films and Rocky Horror Show: that sort of theatre. what I'm after saying is that the audience engages to the point of considerable comment during the flick. looked like a hardened crowd, people ready for the derby distance. probably not great attendance, at least so far. I liked the anime. visually, very cinematic and gratifying. I absolutely can't stand the sort of animation used in movies like Shrek, all that techno wizardry strikes me as lifeless. whereas what I saw yesterday had considerable zest and liveliness. and they have surprising depth. one featured a girl who said at the beginning that she woke the night before and realized that she was a god. with ensuing adventures in which indeed she was a god. but she's also smitten by the clueless boy with the cool spiky hair who doesn't quite get that she's there. Half-hearted cosplay (costume contest) occurred during one of the breaks. 3 entrants. one seemed to be a samurai geisha. another wore cargo pants, tube top and kerchief on her head, which is to say, not very identifiable as a character, altho she noted who she was dressed as. showing her stomach may have been the point for her. the winner wore black fatigues or jumpsuit, had blond spiky hair and wielded an outsized sword. One anime concerned two brothers fighting over their father's sword. this one also featured a school girl who goes back to their time, and occasionally returns to the present. she rides her bicycle everywhere, even in the air, and dynamically uses a particularly efficient bow and arrow. there were some wonderful filler shorts seeded thru out the event. one was a student film done by someone who went on to greater things (of which I know nothing). no dialogue, just zooming images. it featured your typical and ubiquitous young school girl in school uniform, but early on she transmogrifies into a Playboy bunny, and proceeds to do hyperkinetic laser battle with Darth Vader, and fly around on what I take to be Silver Surfer's surfboard, all the while with things exploding with nuclear wrath. just so odd. odder still was a live action music video. it featured five guys on stage singing. the group is possibly called Yatta. they wore just their Fruit of the Looms, with fig leaf over the crotch. it's a parody of boy bands and Village People and Menudo and poppy pop music. the five look like software developers but are all exultant smiles and sincere singing and mugging and eye contact with the crowd. the crowd is an odd blend of elders and children. the boys shake their skinny booties in some of the goofiest choreography possible, jumping, marching and kicking. cut into the live performance are the usual vid vignettes. one of which shows one of our heroes, in Yatta mufti, walking down a city sidewalk. he passes a young woman, who smiles at him. he turns with a sad look of yearning. out of the shadows come his four mates, grinning and supportive, and suddenly everything is fine again, lots of hppy reenforcement. there are no subtexts here, it's all uber text. I was quite entertained by everything shown during the event. at one point I left to call Beth and to walk around. which led me to the Grolier Bookstore, now safe to enter. a much calmer place than it used to be. whatever the shoplifting problem under previous ownership, the security archway took way too much acreage in such a small shop. glad to see that gone. I had no particular bees in my bonnet as to what I would look for, tho I don't know why I share personal bonnet information in such a public forum as this. I mainly just wanted to see if the coast were clear at the old poetry shop. what's not surprising but I am hopeful will change is that the selection had glaring holes. er um no Creeley, for one. the shop's latter years were not well funded, so selection kinda sorta didn't keep up with the times. I picked up a copy of Kirby Doyle's collected, priced at the 1986 price of 7 dollars that it entered the shop by. aint never read him. I also discovered Stops by Joel Sloman (Zoland 1999), one of the good people in the local arena. it has an introduction by Denise Levertov. he seems detached from the professorially inspired (or conspired) embargo on originality and verve that obtains in this fusty old town, yet seems like a supportive citizen in the best sense. I was glad to get his book. a guy in the shop needed help from the person working there. I didn't hear his entreaty but apparently he had the woman looking for some Bulgarian poet. eventually he said something that lit the idea of Bukowski in the woman's mind, and that proved to be what the guy wanted. no Bukowskian poetry was in attendance at the shop however so the guy was referred to Harvard Bookstore, right next door. another person wanted a poetry book from, as he said, the man who wrote Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up To Me, Richard Farina (Farina also wrote some lovely songs, too, buddy), but the shop lacked that as well. new ownership should sell off the dustier tomes (i. e. the ones I'm not interested in) and dedicate a handful of smackers to an A-Z overhaul. christ, should I send a letter listing books and authors to carry? I checked for Kasey Mohammad, Stephanie Young, Shanna Compton, as poets who ought and maybe could (they all seem to have some sort of distribution going) be on the shelves. and that I'd be interested in reading. none of them were to be found. see, I'm not crazy about SPD, at least so far as the D of the acronym goes. with our press, they were supposed to send our new publications to libraries as standing orders but oops, never happened. and little presses with micro budgets having to wait 6-9 months for proceeds from sales, yeesh. and hey the exorbitant cost of doing business with...okay, okay, don't get me started. Grolier is supposedly one of 2 poetry shops in the country. I say, send them 3 copies of your book, call it consignment if you like, just to freshen the selection as a material instance of a selection. which brings to mind what I'm told a certain poet does: sneaks copies of his books onto store shelves, with the idea that readers and orders would therefore occur. I didn't feel the kind of excitement I used to feel in the store, but I don't blame current ownership. around 6 Beth arrived and we convened for dinner at an Indian restaurant, then Erin bustled off to see Steam, a parody of anime, gaming, commercials and so on. I saw parts of it at Anime Boston. quite funny, tho many allusions and references exist well outside my ken. Beth and I wandered around Harvard and Brattle Squares. flashback the 60s and hippies and excitement. this wounded-seeming Asian fellow I'd noticed 3 years ago was there in front of the Harvard Coop, playing his 3-stringed instrument and looking very distant. I saw an older man in a couple of different places during the day. he had earphones, and just sat there rocking back and forth to the music. autistic, I would imagine. anyway we scurried home once Steam ended.

Gawd!!! Jack Kimall's been busy

among the balls that I've dropped is not keeping up with Stephen Vincent's series Tenderly, which is a utilization (is that the right word?) of Stein's Tender Buttons. Stephen works an interesting method. a means of enduring respectfully within the work of certain writers. why that verb endure? he faces, confronts, lives with... specificially Zukofsky, Sappho, Stein, so far, that I know of. both critical and collaborative. he assays, which is the genuine article we all should (equal that is to the real itself). Stein maybe nervoused me up more than any writer when I was young and stupid. Tender Buttons, tho, came a-brimming. I think I'm vaguing out here but I really caught something with Buttons. not that I even tried to accomodate the possibility, back then when I first read. it was too magical, Stein's processing of words into things or vice versa. I have to mark how unready I was for such discovery. I was absurdly ignorant when school force fed me these instigations. maybe I'm a brighter candle than I want to admit, because I took on the registry of proprioceptive response which is WORD. I went against my own prosaicness, when I saw the flow of Stein's urge. does anyone else admit to a nakedness when in the lights of different arts bearing? I don't think I've ever writ an oh well blubba blubba response to words as poetry. I've been stupid but Ive managed to halt at the point of freeze up. still, I envy the seeming readiness of Stephen Vincent, in collecting the energy. on the other hand, I''m not as stupid as you, categorizer. I plant difficulty as my challenge, not my duty to cover up. you ought to listen, readership, beneath the equivocations here. poetry enjoys the mystery of living tension. tension is the movement of living entirely. entity right in the word. okay, haul all this rumination back to TENDERLY. words are real employment of active essential in a... in what, exactly? in what one can comprise, as Reader. well yeah, okay. I commend Stephen's work into in. simply that. continuing the Steinian... what's your haul?

had an urge to visit Grolier Poetry Bookshop today, but it is closed on sundays. under previous ownership, we weren't allowed to bring Erin in. he was 12, and gave no evidence of being trouble. that's what the Grolier experience devolved to. anyway, in lieu, a visit to B&N. I almost got away with no purchase, until I saw a book, Trickster Makes This World by Lewis Hyde. the front cover blurb says the book "celebrates the need for the kind of paintings, music, books and ideas that society initially finds unpleasant". my 1st thought was flarf. I'm not doing my Gary Snyder imitation here. Hyde himself writes "trickster is a boundary-crosser". I think that works well as an aspect of flarf. not to limit it to flarf, but I think flarf can reasonably be viewed in such terms. just as last night, the puppet porno in Team America was really, really disturbing, even as it was hilarious (Susan Sarandon, Alec Baldwin, Michael Moore et alia getting slaughtered was not, btw, disturbing, it was just a good hearty laugh). I don't know how far I want to develope this idea, but I do see a use in the outrageous and in boundary crossing. it is certainly true that that which makes us uncomfortable should at least be examined. the recent reaction to Mike Magee's Asian Guys poem has been useful when it has been seen as queries on the border. squeaks of propriety do not work with trickster, that much I've gleaned from my forays into the literature. the discomfort of flarf, which also includes its disjointedness, and its silliness and triviality of subject, produces areas of consideration. irritation can be good. Trickster pulls our chain, removes safety net, makes things serious after all. that initial discomfort bespeaks areas of restriction. those areas of consternation are areas of illuminations. so I'm reading Hyde's book now, that's what I'm doing.