an e-journal, listenlight, with a quiet smattering of good work.

we did another paint class at the adult daycare. I guess we had 30 people, spread over a bunch of large and small tables. it made for an intense time. there's a great deal of energy aroused as people apply themselves. many are resistant but even as they demur they're getting sucked in in some way. art therapists use a clinical tool called kinetic house-tree-person. the therapist asks the client to draw a house, tree and person in a scene. in talking about the scene, the client can safely (from a distance) speak of traumas. obviously, you can write books about what I boiled to a weak sentence. many of the people in our class do k-n-t-p scenes of their own accord. I always ask whose house it is, who the people are. really just to affirm the realness of their expression. many of the people suffer dementia or Alzheimer's but younger people are there as well. I was really surprised by a young woman. she may not even have been in her twenties. she went along with whatever was offered. I gave her paper, paints, brush and water. she took the brush in hand and hovered it over the paints. as if putting paint on the paper was just too far. I always ask the hesitant what their favourite colour is, and suggest that they start with that. she chose red and made a 'C'. she spelled out CARL. the man across from her had just done the same thing. when I came back she somewhat eradicated the word and tried to develop it into a design. she spoke very quietly, with a garble. and was so wary and wounded. it haunts to think of such loss and sadness. Carl on his 2nd efort painted LOVE with hearts, one with an arrow thru it. his third was simply a message: To Hell With Hitler. a woman who works there brought her grandson, a 4 or 5 year old. he did a perfect k-h-t-p. the person was his brother, who had hurt himself and was bleeding. at least three people did scenes with tulips. one was a scene with a house and a large Easter basket as a centerpiece. and a Star of David in the sky. I know this all sounds lalala, but shuffle aside my ego contribution. something is biting and true in the extent here. the losses these people live, and the memories that stay. it's the grand forget-about-it that swallows these people into some unnoticed parenthesis. marginalization is a terrble way that people hide. children, elders, "retarded", 3rd world [endless list], all devitalized in the world debate. I'll back off from the heroic tone. aesthethics often seems like a weapon. sometimes it's the 'bad' stuff that really has the resonance. it's not just about fine tricks for the appreciation of Harvard grads. Maria Damon has written a book about I guess you could say outsider poetry, and she's on to something. there's something powerful in the raw expressions.

been listening to "Devil in the Kitchen" by Ashley McIsaacs, several times o'er. punk Celtic I suppose he's been called. it's a traditional tune, presumably from Cape Breton, but played at a ferocious speed. so fast, in fact, that it took me a while to realize that Rare Air, a wonderul sui generis Canadian group, have done the same tune, which itself had a pretty peppy tempo. speed is exuberance. props to the drummer who manages to put fills where there's hardly room to put them.

and then we went to Costco. oh yes. we just decided, okay, there's bulk things we can buy and save, save, save. why not? we got out membership, which is a weird concept for me, but let's play the game. the woman who took my picture said it looked just like my license. same grim discomfort in front of the camera. passed down from my mother. with an oversized shopping cart we zigged and zagged down all the food aisles. a surprising number of items found at Whole Foods can be found at Costco as well. so we don't have to change our diet to disodium whatsis or red dye number 666. my Judy Collins approved granola at WF, however, is cheaper than anything similar at Costco. the cart filled with cleaning and paper products, woohoo. to the point of being hard to steer. yay! we didn't buy potato chips but it is nice to think that you could place yourself in the wonderful position of never having to buy chips again in your lifetime. or Lucky Charms, now fortified with extra green marshmallows. someone once came into the wine store I worked at with the goal of never having to buy port again, port being a wine that can age and improve for decades. we're talking some 50 cases (he had two winecellars!!!). anyway, Beth and I won't wake up tomorrow realizing that 35 pounds of butter is somewhat more than we need near term. a surprising aspect of Costco, really surprising to me, was the atmosphere there. it struck me that the employees were happy, at least not miserable. you don't get that feeling at Wal-Mart, K-Mart or Target. I understand Costco pays decently. what a concept. that was our day's adventure.

Beth and I paid a visit to Jack Kimball today. that isn't necessarily news you need, but the visit extended to his reading aloud, and we reading from the monitor, a goodly portion of his manuscript Post Twyla. which I guess will be coming out fairly soon. Jack read from the work at his Demolicious reading last spring, we got an even larger dose today. it was nice to meet the work again. Post Twyla is some 280 pages, and not quite that many separate works, altho Jack said he regarded the whole thing as a poem, so I guess by works I mean sections. most of these sections are short, three lines or so, with a smattering of longer pieces. they all can stand alone tho they weave together well. Post Twyla offers a wonderful spectrum of tone. wickedness, tenderness, wisdom, ennui variously instigate the work. the view can be bizarre, oblique, hilarious and sometimes painfully straightforward. regard this post as fair warning. save up your lunch money for when Post Twyla becomes fully commodified.

oh ah hi  

some fascinating discussion of procedure by Jeff Harrison at Antic View, our interview blog (more soon to come). note how he devises an elegant way of minimizing author's desperation to control writing. I think by author here I mean id, but the point is to put that stern debater into the backseat. such procedures are just one way. one can do it other ways, meditative concentration, say, or utter distraction. people flinch at the seeming mechanical nature of using procedural methods to create texts but really, such people are just resisting. resistance is a natural reaction, but one should acknowledge one's resistance, try to understand the blockade. people have hung on terms like LANGUAGE and flarf, seemingly as a way to avoid reading or understanding the work itself. those terms are subfolders to the poetry folder, possible paths to take. I like working flarfistically. it exercises different muscles. my regular type-forth method goes linearly. my flarfish method moves more slowly, accretes and carves. yesterday I took a People magazine article on the Paul McCartney/Heather Mills Texas Divorce Match and worked it into a poem that retains almost nothing of that article. here is the poem (you can guess how the article goes, can't you?).

The Mills of Heather Rented the Same Agents
every time I make a report you do this to me
the enemy is everywhere across the street

in that window up that alley
life has been anything but an ipod.

I've always been in awe of the sky
I'm some B-boy cat that's over with

worry about my feet later Let's open up to Romans
Social class can influence who lives and who dies

Walking down the street I would bump into people
because I could only see from one side

My wife actually found out we were expecting
when I was in the hospital after my first episode

We've been first with other transitions too
Aw man We're not astronauts We're just asses

I just hope and pray that the Germans
we can wake up enough people

I'm probably the only person in America
who doesn't think I've had overwhelming lawsuits

* * * * *

I sent it thru Babelfish with the idea that I'd translate back into English myself. a quick cogitation told me that that would involve work, so I abandoned that idea. I then searched on the phrase 'said Paul'. what proved interestng got squeezed in here and there. then I shaped it into lines, then I deleted everything except the 'said Paul' stuff. shades of O'Hara and Oranges! the title, perhaps obviously, is a line from the People article translated from French back to English. the title is the only part of the piece retained from the original article, everything else got obliterated. somehow, it still contains an essence of Paul, Heather and People mag. even tho all words in it are found things, I made many decisions in creating this text. what I love about flarf, and what perhaps makes some people uneasy, is the pure voices that come thru. tho their contexts have changed, you hear the voices of Others, in all their oddity, difference, collision and helplessness. those voices can be so beautiful and unnerving. the writer of flarf, and the reader, Walt Whitmanly comprise those voices. what is poetry but a touching tenderness compelled towards the world? I use flarf here as an illustration. however one attains that touching tenderness is how poetry is made. difference is okay, and in fact, what worries you is what's most interesting.

  

  

  

  

  

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.