things are not scheduling real nifty for me. this saturday has a Vincent Ferrini memorial in Gloucester. in the evening is this:

Saturday, March 22, 8 pm
John Mercuri Dooley, Derek Fenner, John Mulrooney, and Ryan Gallagher
So-and-So Series
The Distillery
516 East 2nd Street
South Boston

the Johns supply woozy ole metro Boston with 2 solid reading series (life! there is life in this burg!), and Derek and Ryan (Bootstrap Press) provide local publishing zest. I support their efforts.

Gary Sullivan is, like, totally talking poetry book covers, and it is an interesting ramble. I have 3 book covers in my cv. Simple Theory. which Beth designed. b&w, a small photo of a nest with 3 eggs, that she twiddled with. I must've added the typography. the image is lovely, more clear than I could have done. simple... theory... works for me.

Days Poem (in 2 doorstopping volumes). 2 pictures by moi-meme. a favourite, scribbly picture done with watercolour pencil, trees, volume 1. trees and stuff, in acrylic, for volume 2. check it out. in both cases, the pictures wrap around to the back.

I'm thinking: the rightness of a cover is defined by the reading. one might just eschew thinking that the work is slagged because of scruffy cover, s'il vous plait. when the poetry lights up, the cover will too. but not vice versa.

Gary's right, it would be nice to have covers, me just standing there a la Three Poems Ashbery. because that photo seems to have a full moment involved, rather than a stiff, thoughtfully implicative image pressed hard on consuming eye. hey, when I met JA, he looked like that.

Days Poem included the work of Erin, who photoshops better than me. and Shanna Compton, whose knowledge exceeded my confusion, which confusion sent Erin astray. do you see things here? the input streams and hopefulness, for something to enclose and advert or suggest the words within. who knows how to do it, except budding Goebbels. choices were made by enthusiasms, a pretty good calculus.

y'know, yesterday was Lloyd "Little Poison" Waner's birthday (104th?). one month later will be Paul "Big Poison" Waner's birthday. but nemmind that. Henry Gould informs me of a reading next month with hisself and Anny Ballardini, to wit:

Brown University's John Hay Library will host a bilingual poetry reading, in English and Italian, by Anny Ballardini, a visiting poet, editor and translator from Bolzano, Italy; Henry Gould, of the Brown Library staff; and Peter S. Thompson, Assistant Professor in Comparative Literature at Roger Williams University, on Wednesday, April 23rd, from 3 to 5 p.m., in the Lownes Room. The reading is free and open to the public, and will include a discussion with the poets afterward, and refreshments. (Please note : the Lownes Room, on the 2nd floor, is fully accessible; if you require assistance, please call the Library at 863-3723 a few hours beforehand.)

what better way to celebrate Shakepeare's birthday? if it proves impossible for me to attend, make sure you take good notes. remember: keyword: refreshments.

bulbs that I planted last fall, a bit late, started peeking thru the soil last week or so. I also noticed that elsewhere in the yard was evidence of more bulbs, planted by previous residents. since friday was springy and verging on mild, I thought saturday would be a likely day to rake out the beds. saturday was the day that snow and rain fell, at least during the morning. ne'ertheless in the afternoon I took rake in hand. I speak of this because it is a ritual, one that I haven't celebrated in a couple of years. I love bulbs. my 1st bit of gardening came about when I got a bulb catalogue some time in early summer. I decided to order. this entailed waiting 3-4 months for the bulbs to arrive at planting time. then it was another 6 months before I got to see what I had planted. it was worth it. I never begrudged raking in the fall, because I can mulch the garden with the leaves, and replenish the compost pile. and in the spring, digging those leaves out to let the yellow tops of bulbs feel the sun. one winter when we'd had a lot of snow, I had to chop away at the residue of snow, now impacted ice, that I'd shoveled there earlier in the season, because bulbs were under there. I did this on Good Friday, and wouldn't you know that on Easter, the blooms showed. righteous. it's early for bulbs here, by a week or 2. one of the 1st listservs that I subscribed to was a gardening one (which was a surprisingly snarly gathering of cranks: more flame wars and such kind of moronic crap there than on any other list I've been on). folks in California and elsewhere were trumpeting the arrival of their daffodils in January. aint you people got no winter? daffodils are my favourite, especially when I'm wandering lonely as a cloud. bright and brilliant, and disinclined to be bothered by pests, not even deer. I like that a bulb carries the entire plant to come within it. I extend that image of renewal to Geof Huth, and wish him the recovery that spring brings to us all.

money up for poets, that is, thoughts on Jessica Smith charging for the right to read parts of her blog, I see that Lanny Quarles has made a varied offering. he takes a somewhat different approach in that he is releasing selected archives of his blog in printed form. his blog may be more suited for print pub than JS's, because it is mostly poetry rather than commentary and personal reflection, which I take JS's blog to be. so the situations are not comparable. in both cases, tho, you likely must know the person's work some to roll the dice with your own moolah. that would be the difficulty of online purchase. I will assert that Lanny produces an adventurous range of textual and visual work, if you would care to do that supportive monetary thing.

the documentation by Geof Huth (rhymes with Booth) of his open heart surgery has been spectacular, in many ways (here is the link). literally a spectacle, but also the way he manages to present the experience thru its many scary developments. his patient critical factor never wavers, which to me takes courage. he reveals equanimity and focus of a Buddhist sort. there is a position where one could merely be whiny, or one might overwhelm the experience with drama, but Geof doesn't do that. he reluctantly offers an unsatisfying photo of himself because later versions would not properly show the actuality of the surgical wounds at their most raw. I'm impressed that he writes as much as he does. hospitals are stultifying, and it must be worse for one surgically ravaged. I'm reminded of the story attributed to St Francis Assisi. while working in his garden, he is asked what he would do if told that he would die the next day. he responded by saying that he would continue doing what he was doing. not bewail his fate, not party like it was 1999. Geof chose a similar option. we should all think healing thoughts and hope Geof's recovery continues well.

reading Tom Beckett's What Speaks brings back--urgently, I might say--his reading in Cambridge last fall. the words that he writes, and the words that he spoke, are/were tightly wound conveyances. his reading was an event because his commitment to its impetus (the writing) was so palpable and physically felt. in the writing here, Tom accepts the physical insistence, that demand, along with the intellectual, metaphysical space inhabited in the working of the poem. there was zero showmanship in Tom's reading, his poetic commitment is much too saturated to lay in that field. the same goes for the writing here, which comes down to a dynamic sort of physically intense thinking. I do not know how to put it better. I mean, I keep using the word physical, to suggest. Tom possesses a Rimbaudian sort of vision. when Tom finished his reading he was soaked in sweat. there was an effort involved. Tom's modesty does him disservice, because he writes masterpieces. no shit!

I am pleased to point to a review of Days Poem by Anny Ballardini. Days Poem, is, of course, by ME, but the review is by Anny. find the review here , at Galatea Resurrects. certainly I am avid about all things Bramhall, but really, the writing is lovely, as well as percipient. public thanks to Anny for this great gift, and to Eileen for the ever useful review blog that she captains.

a click on the following link brings you to a previous review of Days Poem by Jeff Harrison. my two reviews: I'm very honoured.

If really pressed you might allude to a Worcester source passing secret files under cover of night. Expecting noo thanks - you're really transforming the bits so, they become incidentals. I'm rarely of such use. . . .

a discussion at DIY comment field about Jessica Smith putting a price on some of her blog postings. I don't know why I am drawn to this debate but I wrote some unfocused thoughts earlier (but luckily avoided the PUBLISH POST button) and here I am again. it is odd that people are discussing it, maybe. I do not see JS losing anything here, there's no financial outlay. so if she gets one subscriber, she is ahead. the market decides. it would be nice if she opened the books, give an idea what the venture is doing (just as Eileen Tabios has brought out Meritage Press' tax info). maybe this is the future. I'm trying to think if I have a larger issue in sight here. I do not think this is a breakthru idea, it's a simple trade of goods (intellectual) for money. I don't mean that snipingly, just observing that the internet has a strange economy. it seems to bubble with money transfers, yet indirection is the key. I mean, look at Google, and how it offers goods and services to you, but you are not that aware of how it makes its money. that all occurs beneath the white expanse of the Google pages. so how does a poet gain in that environment? gosh, I don't know. it is worth speculating, tho. certes, writers get their word, and name, out on the internet. that's worth something. it doesn't sully one's work to sell it, but the number of hoops you are willing to jump thru may add an unwanted impression. or who cares about that, really? I think I have bought a literal ton of poetry books and mags. some I bought with avid interest, some I bought dutiful, to learn, and some I bought without knowing the writer but simply to support the press. that seems like the poetry economy. it probably needs some work.

the day made a radical change by mid sunday morning. a friend called and asked if we could use 3 tickets to the ballet. for sunday. Beth already had plans with a friend, but Erin and I were free. he and I were going to work with The Gimp (the open source graphics program). that is, he was going to show me the ropes of the program. but ballet trumps that. I mean, you know how it goes. what better way for male bonding than an afternoon at the ballet? I'm not knowledgeable about dance but it's a spectacle at the very least. Erin has the added interest of having played Tybalt last year in a production of the play. so in to Boston's theatre district went we. the trip included a bus barreling harrowingly close behind us on the Mass turnpike. tra la. Erin and I had a smackerel beforehand, which proved an event. I know Erin will blog about it. the last time we did ballet, we ate at a pleasant Vietnamese restaurant. I couldn't quickly recollect exactly where that was, so we chose a nearby Chinese one. Erin noticed that the place had 3 different names prominently displayed out front: Emperor's Palace, Empire Palace, and Imperial Palace. they knew it was a palace, for sure, and something to do with Emperors. I wonder if the place wasn't originally a theatre, that would account for its vastness. we went up a large curving stairway to get to the restaurant. someone there asked how many, then led us to a very large open room. I thought it was hopelessly crowded, but he waved and someone in the distance waved back, and we were instructed to go to that person. that person gestured toward the table, and tossed a ticket written in Chinese on it. we were then treated to a flow of servers pushing steam tables, who offered different items. this was a new method to me, tho surely it is common enough. I got a little spooked, that we were piling up a credible bill for the meal. some friends were in Italy once, and were offered tartuffe--white truffles--for the meal. they did not realize that each slice added significantly to the cost of the meal. the hall was noisy and communication a little fuzzy, so we got a number of items without knowing exactly what they were. several different dumplings with, you know, stuff inside. egg roll type things, likewise filled with ingredients. it was decent enough. the meal ended up about 14 bucks each. could've gotten a cheaper meal if not overwhelmed by it all. there was no clue as to the cost (in English, at least) of each item. well, that was an experience. at the ballet, we worked our way thru the crowd in the lobby and found our seats. sort of. I should mench that we were dressed in suit coats and I wore a tie. there's no requirement for that, but it seems a propos, just as I wouldn't, being my father's son, go to church without dressing up. Erin in a suit, standing 6'6", is impressive. and me, well, I'm awesome. an usher led us to our seat, even saying, right next to that man. eventually, tho, it proved that that was not our proper seats. we moved to the centre of the balcony, better seats. specifically, we were 4 rows up from the front of the balcony, excellent view. visually, the ballet was 1st class. sets and costumes were treats of colour. I liked that I could see the marks on the floor of the stage. I mean, that sense of the geometry of the dance, the dancers as atomic particles bouncing precisely. I also tried to compare dancers that were doing the same step. my eye is not practiced in this but I could see differences. Prokofief's score is brassy, at times bombastic, and a lot of fun. what I have seen of West Side Story looks silly, the prancing gang members lack any real sense of threat, or touch with reality, for that matter. combined with some crunching moments in the score, the antagonism of the Caps and Mons was portrayed forcefully and effectively in the ballet. the frolicsome moments were perhaps the best, tho, the choreographer (John Cranko ring a bell?) clearly connected with these points in the ballet. Mercutio's death was rather comical. he kept flopping around after he was skewered, springing up and otherwise belabouring the point that he dead. shades of Marlon Brando in Mutiny on the Bounty. the people who gave us the tickets (their children are sick) were particularly excited about seeing this ballet because it was the 1st ballet they had seen together. I overheard the elderly couple next to me say the same thing, that R&J was the 1st ballet they had seen together. I felt some guilt, that our friends couldn't go, and that Beth couldn't. I even teared up thinking that Beth missed out, she has a greater dance aesthetic than do I, not that her day out with her friend was onerous. ah me, the complications.

if it's all right with you, I point to Youtube, aka Cultural Millstone (but natheless), for a look at Duane Allman. something visceral for me as he gets down to the lowest part of the guitar's neck. sometimes, I feel like my poetry does that. but I cannot tell you that.

sometimes, as Shanna does, you just gotta explain things. in her case, to divert the impression that For Girls is flarf. as a former flarf list denizen, I saw Shanna's flarfistic expressions, hot off the grill. as she notes, flarf isn't a technique but an attitude. and part of the attitude, I wot, is the stolen moment, perhaps-at-work-goof-off of/with language, often reactive and timely. Shanna's contributions were always good, or let's just be honest to say, mine weren't. not in the quick fun roisterous way that signals flarf. I always laboured at flarfy expressions, which is wholly out of key, both to flarf qua flarf, and to my own speed mode. I'm saying that those skittering expressions that Shanna wrote presumably quickly at work are not the same as in her book, tho that is not to deny the writerliness of either faction of her enterprise. and I think the distinction, or the sense of wider palette, if that's a legit image to offer, is useful, or worth considering. the play of single poems versus the pathfinding program of a book. Girls is a book, written, in its way, as a whole, or gathered as a larger installation. I like that Shanna steps to the fore of the proscenium to indicate her own conception, and not just leave it to the reader's assumptions. not to say that any of this can't be argued and such. I have my apparently daunting 1000 page Days Poem, which I view as an inviting variety but I think readership (thou minusculeness) sees as a resistant block. it is not. it is not too many words, it is words, living values, in moments. how many words does each moment contain? or, what's the right number of words for each moment? I want to defend Days Poem as a reading experience, and that the parametre of page count is merely descriptive, not essential. having read For Girls, I know that it is not flarf, tho the flarfy influence can be safely spoken of. anyway, For Girls lives in its own distinction.

oh, hello. haply you will notice that there are now 22 new made poems at Simple Theories and 134 installments to the Harrison/Bramhall set to concerning the practice and thought of poetry at Antic View. have at it.

Wobbling POETRY WORLD

I’ve certainly been somewhere, between ten and twenty times in the last two weeks.

Actually I’ve never been partly, because I’ve been a dozen times

Among those wobbling frameworks going to POETRY WORLD, and among those not going, there turn out to be many concerns about POETRY WORLD.

Some wobbling frameworks are concerned about the standards of POETRY WORLD.

Some wobbling frameworks are concerned about the official of POETRY WORLD.

Some wobbling frameworks are ideology of POETRY WORLD.

Some wobbling frameworks are concerned about how problem POETRY WORLD changes what wobbling frameworks are.

Some wobbling frameworks are concerned about the relationship between “experimental” wobbling frameworks and POETRY WORLD.

Some wobbling frameworks are concerned about who’s more “inside outside” at POETRY WORLD and they’re concerned about what “inside outside” means.

Some wobbling frameworks are concerned about who gets POETRY WORLD and who does not.

Some wobbling frameworks are concerned about the relationship of the wobbling frameworks at POETRY WORLD to the wobbling frameworks concerned about the relationship between POETRY WORLD and larger U.S. institutional powers of system.

Some wobbling frameworks are concerned about whether their friends will be POETRY WORLD fun.

Some wobbling frameworks are concerned about whether there will be enough interesting wobbling frameworks there to balance out the dull, pompous shirts who are POETRY WORLD.

Some wobbling frameworks are concerned about the importance of being POETRY WORLD.

Some wobbling frameworks, if they are also concerned about getting word, are available at POETRY WORLD.

Some wobbling frameworks are concerned about letting others read schedules at POETRY WORLD.

Some wobbling frameworks are concerned about letting others know that they have no POETRY WORLD but in the proximity of POETRY WORLD.

Some wobbling frameworks are concerned about the distinction between POETRY WORLD and New York.

Some wobbling frameworks are concerned that other wobbling frameworks care about too much.

Some wobbling frameworks are concerned that other wobbling frameworks don’t understand all of these, in greater or lesser degree perhaps

Coda
Are you concerned?
about POETRY WORLD?
and those are concerns?
I mean so many wobbling frameworks?
we are concerned about it anyway?
might we as well discuss what we’re concerned about?

the 1st issue of Critphoria has a poemic collaboration by my self and Tim Peterson's self. interesting presentation of it, as you will note if you follow the link. in addition, a nice collection of work by people who aren't named Bramhall.

I'm glad Jack Kimball made it to the Demolicious reading with Peter Inman and Tina Darragh since we weren't able to attend. 2 of the early, puzzling LANGUAGE poets, from when that aegis kinda meant something.

Tom Beckett is bowing out of EXCHANGE VALUES: no more new ones. but what a resource, both online and in print. I especially like the interview with Mary Rising Higgins, a curiously iconoclastic writer. Beth visited Mary when Mary came east to stay at an artist colony in the shadow of Mt Monadnock in southern NH. Mary was a grade school teacher, and had family responsibilities, so her writing was something she had to squeeze in. you look at her work, her oeuvre, and see how doggedly she worked. the weight of each word, and the lines, is a matter of her effort as a poet. we are lucky to know about her work, she didn't have the sense to hang out in NY bars. the best buzz, I suppose, is what one finds in her books.


I also like (of the more recent interviews), Sheila Murphy's interview with Tom Mandel. particularly because of the discussion of Mandel's collaboration with Daniel Davidson, Absence Sensorium. somewhere on the net, Gary Sullivan writes about Davidson, and there is/was a pdf of some of Davidson's work. it's fascinating work, and made more so, as with MRH, by death.

finally, or, more impressively, finalement, Ron Silliman, linkmeister, gives a good review of Geoff Young's Riot Act. WHICH the percipient few 1st heard about here. good review = I agree, of course, but I will say that Ron uses the right adjective
for the book: delicious. Young's work as publisher has overshadowed just how wonderful he is as a poet, just as Tom Beckett's editing work has taken attention from his own eminent work. may Ron's imprimatur bring more eyes to Young's work.

2 movies. I watched The Last Samurai in sort of mode last week, abed and sick. I efeffed (fast forwarded) thru the boring parts, and was somewhat brain-wonky thru out. which is perfect, it's a Tom Cruise movie. I don't get the TC appeal. the young TC looked like 2nd rate high school jock/jerk, a flinch of recognition that stays with him even now. the scientological silliness that surrounds him now doesn't help. as an actor, he's overly conscious. this was evident in the 1st scene. he's supposed to be drunk, and a renegade, and what all. the great Viggo plays just about the same scene in Hidalgo, which comes across with more resonance than TC manages. whatever. the reason I, a person of consummate taste, would watch this flick is the samurai milieu. I saw the last part of the movie last year when Erin was hospitalized. so okay, plotwise, Tom's a vet of Gettysburg and was a member of the 7th Cavalry, except he did not seem to have been at Little Big Horn, lucky him. now's he's hired to train Japanese troops, to fight the reactionary samurai rebels. at this point the movie steals wholesale from the movie Glory. the green troops are not up to snuff, as TC trains them. in their 1st action, they look into a foggy woods to see wild-looking samurai on horseback, yipes. slaughter slaughter slaughter, all die except for killing machine Tom. the samurai rebels take Tom and, in a way that I didn't comprehend, Tom joins them. the usual scenes ensue. cue Cool Hand Luke, Tom's a rebel himself, and he won't quit. lots of fun looking sword play, with the emotional content of a video game. Tom = implausible, for those keeping score. the big battle scene comes straight from Braveheart. the plucky samurai face off against imperial forces. historically, the imperial forces had something like 6000 troops, and the samurai rebels 300. the samurai rig the battlefield for a devastating surprise for the imperial troops. I wonder if that really happened, just as I wonder if the Scots set up the battlefield like in Braveheart. the samurai really did rout the imperial troops for a while, but then they chose a charge of the light brigade assault, swords versus cannon, that done nothing good for the rebels. only TC survived. oh, don't forget the sensual intercourse scene. TC, prior to this battle, becomes best friends with a female that was, you know, there. the camera scans his iconic Hollywood skin and disinterest as the female person basks in that. I guess you can call that sex. it is, at least, if you are worrying about Xenu and the Galactic Confederacy. the movie looked quite grand, sweeping vistas of Japan, etc, but Tom Cruise is a vortex of dull.

movie 2. Harry Potter and whatever, the 5th movie. I haven't read the Pothead books, only seen the 1st movie. the 5th looked good enough, they keep the scale fantastic. it feels like the story line is straining to stay on topic. you go the larger story, with Harry inexorably moving towards a showdown with the evil Mallomar. the private school hijinx is tired. I wonder how the books go. I'm not agin reading them, just am not in a novel mode currently.

pretty good review of Mark Scroggins book on Zukofsky. I'd already read the review but didn't take note of the whizzer photo of Z till I saw it at Silliman's collective. the Buddy Holly glasses and Z's piercing orbs make for a strong effect. come the Revolution...John Latta has also done a reading of Scroggins' book. I'd like to read it, but I don't think it will happen anytime soon. maybe you could, and give me the gist...

since S Compton and J Kimball popped comments on my recent little rumination on blogs, which (really) makes it seem like this blog is a definable space and not just my romantic thrill of thinking myself, I shall ruminate further... pass me the cud, podner... in the previous, I thought of the word anthology as applying to the blogosphere. I think my articulation did gang a-gley a bit then so I want to embolden the idea more clearly. a blog is not bookish, in the sense of being a detached module of literature. instead, a blog situates with other blogs, in a way that books and mags do not. many blogs are obviously conversations, but even those that aren't involve themselves in a wider conception. so I think that considerations such as Jack is given to do, critiques of the blog machine, are not just useful as critical activity but as reminders of the greater theme. it is not a matter of rules but an embrace of the procedure. content is almost not the point, tho that's too pointedly post-modern for my shoes. I would prefer a tensile construct to the pix of babies and dogs, and the Youtube excavations as well, if we're talking content. but I could write of the Christmas tree coming down today. Erin was off at a Magic card tournament whilst Beth and I removed ornaments from the tree. then mid afternoon it was the Patriots vs the Chargers, and once more the Pats pulled away in the 2nd half. about 3 years ago my father went hospital for the final act. it seems so yesterday. last sunday, Beth and I visited a couple who we lost track of the past year or so. they now live in a rehab center, tho nursing home might draw a better picture. sadly, because of differing condition, they live in separate wings. we found one, the less restricted one, at a concert in the facility's auditorium. a small band earnestly played show tunes and standards. it took a while to find our friend, who we finally located up front, and longer to work our way to her. many sunday afternoon visitations were in progress, and the concert itself was apparently part of an extra effort to get patients involved with the outside world. brownies and punch were being served, either staff or volunteers were making stark effort to look like fun (dancing theatrically and such), and kids were overloading on sugar and creep out. before we made contact with our friend, we waited in the hallway outside the auditorium. several children were playing violently, a kind of desperate articulation of youth. a woman was wheeled from the festivities and immediately began scolding the children. I'm sure she scolded everything in her purview. our friend was pretty lucid tho with serious memory issues, which she was aware of. she was pretty calm about the memory loss, at least at the time. I remember my father's distress at times, a boat slipping from shore. she was always intellectually involved, still retained interest but her memory was an issue. we had a nice visit with her then brought her, she was comfortably peripatetic, to her room. she had an expectation that her husband would be along soon, and was fuzzy why he wasn't. she said she needed time alone to put things together in her head. we went to the other wing to visit her husband. that wing was closed off because the flu was present. they let us in with a caution. his condition was more tenuous. he made an effort to stay present and lucid. people there would be surprised to know that he was a dynamic, very accomplished person with a type A+ personality. and yet. I didn't mean to speak of specifics but it was all so sad. we are, culturally, I guess, so stupid concerning children and elders. our schools are full of adult concepts of situated success rather than progressive sense of learning procedure. our elders are captivated in the dullest gloom. my mild anointing of blogs (including my own) only remarks on the connected position of our assertions. I say that hopefully. I assert that Tributary is a Poetry blog tho you can weigh the actual references to the P-word and its productions as being mightily partial, all in all. but poetry is language with an asserted necessity. just speaking for myself, the shopping tours and what not, the contexts of this blog radiate from how language moves around a subject. the subject is not the point, the language is. returning to the beginning, the pets, the Youtube, if this is just filler or markers, it shows. when the connection to the underlying process asserts its present drive, then it lives, not just as content but as process. so I am ok with whatever, so long as something happens...