Meritage Press, in the angelic form of Eileen Tabios, informed me that the check is in the mail. in other words: Royalties!!!. before you offer me 1st dibs on your Florida swampland, let us just say that the incoming greenbacks will not overstuff my stylish purple wallet. still, let us affirm that the nuance of this economic turn seems right. neither the inherent barter system nor the potlatch of the poetry world bothers me, I rather regale in it, to the degree that I can afford to. and yet it is ridiculous to think that the books, the product, of this writing enterprise are so little valued. a cookbook, a thriller, an earnest self-helper: these all bear worth. but poetry, you have to give it away. not to say that there is no earnest audience for poetry. that big time real estate monopoly in Cambridge that owns the rights to Emily Dickinson knows there are paying customers to serve. it's an odd, and contagious, reluctance that confirms that poetry should be diminished in respect. you might read Da Vinci Code once (which is about all the crappy binding of the paperback could take) rather than the many times reading a poetry book, but the commodity of the thriller is much easier to accept than poetry's. wanting to get the work out to a small, recalcitrant audience means giveaway. the internet supplies a good free access, with potential to make it lucrative. I think publishers ought to work on the model of capitalistic enterprise rather than charity. perhaps put resources to fewer books but support those books, and the author. I speak of larger books, perfect bound ones. chapbooks are good for expressing the charitable side, if you want to publish tactilely. but I didn't mean to go afield like this, I wanted to nod in respect to Eileen, for the respect she shows her authors by offering, and paying, royalties. so here, once more, is a link to Days Poem, which has earned its author royalties.

Goodreads, if you have not discovered, is a social network of readers. you can post your library and books you want to read or have read, and check out the selections of others. with that in mind, go to the site and search for Lanny Quarles. he lists more than 2500 books, a wild, enthusiastically eclectic range of interests. which is what it is all about.

Briefly, just to keep my hand in, a blog post. by the way, I like reading my blog. I like watching the movements of my thoughts, which just flutter away if I don't write them down. so anyway, Beth worked late friday so Erin and I watched a movie. I deemed it necessary for the movie to be stupid, in some way. the winning selection was Krull. which was not abject, but it could have been a victim of Mystery Science Theatre 3000. Which I miss… Anyway, Krull was fantasy with un poco scifi. I have seen it before, actually, back in its day, which was the 80s, I believe. was Krull the hero’s name? I don’t think I caught anyone’s name. He was played by Ken Marshall. Who looks like someone I should know, but I can’t think of any other appearance of himself in something I have watched. Several others in the cast were like that. The director was Peter Yates, who I think is a noted director (you tell me, I’m merely an amateur cineaste). This movie would not be a highlight of his career. But let us consider the plot, shall we? It seems this Krull, if indeed Krull he is, is to wed the curly haired damsel in the flouncy princess suit. They are even performing the ceremony, which includes him sticking a flame in water, and she taking a flame out of the water, when a motley of evil doers called slayers invaded the proceedings. It brought to mind the wedding scene in M Python and Holy Grail. The slayers were maybe space creatures or something. When killed they screamed and a wiggly wormy thing would scurry off. The movie’s prologue I guess prepares one for such a fact, but not well. During the brawl, Krull’s lady love is whisked away, and even Krull is battered to unconscious. In the morning some guy exhorted Krull on his quest. I never got the back story on this guy. He knew about the prophecy and that’s enough for any sane fantasy hero. 1st step, for some reason, was to seek the doodad that was displayed in the credits, a 5-pointed thingie that resembles ninja throwing stars. this may be Krull, but if so, what is our hero’s name??? Krull finds the Krull in a river of lava. He pulls it out, unharmed, and it is clear that there could be psychedelic fun in future. Next step is to be cornered by a band of outlaws, who Krull enlists in his quest. And they go on. And on. There is a Cyclops, good guy, who helpfully divulges some key plot points. Other stuff certainly happens, I mean, Erin and I were watching an active television screen. At some point near the end Beth arrives and is immediately swept into the theory of dramatic excitement that founded (not foundered, please) this film. And MST sort of commentary began to spill from ourt mouths. I should mench that the slayers have the same zesty lack of response as Imperial Storm Troopers, and indeed, I thing P Yates spent a few moments studying Star Wars. To no avail. Periodically we would leave Krull’s quest to witness princess in her problematitude. She was stuck in some amateur theatre set for Alice in Wonderland, which is the plot of a Tom Petty video, as I just now realize. The evilest doer was a space creature, I wot, tho on the order of the Wizard of Oz. she had few wardrobe changes. The one I can think of, she was enwrapped by the evilest one in a gown made of aluminum foil, a quirk I cannot quite divine. the evil one appears to be a space alien. the effects are crappy, think Dr Who, tho they may have been considered hotcha in the day. EO looked like a blurry picture on a screen. So... Krull and his merry band quest on toward this flying mountain, sic, where trhe Evil One holes up. of course the band is whittled away thru various malfeasances. oh, Liam Neeson was in the cast, as a hearty lug who buy it near the denouement. the cyclops, who has prescience concerning the day he will die, excuses himself from the final assault on that mountain lair. so this handful of men attack the mountain, which is exactly what it looked like, and don't make headway until the cyclops comes running.he climbs up to0 the entrance and holds the door open for the rest, then is crushed as the door inexorably closes. sic transit gloria cyclops. Krull finds the princess and rather quickly dispatches EO with the krull, and that's that. quest quest quest. it had all the elements of entertainment but never quite committed to that principle. even tho the acting wasn't wooden or lame, nothing came together. nowadays you get bulkier heroes and better swordplay. we really were in the doldrums in the 80s.

I neglected to include the url for the Microsoft Office deal that I noted yesterday, so here it is. offer ends May 16.

for a few more days you can get Microsoft Office, complete, for 91% discount, totally legit, if you are a student with an edu email address. I eschewed MSOffice for OpenOffice, which is freeware and a great tool. however, MS products are default everywhere. tho OO can save to doc format, you have to tell it to, so there is this whole compatability thing that may make OO less useful for you. so I have turned back to MS, just to be well-armed. which leads me to mull the words processors I have used. Xywrite, back in the day, that long agone day. back in the day of command driven programs. Xywrite was brisk and efficient. as I understand, it was eventually swallowed up whole by IBM, tho it had been an industry standard for newspaper publishing. less so was my 1st shareware, PC-write, which just seemed clunky. I mean, I bought the thing, had the documentation, but never enjoyed the writing experience, which wasn't to my mind intuitive. I learned Word Perfect at work. I did graphics with it, which were a pain, defining EXACTLY where they would sit in the document and such, those triangulations were difficult. Word was much like WP, I just wanted a typewriter, mostly. but you can typeset books with Word, if you are careful. OpenOffice and Word give you a lot of power in producing documents. Word is clearly a clunky program. files are much larger in Word than OO, astonishingly so. in the days of gigabytes, that is not so important, but it remains telltale. I have only used Word 2007 a little, it is a symphony of bells and whistles. all of which work, after a fashion,, but it is more like a computer game than a program. not to go all MS-negative. if you make eligibility for the deal, and have the 60 bucks, I recommend that you strive for this deal, which ends May 16. the documentation for OO kinda sucks, tho there is a turmoil of dedicated explainers in the community. MS has a universe of vocal users. I think technical issues are under regarded in poetry world. I needed Erin's help, and angel Shanna Compton's generous (Photoshop issues) intervention, to get Days Poem, the manuscript, into proper fettle. brothers and sisters, it is a tech world. part of your poem's broadcast resides in making it computer feasible. yes, you can find an 18 year old to tech out, but you still must understand what the 18 year old is talking about. and you can work your own magic. so anyway, a slew of business-like, grownup up programs could be yours if you have that edu email address.

a friend's milestone birthday tomorrow, coinciding with Erin's mere 19th. we've already done something for Erin, the opposite of belatedly (be-earliedly). but there is a party for our friend. so we made a mall excursion for a present, namely a beach cover up, our friend being quite the swimmer/surfer. 1st off: it was as crowded as at Christmas time. everyone spending their economy boosters? mebbe so. speaking of Christmas, the mall's central area is decorated for Christmas, and has been so for the past 6-8 weeks. a movie is being filmed there. we were there a while back when filming was in process, with security preventing access to portions of the mall and extras being ushered into the scene, just like reg'lar folks. anyway, in search of beach wrap. Sears and its Lands End franchise: nothing suitably colourful. we targeted Chicos as a likely source, but Beth chose to stop in numerous shops along the way. one place was clearly for the young but looked like it might yield some swimwear options. $10 and $15 dresses, which Beth assured me wouldn't last a single washing. and many eager teenage girls. a few years back, if I may travel a tangent, I sorta got interested in an earring. inquired at a jewelry store where I might get my ear pierced. the guy there, suitably crisp and mature, pointed across the way to Claire's. and I'm like whoa!. a buzzing place full of jewelry-like gimcrack made for the teenaged female consumer. with actual teenage females not only consuming the gimcrack, but selling it. I felt out of place but, heigh ho, I was on a mission. a teenaged female doctor of ear-piercing performed the surgery, and now everyone can see that I'm rad. end of tangent. we actually entered Abercrombie and Fitch, the ambiance of which strikes me as grimly soulless. we actually exited A&F, before some young hipster gave us the boot. we tumbled into a place called Ruehl, which was quite an experience. its store design is much like A&F: a thumping beat to pull you in, dark doorway, dark rooms with moody lighting. it was a strange maze of discrete rooms that perhaps would be a wonder if the merchandise attracted me. the place looked like where you meet your cocaine source, or Liza Minelli and Andy Warhol, or some damn grunt. wait, just for a moment, imagine Louis Zukofsky at Studio 57, a big A on his forehead... well, transcendence exists: a large b&w photo of a male model with finger in mouth seemed to make a good representation of the store's, um, thrust. from there we went to Nordstrom. which is brand new to the mall and, for all I know, new to the area. Beth knows Nordstrom from Seattle. it was a wonderland. a vast expanse of store space, with exquisite lighting, shiningly polished floors, and a lovely palate of colours (the clothing displayed). it was the only store where the help helped, a charming business model. I couldn't quite hold my attention to the task at hand but luckily there was a large tv screen feeding videos to any eyes that have strayed from the merchandise. I imagine all videos are made by film school auteurs, who have studied 3 minute narrative larded with phony ass performance histrionics, and got better than B in their film project. hi, this is the state of poetry, by the way. ie, what is the opposite of essence, and how do you make a gang of it sell? Beth found a possible right answer but we reconned other sources, just to be sure. a few indistinct options and such, then we tramped to Chicos. Chicos aims for a more mature clientele. the colours are quite pleasing there, painterly, even. I was a bit outraged because there were 2 chairs there. in one sat a man, patiently bored. in the other, a young--teenaged, maybe--woman. chairs in stores like Chicos are for men to anchor themselves while the shopping experience reshapes time. this young woman was eating a sandwich and talking on the phone. she was using my chair. this is disorder. will the murder of Hillary by Obama or vice versa solve this??? winds blow, spring breaks upon us, and Beth found a just right item. oh, we stopped in J Crew, where slim is the password but at least the primary colours are happy. like I said, Nordstrom was the only place where staff made any connection with 'customer'. do you ever wonder if poetry is a living function, or just the crust of some past condition? do you ever think about packaging, as you read those poems, so many poems?

Antic View resumes after all my fault hiatus, episode 135, don't miss it if you can. 4 years ago I wrote out of the blue to Jeff Harrison, denizen of Wryting-L list. I guess I determined some simpatico (reference to Mr Kite), and queried the possibility of collaboration. which ensued for over the years, a poem (we agree) called (we agree) Monster, with again all my fault hiatuses. and then, a sucker for endlessness, I approached Jeff, who I have triangulated as 2000 miles away, miles we have yet to shrink, concerning this interview that I bethought me. it continues to ride. I could, in my Ethan Frome way, advert my own star qualities in poetry universe, but I will leave that chatter to another time. I think Jeff is a distinct wonder, and there are enough bolts of evidence online (Antic View offers links to same). Ron Silliman follows in the steps of Robert Duncan, in awarding Aram Saroyan... I am not about to fight the equation, just want to note that the equation exists. well and good, but a writer of consummate, like Jeff, remains in this still not very. listen, the cheese is in the trap. just to haul up a memory: I remember Robert Grenier showing me a book by Saroyan, The Beatles. Each of its 4 pages with a different Beatles' name. I liked the idea of that, but the thought of owning such a book seemed extraneous. I could here refer to Ed Sander's wonderful Love and Fame in New York, with its myriad art concepts on display. and Saroyan's book was topped by some NY poet, in an anthology (where I saw it), a poem called "The Rolling Stones", which consisted of 5 lines, 3 Rolling Stones, and 2 players (pitchers I think) for the Philadelphia Phillies. so, bottom line, Jeff Harrison is a wonderful poet, I am honoured to work with him, he should be honoured to work with me, and you Dear Reader, if you are up to the charge...

I have all 6 of these, the 6 recent chapbook releases from Faux Press. reading them would be the next step. I will keep you updated.

quick mench of seeing Midsummers Night Dream yestreen, traditional day of Shakespeare's death. by way of the homeschool co-op that Erin no longer attends. he initially signed up for the play but he is taking courses at the community college and could not accommodate the play schedule. I have not seen many amateur play productions but it seems like these Shakespeare productions, of which I have seen all five, boast pretty high standards. costumes and scenery are particularly well done. a prologue was included, strictly to satisfy a need for swordplay among the participants. it represented the battle between Theseus and the Amazons. a bit of a gallimaufry but fun to watch. one fellow, after being smited, did a cartwheel. the particular stand outs in the play were the girl--ALMOST 13, as she states in the notes--who played Puck, and the boy, 15, who played Bottom. she enunciated very well, did these great sidelong glances (which were accentuated by makeup) and otherwise fulfilled the role nicely. Bottom, is the troupe founder/director's son. he capably played Romeo last year but Bottom is totally in his wheelhouse. he's a big loud bumptious kid, completely happy to ham it up. all the rude mechanicals were up to the task. the 9 year old girl who played the wall was at least a foot and a half shorter than Bottom/Paramus, which made for good visual humour. a backdrop tumbled toward the audience but the prompter caught it. later, during the performance of Thisby and Paramus, another chunk of the set fell, but the mechanicals caught it, and Bottom said, 'we're not trying to destroy your house'. Bottom's brother, 10, played Thisby, and used a ridiculously effective falsetto. I do not know if the mechanicals could be made any funnier. I think the director wanted Erin to play Thisby, which would have been another effective sight gag. we've never seen the alternate production, but it would be interesting. stars in one production get minor roles in the other. interesting to compare. the young son of friends of ours, with the sterling name of Kempton, played the Indian boy. someone held his hand thru out, elsewise, no doubt, he'd wander off, or something. he and his family were at the halloween party we attended last year, at the home of the play's director. this little fellow spent the evening wandering around. he wore a pirate outfit and carried a sword and a flashlight, indoors and out. at one point, people had gathered around the tv, because the Red Sox were playing the Rockies in maybe the last game of the World Series. Kempton sat all piratey on a hassock up close to the tv, fully rapt. wonderful picture.

learning xml, reading Creeley, and today listened to my first White Stripes. I used to take interest in latestness, but perhaps that is a young person's sport. at any rate, I don't keep up, admitted, tho I'm still a pretty good cultural sponge without trying. so I'm late to the WS party but must weigh in. I like the sense of sound in WS, weird sounds, precise ones. that's a poetic sensibility behind the music. I am utterly taken with the drums. Meg maintains a solid beat with a clattery ambiance. and the drums are kept forward, to secure visceral lift. Phish is great but their sound balance leans heavily towards guitar, tho drums, bass, and piano are just as solid as Trey's feature. "We Are Going to be Friends" is an oddly sweet, folkie song. Jack has a voice of character. the strangled effects of his full-throated rock singing is not to my taste, less interesting, but it is his, at least. for shouty rock singers I'll take Steve Marriott (Small Faces, Humble Pie) who is really good (supposedly Jimmy Page saw Marriott as model for the singer Page wanted for Zep) or, heaven help me, one of the singers for AC/DC. my favourite song, of what I have met, is "My Doorbell". lush piano chords, heavy handed drumming, and splashing cymbals. I've played it at least 20 times today. so what are we going to do about poetry? is the game up or what??? I don't need to be saved tho my blood's in the water. I have voiced my persistence, independent of fair reader. this music here is light, and I think of Creeley's earnest interest, that transcended all that politically-inspired commitment to metered process. he was not quite a garage band, but he kept his instrumentation pretty austere, maybe moreso than Zukofsky, say, who wielded some plump classicism amidst his paring down. Lorine Niedecker. I'm a 1000 page poem guy, yet these practiced essentials are learning nodes for me. I wrote something at work... two things, actually, that I have not looked at. nor have you. poetry is not a social context for me. if you take Creeley free from his connections, well, it is an experiment in essence.

That's Where Dr Bedford Ended Up

died young
is just
a thing
local theatre
production
Bob was not
much better
prepared

I am learning XML. XML stands for X-Men Language and... Okay, it stands for eXtensible Markup Language. I mention this because XML demands firm accuracy. If you open a tag, you have to close it (unlike html, which is a similar mark up language, but much more loose about rules), and all statements must follow a rigid logic. Heaven forfend that you should commit a typo. Please do not fall asleep yet, I am bringing this to thoughts on poetic practice. The rigid demands of xml are challenging to work within, at least when you first start out with it. Think of Oulipo, or simply a defined rhyme and rhythm scheme. Those defined parametres can actually open possibilities for a writer. Oh look, I am beginning sentences with capitals! This, for me, is a stricture. When I first began typing, on a typewriter, I found that the less I used the shift key, the better, one less thing to deal with. A lot of poetry is written at odds with its structure. How many poets make a craft of rhyme and rhythm? Few do, by my reading. Especially in the current day (Henry Gould is an exception, from what I have seen). Metre and rhyme are more like burdens for many poets, as they follow rules they feel they must adopt. One of the keen things about Emily Dickinson is how she subverts the rules. The missteps in her metre and the off rhymes are canny realignment of old virtues. On the other hand, Whitman + rhyme/metre = botched Tennyson, he kowtowed to that structure till he had the good sense to blow it all up. Creeley, who really is the point of this ramble, follows from Dickinson. I cannot think off hand if he ever spoke of her or her influence. His early career was plangently poised in rhyme and metre. Plangently, because he was not smooth or comfortable with the stricture. But he was dogged. In that doggedness, he was able to greet words profoundly Yes, an early volume of his work was Words, followed by Pieces. I did not cotton to Creeley ay tall, when I first met his work. All I could witness then was the clunkiness in For Love and Words. That and the persistent attention in and of words. Which I regard as a virtue, but to read at a time when I didn't know poetry or its possibilities, all I saw was a grey bind. Creeley is not a colourful poet, which is to say, he gave me no toehold. Not until Pieces, which I discovered with the help of Robert Grenier and his class, did I decide that Creeley was great, with writing of a trippy focus.

The Bird
flies. She
flies.

Pretty sure Mr C was at least stoned if not tripping during the composition of these pieces, slightly post-psychedelic age (past the early giddiness, that is). I got Pieces where I didn't get For Love (my copy of that book is loaded with griping marginalia). I got one or two Creeley tomes after P, then moved on (oops, not counting his prose, especially his criticism)). I felt that I had the use of him. Creeley has always been there for me, tho. I want to read deeper now. I think I saw Creeley as Heading 2 to Olson's Heading 1. But that conversation between them, Creeley 16 years younger, was a matter of equals. This downright constancy of Creeley's sense of word and relationship was a structuring influence on the broadcasting intensity of Olson. Olson was a lifelong scholar, but he was a sloppy, crazy ass one. He was an adventure in the act. And that is what I love about him. But not to be fooled that he was clear, organized, or orderly. Creeley had the metre. Olson had this poignant energy that remains a worthy exercise. Olson made arabesque, Creeley found the words. What is wonderful is that they found each other, and combined (to some extent). Olson's local is mapped, whereas Creeley's is personal. We do not need to choose. Creeley took the unit as word, tho that unit had dimensions or aspects within. That breath that Olson talks of, and Ginsberg likewise, sounds nice, locus for their energy (Olson has always been an energy transfer for me), but it is more like a story. Olson's breath is a nervous New England accent, which I imagine I have I am stuck with my heritage). The commanding momentum of Olson is not his breath, but his crazy exuberance. Creeley was never exuberant, he was too tranced by the most local and plain. I am admitting thru out this piece that I fought Creeley. I have had to learn the simplest things last. Olson is all unbound complexity. Creeley is about the words that people us. I hope some of this makes sense. In xml, when you say something, you say it very precisely. Your xml editor will tell you that you have erred. It will not validate what you wrote, it will not tell you that your xml is well-formed (both italicized terms are official xml distinctions). Try thinking of poetry that way, which I think Creeley did. Try thinking of poetry, in general.

to make up for saturday's wretched dragon movie, which I believe was called Dragon Lance (there was yet another dragon flick, as well), Erin and I watched Beowulf. at least it made a modicum of sense, tho it certainly was a sloppy thing. it was done in that live action animation, like 300. it seemed more cartoony than 300. everyone looked made of plastic, and the backgrounds weren't so floridly thrilling as in 300. still, it evoked a sense of Beowulf and that world. I am not saying accurately, just that it all kinda worked. the merrymaking in the mead hall had a stilted quality but you could imagine a real place from that suggestion. by stilted I mean that the animation was of the quality of video games (quality and video games should not, I wot, be associated in the same sentence), especially those bits that delineate the 'plot', before gamester does all that mindless jumping and exploding. then Grendel. he looked misdrawn, or like Gumby after the steamroller hits him. I had the same feeling with the dwarf in 300, the grotesqueness went too gaga. in action, Grendel looked 2-dimensional. his actions were brutal, tearing limbs and biting heads off. these atrocities weren't quite focused on, as if good taste were trying to peek thru. which is silly. I actually think that it should have been more gory, because it came across as Wile E Coyote, especially given that the physics of tossed human bodies didn't seem exactly Newtonian as they floated and revolved serenely. Beowulf was played by a beefy guy unknown to me. I detected Anthony Hopkins behind a beard and big belly, and John Malkovich. Beowulf was kinda like Cuchulain plus super hero. when he fought Grendel, he earnestly did so nude. the naughtiest bits were kept discreetly obscured. again, I think they might as well show them, as a kind of integrity. because there was at least a touch of the priapic in the way Beowulf was presented. his fight with Grendel was fairly stupid. Grendel seemed to change in scale in various shots, Beowulf looked plastic, and movements of both were nothing close to lifelike. okay, so then Grendel dies, and Grendel's mom... Beowulf must deal with her. and she's... it's Angelina Jolie! she's in a gold plastic (opaque Saran Wrap, I'm thinking) body suit, or it is a department store mannekin playing body double. she wears heels, sic, and a long tail. now if this isn't Beowulf with a Hollywood aesthetic then I know not what is. at least it is Angelina Jolie, who can reasonably be cited as iconic hottie of the present day (and she roosts with the male counterpart of that). (!!!). she seduces Beowulf basically by being Angelina Jolie. it doesn't quite work. I mean I acknowledge that in cultural terms there's an uh huh attached to her name, at least if my reading of People magazine is correct. natheless, it is a bit too easy for grand Beowulf to go wobbly. so Anthony Hopkins understands that Beowulf fell for Angelina, as he had earlier. he kills himself. Beowulf is king. blah blah until elderly Beowulf battles the dragon (was it her? I got confused). this is cinematic silliness, enthralling to the degree that people would actually offer such cartoonitude to an intelligent audience. what captivated me was the nihilism that is so intrinsic to Norse myth. Beowulf, the character, was deep in that. which is why gore and John Thomas desrve to be featured. trust me, I am not overweighting this movie. after all, Robert Zemeckis is involved, and the junk that he's done does not impress me. I HAVE read Beowulf, tho it has been decades, and I DO want to read it again. I love the sound of English that way, and the whole framework is compelling. I shall, when I can, return to the written Beowulf. this is the biggest plus of the movie.

a spring day in the full range of that possibility. Beth left before 8:00 to visit her mother in NJ. I had an html project to work on. it was pretty rainy when Beth left. it is Pole Capping Day in this burg, but with the rain that ceremonial event looked unlikely. around 9:30, tho, a clamour began to develop on the green across the street. sun was out, sky was clear. I roused Erin, who normally spends most saturdays in bed, zzzzzzz, but he was excited to see what up. it was a muster of Minuteman companies. which is to say, cosplay, American colonial style. a gallimaufry of fife&drums, and muskets, and the buzz of people. I could at this point explain that Polecapping is a re-enactment of a Sons of Liberty demonstration lo these 233 years agone. we met our friend from the Billerica (that's 3 syllables, s'il vous plait: drop the 'e') Minutemen. we were interrupted by a call to parade. this parade is all of 200 yards, to where the polecapping occurs. one of the few times the town rouses itself from its mundane torpour. the ceremony itself occurs in this traffic island at the edge of the centre. obnoxious speechifying, crap about freedom. a state rep, a town somebody, prattling about what they know not. we listened to this a couple of years ago, and left before the pole was capped. Erin and I waited it out this year, and won the spectacle of... okay, it's like this. back in the day, the Sons of Liberty placed a red cap in an oak tree, signifying defiance. that tree is gone, so the minutemen (women as well) erect a pole there. then a stalwart climbs up, aided by a rope. cap tops the pole. one of the silly myths that speakers tried to promulgate was a sense of unanimity. it is never like that, come on. I've read that the colonies were split roughly in 3rds: against the crown, for it, and neutral. but it was all treated like Thanksgiving rivalry, with no sense of the human complexity. bleah. Erin and I then got hamburgers and sat on the porch and ate. a while later we went on an errand: Erin needed a watch. we biked down to T J Maxx, where you get the max for the minimum. no go. it was spitting rain when we left. coming back, that spitting became torrential. and there was thunder. we pit-stopped at CVS, consumer value store, just to get under cover. I stood at the doorway watching a tremendous downpour. a man in a vehicle parked in the handicap space called me over. he sat in a wheelchair inside the vehicle and asked me to lift the ramp in. I did so but the door would not close. I was soaked before he asked my help, but the rain was even more intense than before, I felt like I was inside a blur. finally he decided that his door control had shorted out, so he had me lower the ramp. Erin had, by this time, come out to help. the man went in in search of screwdriver, where's my Swiss Army knife when needed? back in the store I noticed a selection of watches, and Erin was able to find one both inexpensive and duly high in gizmo rating. I think the man got batteries, and both the clerk and store manager were suitably concerned and helpful. we purchased the watch, then stood in the doorway again, watching a tremendous downpour. the man in the chair solved his problem and drive off. I don't mind the rain but it bothers me to subject my bike to it. but I was now quite cold and we were not far from home. so we cycled off. inches of water were in the road, once more a blur. we both dried and oiled our bikes and changed into dry clothes. by which time the rain had ceased and the sun was out. after dinner the boys settled in for a movie. the choice was between Beowulf and some dragon movie. dragon movie won. we lost. a very long, confused set up supposedly readied us for present day action. it did not. suffice to say that the stiff, male model lead meets with the blonde, bland starlet, and dragons and overlords screech about LA, or whatever city it was. plotwise, it was like taking a text thru various Babelfish excursions before arriving back to English. or what passes for. movies like this are coded, you use the shorthand to get over the need to explain. this movie thrust explanations at us at the beginning, then just unleashed the pyrotechnics. that I dozed off periodically (I am wickedly weary lately) should not suggest that I missed anything. basically, if there is anything basic at all here, Godzilla, and Nazghul, and Transformers, and Power Rangers, and Star Wars, and Lord of the Ring all conspired to inspire this movie. every time I woke up, the pair was elsewhere and more explosions and screeching beasties. I thought there would be deconstructable material in this flick, but there doesn't seem to be any material in it at all, just motion. which relates right back to that stupid ceremony, in which tar and feathering was actually presented in a positive light as part of the Sons of Liberty's actions. sounds like terrorism to me. as too, if you've ever read Nelson Mandela's autobio, his youthful exuberance. a friend brought up Creeley today, a writer I greatly respect and acknowledge debt to, but who I don't entirely enjoy. I think the strength and value of Creeley lies in his dogged attention to the veriest of mundane speech and act. neither the movie or the ceremony evinced any such thing. words and acts are shams, and shameful in that condition. Creeley could not see things that way. I have to return to the texts, Creeley's, because the bullshit is politically and morally not viable. at all.

two not so related things before work. 1st, Days Poem, the book, sits near the top of Ron Silliman's most recent Recently Received. the 1st book on the list is The Journey to Kailish by Mark Allen. hm. down the list a ways, Daniel Abdal-Hayy Moore has 16 books, which total may (or may not) best Days Poem in page count. it's an odd satisfaction seeing my name listed (Ron, read my book first!!!!!), and I am suddenly reminded of WCW's poem El Hombre. except that that poem suggests more modestly than I am willing to claim. god knows if Ron will ever read Days Poem, or many of the books on the list without an Armantrout as author. which is not to doubt his willingness, if only to 'keep up'. but it still feels like being present, my book there in that list. the world is so crowded! knowing that Ron Silliman possesses a certain book, and may thus read it someday, mayhap will tempt you to get said book. duly note that he provides links, which is going the extra mile:

the other thing with which I mean to ramble concerns Facebook. some while ago, I unexpectantly received an invitation to be a Friend. which meant, for me, joining Facebook. and so I went all facebooky for a while. I haven't really given it much time lately, and it does seem to take a bit of time to proceed well with Facebook. so I have a short list of Friends. it's a neat list of people tho I cannot claim them all as homeys. I've met or even know a handful, the rest I have had at least some correspondence with. it is kind of like Silliman's recently Received, or his comments box (to which I do not (well, I think I have once or twice) contribute). I remember seeing a valuation of Facebook as being around 15 billion. which probably is inflated but still. I do not know how Facebook revenues itself, but sure enough people are interested in its service (it seems less overwhelming than Myspace, where florid web design reigns). I just think of the correspondences of which we have record, how that dynamically worked. can Facebook rattle up the same courage of writers. the letters of Olson and Corman (I have always been juiced by Letters To Origin) was never in display mode until the letters were long writ. so that differs from the Facebook practice of public encounter. Facebook distinguishes from listserv, where confrontation is the only distinction. and blogs remain personal territory in the main, with corrals where comments can sun themselves. Facebook may just be a game, but we all must acknowledge how tempting it is to see our names dance out there, all 6 degrees of connection, as if poetry were a power... please meet me on Parnassus top, and bring your Facebook Friends... salut a tous!

I may not have made it clear that I like and respect Jonathan Williams' work, both as poet and as publisher. as a poet, he was adventurous and fun, rollicking even. such playfulness did not deter the seriousness of his work, it informed it. Davenport must have inspired me to read Williams deeper, and I am glad that I did. as publisher, JW brought forth some classics. all honour to him.

the death of Jonathan Williams got me thinking. I never really studied him, in that sense of literary imperative. I met his work in the early 70s, when I read New American Poetry. I enjoyed Elite/Elate, and a couple of short later books. I'm not trying to place him in the poetry pantheon, just indicating my acquaintance. when artists die, exquisite documents of effect appear. those documents tend to work from template and are not, finally, useful. not having met JW, I cannot count coup on his memory in that way, either. it occurred to me that I have no iconic heroes left alive. I think the possibility of iconic hero has burnt off, in fact. Charles Olson affected me as a writer perhaps more than any other, tho I will say that the 1st writer that I emulated was probably Robert Benchley, he also of Worcester, Mass). I did not hear about Olson until as much as a year after his death, so he could hardly fulfill the role for me that Pound and Dahlberg did for O. but I did follow his indications. I read much of those writers associated, however accurately, with Black Mountain. sought out the historians that he touted, Sauer and Harrison, and the ancients. etc. it made sense to me, following this course, and still does. having said that, I recognize that Olson was nuts. Guy Davenport has a terrific essay in which he tries to find someone, among Olson's partisans and peers, who actually got what the Big O was talking about. good luck on that. nothing wrong with that bizarre sort of murk. I would say Jung, for instance, was pretty arcane as well. the caution is simply not to take it all too gullibly or systematically. the Olson Now conference that I attended last year couldn't quite shake free from slavish respect, tho Ben Friedlander for one posed some useful and sharp questions regarding Olson (an unvoiced anti-Semitism). Olson's body has lain mould'ring in the grave for nearly 40 years so the common grief of knowing him should have worn off. for that matter, the equal and opposite re-evaluation should have toned down too, but I do not think it has. I'm reading The Poem of a Life by Mark Scroggins, about Zukofsky. I may not finish it any time soon, my time is focused elsewhere, but it is a fine book about a fascinating character (don't miss the picture of Zukofsky posing on a motorcycle with a couple of friends). there's an urge to study these people that seems both useful and damaging. I have not yet read Scroggins' account of the relationship of the 3 Zukofskys with Lorine Niedecker but know enough that it was muddled and probably not quite as everyone may have said it was. I mean, this sort of thing is context, but also distraction. I learned a lot from Robert Creeley but I essentially stopped reading him 30 years ago. my attention turned elsewhere, which should not be taken as final judgment. I had a dynamic response to the LANGUAGE poets--I should be more specific and not use the damning lump module: Silliman, Bernstein, Hejinian, Perelman, Susan Howe--but they never were larger than life. Kenner identifying a Pound Era is reasonable, but the poetic landscape that I see (in the direction that I am looking) might be called post-LANGUAGE, but only in a dispirited way. CAConrad eulogizes Jonathan Williams with a hail to the positive energy that JW supplied to the poetry world. Conrad kinda deflates that by mentioning the cat and bat in JW's home, personal attributes that I the reader never partook of. Conrad had the opportunity to meet JW but poetry cannot be contingent on such meetings. such personal assertions are distracting, tho I understand the loss. we can look at Olson and see his Dahlberg daddy, his Pound daddy, even his Creeley daddy, as well as his Creeley son. truth is there, but it also follows a literary line to insist too strongly on these dimensions. we have got to keep our eye on the work itself. I guess that's the bottom line I was heading towards when I began this ramble.

just a quick mench of a kitty Kodak moment. said kitty passed thru the house with imperative. upon investigation (an imperative on our part) we discovered that he had a mouse in his mouth. he seemed rather proud of his catch but suddenly, he dropped it. the cat and the 3 of us studied under the furniture for the escapee till finally mousie scampered forth. our cat, Mowgli, put up a good effort in chasing the mouse till the mouse got wise and climbed a bookcase. Mowgli did not think vertically. the mouse remained there so I easily placed a handy mug over it, a piece of cardboard slipped under that, then I transported it to the porch. I placed the mug on the table, and lifted it. mouse took a moment to get its bearings then hopped onto the bannister then leapt a full 6' horizontally while also dropping 6'. and scampered off. Mowgli has finished off mice but admittedly he isn't a great hunter. when he was still kittenish he chased a mouse into a corner. I wanted to capture the mouse so I got close, with glass in hand. well that mouse had some fight in him, he lunged forward and both Mowgli and I lurched back, and mouse escaped. and one more hunting adventure: I saw that a previous cat, who was an effective hunter, caught a chipmunk. I went out and put my hand on the cat to convince him to release the chipmunk. he did. before skipping off, the chipmunk actually swatted the cat on the nose. it was a Chip 'n Dale moment that really pissed the cat off.

a few notes before I do other things with the day. as an early birthday present we gave Erin a hotel room for last night, so that he could spend more time at Anime Boston. he took the bus in early yesterday. we went in in the afternoon with his bag and because the hotel needed to see the credit card personally. his room was on the 28th floor, with a view of the Charles, upon which sailboats darted like tropical fish. and the Prudential Building looming above. it actually gave me vertigo to approach the window. we spent a little while in the lobby, which of course was busy, with a fair share of anime fans in costume. Erin was dressed simply, with furry ears and a long tail, representing I dunno what. the ears match his hair colour, and with his Olsonian proportions, he makes quite a spectacle. which he likes. people really get into the cosplay stuff. many clearly have practiced their poses, wielding their weapon, wand or whatever prop just so. it is fun to watch. I saw an older guy, in the mall outside the convention centre, wolfishly approach a small group of costumed teens. he looked pervy in his rush towards them. I didn't notice him wearing a convention tag, and he didn't look like someone who would attend. just hanging around looking for photo ops. creepy. there are some nice costumes, that took a lot of effort, and money, to make. sometimes it seems some of the kids are overly committed to the dress up, seemingly too earnest in the statement, but mostly it is just fun. when we got home we watched Balls of Fury. I'll say right off, it was pretty decent. it belongs in that widening genre of flicks ruled by Jack Black and will Ferrell. in fact, the star, whose name I just this moment forgot (never heard of him before) could easily replace Black in Black's movies. same slobby appeal, tho I find him sweeter than JB, whose humour is pretty passive-aggressive. which wears on me. the movie was written and produced by Thomas Lennon, who is behind Reno 911, and some sketch comedies that I've seen. the plot concerns a ping pong wunderkind whose career crumbles when his father is killed. then, as an adult, is coaxed back into the game so that he can get access to this criminal overlord, the same one who killed his father. etc, that sort of plot. in the Ferrell movies that I've seen, and in Nacho Libre, the plot got in the way, but didn't seem to with Balls of Fury. there's a truism, comedies need less plot, not more. having said that, I was taken aback when the female lead suddenly becomes love interest. I didn't notice the turning point when her initial antipathy towards him melted. I guess you need to connect a few of the dots. I think the star's name is Dan Fogler, and maybe if I would have kept up with reading People or Rolling Stone, I'd know more about him. the best thing about the movie was James Hong and Christopher Walken. Hong has been in zillions of movies, Hollywood's go to Asian. within that imposed limit, he's a terrific character actor. in B of F, he has the Mr Miyagi role, and has lots of fun with it. Walken is simply a weirdo. in this movie he gets to ham it up, but there's always something twisty in his characters. and he has that same way of giving odd readings to his lines that Brando had. the movie sustained its pace, which is something the other entries in the genre have failed to do. so anyway, I guess I should check to see if there's anything behind this big rock over here.

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.