I went to the trouble of reformatting Jack's recent pieces into chronological order. worth doing. maybe Blogger someday will make it easy to go old to new, or maybe I gots to learn how myself...

I've just scanned this so far but Jack's got something totally wtf as the youngest member of this household might put it.

Really Bad Movies reminded me of Plan 9 from Outer Space. I used to own the tape but that went gone. ah, but I searched the library network and bingo. so Beth and I watched it yesterday, Beth for the 1st time. too much is said about how bad it is. it sure is amateurish. but it also has a weird integrity. Wood was really serious ablut what he was doing. and the movie is oddly compelling, despite bad everything. right off the bat, with bizzaro Criswell, these sterling words are voiced: future events such as these shall be with us in the future. hmm, yes, I think I see what you mean. how about the line the detective gets to speak: Clay is dead--murdered--and somebody is responsible. or the dialogue in which Jeff tells his wife that he saw a flying saucer, and she replies, flying saucers! you mean the kind from up there? and Jeff answers, yes, or their counterpart. huhn??? and this plan 9, in which the dead are risen to, well, it's like, uh, somehow this'll help. the dialogue seems quite random, like Wood was listening to a bunch of movies or conversations as he wrote. quite flarfy, really. I've compared Plan 9 to Coppola's Dracula. of course Coppola had an enormous budget, and he knows cinematography. which just means the lameness of that movie are the more appalling. I don't think Dracula is more compelling to watch than Plan 9. you don't get cops scratching their heads with their revolvers in Dracula, that's for darn sure. nor flying hubcaps neither.

poem by Lanny Quarles

From the Ragged Breasts of Onlookers

Anne Frankensteinlageryetimedusaqualung
whose dick chaineys swing like welks
whose bush is putrid banana slugs
whose colon pals are luminous barnacle sausages
stuffed with Volkswagen assclowns with squidbeard mudra-applets
whose ivory tower moustache tentacles (sojourn, sojourn!)
are like a jungle gem for jaded jingles jangling in their angling oogles

O Doktor Jekyll-jelly-doom Breasted Concentration Camp
you genre of queer hyena soccer hooliganeshas (robo-retards!)
hoboing amongsth sad veteran's of psyd-chic Vars,

Ye Thrice Bullock'd Buskers of
THE NEW EXPERIMENTAL DESIGN (Crayon Redeemer Armor made of Heiligenacht naughty snakes!)
come lately from your Nabi-Nazi-hutch-puch-punchinutella smeared tribadic thropsiers
to dangle your labial petticoat instruction manuals
into my motley-brained fool's paradise

What have YOU to offer ME~!

I was there when Granada moored its Blind Emily
Dick-in-Sun to the Logan's Run Fatima Hand
so holy red jew'ld
wrapped in candied hogsnout and bitter gut-lace,
so fete-shrimp'd for the horking pons

O ye Tiny Gnaouan biscuit peddlers
whom stars love
I cannot fry Mohammad in effigy
in Jimmy Dean
as somebody has put a delete key squarely in the forehead
of your absent faith

Flibbigibbeted in Direct Mailings!

O dry waterless tongue of exquisite beauty!

so faithful to Heather LockLear
so certain of her G-spot
and S-spot
and D-spont:

God, I am in your way.
Push me aside, and make this day,
this
Chubby Checker Istanbul Strip Club
with Anne Frankenstein Yeti Medusa Aqualung hash boys
painted by Runnabeegle "Bosch-und-Loam" Marais..

noticed last night that the door was open, and the dog... he's part German shepherd and part husky and that means he wants to see what's over there, and there, and there... that put me in a panic and I called the troops. while Beth and I scurried about, Erin just ran out barefoot. by the time I got out, Erin was carrying Brownie (that's Next County Brownie). Brownie had ventured into a particularly muddy area, which I didn't realize until Erin put him down and the dog ran inside and with muddy feet, anointing the carpet wonderfully. oh the jolly fun. Brownie knows exactly how to get home, his homing sense is perfect, it's just a matter of when. under previous ownership, his owner found him inside a restaurant dumpster, having the time of his life. one time I ran to the nearby farm for some dinner essential and noticed by the side of the road this very dog. just sitting there? I wasn't aware that he'd snuck out. usually in such circs and runs away, just to make the experience so much more fun, but this time he remained where he was. when I got up to him, I saw a gash in his shoulder, and thought he'd been in a fight, unlikely as that would be. then I saw that he favoured a leg. then I saw that that leg dangled. okay, so he'd gotten hit by a car. he was patched up expensively, complete with splint. one week later, he espied an open door and sure enough, off he limped. luckily Beth was out there to corral him. an earlier adventure occurred over the 4th of July weekend. I tied him outside not realizing that his line was unanchored. so he wandered off per orders. I ran around looking for him. I went to neighbouring homes to get permission to look in their yards but because of the holiday, no one was around. so I was skulking about like a criminal. finally I thought I heard something nearby. a neighbour has a rabbit hutch and there I found the arch criminal. he had wrapped the line that was still attached to him around the leg of the hutch. he stared at the unavailable rabbits and yipped forlornly. when he saw me, there was a look of relief, as in, finally some help getting the rabbits. so there's some of my dog adventures, read 'em and weep.

Lenin Body Surfs for Certain

Lenin groaned on the way to new groaning, which was he same as writing home from the war inside. that war—labeled Iraq with pictures of Iran—shows you just how much a little might be. A little fit for saying how the waves bend over certain experiments in human nature, letting force imply a coarse determination. But what, pray tell, is Lenin's best relation to current events? He's sworn to uphold the letter of grey branches in a plush circumstance of rain. Isn't that a dilly, where dilly means something extended, and where the verb to be needs a way to sprout future entanglements. Can this sort of language foster more brunt along the lines of asking wedded couples to strike the ground with every pledge? Can we see thru such social constant while still looking for Anne Frank? Wasn't Anne Frank a retard, or dork, or just fairly unattractive? I keep forgetting. Lenin, for sure, was not charming at all: he couldn't endure the fees. He just laid out a plump nostrum, and the singers began. That singing finished Anne Frank. Her part was worn. We still love Anne, and Lenin's awful nice in gabardine. More tunes can be relayed, as we circle investment on the map. That's our next target of approximation. To simulate is to cool the project to the point of almost current effect. Our program begins now.

I neglected an important detail from yesterday. I wandered off to a quiet part of the student union, where I found vending machines. one offered ice cream, those crappy items you might find in an ice cream truck. of course I had to have one. having standards, I chose the least crappy of those crappy ice creams. after accepting my money the machine slowly (that is to say, with building anticipation) positioned this black tube above the appropriate bin. I was wondering how it would collect the ice cream then realized that that tube was a vacuum cleaner and would grasp the ice cream that way. oh lordy, I was excited. the tube went down, the machine made more noise and out came my delectable, which was brought over to the opening and unceremoniously dropped. wow! the trail mix I got for Erin was merely shoved from its display perch once I'd paid. as to the water I got, the machine helpfully displayed the message vending whilst it pecuniously stowed the money and dropped the bottle. just so you know that vending had occurred at the vending machine, which are well known to vend.

but hey, Flarf festival in NYC, Magic the Gathering Tournament in Bawston. Erin and I made the journey, to wit: commuter train to subway to shuttle out to Umass Boston, with Boston Harbour as backdrop. I love that there commuter train, I truly do. the bells start ringing at the crossings, then you hear the bell of the train, then the mythic creature hies into sight, then the whoosh as it decelerates, and we can board. and 2 minutes after embarking, there's Walden Pond out the window. which absolutely always excites me. at Porter Square we catch the subway. to reach the subway, one can take an absurdly long escalator down. I usually opt for the stairs but didn't this time. looking straight down it disconcertingly looks like we're moving horizontally. which causes a vertiginous wobble in my brain, I can't speak for anyone else. the tournament was at Umass's student union, this enormous new edifice, specifically in the cafeteria. it was a while before Erin's flight began, affording him plenty of time to survey the cards on sale. this stuff is fairly well out of my ken. I'm not a gamer by any stripe. Magic the Gathering throws me because for every rule, there seems to be a card that countermands that rule, and new ones always on the way. it's just too fluid for me. the crowd was older than I expected, college age more, with quite a few well older than that. and totally into it. while the temptation exists to think of a standard Magic type aficionada--you know: nerd--in sooth it's not that easy. yuh, there were quite a few there who look like they subsist on soda and don't get much sun, but there were many enough that don't fit the category at all. and there were a few females, so there's an outside chance that another generation of Magic enthusiasts may be born. sorry, just kidding. the common denominator was intense focus. those there to play can spend hours ogling cards, explaining to each other how particular cards work, and various strategic finepoints. once Erin got into his game I roamed. I had a notebook and just parked one place or another and wrote. eventually I stepped outside. I passed near a trash container, on which sat a seagull (herring gull). I was as close as 3 feet from it when it finally decided to move away a little. its confrere, bigger, was busy with a piece of trash. it would perspicaciously shake and chew the thing then drop it on the ground. finally a bit of food flew out, which the bird immediately consumed. the smaller bird watched in awe. the bigger bird went back to work on the rubbish until a much larger morsel, of a doughnut, became the prize. both of them continued at this work. they fluttered onto the trash container and snatched bits of trash out, to then be dealt with. it was like panning for gold. the larger one found something that rustled and I thought score!!!, but it proved to be a crushed cup with ice in it. I spent 15 minutes watching these 2 birds. I'm sorry they are eating doughnuts and french fries but it was fascinating to witness their endeavour. this reminds me of the botanist Edgar Anderson, a great deal of whose study into plants occurred in a vacant lot in St Louis. somewhere along the line a fellow asked if Erin wanted to trade cards. this is a feature of Magic card collecting. they went thru each other's available trades and picked out a few. they wrangled, discussed and came to an agreement. I'm sure there are instances of bad blood from these trades but my observation of this scene saw a sort of collabortive effort. I used to play a lot of pickup basketball games. no refs, of course, so if you felt that you were fouled you called it. it was surprisingly rare, no matter how tense the game, that anyone questioned such calls. I guess it's like that with these trades. Erin dashed off after completing the trade. after a while the fellow, who had remained at the table, said, hey where's he gone? he left his cards. this is an Erin trait, we're glad he brought his coat home. the guy handed me the box saying he'd lost his collection at one of these events. as Erin did last year. the guy could've horked them, as I was no more aware of their remaining there as was Erin. so that was nice. it was a fun trip, and we didn't even get lost.

I don't need to link to Jordan Davis's for chrissakes, whereat link to pictures of living flarfists on the hoof can be found. same goes for Nada Gordon. flarf is very expensive to produce: those Google searches do not grow on trees.

I think Stan Apps has come up with a new genre: the this poem was written genre of poetry intro. the amazing way The Muse came particularly to you bearing this wonderful gift.

further with Mayhew's statement. I grok that balance between genius and fraud, tho I wouldn't put it in those terms. one feels like a genius because one has a purpose, and that purpose feels original. one feels like a fraud because one can't match one's ideals, meaning both those artists who came before and that vision in the head. taking too much and not enough credit simultaneously. Mayhew's terms sound so Charlton Heston. children create all the time without these boundaries. as wise adults, we think too much. genius occurs when we free ourselves from those wise boundaries, fraudulence sets in when we formalize that freeing.

this just sounds stuck. I mean Vic Wertz hits a long fly ball and Willie Mays is running back thinking I'm the greatest damn centerfielder AND I'm a fraud: should I bother reaching over my shoulder?. I feel like I've made mistakes but I don't feel like a fraud. and I think I've done good work, but I still put my pants on one arm at a time. my theory is that art aint made out of such worrying, unless Harold Bloom is now making art.

Erin and I went for a short bike ride yestreen. passed a girl's softball game and had to watch a bit of that. an organized league game, ages, I'd guess, 8-12. there's an assumption that MLB is the only real baseball, but I've happened upon high school games, Little League, even those semi-organized sunday morning games that occur. the pitcher we saw was young, not overwhelming but steady. she didn't do any of those wild softball deliveries, which is probably just as well for young arms. a couple of batters didn't look too hot then this small girl came up. I thought she had a nice stance, good crouch and weight on her back foot. just as I thought that she smacked a solid single thru the shortstop gap. after her came the biggest girl out there. the coach yelled his team to back up but the outfielders (there were 4!) already knew what to do. this girl just had to play 1st base and bat 4th. she waved her bat like a club, shades of Leon Daddy Wags Wagner. she clobbered the 1st pitch, sending it over the outfielder's head. she motored around the bases but possibly could've been caught if the outfielder hustled to retrieve and the relays were on target. a few more hits and walks and then the game stopped, I imagine because the winning team had created too large a margin. we rode on for a while. saw some white tails crossing the forest path ahead of us. deer in the distance always look like dogs to me. didn't have a camera, alas, the deer didn't mosey far off. it was a beautiful clear evening, tho a bit cool. love this time of year.

reading My Life as a Lover, by Brandon Brown (the other Brandon?). it is available in pdf format from Detumescence here. the press offers other e-books, and stuff, so go raid, as I will further do. MLaaL has a narrative thrust with embedded poems. as such does indeed resemble Dante's Vita Nuova. BB tries to explain his life as a lover, a matter of intense focus. the poems are all sonnets, which arise from certain situations that he describes. a dry humour pervades: "I began to love my love, and I promise I yielded to love's commands. Shortly thereafter, a warrant for my arrest was issued." this love that he speaks of need not be seen as love. he does not situate any person in this love except for himself. his sonnets are mostly real sonnets, formally made. his syntax is cracked, which plays well against his earnest prose. this is the 1st sonnet:

awed din enemy, not vested, called “we”
came so low, cored me, tentatively man
a quantity feels a shadow, the plan
purloined delicacy copiously.
belly flu more aching drove under knee
my car resting, caved in a loaned annul
keys a doublooned archer press the panel,
a consciousness of solely bitter tree.
he trusted boys’ and girls’ toys suspiring
he cried me Satan’s necklace, saved or tied,
keyed my party speaking to fucked-window.
alarmed apartment desecrated morning,
it comes, pain of the day, kills his becried
case of ugly consumes the tree then sows

the sonnets are all divided, he says, into 2, 3 or 4 parts. you can sometimes see what he means but not always. section XVIII has this sonnet, which he wrote "After returning from vacation":

becalms bedaubs bedims befog
because bedecks befriends begrudged
beclouds bedevils befits bequests
bedews bespeaks betrays befouls
befalls betroths bestirs begets
before begets bereaves belies
belabors belike bemused bewigged
beneath belittles besot bewail
begrimes bewares below bemoan
benumbs begone between bestows
behaves bespoke beheads begin
beguiles between bewildered beholds
belays belauds bestrides betimes
betakes beside bereft berate

this is his explanation: "This sonnet has three parts. In the first part I tell how I encountered Love and how it looked. In the second I relate what I was told. In the third I tell how it vanished. The second part begins: Yet as we met, the third: And then so much."

oop, jokes on me. Williams did this sort of thing as well. I keep reading Brown's love as something, anything, else. or in addition to. he writes in the prose sections with a focused earnestness that recalls Stein. the narrative, you could even say the story, has a 19th century feeling of import, a boding of large scale issues. I'm thinking particularly of Poe, where something of magnitude hovers over all, something barely imaginable (is anything in "The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym" imaginable?). a subtle political context comes thru. the prose sections give a most detached plea for love. what the hell is this love and why isn't it attached to anything? can't that be read as ruthlessly politcally? descriptive, that is, of the particular plight assailing the current national scheme? in these prose sections, you could replace love with writing poems, playing hockey, eating sandwiches, invading Iran. such imperative to something that's so poorly defined. this is a rascally, fascinating book. its assertions divert from sense, overawed by a stupid utopian medication. thinking of, say, Bush, or the author of Manliness, who share a like deference to ornate, unmeasured stupidness. Brown's really poking at something important, as unlikely as it might at first seem. I'm not, just to be clear, reading Brown's book as opinion but as poetry. it's not a matter of what he says, but what the language is doing. I can make that distinction.

a quick trip to Pearl Art Supply yesterday. 3 floors of lots of stuff. I needed tack sheets for something I'm doing. a place like Pearl might outbid bookstores for my attention when moolah is unmitigated but this time I was being very budgetary, sensible, boring. perhaps you know the picture William Blake drew of me saying 'I want'. not his time, but man, I could spread some wealth around there, were I to have it. to work at Pearl you apparently need proof of disaffection. I mean I'm like, hey, you know what I mean? I can't distinguish if this is viral arty coolness, or a viral coolness from some other precinct. I usually don't need to ask questions at stores, or don't bother, but this time I was working outside my knowledge base. it's not like anyone was rude, only that they suffered this whole job thing: it really cuts into your free time. people typically, normally, read me as standoffish, when in fact I'm a lovely gentle soul, so I'm not all antsy with judgment here. but look, arty coolness is for the birds, I don't care if it's your personal revolution. leastwise if we're talking cool at 20, insurance sales at 30. I outcooled that reading a Reader's Digest version of a Michener novel to my mother in the hospital as she lay dying. I'm not taking away from youth defining themselves away from the creaky generation: that I get. cool hip art, elitist shrugs, that's all crap. art can be rarefied, to me it touches the sacred, but snotty ass is dregs. I couldn't in my narrow survey tell amongst the Pearlites what was arty cool and what was hope I die before I get old. really not talking specifics here, just reckoning some distinctions as best I can.

Kimball does Spahr and Clover AND Durand and Scappettone. Jack's critical acumen is always highly intelligent and highly personal: he gives you a serious view. bloggers are surprisingly lax about writing reading reports, so I welcome Jack's perspicacity in that arena. I manage to get to readings infrequently, which makes them events for me. which is why I am not going to the Joan Houlihan one 5 miles down the road tonight. I realize that readings are ephemera, but notes on what floated by are always happily received, at least at this address. Jack's reviews, such as these two, should be praised. which, gosh darn it, I've just done.

Alan Sondheim has hisself a blog. the vastness of his work includes just about everything imaginable, and some things perhaps not even that. d'ja know he was in a band with Al Wilson (of Canned Heat, the guy with the Skip James voice)? he hung with Kathy Acker, he hung with Clark Coolidge. like him or not, he's the sine qua non of sine qua non, there's no way to argue otherwise. and given the breadth and variety of his work, if you can't find something in his work then you're just being a shit. as evidence, the weenies that periodically (that is to say regularly) griped about his presence on the Poetics list. a blog is kind of a populist step for him, but it does allow a narrative sense to come forth.