we leave for West Virginia tomorrow. the underlying meaning of that sentence is that I shall be offline. WV aint big on the amenities. it's just big, of a whole different scale than here in wee Massachusetts, land (nonetheless) of the McMansion. we have to do some work--mostly paint--on the house that Beth's father left her. it's a small pre-Civil War house. there's a Civil War era graveyard on the property. you don't easily get used to such hills as this place displays. they happen so fast and so serious. if you aint going down then you're going up, there's no in between. it is gorgeous and utterly tiring. I mean mentally tiring, or maybe it's the soul that wearies. I mean that seriously, oppression being a subtle daily inference. it's about an hour drive to the nearest store. what the fuck is Washington doing for these people. why the f are they, the good citizens, going along with the program? what is their religion doing for them? I sound like a city feller to propose such questions. I have sympathy for the people of WV, where exploitation (of any and all resources) is a historical constant and metaphysical radius across the great big zero. none of this sort of thing fits in comment boxes, by the way. comments are micro, in the motion towards.

pod 

------ 

ant 

cloud work 

neighbour on porch 

the top picture, I've been meaning to scan the same myself. I don't even know what to call the stuff in the package, think of it as an Indian tortilla. we're avoiding such carbs lately in the interest of Erin's diabetes (doing better, btw), so we haven't been purchasing delicacies of this ilk. the picture on the package is bizarre. the rabbit has such an intent expression, and he just--I'm sorry--doesn't seem all that real. conjoined to the child's straightforward sensual acceptance, the situation seems fraught with philosophical bogies. which one is dreaming who? Jimmy Stewart and the big rabbit Harvey.

rereading Jack's piece I just want to say... that I envy? no, I don't envy another's contribution. I respect, knowing that I must keep my own self minded to the precincts of serious multiplicity, the emotions of distraction and focus. I won't offer a roadmap to my own current emotions, tho they be doozies, except to cite their manyness and confusion: life going on. I mentioned integrity below re Dahlen, and re Vincent as well. integrity registers because the game is always, simultaneously, on. matching hazards to the gifted plan, so that we, holy shit, make poems!. it's absurd sometimes, and trying too hard, and all that muddle that we join in, enjoined. and then that smoothing consideration, which humanly bares or makes allowed: how does language work? we're in the middle of it, right? yet language wins, 4 falls out of 5. yet that fifth, take the fifth. I have no confidence, really, in my critical acumen, haha, even to employ such a term. I'm just a vehicle for, at best. yet wait a sec, I felt something. this poem--it's a poem, right? I haven't mistaken that part, have I?--it just feels so lovely to read. I don't have my dukes up, which is a lot of the gust of theory, I'm just saying what I think I saw. tributary.

this is a nice reading report, tho modesty forbade Stephen to speak overmuch of his performance (jeepers, I wrote about my one public reading last year!) (and I'd do it again). I think he hits some nails squarely regarding Beverly Dahlen's work. not to say I've read it fully, it is a work of time as the best stuff is, but A Reading is a dynamic, full scale flung thing into the scurry and jump of our premium present. at the least, it should be read alongside My Life, not as women's lit, not as bio, not in sequestering terms, but as a work of this age, one of the standards in the repetoire, or whatever squeeze of the generational fruit. a great picture of Dahlen in the 1st collection of these Readings (published by Stephen himself), studiously typing away at a typewriter. why's this picture so great? it's the sense of transmission one senses. out of typewriter clatter, with a persistent incubation and ferrying, the work goes on. that's a lovely integrity to regale. I'd like to have heard/seen this event, for Stephen's contribution as well as Beverly's.

this is terribly wonderful, and I means terribly in some completely registered way. Jack writes with a lot of care but one doesn't sense a lot of effort. I suppose I'm being unremarkable here in my comment, making note of an element that I don't see, but I am left to say something. this is a touching piece, I really like the word touching.

mesdames et messiers,

le 18e installMENT est arrivée à Antic View pour vôtre plaisir.

I just did a Google search on Rodney Koeneke, because I like what I'm reading here and there (honest, when the money starts to flow again, I'll be buying shit, but right now selection must be careful). I could feel my fingers mistyping--I'm typing challenged not spelling challenged--but scrutable Google understood to ask if I meant Rodney Koeneke (preferred German pronunciation) as opposed to whatever I came up with. sure, there's an implicit snideness to the question, but it remains a useful feature. and it occurred to me to try my own name misspelled, specifically Allan... hoping without hope... so I guess I've made it this far, that Google offered correctly spelled did you mean this?. I forget now who raised the question of self-Googling recently. maybe it is an engine for some, and maybe it isn't. after a couple of pages that predominant with my name (when I google my full name), mostly blog entries, the results start veering towards Doyle Bramhall, the village of Bramhall, and various other indications that my name's not on every tongue. oh, it's a game. back in May, Radical Druid questionaired which was more important: widely-read, widely-known, widely-quoted, widely-admired, or well-paid, and I crassly answered well-paid. if I were well-paid, I could buy more books, support more writers, paint, etc, not forgetting the real world of Beth and Erin. the other stuff seems so transitory and fluff. and I'm not reading this out of one of the buddhist books that I am reading more than ever. I have ego a-plenty, which I need not even aver. those widelys don't carry much impact. seems like you got to foster them. and anyway, writing is fun, I don't need any of those improvements to keep me in gear. a writer wants to be read--yup, okay--but a writer wants to eat lunch too. and a writer just wants to write, right? we know the icky part of Pound was the social ameliorizations he wanted to accomplish, and perhaps there are more current examinations of this point, the struggle of the poet to determine the saying. those widelys bob before us all, and blogs are tempting tools thereof. I try to focus on a further widely: widely written. what the hell is more important than that?

a poem called "Punctures in the Throne Room", over to Three Spot.

18th Britney

In 1848-51 our dear Ageist Britney Spears, that old Muskellunge, full of vengeful wind-talks, busted brachia, "gaunt Ingelbert Republicanism", more ewer gal than old Bailey's site kaleidescope, untenable zoom shot Raconteur in Fahrenheit, feeling its repulsively trivial iron dead mask, busted Britney Spears' own overstep.

Indigestibles elude haggling zoo site with accelerated Energies to bust Britney Spears' Segundo Amphibian leeching transmission back zoo Gloria Steinem birthday cake Repose, finding herself overweight, which sells buttons assigned old DATES apprehended in old Calenders.

Well and good.

Necessities embark in Britney Spears Herself. social exposure in the middle busted Britney Spears' night in Poesies, busted Fahrenheit in ichneumon (Egyptian mongoose), busted future ichneumon (thought to devour crocodile eggs).

Since Tanning salons at night snatch more beginners, Trevor (a dancer) sought Britney Spears as ally in Superstition concerning Roy Lichtenstein's cunning ides of showbiz shortchanges.

Malignities, Muskellunges, Waterford glass, prehistorical Grinners.

over site might brethren self-VALUE Ingaberg's zoo realm mountain.

that Guernsey busted Britney Spears Essene dais dead Bedecked rechecks its cloche realm mountain atelier,
that Amphibian Substance counteroffensive cunning,
that February television season was its Reichenberg of old Eschatologys,
that unawares genome gourde refurbished;
that Eluded hypertension unalterable Rich land grope prehistorical act,
that which would hang towards that Era gruffness that was.

Auk 2d Britney Spears jockeyed February television season trick, busted Britney Spears gals butcher Spill, finding which sine sight, night more mere than Monarchies, more saber than liberal concessions of cunning, more busted to zoom shot Thunderhead's busted Britney Spears fights of largesse cordon warren.

Star power busted its Britney Spears Eschatology's linen toluene Punt soberness, nude or Hindustan butcher, zoo of contested form.

our infancy interconversion Richthofen's busted Britney Spears finds busted Reichenberg's decreased/gone back zoo haggling. So wondering, so overlording, so whichever. Dissenter's aging or capstone night, Courbet unfertilized.

in the interest of saying 'in the interest of saying', I should note, as book received, one other by Eileen Tabios: Ménage à Trois with the 21st Century (2004), from Jukka-Pekka Kervinen's xPress(ed). you can find a section of it, along with many other ebooks, here. I'm really psyched to have these 3 books by Eileen, picking my way thru.

it is nice to see mention of Kevin Magee at The Ingredient, or anywhere else. 3 cryptic poems, and a lengthy, highly specific memoir. Magee's writing is politically grounded. it is embued with the literature of politics. which is to say, he knows whereof he speaks (id est, if he says Engel or Marx, he's not talking the Classics Comics versions). and his politics is embued with a moral stance, I hope I can say that without egregious projections terminating my intent. any sort of politics refers to how we stand together, agreed? but one can, and most of us do, toss the bouquets around in a careless, superficial way. Magee's politics is such a processual part of his writing that the matter of false notes, of using his politics for literary gain, just don't come up. the 3 keenly cut poems seem counter to the expansive memory trip that follows. yet Magee pulls that memory into the field of his politics. I periodically 'champion' (yay me) Magee's work as it comes before me for it represents such a hard won, serious effort. he used to post to Poetics somewhat regularly at various times. it amazed me how little reaction could be bestirred on that clunky list to what to me is highly potent, clarifying drill. I realize the Poetics list is drydock, but really, Magee's work is so apt and agitating that more recognition should be made. okay, I'm heroizing myself for noticing, but just ignore that part please.

17th installment to Antic View.

I just received the latest book by Eileen Tabios, I Take Thee, English, for My Beloved, from Marsh Hawk. of course I've yet to do more than scan it, which is always a great pleasure with new books. new recordings likewise. the book's big, a a sturdy handful reminiscent of the tomes you lugged to civics class. it makes quite a statement, not just because of its size, a full 500 pages, but of the many works it includes. Eileen has chosen inclusivity as a ruling idea here. at least 5 separate possible books nestle within these pages, different series of works. how they go together, I've yet to discover, but I am confident that the whirlwind that Tabios is will make it all cohere. the image of a whirlwind works well in this context, for one sees a tornadic gathering and focus to her spin, as opposed to centripetal fling. excuse the metaphoric motionings on my part. Eileen includes in this work an interview conducted by Nick Carbo, a lengthy epistle addressed to Pablo Javier, an entry from Ron Silliman's blog concerning a work of hers, as well as "The Official History of the Hay(na)ku", the poetic form she created and which has become quite popular. plus poems, memoirs, lots of stuff from what I can see. Robert Duncan's later work comes to mind, as he let the various projects he was working on intertwine. like Duncan, Eileen's work is markedly various. once again, I give only the most preliminary of comments, but I must notice my excitement at the prospect here. Eileen, as is obvious, is a writer of great energy and dedication. to feel those 2 elements so definitively to the fore champions one's own writing. do you see? it goes with Jordan Davis projecting a million poems written, or Alan Sondheim bubbling over, or just me piling up a lot of work. it's the willingness to remain largely undistracted. OR to utilize those distractions. Eileen Tabios is a force with which it is a pleasure to contend.

Woods Lot is a blog I do not read daily: it is just too much. how does he collect so many links? check out the Ed Sanders stuff down near the bottom, especially the transcript of Sanders' testimony at the Chircgo 7 trial. that transcript is preposterous, let's leave it at that. Sanders mentions yodelling, and counsel wants a follow up. whoosh. Sanders' novel Love and Fame in New York is a classic, an art world parody riff. a link from one Sanders interview went to The Holy Modal Rounders, a 'folk-rock' group of the same era as The Fugs. I saw HMR at Franconia College in 1972. as I understand, the school paid the band $150, plus room and board, to get the 6-man group to come up to NH. David Bromberg a folkie who had at the time played with Dylan, was paid $750 for just his own self. and that kinda presents what HMR were like. they looked like a burnt out collective but they played a super concert in a small room. ah memories. anyway, the strange and hilarious Ed Sanders deserves notice.

I've removed a few links to patently (patiently?) quiescent blogs. you've got to earn my love. and btw, I notice that 5 months later Maggie Zurawski at Minor American is still alone and drunk...