ongoing thingie in blog format. id est, something I'm writing currently, present tense. probably will stick it on my site too, but later for that. for those who abhor the friendly pleading popups of my free site.

having met Christina Strong the other night, I can meetly advert her blog. need an influx of new blogs, as I may trim too. since she mentions my name the choice is a natural. I want busy bees on my blog roll. I won't trim David Hess's name from the list of blogs, but I suggest that he get cracking, postwise. I mean sure, a person can be 'too busy' or 'working on something big' or 'bored with blogging' or 'terribly sick' or 'suffering heroin withdrawal', yadda yadda. none of that stops me from posting, no matter how insipid. it's about quantity, not quality, and David for one should be sharp enough to understand that. anyway, adjustments perhaps.

fence 

beach grass 

daffodils doing hard time 

tree 

dawn with rosy fingers 

the morning after the night before, when my sullen abuse of the term sociable played before a largely new crowd, we automobiled ourselves towards NJ and the mother of Beth. such journeying explains the dearth of reports concerning my innermost, which no doubt set you all aback. but here follows the full report of our travels, or if not that, then a healthy selection of photos from oh maybe 600 taken. I'm most particularly fond of the shots in which I can remember or at least vaguely parse out why I took them. those pix go into my special category. but sooth to say, I mayn't be at this long, as 3 hours sleep doesn't seem to've brought Mr Sleepy Head much rest. a largely non-exciting ride down, except that Beth had to stop at Ikea in Connect-I-Cut, which served to throw us into NYC oh about rush hour of a monday pm. that took a while but New York looked pretty in the springtime glow, and nothing else slowed our journey. and really nothing much happened in Jersey by the great Atlantic. visits to the beach several times a day, some running, sketching, writing, eating. the most exciting thing I did was read again Alfred and Guinivere by James Schuyler. I'd liked it before but that was 30 years ago. I'd either forgotten or was too dumb to register how wonderful the book is. thanks to Jonathan Mayhew for mentioning it recently. I think now that it might be better than A Nest of Ninnies. NN is arch in a funny, lovingly pointless way. AG is simply a champion little novel. that it is brief is to its credit. seems like no off tones at all, nothing added for adding's sake. which is rare in novels. and I am a fan of the big bruisers of modern lit: Ulysses, Moby Dick, Remembrance of Things Past (I've only read Moncrief's translations, about which I have questions), etc. AG is succinct without being merely crisp. the humour is charming, especially Guinvere's letters and journals. Schuyler is so delicate and sly, like Twain at his best (points in Huck Finn). I'm too tired to extol properly now, so will only suggest that Bramholics line up behind copies of the book and read it up. I still like NN, but now see AG as mor complete. What's For Dinner? isn't in my library's network, so I haven't read it, but if I see it... Schuyler's diary awaits even now, which I look forward to. all else I read while away was a good deal of Maximus, some Whitman and some Jung. I guess I am ready to speak of yesterday's ride home. Beth, Erin and I decided it would be a good idea if we came home when every major artery in NJ was filled to the gills with traffic. a horrific crash of trucks very early yester morn resulted in the closing of the turnpike, so every alternate route enjoyed the benny of added traffic influx. and the good people, having gathered, followed their usual pursuits of the perfect tie up of traffic. the well timed crash here and there worked its magic. and all the while, we slyly in our ignorance chose to head towards Trenton and the point where Washington crossed the Delaware. that was lovely but we got a little confuzzled after leaving there so that we seemed to keep arriving in Trenton again and again. we also got the impression that Oldham Ave leads everywhere. once free from that loop, we found that all the likely routes our psychotically crummy map book offered were entropic. we reached a point where we stared at the map, knowing that the NJ Parkway, and 287, and 1 were all impossible, and no other lines on the map seemed to follow our intended direction. so we chose the Garden State Parkway which would've been real handy had we not opted to take a history lesson. which, again, was lovely. in Newark, I suppose, things started getting thick. apparently a lot of people live and work in NYC. 95 should've felt better, for that route passes just a few miles from home so it's got that local feel. but that local feel didn't make up for 10 mph progress. and too: in NJ, if you don't know, trained professionals must fill your tank with gas. the one who served us the day we arrived forgot to put the gas cap back on. that put a light on the dashboard into disconcerting warn mode, something about our emissions, it is trying to say. and plus furthermore, 8+ hours of idling kinda heated up the engine. nothing drastic in either case but kept us worrying. oh I didn't mench that while waiting at a light, someone bid us roll down the window to ask why we were in NJ. Beth said to see Washington's Crossing (being cagey about mentioning her mother). the guy said, glad you've come down here, it's nice to see Massachusetts people. I thought he was going to mention something about our gas cap, or maybe say choice words about Erin's Red Sox shirt. anyway, around 7pm we stopped at the Vince Lombardi service area, where you can read pearls of his wisdom if you need them while scarfing a Burger King burger. we ate and let the car cool. after that we inched toward the GW Bridge. at the last possible moment Beth executive decisioned us to rt 9 and/or Palisdes Parkway. we didn't know specifically where this would get us, but it at least let the car roar along at better than 10 mph. the engine felt better and it perked us up to go the speed limit. we zipped along to parts somewhat unknown, backtracked a scosh, noted that 9D runs parallel to the Hudson and must be wonderful in daylight. when we found good ole 84 we abandoned retro rockets and scooted. dog and cat apparently not maltreated by the girl who came in to feed them. so what did you do this past week?

Beth and I went to Christina Strong's to honour Tim Peterson, who goes to New York as part of a Boston/NYC cultural exchange program in which that city gets a bright, talented, generous poet and this one gets zilch. well, we won the World Series last year, the clinching of which Beth and I missed due to sports black out at the digs of this selfsame (there are those who call me...) Tim. no chance he'll turn Yankee fan, at least. we began by meeting Jack Kimball at his place in the vast spreaded confluence of houses and trees called the city of Newton. the place was gearing up for today's Marathon. roadside graves were already being dug for those runners who misjudge how hard running a marathon is. I rode with Jack, apparently to witness his crazy ass driving, but no one got completely killed so it was all good. Christina began the evening with a poem for Tim, funny and loving. Jack read 3 poems, including this one. Jack changed the you of the poem to Tim. it's a lovely poem, as I should've noted earlier. direct and loving, and funny, the poem shimmered around statements but stayed in feeling. Jack's a great reader. James Cook read a number of poems by himself, Jack Spicer (one of his baseball poems, necessitating an explanation for Tim's benefit as to what Baseball is), Allen Ginberg, Robert Creeley. a well wrought poetic excursion. myself read this poem, because it is a picture that I wanted Tim to have. my emotions are very close to the surface right now, and I was feeling this powerfully as I read. Tim asked me to read a little of this thing, a collaboration we did. the intention, Tim's, was to write the world's longest poetry blurb. I read up to the 1st mention of Britney Spear, then Tim read. Tim followed with several poems, narratives you might say, and quite nice. Sean Cole read a poem derived from a Boston police report, then he read the report itself. funny in the way O'Hara is funny, which is to say, light to the point of darkness. oh, I also read this short poem:

I have made a list of
things you can do
that will tell me that
you love me


I call it
a strategy
so you won't
lose hope


again, it was a piece with a feeling that I wanted to share with Tim. Ruth Lepson read a rhymey playful piece she wrote to Tim. Joel I can't recall his name (sorry) read a Herrick poem and a bit from Shakespeare, inserting Tim's name in both (Tim of Athens!!!), which was funny and very effecive. Mark Lamoureux did not read as he too leaves for the Apple and will have less opportunity to miss Tim. by an unusual coincidence (but was it really a coincidence???), everyone in attendence wore the same ball gown. of course at 1st we were all embarassed then we just laughed. Jack stirred up a consideration of our local heritage among those who've drifted to the area. come to the Bawston area and find you have Lowell and Olson and Plath and Creeley and Wiener and so forth to deal with in this weighty but of course way. I am much the localite, as I've lived all my years right here. Thoreau, Emerson and Hawthrone are heartily placed just down the road, a fact that carries something for me. one recalls that Olson was rather possessive of his Gloucester, as Vincent Ferrini found out (and O chid Ted Enslin for writing about kingfishers, a bird that O thought he had made his own). I talked quite a bit with James Cook, because he lives in Gloucester and is into Olson, who I simply love. for all that, I've never done an Olson tour, but it is on my list. I also like the idea of his throwing Olson and Spicer at his high school students. when I was in 10th grade, my English teacher did 2 things. 1) he dispatched with grammar in a matter of weeks, doing so in a way that (finally) made sense to me; and 2) he asked us what a poem was, with the ulteriour motive of freeing us from the plangent suggestions of our cultural heritage. it took me a year to start writing on my own, but this teacher was the only one who offered the hope of freedom, rather than the idea that form is rules. and so it all went, a pleasant evening. goodbye Tim.

the piece below is more experiment, or play. I took part of Nietzsche's Gotzen-Dammerung, German version that is, which must be Twilight of the Gods in regular language, and performed a spellcheck on it. then I fussed with the results. I rather like it, but mainly it's neat just to work outside the usual mode. this is another way to place meaning, that is meaning, secondary to structure. in using formal structures, whether it be regulated metre and rhyme scheme or Silliman's fibonnaci drill, one accepts the consequence that the form imparts. expected word order shifts, for instance, to fit rhyme and metre. applying to such forms, one can avoid some base intentions. the results still have to please. it's just a means of making.

spruce tuned fertile

1. music gang mist tells Psychologies of fang. Wise? Were Psychology's sins Lasters?

2. Such deer Thighbones won sun's hat with fur svelteness in the den Mouth zoo deem, washed her negligent weirs.

3. Um... mullein zoo lebensraum, muss man sin in Their odour vein. Got to skein salt Aristotle. Felt doer dirty Fall: man muss Betides skein: Philosophy.

4. "Alley Fahrenheit mist infatuate." Fist days night whiteface vine Loge?

5. Inch will, vein for alley Mall, Wireless night wiser. Die Weisenheimer Fonzie, such dear Clark Kentness Frenzies.

6. Man holsters rich in sign off wilder Nature unbeaten Avon lady signed off Unnaturally, Avon lady signs off Atheistic.

7. Wise? list all dear Mensch fur vein that Merv Griffin has Gotten. odour Got too far in vain Griffin dyes Mensches?

8. Bus dear crack school dyes Lebensraum. Was mite night upbringing, mast mite starker?

9. Half deer seller: damn hilt deer note Undermanned arrangement. Principle dear knock back stein liter.

10. Pass manned Ronald Reagan sign off. Landlubber's sign off Heightens begetting! ass man sine cosine night hinterlands, aim Pastiche last! Dear Dissensions list indignations.

11. Kant feigns Edsel tragic stain? Pass man punter diner Last zoo Grunge get, dying man weeds outrages, note Zimbabwean constancy. Dear Fall dyes Philosopher.

12. Hat man's stein is warm? dyes Lebensraum so introverts can man rich fast might edema-wise? Dear Mensch street night nacho Louise Glück; furious dear Englander hut days.

13. Deranged Man hat days Web chaffering, aurora's dote? Bus diner Ripper signs off ill Gotten, signs off "Ideals"...

14. Was dew such street? dew lightest ditch Verizon focus, thunderhead dew. such street Hungering, such Sullen.

15. Posthumous Mensches zoom Spiels, warden Bechtel's understander gals make zeitgeist, saber lesson for Joe Besser. Stringer: wiry warden nine understander tuned dasher unsure of Tutorials.

16. Enter Frowning. "Die Fahrenheit? Oh Sire kennel, die Fahrenheit night! Fist sine night vein Tentative auk alley unsure grandeurs"

17. Dais list vein Koestler's, wise is Koestler's liege, subsidences sign off Dissenter's: era will negligently form hurly burly, Stein Broadly tuned in Unstable, panel ate Circe.

18. Ewer sign off Willed night indie Dingle zoo, legmen weirs, dear legit fastenings linen Sink note whine: days heisted, era Flaubert, ass vein Oscar Wilde berates Bobby Darin simmer (Principle dyes "Flaubert").

19. Wise? ear waltz does Tugboat tending tuned xenophobes, Busiest tune sent nucleic shell nacho Northerly dear lightning. Amber might dear Tug end Roy Lichtenstein manning auk "Northeaster"... (cinema Antisemitism and diet Exhausting.)

20. Dais commendably Web begets Literature, wise as vine Madeleine Sunday beget: zoom Versus aim for bird, rich crumbliness, obsess Remand:
emergent tuned asses Remand temerity.

21. Site in later Lager debenture qua manly sign off. Superintendence haven dwarfs quote man overwhelmed, wise dear seltzer bottle (auk sign them Sale) underwent odourous divan commute.

22. "Base Mensches haven sign off Lieder." Wise commuters, ass die Russet Lieder haven?

23. "Scherzo Ageist": snit yachtsmen Fahrenheit vinous contradiction in adjective.

24. Dammit, ass man nacho den Cotangents, such weird man Maynard G. Krebs. Dear Prehistoric sight truck warts; lichen Flaubert era such truck wars.

25. Fahrenheit's Nietzsche obstacle for erstwhile tone. Hat jet rich vine Web, days rich gut kaleidescopes wussies off kilter? Inch seize den Fall, days sat trauma kaleidescope war.

26. Inch distraught Allen Systematize style on gene edge. fishnet ads demo Keg. Dear Oscar Wilde zooms System list vein Mangle at Kaffee klatsches.

27. Man hilt days Web for chef warning. veil manikin beg him awesome den Gerund commute. Dais Web list note night malingering flak.

28. Venn diagram days Web lichens Gender hat, so listees zoom to divan laughing; tune went sign off enriched by Gender hat, so tufted as obstacle divan.

comments field is gone here. the only reason I'd want to retain comments is for compliments (you rock, Allen!!! or maybe: awesomely said, Allen!!!!!). I don't believe that dialogue works in comments boxes. you can email me if you have something you've got to say to me. I don't assume that you do.

talked with a young writer friend the other day. he's 10. I've known Isaac for 2 years. used to do a class with him, now we hang and talk. it's not condescension to call him a writer, he's very busy at it, takes it seriously. and his use of visual has been instructive for me. he recently wrote a story in columns, 4 per page. the idea being that he was writing Chinese. his writing would be a feast for Jung, for it's full of archetypal imagery. a great deal of murder goes on in his stories, inscrutable Shakespearian tragedy. he wrote a series of mysteries featuring a Holmesian detective called Septic Option. I asked where he got he name. he replied he got it off a box of Rid-X, a product that treats septic tanks. he wasn't being self-consciously clever, as I would've had I gotten the name that way, he just saw the word combo and liked it. he very much thinks of himself as a writer but doesn't need to convince the world yet. there is something greatly therapeutic for him in his writing. writing and drawing provide a vocabulary by which he can deal with the traumas of life. so there's an aspect of expressive threapy to his work, but it would be cheating Isaac to say that's all his work is. it's a basic confrontation with elemental issues, for sure, and also an artistic journey. he's not at the point where he rewrites, it's still simply a mighty outpouring, but there is integrity to his artistic vision. that's what gets me about the Foetry drama. so much wallowing in rep. and it's all such a mess of non-issues, except that they're promulgated by needy people prancing publicly. what a thin tea that sweat makes! nervous artist types.

I wouldn't advise the non-crank Enrique Gould nor any the others who've quit or threatened to quit blogging to keep on with their blogs. I continue to have trouble staying on with the project, and I love writing this thing. this sort of writing works with my particular process. I can see how blog-writing might distract others from their process, for me it fits my method. but it can become a show, a public dance. examples of such cheap thrills are out there, easy enough to find. how's my career look everyone? maybe this thing reads like that but from this end it is useful (albeit fun) work for me. but still... I quit the flarf list, where I didn't belong anyway, tired, and I don't feel any group attachment. Henry's comments below regarding hisnon-crankiness are pretty sharp, and kind of inspire this pallid rumination here.

I should've noted my regrets that Henry G has left the building. not enough iconoclastic cranks in Po-BizLand. anyone can repeat the effable, it's the singular ones who are of interest.

I mean, imagine if Alan Cordles and Jim Behrle both hated me: I'd sure be up shit creek. and if Ron Silliman lumped me with his latest monolith, I guess that would hurt pretty bad. I mean, if any or all of that happened, it'd totally be all over for me. wow, have I had a vision of hell just now!!!

I mean, let's assume that high schools over, and we've moved on...

I mean, if Foetry.com could ever hurt you, shouldn't you wonder why you're so tender?

christ, Jim Behrle casts himself smaller and smaller the more he whacks the dead horse. the Iron Hand crush'd the Tyrants head and became a tyrant in his Stead.

I guess John Latta will be glad to know that I agree with his point about Silliman's fight against School of Quietude. Silliman procceeds with a concerted lumping together process, badgering this idea he has of School of Quietude. the conservative politics we see in this country bases itself on people doing the same effing thing. Silliman embarks on a dispiriting imitation of criticism when he deplores the monolith he imagines. he has too much intelligence to be this lazy.