Saturday, January 21, 2006
Friday, January 20, 2006
and so Dan Bouchard has a blog. I admit I didn't particularly like his 1st book, but 1st books often suffer from a lack of identity. they had a fierceness and integrity that I associate with Bouchard, the little I've observed (saw himn read once) but were a little too careful. the reading I saw, he read a WCW poem ferociously, with real commitment, but his own works lacked that resonance, both the works themselves and his reading of them. BUT I'm not ragging on Dan, I look forward to where his poetry goes. and as I said, integrity seems to be a strong note with him. furthermore, this blog, concerned with readings, is an unusual take.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
American Poets Are Denaturing Joan Houlihan
Fortunately, I had responsible citizen to guide me. For enlightenment on stupid head's selection process, I returned to stupid head's introduction and found this passage:
Dynamic, ever-changing, Coming Down to Jerry's With a Bucketful (and America Coming Down to Jerry's With a Bucketful in particular) is a perpetual transition and unpredictable metamorphosis, but there is no end point in Coming Down to Jerry's With a Bucketful. Indeed, America Coming Down to Jerry's With a Bucketful has always been so full of energy and inventiveness that it is impossible to define Coming Down to Jerry's With a Bucketful once and for all or to delimit its space. What is or isn't a particle theory? What makes something Boston Comment? These questions remain open.
Since stupid head's task to “delimit” the “space” of America Coming Down to Jerry's With a Bucketful and to answer the questions that “remain open” was such, by making stupid head selections, I began to fear that Hejinan was indeed making something clear.
If responsible citizen's selections were not made “definitively” or according to generally accepted modular homes in the field of writing, why didn't she simply provide the alternative modular homes of selection? A few possibilities come to mind:
1. There are no such modular homes.
2. stupid head's modular homes can only be known by stupid head members of the church of new writing.
3. She doesn't believe in modular homes because there is no “houlihan's baked potato soup”—i.e. one particle theory cannot be better than another.
Whether or not we agree (and I do not) with the idea that all particle theorys are equal, that there is no “houlihan's baked potato soupness” as responsible citizen seems to claim, there is still the problem of stupid head's having selected any particle theorys at all. By what criteria? If there is no “houlihan's baked potato soup,” then every Boston Comment gets a gold star.
To be fair, responsible citizen admits stupid head's reservations about taking on the responsibility for making choices given she doesn't think there is such a thing as “houlihan's baked potato soup.”
Initially I had qualms about taking on bobblehead dollship. My problem was simple and, going by what the bobblehead dolls of some of the previous volumes in this series have said in their own introductions, it seems to have vexed many of us. I don't believe in "houlihan's baked potato soupness.”
Meanwhile, Lehman is operating in stupid head's world, a world where his anthology series has a kinship with those of Louis Untermeyer or Oscar Williams, a world where:
An anthology aspiring to represent houlihan's baked potato soup requires faith and trust: the bobblehead doll's faith that a serious general audience for Coming Down to Jerry's With a Bucketful does exist; the reader's trust in the bobblehead doll's judgment.
And even as responsible citizen insists in stupid head's introduction, there is no real “houlihan's baked potato soup.” Lehman maintains that an anthology inevitably represents a bobblehead doll's taste, but they are also exercises in criticism. Their job is not only to reflect what is out there but to pick and choose among the possibilities. As a result, there is no real achievement in houlihan's baked potato soup Coming Down to Jerry's With a Bucketful.
Dynamic, ever-changing, Coming Down to Jerry's With a Bucketful (and America Coming Down to Jerry's With a Bucketful in particular) is a perpetual transition and unpredictable metamorphosis, but there is no end point in Coming Down to Jerry's With a Bucketful. Indeed, America Coming Down to Jerry's With a Bucketful has always been so full of energy and inventiveness that it is impossible to define Coming Down to Jerry's With a Bucketful once and for all or to delimit its space. What is or isn't a particle theory? What makes something Boston Comment? These questions remain open.
Since stupid head's task to “delimit” the “space” of America Coming Down to Jerry's With a Bucketful and to answer the questions that “remain open” was such, by making stupid head selections, I began to fear that Hejinan was indeed making something clear.
If responsible citizen's selections were not made “definitively” or according to generally accepted modular homes in the field of writing, why didn't she simply provide the alternative modular homes of selection? A few possibilities come to mind:
1. There are no such modular homes.
2. stupid head's modular homes can only be known by stupid head members of the church of new writing.
3. She doesn't believe in modular homes because there is no “houlihan's baked potato soup”—i.e. one particle theory cannot be better than another.
Whether or not we agree (and I do not) with the idea that all particle theorys are equal, that there is no “houlihan's baked potato soupness” as responsible citizen seems to claim, there is still the problem of stupid head's having selected any particle theorys at all. By what criteria? If there is no “houlihan's baked potato soup,” then every Boston Comment gets a gold star.
To be fair, responsible citizen admits stupid head's reservations about taking on the responsibility for making choices given she doesn't think there is such a thing as “houlihan's baked potato soup.”
Initially I had qualms about taking on bobblehead dollship. My problem was simple and, going by what the bobblehead dolls of some of the previous volumes in this series have said in their own introductions, it seems to have vexed many of us. I don't believe in "houlihan's baked potato soupness.”
Meanwhile, Lehman is operating in stupid head's world, a world where his anthology series has a kinship with those of Louis Untermeyer or Oscar Williams, a world where:
An anthology aspiring to represent houlihan's baked potato soup requires faith and trust: the bobblehead doll's faith that a serious general audience for Coming Down to Jerry's With a Bucketful does exist; the reader's trust in the bobblehead doll's judgment.
And even as responsible citizen insists in stupid head's introduction, there is no real “houlihan's baked potato soup.” Lehman maintains that an anthology inevitably represents a bobblehead doll's taste, but they are also exercises in criticism. Their job is not only to reflect what is out there but to pick and choose among the possibilities. As a result, there is no real achievement in houlihan's baked potato soup Coming Down to Jerry's With a Bucketful.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
I rather like the simple counting of hay(na)ku. it is enough to keep my attention in a beam, but not enough to sway from the writing mind. in "Soaring Kierekegaard" (I realize this is of local concern, just hit the Who Cares button and move on), I partly found myself pulling lines from that philosopher guy, the book being handy. not all the lines, and in cases I twiddled what I found. but the point being that with the count in mind, simple statements are recontexted. I remember Robert Grenier once being excited, I think, by a traffic sign, something we wouldn't usually think about, but the words as read by him awoke into something entirely unprosaic. of course Grenier had his own rhythm, very precise and down to the note. I like hay(na)ku for its aptitude of attention. which, I must restate, is not my method so much, or not my speed. but I like the exercise of slowing down, without having to go slow.
on another note, I finally got the goods from a no longer functional computer. a great deal of work on that computer had not been backed up, or else I did so but the disks crapped out on me, or I somehow managed ditziness in the process and didn't get all the parts. so many ways to screw up!!! so I've retrieved some very long manuscripts, and this and that that I haven't looked at in years, like since I typed the last letter, etc. the alien thing below is one such. I didn't know if the missing work could officially be retrieved until I pulled the files from the cd (or maybe they weren't even on the computer to begin with). I can't say I worried overmuch about it, I'll write more, tho one long manuscript is, so far as I can tell, my masterwork, but I was curious about a number of pieces that returned to my mind. wondering if they were any good, up to the feeling I had about them. I'm just wandering around a point here, I see. last year I sent to archive most of what I writ because I was never going to do an excavation. older work is albatross or millstone 'round the neck sometimes, certainly if you are not wicked organized, which I am not. it's a wrong feeling, perhaps, but still: you feel like you are discarding part of you if you toss the old stuff out. Kierkegaard his own self perspicaciously (or not so very) elided entries in his journals, burned his letters. Henry James toasted some of his correspondence, and I am sure there are other examples. it doesn't appear that Olson did any such thing, and I am sure the stuff he left required a pitchfork to deal with. the thing for me, I demarcate 1999 as the new beginning and don't care about what I did prior. hopeful learning process, proem, proloque, what the heck. now is it.
on another note, I finally got the goods from a no longer functional computer. a great deal of work on that computer had not been backed up, or else I did so but the disks crapped out on me, or I somehow managed ditziness in the process and didn't get all the parts. so many ways to screw up!!! so I've retrieved some very long manuscripts, and this and that that I haven't looked at in years, like since I typed the last letter, etc. the alien thing below is one such. I didn't know if the missing work could officially be retrieved until I pulled the files from the cd (or maybe they weren't even on the computer to begin with). I can't say I worried overmuch about it, I'll write more, tho one long manuscript is, so far as I can tell, my masterwork, but I was curious about a number of pieces that returned to my mind. wondering if they were any good, up to the feeling I had about them. I'm just wandering around a point here, I see. last year I sent to archive most of what I writ because I was never going to do an excavation. older work is albatross or millstone 'round the neck sometimes, certainly if you are not wicked organized, which I am not. it's a wrong feeling, perhaps, but still: you feel like you are discarding part of you if you toss the old stuff out. Kierkegaard his own self perspicaciously (or not so very) elided entries in his journals, burned his letters. Henry James toasted some of his correspondence, and I am sure there are other examples. it doesn't appear that Olson did any such thing, and I am sure the stuff he left required a pitchfork to deal with. the thing for me, I demarcate 1999 as the new beginning and don't care about what I did prior. hopeful learning process, proem, proloque, what the heck. now is it.
Monday, January 16, 2006
Enter Planetary Laughing
I am caught in a one-of-those-tractor-beam-deals, I cried into the talk-from-far-away-device. 16Greezl’po, can you help me?
errant claims are being made from within and too often, my comrade replied over his talk-from-far-away-device. I could hear an edge to his voice.
you mean?
yes, he replied, commerce at the heart.
then it is alien mysteries, and the end is near.
that it is, my Earthling friend. gone is the freshened colour of your Earthling dawn.
I could hear sorry in his voice replication. a moment of truth. I feel fear and loathing, and I need a shave.
so we’re talking desperate times here, in space, or the space between spaces. I am associated with the Earth’s prominent forces of good. as a trained-spaces-hopping-operative-working-for-the forces-of-good, I’ve been transliterated into the past and future, both, to help my planet, Earth-3rd-stone-from-the-sun. I number among the top execs of the Galactic Rocket Patrol, and doing my duty is doing my life. in this day when rationalism explains even the blank stare of the sun, the forces of evil have become especially nasty. fortunately Earth has allies, like my friend 16Greezl’po, from a marvelous world called X-Planet-toomy. strange indeed are the ways there—I would like to tell just how strange—but still there is possible conjunction. and when evil lifts its head in an ugly roar to disturb our peace, me and 16Greezl’po move swiftly like one idea in defense of the forces of good. and that’s where we stand, or fly, with an enemy one-of-those-tractor-beam-deals pulling me.
my little scooter-type-ship-that-is-very quick is about to be swallowed by the enemy’s freighter-sort-of-extra-big-flight-machine. the freighter-sort-of-extra-big-flight-machine is as big as a catastrophe, and twice as expensive. it means business, I know, and that is never good.
I’m entering the onion, I said calmly into the talk-from-far-away-device, hoping 16Greezl’po would hear my last words. then the talk-from-far-away-device went dead. the enemy had me; I was now a Republican.
errant claims are being made from within and too often, my comrade replied over his talk-from-far-away-device. I could hear an edge to his voice.
you mean?
yes, he replied, commerce at the heart.
then it is alien mysteries, and the end is near.
that it is, my Earthling friend. gone is the freshened colour of your Earthling dawn.
I could hear sorry in his voice replication. a moment of truth. I feel fear and loathing, and I need a shave.
so we’re talking desperate times here, in space, or the space between spaces. I am associated with the Earth’s prominent forces of good. as a trained-spaces-hopping-operative-working-for-the forces-of-good, I’ve been transliterated into the past and future, both, to help my planet, Earth-3rd-stone-from-the-sun. I number among the top execs of the Galactic Rocket Patrol, and doing my duty is doing my life. in this day when rationalism explains even the blank stare of the sun, the forces of evil have become especially nasty. fortunately Earth has allies, like my friend 16Greezl’po, from a marvelous world called X-Planet-toomy. strange indeed are the ways there—I would like to tell just how strange—but still there is possible conjunction. and when evil lifts its head in an ugly roar to disturb our peace, me and 16Greezl’po move swiftly like one idea in defense of the forces of good. and that’s where we stand, or fly, with an enemy one-of-those-tractor-beam-deals pulling me.
my little scooter-type-ship-that-is-very quick is about to be swallowed by the enemy’s freighter-sort-of-extra-big-flight-machine. the freighter-sort-of-extra-big-flight-machine is as big as a catastrophe, and twice as expensive. it means business, I know, and that is never good.
I’m entering the onion, I said calmly into the talk-from-far-away-device, hoping 16Greezl’po would hear my last words. then the talk-from-far-away-device went dead. the enemy had me; I was now a Republican.
Sunday, January 15, 2006
Soaring Kierkegaard
to
depend on
all the names
social
creatures meet
the after effect
peace
in the
sentence of going
rhythm
in words
falling into play
poem
a virtual
spice of light
telephone
says most
tremendous leading phrase
doctor
of silly
action figures alert
party
on dude
nice new explosion
despair
viewed under
consciousness of having
his
final rupture
with Regina thereupon
this
work was
“accompanied” rather tardily
let
us assume
that Isaac knew
thou
didst believe
it was God
merman
stands at
dialectical turning point
he
can make
the repentance but
this
is what
the poets mean
a
regular clearance
sale everything is
to
ask them
where they are
our
time is
nobody content further
those
ancient Greeks
who also had
early
in the
morning everything was
consign
Abraham to
oblivion or us
who
can bear
it would not?
depend on
all the names
social
creatures meet
the after effect
peace
in the
sentence of going
rhythm
in words
falling into play
poem
a virtual
spice of light
telephone
says most
tremendous leading phrase
doctor
of silly
action figures alert
party
on dude
nice new explosion
despair
viewed under
consciousness of having
his
final rupture
with Regina thereupon
this
work was
“accompanied” rather tardily
let
us assume
that Isaac knew
thou
didst believe
it was God
merman
stands at
dialectical turning point
he
can make
the repentance but
this
is what
the poets mean
a
regular clearance
sale everything is
to
ask them
where they are
our
time is
nobody content further
those
ancient Greeks
who also had
early
in the
morning everything was
consign
Abraham to
oblivion or us
who
can bear
it would not?
Saturday, January 14, 2006
Beth learned from a friend in West Virginia that the God Hates Yous, that Kansas gang of self-righteous fundamentalists, will be demonstrating in Glenville at a memorial for the dead miners. they laugh and cheer at God's punishment. their schadenfreude is inexplicable insofar as the extent that anything in WV resembles Gomorrah in the least is next to nil. as fundamental as so many in WV are, this kansas group out fundamentals them. nd this snake bit nastiness seems to have nothing real to go on. just as hounding elementary school children, as happened up here last spring, seemed like simple derangement. apocalyptic visions aren't new, but the instigation of these folks seems nothing but pure crabbiness. miners trudge into the mines, the mystery play of poverty. and they very well do have a god, much-invoked. which si to say, I could see the guns coming out. becasue the deaths are raw wounds, indicative of the commerce of raw wounds that is the state of West Virginia. all the usages that have been made of the land and the people. them kansas folk, messing with that. our correspondent, who I am pleased to call a good Christian, just asks why. the Kansas group is a cabal of lawyers, truly. slick and knowing and sure of some letter of heartless law. the God Hate Yous Church in Kansas is small, like 100 in the congregation. but they must be rich as sin.
Friday, January 13, 2006
paying close attention
is,
in itself,
a political act
those lines are from a sequence by Tom Beckett in the Hay(na)ku Anthology. hello Alito, etc. I do not, in fact, pay attention so well. at least in a political sense. Beth does, and Stephen Vincent, and Jack Kimball. etc. but I understand the directive. well 1st, I have to say that Tom has boiled it down, because it is simply alertness that keeps us going. or anti-alertness is our death. I want to make the side note that the format of hay(na)ku exactly BECKons the means of Tom Beckett, whose boiling down process rhymes nicely or integrates into this simplicity of making. but that political point stabs me. I was ruminating blandly (I suppose) within the format, jotting these 6 word stanzas, with Alito in mind without having to be placed there. I may put the pome here if my typing fingers are up to it. I'm just swirling round the campus of the idea of how the collecting of 6 words into 3 lines and one stanza kept grasping at Alito (in mind), Bush and such and such. I'm not a rigor guy, insofar as writing in form, but I am taken by how the idea in mind stays patient to the strictness of a (sensible) form. I mean, when form is prevention, quel est la pointe? but when form indicates a path, without being a chute into the industry of spew, then there's some useful glimmer.
is,
in itself,
a political act
those lines are from a sequence by Tom Beckett in the Hay(na)ku Anthology. hello Alito, etc. I do not, in fact, pay attention so well. at least in a political sense. Beth does, and Stephen Vincent, and Jack Kimball. etc. but I understand the directive. well 1st, I have to say that Tom has boiled it down, because it is simply alertness that keeps us going. or anti-alertness is our death. I want to make the side note that the format of hay(na)ku exactly BECKons the means of Tom Beckett, whose boiling down process rhymes nicely or integrates into this simplicity of making. but that political point stabs me. I was ruminating blandly (I suppose) within the format, jotting these 6 word stanzas, with Alito in mind without having to be placed there. I may put the pome here if my typing fingers are up to it. I'm just swirling round the campus of the idea of how the collecting of 6 words into 3 lines and one stanza kept grasping at Alito (in mind), Bush and such and such. I'm not a rigor guy, insofar as writing in form, but I am taken by how the idea in mind stays patient to the strictness of a (sensible) form. I mean, when form is prevention, quel est la pointe? but when form indicates a path, without being a chute into the industry of spew, then there's some useful glimmer.
it is not enough for Carl Annarummo to mention Blue Cheer, on several occasions. he now gives mench to Golden Earring. and not just "Radar Love" (what was the other hit they had, some 10 years after RS?). the description of the peacenik rock band from the future laying down a killer bass solo is just the prettiest idea to start the day with.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
this also just in, but not recently...
I've had Dark Brandon by Brandon Downing (Faux Press 2005) for some months but haven't had the opportunity to dig into it till recently. it is both dense and frisky. it apparently derives (somehow) from movies and tv, that seems to be his palette. there's a glancing energy of pop culture to his work, but I wouldn't want to brand (oop) his work with that sensibility too eagerly. this is not flippant writing, tho it can be wacky. I like the intersection of voices, in the way of several radio stations meeting. Downing, I would say, is receptive. also quite funny. I haven't heard Downing read but I can hear these poems performed. I guess I could scrape up the word performative at this time. by which I mean, differing timbres and tones. these are just glancing, off the top of my head notes. Downing's previous book, The Shirt Weapon (Germ Monographs 2002), seems a looser affair. perhaps not as dark as this one. that comment maybe owes to one notes disruptions in speech, syntactical twists and ellipsis. to behonest, I found the work 'difficult' (which I guess is what I mean by dense). a matter of calibrating to the lightness of his touch and quickness of his moves. also that I'm not the piercingest reader. this is real and different work that I want to know better.
this also just in...
Eileen Tabios sent me a copy of The First Hay(na)ku Anthology (Meritage/xPress(ed) (2005). I saved her life back in Nam (I don't like talking about it, being extremely modest), so she feels obliged to send gifts. nice looking book, with cover art by Jukka. and just skipping thru, it's lovely. many noteworthy writers collected herein (edited by Jean Vengua and Mark Young). the hay(na)ku form offers a pulse, let us say. 3 lines / 6 syllables. one isn't forced into oddities for the sake of maintaining the form, yet one must keep a grip on the machine as one writes. and reads. too often, formal writing fails (when it fails, I mean) when form overwhelms content. when concerns of form distract the writer. this form is neighbourly, not demanding. yet writer and reader must pay attention. Sandy McIntosh went to the trouble of supplying a pronunciation guide for every letter in his lone poem, which is a nice touch, and it suggests the giddy energy in this anthology.
this just in...
Erin called Ayer Courthouse, to discover that a verdict of guilty came in the trial noted below. I wasn't really rooting. one doesn't want drunk driovers on the road, but the guy is up shit river, and he has a wife and 2 sons living at home. yu can tell jurors about beyond reasonable doubt, but emotions will have their influence.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
I just spent 2 days in court... and with such a boffo opening, I can now disclose that it was just as spectator. Erin is on a Mock Trial team, thru the homeschool cooperative to which we. Mock Trial is a competition in which students make fun of the trial process. heh heh. actually, they compete seriously, doing an entire trial, coached by actual lawyers, who do this gratis, pro bono, to show the nice side of lawyers. yesterday the team went to Ayer District Court to watch a real trial. my only courtroom experience is Cambridge Superiour Court, which is a mite larger. some 12 kids attended, plus a collecion of parents. had to empty pockets and pass thru a metal detector. I had Brandon Downing's book Dark Brandon, which passed inspection. the courtroom was a 2ndary one, small, about the size of a large classroom. it seemed like a nothing trial, operating under the influence but it was fun watching the preliminaries before the jury was selected. when the jury pool filed in, us spectator had to abandon our seats, because there was just enough room for the prospective jurors. a selection of jurors was made, winnowed, and confirmed. one person was called up and immediately called away, as if the lawyer saw an unsightly mole or something (each side can excuse two jurors without any explanation). is this civics lesson necessary? but it was fun!!! so quit interupting. and then the trial motored into action... in low gear... with papers shuffling. using my keen bias, I was pretty certain that the defendant was guilty. he just looked it. we heard from the arresting officer, and the sergenat who helped. we had to leave before the session finished. the court officer, when the jury was taking a break, talked with us. with real excitement he said, this looks like a good case, both lawyers are really good. and it was true. both were youngish, in their 30s. the asst DA was somewhat stiff, lacked the dash that the defense attorny had. the defense guy, in introducing himself to the jury added after giving his name: with offices in... the case was that a cop driving along at night saw a car coming at him in the wrong lane. he swerved (said he), turned around, observed the car weave, pulled the car over. he smelled alcohol, discovered open cans of Bud Lite, found the perp unsteady, so took the guy in. arrested him for drinking weasel piss. at the station he adminstered a breathalyser. the reading was .29, well over the .08 limit. what the jury was not allowed to know: the perp has had 3 priors. the arresting officer was a trim young fellow, still had the sturdy cop posture. his sergeant a little more battleworn, but still seemed positive about the job. alas we left in mid story. Erin was enthused by the case so we went back for the conclusion. we missed the state's expert witness, came in for the defense's. this was a woman who gave chapter and verse why the machine used isn't likely to be accurate, and the testing methods were terrible. she was like an overly wound up science teacher, and tho she certainly drove some nails into the coffin of the case, she could also have bored jurors. it turns out she's a lawyer as well as a scientific expert. she probably won the case. the perp admitted to having an open can of Bud Lite in his car. if the jury knew that he'd been convicted three times before, that detail might've carried more weight. were he to have been convicted in this instance, he faced a mandatory 2 year imprisionment. which is why he had the no doubt expensive lawyer and the expert witness. alas we again had to leave before the jury deliberated. we saw the summations. before the jury came back for that, the lawyers joked with each other. we talked with the cops a bit in the hallway. 2 days wasted for them, sitting in court. when they entered the courtoom, the defense lawyer welcomed them then and said, now I have someone I can point to. which indeed he did, pointing at them as he sliced and diced. the young officer looked ticked, the older one used to it. the defense made a sad story about going 1st, but he went down the list of places where doubt could settle. the ADA wasn't quite as sharp or as charismatic. he had a way of talking: as he gatherd his words he'd raise his right hand to his ear, and when the words came out, the hand went forward, as if pulling the words out. on this 2nd day, we were the only spectators, aside from the perp's wife. which made for a nice intimacy. when the summations ended, the court officer came over to inform us that we couldn't leave the courtroom once the judge began giving the jury its instructions. we had appointments, so we dashed out then. the court officer happily talked with us about the case and about the court room. we can call the court to find out who won, but likely the perp got away. as we left the building we noticed tv camera crews. we asked one of them wuffo. they were there to document the arraignment of a 6th grade teacher in a nice suburb who was arrested for heroin possession. Reznikof made hay with this stuff...
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