You began with ballyhoos mugging through a coalition of hipsters, socialites, big money takers in pursuit of sex, happy fliers, and fame. You see a cosmopolitan poetry in production. You really are a narcissist figuring it out, re-examining your own video savagery, italicizing your failures in on-demand luxury, showcasing your trash segments in new media, 18-to-24 ambitions, sympatico programming. Rainbue is determined to be your director, but he's 27. He's going to film school. Say hello to Mr. Gray. Like the Pompidou, Rainbue and Gray are conceived as an ant farm crawling with deeper influence.
You're prosciuto-handed attempting satire, you snooty fashionplate. Perhaps because you've already filmed the rich and overprivileged grotesquely set against a backdrop of photocopies. Rainbue, too, is a rote and vaguely mercenary reshoot of the last few years. Mr. Gray isn't about the ant farm at all. He's a cretin about how cretins are marketed and shown. But the show is something else. Sidewalk sales and trash bins piled high like atliers filled with ticked-off voice, the way poetry is detected casually, ritually putting your life together keeping your distance, from me.
Rakish note, my real love. The exact second you insert the first-person, a falling branch can spike itself five feet into the street, becoming a strafed spectacle you've never seen falling into ungalvinized coherence, and you never will, you art-influenced freak. How do you live if you don't have my part? You try maps to trick a downtown into dull glyphs, child of connectedness. Your face has changed, gross charred abstract of thickening irresolution. For the record, you were paying more attention to the "ten bottoms seeking tops" thing and glossed over the "scat." Porcelain Skull said, Hey.
Consider the account of whores in their spatial recession soft pedaling your abraded weightiness -- their secret is swanky, odious sincerity. Consider this. To do so, you use a complicated rig of recourse and reception which you call a lanyard. I hate you, see? Your perspective is a beautiful coquette's. Not that you care, you unglittery third-candle in a bit role, mind-prying, punning. Your flawed poem un-authorizes shared experience. No one like you has made anything to wake a dream flashing over cascades of spinning wood the size of railroad ties. Me, neither.
1/30/06
Follow-up to lucipo questions (please stop e-mailing me). One step. One fixes one's irony intake metric, and figures this out: Drew Gardner reading from Petroleum Hat. A stupid thing, wisdom.
I'm feeling incredibly soberized after reading through lucipo archives for Jan. this a.m. (The url can be googled or you can copy it here: http://lists.ibiblio.org/pipermail/lucipo/2006-January). Although I skipped around and didn't devote the few more minutes needed to read everything, I just had to grab a shot of bourbon after running into sanctimony X sanctimony (from how many quarters?). How many dimes does it take to respond to, "Money is too important a phenomenon to treat in this fashion"? I bought the Lamborghini to go with my take-out bag. Is that Ok, dad? Or Isaac Mizrahi asks, "What is enough?" No, I'm so stupid, that's Harvey Fierstein.
It's real cheap of me, speaking of money, to single out lucipo. But come on, fellows (it's mostly fellows), stop deserving.
It's real cheap of me, speaking of money, to single out lucipo. But come on, fellows (it's mostly fellows), stop deserving.
1/29/06
1/27/06
A blogger can work this out of the system, right? Terms leading web searchers here recently include: "regarding arson," "titled tight," "miss white pant," "larry fagin I hear America singing," "synonyms 'innocent parts,'" "puritan poem alphabet rhyme," "tory lane," "who's woman in red dress at funeral Panasonic," "trigonometry poems," "matterhorns climate," "john giorno sex partners," "the tone of the poem 'living in sin.'"
A sentence, this one, is a bad idea. An idea with particularity. A feeling for the bread before it rises stuffed with socks. The imagination loves the smell of a building, loves the establishment press and the square window that looks out on it. The scent of Karl Rove is an easy chair party faithful assume climbing the walls built up by the Knights of Iowa, New Hampshire, while the sentence stresses planting dirt to make us notice an unruly suggestion against the orderly stem cell. (Wall climbing is different from rock climbing.) We say events went down through the religious base of the insane or taking sides, men and women drag their big feelings of indignation. Faith in the process will return whether you smile, cry or burn the oppostion. But when I write whether, the sentence is thinking if you're bored with Rove, imagine how I feel.
1/25/06
assembled from ongoing collab with Trace:
This is a bad time for Matt and for I, developmentally,
love and precious metals notwithstanding.
The son of Excellency, windsome despite his compromised
prenatal position, he had no hindgut across glass.
He was on fool's release. The probing internets
recognized the pure business in his tonal progress
But still he had to wait tables, winter shoring up
his testicles to the letter as a surprise.
All he wants is to have some Funds in Europe!
Out of desperation, Matt and us can see
Young anarchists explode in smoke as they confront the
collapse of random mutation.
Moslems pitch another claim unanimously
learning to restrain ourselves.
It's part of the giraffe's neck of diamonds sheering
arbors. (Matt forgets the terra forms.)
We indicated our interest by pulling up in front of the
Pinks' house in moonlight, all hocus-pocus.
This is a bad time for Matt and for I, developmentally,
love and precious metals notwithstanding.
The son of Excellency, windsome despite his compromised
prenatal position, he had no hindgut across glass.
He was on fool's release. The probing internets
recognized the pure business in his tonal progress
But still he had to wait tables, winter shoring up
his testicles to the letter as a surprise.
All he wants is to have some Funds in Europe!
Out of desperation, Matt and us can see
Young anarchists explode in smoke as they confront the
collapse of random mutation.
Moslems pitch another claim unanimously
learning to restrain ourselves.
It's part of the giraffe's neck of diamonds sheering
arbors. (Matt forgets the terra forms.)
We indicated our interest by pulling up in front of the
Pinks' house in moonlight, all hocus-pocus.
1/24/06
Among the many temptations of the digital age, text-manipulation has proved particularly troublesome for poetics, and poetics journals are beginning to respond.
Some journal editors are considering adopting a test, in use at The Journal of Advanced Poetics, that could have caught the concocted translations of Arthur Rimbaud made by Dr. Thomas Lily and published by Poetry Magazine.
At The Journal of Advanced Poetics, the test has revealed extensive manipulation of texts. Since 2002, when the test was put in place, 25 percent of all accepted manuscripts have had one or more quatrains that were edited or otherwise transformed in ways that violate the journal's guidelines, said Michael Gottlieb of Rockefeller University, the executive editor. The editor of the journal, Noah Eli of Yale, said that most cases were resolved when the authors provided originals. "In 1 percent of the cases we find authors have engaged in fraud," he said.
The two editors recognized the likelihood that quatrains and other textual fragments were being improperly manipulated when the journal required all manuscripts to be submitted in digital form. While reformatting texts submitted in the wrong word processing program, for example, Dr. Gottlieb realized that some authors had yielded to the temptation of M.S. Word's text-changing tools to misrepresent the original data.
In some instances, he found, authors would remove tonal and imagistic bands from a line-ending, a test for showing what rhyming schemes were originally present in a poetics experiment. Sometimes -- and this is hard to believe, in retrospect -- a row of non-rhyming tonebands would be duplicated and presented as the controls for a second experiment, a so-called serial poem, say. Sometimes a prose introduction would be cleaned up, erasing nasty first approximations of others' ideas, with Word's rubber stamp or clone stamp tool, to make it read smoother, rendering the whole beginning prettier, more socially ok.
Worse, some authors would change the contrast in a controlling image or metaphor to eliminate traces of authorial strain that showed up in other places in the text where there shouldn't be one. Others would take images from other writers' experiments -- incredible -- and assemble them as if everything was flowing in the same narrative.
To prohibit such manipulations, Dr. Eli and Dr. Gottlieb published guidelines saying, in effect, that nothing should be done to any part of a text that did not affect all other parts equally. In other words, it is all right to adjust the font size or color of the paper that the poem is backed-up on, but it is not very nice to obscure, move or introduce an extraneous element that might lead a reader to infer plagiarism.
They started checking earlier versions in accepted manuscripts by running them through Word Sleuth and adjusting the controls to see if new features appeared. This is the check that has shown a quarter of accepted manuscripts violate the journal's guidelines.
In the 1 percent of cases in which the manipulation is deemed fraudulent -- a total of 14 poems so far -- the work is rejected and the poet is condemned. Revoking an accepted manuscript requires the agreement of four of the journal's officials who publish their deliberations and findings daily online on a rotating roster of public blog sites. "In some cases we will even contact the author's institution and say, 'You should look into this because Dr. So and So is stupid and what she's done, well, it was not kosher,' " Dr. Eli said.
He and Dr. Gottlieb plan to add software tests being developed by Chris Funkhouser, an applied mathematician at the Imperial Normal School of Myramar. With a grant from the U.S. Federal Bureau of Investigation, which is interested in ways of authenticating digital texts presented in Southeast Asian poetry journals, Dr. Funkhouser is devising algorithms to detect alterations.
His work has attracted interest from many people, he said, including EPC list members and eBay customers concerned about the authenticity of reader copies of poetry books they throw away and/or swap online, people answering personal ads, paranormal researchers studying ghostly emanations and poetics editors.
For the latter, Dr. Funkhouser is developing a package of algorithms designed to spot specific types of text manipulation. When poetics researchers seek to remove an object from a text, such as a tonal band, they often hide it with a bland patch of nearby filler text. This involves a duplication of material, which may be invisible to the casual peruser of text, online readers, for example, but callous manipulation can be detected by mathematical analysis.
"At the end of the day you need math," Dr. Funkhouser said. "I'd proffer, poetry will advance only by way of the handheld scrutiny device and a bank of supercomputers." He hopes to have a set of tools available soon for beta-testing by Drs. Gottlieb and Eli.
Journals depend heavily on expert reviewers to weed out poems and articles of poor quality. But as the Lily case showed again, reviewers can do only so much. The defined role of reviewers is not to check for concocted data but to test whether a poem's conclusions follow from the data presented.
The poetics community has not yet come to grips with the temptations of text manipulation, Dr. Eli said, and he would like to see other journals adopt the text-screening system, even though it takes 30 minutes a line. "We are a poor press," he said, without the large revenue enjoyed by journals such as Poetry Magazine, recent recipient of a huge handout by the estate of Ruth Lily. "If they can't bear this cost, something must be dreadfully wrong with their business models," he said.
Poetry Magazine, in fact, has adopted The Journal of Advanced Poetics' guidelines and has just started to apply the text-scrutiny-screening test to its own manuscripts. "Something like this is probably inevitable for most journals," said Justina Lily, a deputy editor of Poetry.
She became interested in scrutiny screening as a quality control measure "because it sets a new industry standard," and not merely because of the concocted translations of Dr. Thomas Lily, two of which Poetry published. Dr. Gottleib says the system would have caught at least the second of Dr. Lily's fabrications, since it "popped out like a sore thumb" under the text-scrutiny-screening test.
But other editors are less enthusiastic. Emilie Tabos, editor of Call and Response, said that she was considering the system, but that she believed in principle that the ethics of presenting true data should be enforced in a poet's spiritual training, not by journal editors.
The problem of manipulated texts, she said, arises from a generation gap between older poets who have set admirable ethical standards but don't understand the possibilities of these new technologies like word processing, voice mail, etc. and younger poets who as an entire generation exploit the loopholes. Because the poetic process is based on divine inspiration, Dr. Tabos said: "Why say, 'We trust you, but not in this one domain?' And I don't favor saying, 'We don't trust you in any.' It's divinity's will, any way we head down the road."
Rather than having journal editors acting as enforcers, she said, it may be better to thrust responsibility back to poets and their extraterrestial sources for poetry, requiring the author to sign off that his or her text is true in its own way and conforms to that special place of inspiration that is unique to the individual, as well as conforming to the journal's guidelines. Those guidelines, in her view, should be framed on behalf of the whole poetic community by a group like the National Academy of Nonspecies Inspiration in Poetics, and not by the fiat of individual editors.
Some journal editors are considering adopting a test, in use at The Journal of Advanced Poetics, that could have caught the concocted translations of Arthur Rimbaud made by Dr. Thomas Lily and published by Poetry Magazine.
At The Journal of Advanced Poetics, the test has revealed extensive manipulation of texts. Since 2002, when the test was put in place, 25 percent of all accepted manuscripts have had one or more quatrains that were edited or otherwise transformed in ways that violate the journal's guidelines, said Michael Gottlieb of Rockefeller University, the executive editor. The editor of the journal, Noah Eli of Yale, said that most cases were resolved when the authors provided originals. "In 1 percent of the cases we find authors have engaged in fraud," he said.
The two editors recognized the likelihood that quatrains and other textual fragments were being improperly manipulated when the journal required all manuscripts to be submitted in digital form. While reformatting texts submitted in the wrong word processing program, for example, Dr. Gottlieb realized that some authors had yielded to the temptation of M.S. Word's text-changing tools to misrepresent the original data.
In some instances, he found, authors would remove tonal and imagistic bands from a line-ending, a test for showing what rhyming schemes were originally present in a poetics experiment. Sometimes -- and this is hard to believe, in retrospect -- a row of non-rhyming tonebands would be duplicated and presented as the controls for a second experiment, a so-called serial poem, say. Sometimes a prose introduction would be cleaned up, erasing nasty first approximations of others' ideas, with Word's rubber stamp or clone stamp tool, to make it read smoother, rendering the whole beginning prettier, more socially ok.
Worse, some authors would change the contrast in a controlling image or metaphor to eliminate traces of authorial strain that showed up in other places in the text where there shouldn't be one. Others would take images from other writers' experiments -- incredible -- and assemble them as if everything was flowing in the same narrative.
To prohibit such manipulations, Dr. Eli and Dr. Gottlieb published guidelines saying, in effect, that nothing should be done to any part of a text that did not affect all other parts equally. In other words, it is all right to adjust the font size or color of the paper that the poem is backed-up on, but it is not very nice to obscure, move or introduce an extraneous element that might lead a reader to infer plagiarism.
They started checking earlier versions in accepted manuscripts by running them through Word Sleuth and adjusting the controls to see if new features appeared. This is the check that has shown a quarter of accepted manuscripts violate the journal's guidelines.
In the 1 percent of cases in which the manipulation is deemed fraudulent -- a total of 14 poems so far -- the work is rejected and the poet is condemned. Revoking an accepted manuscript requires the agreement of four of the journal's officials who publish their deliberations and findings daily online on a rotating roster of public blog sites. "In some cases we will even contact the author's institution and say, 'You should look into this because Dr. So and So is stupid and what she's done, well, it was not kosher,' " Dr. Eli said.
He and Dr. Gottlieb plan to add software tests being developed by Chris Funkhouser, an applied mathematician at the Imperial Normal School of Myramar. With a grant from the U.S. Federal Bureau of Investigation, which is interested in ways of authenticating digital texts presented in Southeast Asian poetry journals, Dr. Funkhouser is devising algorithms to detect alterations.
His work has attracted interest from many people, he said, including EPC list members and eBay customers concerned about the authenticity of reader copies of poetry books they throw away and/or swap online, people answering personal ads, paranormal researchers studying ghostly emanations and poetics editors.
For the latter, Dr. Funkhouser is developing a package of algorithms designed to spot specific types of text manipulation. When poetics researchers seek to remove an object from a text, such as a tonal band, they often hide it with a bland patch of nearby filler text. This involves a duplication of material, which may be invisible to the casual peruser of text, online readers, for example, but callous manipulation can be detected by mathematical analysis.
"At the end of the day you need math," Dr. Funkhouser said. "I'd proffer, poetry will advance only by way of the handheld scrutiny device and a bank of supercomputers." He hopes to have a set of tools available soon for beta-testing by Drs. Gottlieb and Eli.
Journals depend heavily on expert reviewers to weed out poems and articles of poor quality. But as the Lily case showed again, reviewers can do only so much. The defined role of reviewers is not to check for concocted data but to test whether a poem's conclusions follow from the data presented.
The poetics community has not yet come to grips with the temptations of text manipulation, Dr. Eli said, and he would like to see other journals adopt the text-screening system, even though it takes 30 minutes a line. "We are a poor press," he said, without the large revenue enjoyed by journals such as Poetry Magazine, recent recipient of a huge handout by the estate of Ruth Lily. "If they can't bear this cost, something must be dreadfully wrong with their business models," he said.
Poetry Magazine, in fact, has adopted The Journal of Advanced Poetics' guidelines and has just started to apply the text-scrutiny-screening test to its own manuscripts. "Something like this is probably inevitable for most journals," said Justina Lily, a deputy editor of Poetry.
She became interested in scrutiny screening as a quality control measure "because it sets a new industry standard," and not merely because of the concocted translations of Dr. Thomas Lily, two of which Poetry published. Dr. Gottleib says the system would have caught at least the second of Dr. Lily's fabrications, since it "popped out like a sore thumb" under the text-scrutiny-screening test.
But other editors are less enthusiastic. Emilie Tabos, editor of Call and Response, said that she was considering the system, but that she believed in principle that the ethics of presenting true data should be enforced in a poet's spiritual training, not by journal editors.
The problem of manipulated texts, she said, arises from a generation gap between older poets who have set admirable ethical standards but don't understand the possibilities of these new technologies like word processing, voice mail, etc. and younger poets who as an entire generation exploit the loopholes. Because the poetic process is based on divine inspiration, Dr. Tabos said: "Why say, 'We trust you, but not in this one domain?' And I don't favor saying, 'We don't trust you in any.' It's divinity's will, any way we head down the road."
Rather than having journal editors acting as enforcers, she said, it may be better to thrust responsibility back to poets and their extraterrestial sources for poetry, requiring the author to sign off that his or her text is true in its own way and conforms to that special place of inspiration that is unique to the individual, as well as conforming to the journal's guidelines. Those guidelines, in her view, should be framed on behalf of the whole poetic community by a group like the National Academy of Nonspecies Inspiration in Poetics, and not by the fiat of individual editors.
1/23/06
You're screaming one afternoon
high in the mountains. Tragic ukiyo-e
accompanies the video
senses, ghosts, disembodied waves,
anime-baseball plays.
It's a range of motion exercises.
They help preserve other senses, dubs
of an alpine rant over cool ceramic
sculpture, a birdie's five minute
vision to the dichotomous beyond.
On the first floor people are defined
by sex. Thank god that intimidates.
I learned squat, on the other hand,
Apollonian in a fad diet, I flush
the feast out of the system.
high in the mountains. Tragic ukiyo-e
accompanies the video
senses, ghosts, disembodied waves,
anime-baseball plays.
It's a range of motion exercises.
They help preserve other senses, dubs
of an alpine rant over cool ceramic
sculpture, a birdie's five minute
vision to the dichotomous beyond.
On the first floor people are defined
by sex. Thank god that intimidates.
I learned squat, on the other hand,
Apollonian in a fad diet, I flush
the feast out of the system.
We're going up for another.
I like this one because he is out and out Jacques Tati-Dionysian, unmarked by a tempering career. Flunked out of Penn. Some tv, some radio. Blogs but no e-list. No a-list, either. A bantam partisan in uncalculated affections, and pretty much a spun-out terror when he's tripped up, still, face to face with someone he loathes, he's hospitable change agent, ready to fall into a love-y, brackish backstroke (it's his surf), tilting at jellyfish, toweling off, O'Douls in hand, set to plant smooch-bottom kisses over your disgrace. The shy dealer in all of us.
I like this one because he is out and out Jacques Tati-Dionysian, unmarked by a tempering career. Flunked out of Penn. Some tv, some radio. Blogs but no e-list. No a-list, either. A bantam partisan in uncalculated affections, and pretty much a spun-out terror when he's tripped up, still, face to face with someone he loathes, he's hospitable change agent, ready to fall into a love-y, brackish backstroke (it's his surf), tilting at jellyfish, toweling off, O'Douls in hand, set to plant smooch-bottom kisses over your disgrace. The shy dealer in all of us.
1/19/06
Restoring your feeling is one of my hobbies.
Am an avid double nester, too. Writing about new media and working on a boyfriend redesign.
I'm trying on a poem. So far.
~~
Can you tell a genuine replica
of what's going on around your neck?
Call it heads.
We beat the point spread.
~~
It leaves off here.
Perhaps I should take up gambling. Hate the markets. Play poker and rummy, never for cash. I gave a friend 50 cents toward a lottery ticket, lost. Once. On a getaway it was either Mexico or Vegas, I chose Mexico. My friend's camera got stolen. Maybe the dull, higher powers for placing bets punished him.
It's hopeless, my life like my sweat, nondestructive, unextreme. I crack up when someone mentions reincarnation, but next time I'll pick a family from a long line of tenured political scientists in the nonsnickering future. We'll all be depressed because ours is a classless de-corporated shtetl -- no need for socialists. Tho, maybe there's no option?
I'd still love poetry, but with reservations because of the dirt, the smell and the feeling of decay. That was Orwell speaking, "refined by distance." I'm sure you could tell.
The poem goes on.
~~
Since you're on my road
you're not my father's ghost?
Chairjacket?
Don't encourage me.
Am an avid double nester, too. Writing about new media and working on a boyfriend redesign.
I'm trying on a poem. So far.
~~
Can you tell a genuine replica
of what's going on around your neck?
Call it heads.
We beat the point spread.
~~
It leaves off here.
Perhaps I should take up gambling. Hate the markets. Play poker and rummy, never for cash. I gave a friend 50 cents toward a lottery ticket, lost. Once. On a getaway it was either Mexico or Vegas, I chose Mexico. My friend's camera got stolen. Maybe the dull, higher powers for placing bets punished him.
It's hopeless, my life like my sweat, nondestructive, unextreme. I crack up when someone mentions reincarnation, but next time I'll pick a family from a long line of tenured political scientists in the nonsnickering future. We'll all be depressed because ours is a classless de-corporated shtetl -- no need for socialists. Tho, maybe there's no option?
I'd still love poetry, but with reservations because of the dirt, the smell and the feeling of decay. That was Orwell speaking, "refined by distance." I'm sure you could tell.
The poem goes on.
~~
Since you're on my road
you're not my father's ghost?
Chairjacket?
Don't encourage me.
1/17/06
This can't be. Ledger v. Quaid. Yay.
Benji v. Bambi. (This can be reversed.)
But this? no way. Moore v. Rand.
Décor v. style. Lowell v. Kimball.
(Thanks to Charles Jensen.)
Benji v. Bambi. (This can be reversed.)
But this? no way. Moore v. Rand.
Décor v. style. Lowell v. Kimball.
(Thanks to Charles Jensen.)
1/16/06
Squat red, sharpened, slender
Benji, you're strange again. We've decided to beat it out of you.
Say something. We've forgotten your spirit and pulse.
You made a disgusting mess of transformation
And transubstantiation too. All the officers slept
Holding their guns.
Discovering a continent and sea slowly determined clarity.
Trees are like flowers animals beyond clouds quickly explored.
Many eyes are looking out for you.
Benji, you're strange again. We've decided to beat it out of you.
Say something. We've forgotten your spirit and pulse.
You made a disgusting mess of transformation
And transubstantiation too. All the officers slept
Holding their guns.
Discovering a continent and sea slowly determined clarity.
Trees are like flowers animals beyond clouds quickly explored.
Many eyes are looking out for you.
1/12/06
Bruce Andrews has a new job writing spam. He sent me an e-mail today with the From box filled in as Bone McCarroll. That was signal one. The subject box read "may Jens propensity," signal two. Inside the e-mail was a stock market pick and it was signed
Sincerely,
Lammond Corr
Who is Corr and what happened to Bone? Doesn't matter. I know it was another signal. What followed, tho, is more than a signal, it's unmistakably Brucean to the core (Corr??), a prose rant like what spammers nowadays include to trick detectors and filters into thinking an e-mail is personal, because the lexicon is crazedly random. Here's what Bruce (or, even better to those of us who monitor the corridors of influence, some Uriah imitating Bruce) wrote.
my god Mr Oswald everything was done for the kindest and best vicinal
the coach office I had had Box Seat written against the entry and had given the book keeper
Felicle I tell you what my tapis said my aunt one morning in the
to my old enemy the butcher and throw him five shillings to drink But he looked such
be seen and done by that capybara animal and the wonderful effects he could
This was addressed to the waiter who had been very attentive to our recognition at a distance
But now I mean to do it returned the ruanda My first master will succeed me
street of Chatham and I caught a glimpse in passing of the lane where the old
than I cared to show to Uriah Heep who was so officious to help me that I uncharitably thought
On second thought, sorry, this is Ray DiPalma.
Sincerely,
Lammond Corr
Who is Corr and what happened to Bone? Doesn't matter. I know it was another signal. What followed, tho, is more than a signal, it's unmistakably Brucean to the core (Corr??), a prose rant like what spammers nowadays include to trick detectors and filters into thinking an e-mail is personal, because the lexicon is crazedly random. Here's what Bruce (or, even better to those of us who monitor the corridors of influence, some Uriah imitating Bruce) wrote.
my god Mr Oswald everything was done for the kindest and best vicinal
the coach office I had had Box Seat written against the entry and had given the book keeper
Felicle I tell you what my tapis said my aunt one morning in the
to my old enemy the butcher and throw him five shillings to drink But he looked such
be seen and done by that capybara animal and the wonderful effects he could
This was addressed to the waiter who had been very attentive to our recognition at a distance
But now I mean to do it returned the ruanda My first master will succeed me
street of Chatham and I caught a glimpse in passing of the lane where the old
than I cared to show to Uriah Heep who was so officious to help me that I uncharitably thought
On second thought, sorry, this is Ray DiPalma.
Who else but "neo-Bukowskian" David Larsen creates poems that are "beautiful but equally impossible to excerpt, because they...require the book's force field." I'm quoting Michael Scharf's rippling review of The Thorn in Octopus 7, which features splendid poems and other reviews of books by Amy King, Arielle Greenberg, Cole Swensen, many more.
Tears are forced at the Judiciary Committee hearings after all. The strategic brilliance is these are tears from the nominee's wife! Republican Senator Lindsey Graham, SC, so brutal in summarizing Democrats' mean spirited facts about Alito's associations, statements and broken pledges, Mrs. Alito just had to splotch salt into her hankie for the cameras before dashing from the room! I'm reminded, once again, TV reality just can't be stage-crafted.
No more staged than the have-a-nice-shoo-in-day demonstration by Alito fans waiting curbside for the judge as he slips out of the limousine this morning. (Anyone else exercised by the spectacle of a Supreme Court nominee kissing babies on the street?) Half the young Republicans were carrying identical silk-screened signs stating the imperative "Confirm Alito." The signs are bright campaign red with white letters, a nice match-up today to Mrs. Alito's fry-manager outfit, bright campaign red shirt with open collar spread over the lapels of a white blazer. There's something about red. Something in her eyes. I'm thinking back to Christian Slater's voiceover for a Panasonic spot that shows a woman wearing a red dress in an otherwise black-clad Italian funeral procession. He rasps, "What is the color of defiance?" There's something about that red collar spread wide open. And there's something about her eyes, which are properly dry, for now.
No more staged than the have-a-nice-shoo-in-day demonstration by Alito fans waiting curbside for the judge as he slips out of the limousine this morning. (Anyone else exercised by the spectacle of a Supreme Court nominee kissing babies on the street?) Half the young Republicans were carrying identical silk-screened signs stating the imperative "Confirm Alito." The signs are bright campaign red with white letters, a nice match-up today to Mrs. Alito's fry-manager outfit, bright campaign red shirt with open collar spread over the lapels of a white blazer. There's something about red. Something in her eyes. I'm thinking back to Christian Slater's voiceover for a Panasonic spot that shows a woman wearing a red dress in an otherwise black-clad Italian funeral procession. He rasps, "What is the color of defiance?" There's something about that red collar spread wide open. And there's something about her eyes, which are properly dry, for now.
1/11/06
1/10/06
When you run out of ideas, maybe you should pay for new ones, my fellow Democrats. Just don't ask me for money. I've dropped a year-old 24-hour cold tablet (they've already taken them off the market for humans) and my brain is boinging forward into TV-noir starring Max Headroom -- remember the ex-sprinter who played him? While the show was popular for three weeks Max's asymmetrical haircut started to give male pattern balding a tolerable hipster panache. After Max was canceled you noticed this guy doing a few walk-ons before monotone backgrounds in other failed series and then commercials. He sunk fast, poor Max. Like these sharp pellets slicing through my blood, sinking me south by southwest, bullet-pointing down and out of my feet. Woozy Elmslie clarity. More noir, I see Sam Alito and VT Senator Patrick Leahy are swapping ethnic affinity bona fides. Who's better qualified to speak for voters who don't go to law school? I think neither. Judiciary Committee Chair, PA's Republican Senator Arlen Specter, whose thin doo looks like Max Headroom's + 20 years, asked the most central of the Democrats' questions, establishing a discourse base for Alito to claim the obvious, that the president is not above the law, the 4th Amendment governs executive-legislature interactions and constraints. Alito asserts there is a "gray area" which the judiciary might decide when the executive assumes power not legislated or otherwise explicitly or implicitly consented to by congress. Responding to another line of Specter's questions, Alito pronounces his is an "open mind" when it comes to a woman's right to choose. Gray area and open mind. It's all too reasonable because: Hadn't we known this already? I'm sure Specter knew. Leahy, I'm saddened to report, looks unfocused, wasting his lead-off questions on Alito's alumni affiliation, a smarmy episode, I can imagine, but not the stuff that justifies rejection. Unless Feingold or Kennedy makes him cry, Alito's won it for me and all the other little Maxes drugged up to our eyes falling forward.
1/8/06
Blog talk on Larry Eigner, Ornette Coleman, Frank O'Hara (channeled on New Year's Day, yipes). All to the good. They serve as coincidental models of the improv that I intake as joyful, almost effortless touches of the poet. (Engage silent engines.)
These qualities are apparent today in work from Jeni Olin, Cori Copp, Carol Mirakove, Alli Warren (and by the way, lately Alli's posts to The Ingredient have the screen life of a nano-week, why?), a few others but I'd like it if there were many more, but I'm not sure there are. I'm hungry, perhaps because I keep looking for dishes of bliss. (If I follow Jonathan Mayhew's cuisine idea correctly, that pang of mine depends on which Thai restaurant I frequented, and how many pinches of raw sugar got sprinkled over the sauté.)
There's no question Frank O'Hara is chef culprit. He single-handedly invents and remakes what is incidental, embarrassing and important a sport. He's the outlier. You could set up an O'Hara Olympics to check everyone else's score on a klunker scale, in which one klunk means you're not straining, you're fun because you have something to share, you're right here talking to us, you're deeply witty, you're in his league; while three or certainly four klunks keep you out, perpetually. Ceravalo, Spicer, Padgett, Towle, these are ones (or less!). At times and in impossibly different ways Wieners, Brainard, Mayer, Schuyler, Ted Berrigan, Coolidge are ones. Creeley. Also Eigner. As we turn to poets two generations from O'Hara, and younger, it gets harder to tell and, overall, given the increase in numbers, the scale is off. Grenier. Godfrey. Notley. Myles. There are more.
Compare any one to O'Hara's zero, though -- remember, a zero comes up when dealing in steady bliss and the bigness of ease, mental properties of an aesthetic superstring (oops) -- and colors pale. Take Eigner. He's our master minimalist when it comes to materials. He talks for the birds on sagging phone wires. And he keeps it up for years and our engines are engaged, just not so thoroughly amused. That makes the experience a one. (And isn't it just like Larry Fagin to expect something essentialist, as if Eigner's adventures call for formal improvement.) It would be no more or less crushing or vulgar for me to compare others' wit to O'Hara's. Of course appearances of pleasure and ease are not absolutes. Ceravalo surpasses O'Hara in the poetics of ex-Catholicism, a topic I am not qualified to blog on, only mention. And Ornette Coleman beats O'Hara and just about everyone else into natural pitch and free retreat. All to the good.
These qualities are apparent today in work from Jeni Olin, Cori Copp, Carol Mirakove, Alli Warren (and by the way, lately Alli's posts to The Ingredient have the screen life of a nano-week, why?), a few others but I'd like it if there were many more, but I'm not sure there are. I'm hungry, perhaps because I keep looking for dishes of bliss. (If I follow Jonathan Mayhew's cuisine idea correctly, that pang of mine depends on which Thai restaurant I frequented, and how many pinches of raw sugar got sprinkled over the sauté.)
There's no question Frank O'Hara is chef culprit. He single-handedly invents and remakes what is incidental, embarrassing and important a sport. He's the outlier. You could set up an O'Hara Olympics to check everyone else's score on a klunker scale, in which one klunk means you're not straining, you're fun because you have something to share, you're right here talking to us, you're deeply witty, you're in his league; while three or certainly four klunks keep you out, perpetually. Ceravalo, Spicer, Padgett, Towle, these are ones (or less!). At times and in impossibly different ways Wieners, Brainard, Mayer, Schuyler, Ted Berrigan, Coolidge are ones. Creeley. Also Eigner. As we turn to poets two generations from O'Hara, and younger, it gets harder to tell and, overall, given the increase in numbers, the scale is off. Grenier. Godfrey. Notley. Myles. There are more.
Compare any one to O'Hara's zero, though -- remember, a zero comes up when dealing in steady bliss and the bigness of ease, mental properties of an aesthetic superstring (oops) -- and colors pale. Take Eigner. He's our master minimalist when it comes to materials. He talks for the birds on sagging phone wires. And he keeps it up for years and our engines are engaged, just not so thoroughly amused. That makes the experience a one. (And isn't it just like Larry Fagin to expect something essentialist, as if Eigner's adventures call for formal improvement.) It would be no more or less crushing or vulgar for me to compare others' wit to O'Hara's. Of course appearances of pleasure and ease are not absolutes. Ceravalo surpasses O'Hara in the poetics of ex-Catholicism, a topic I am not qualified to blog on, only mention. And Ornette Coleman beats O'Hara and just about everyone else into natural pitch and free retreat. All to the good.
1/6/06
1/5/06
Petunia Pig rode on the flame of marijuana
which destroys you from inside
Deeply you invent something
not precisely new
But you introduce a new
wrinkle to paraphrase
I came out to your parents.
Am not believing this
She and he become the center
--
(you might infer
lack of plutonium)
The blur of pronouns embodies
subject matter
I fuck over and run through
social filters
And built in sample periods
and more access
So forms of address change
the ideology.
A boyfriend has no social meaning to
speak English
Holding within a panorama
and sweeping mountainous apex, below
Where a range of knowing's larger
than the lap pool of belief.
Thing is, others keep faith
better than you, becoming either
Products of signifying ("practices")
or the cheap rotgut itself.
Let's now prescribe an observance of justice
for each game
In which fashion seminarians cohere
"knocking down" stultifying dead flame.
Pyrography, rehab and thereby ambience hold
these basic referents in common. As Petunia
Crumbles I deliver a left knee to his face
and finish him off.
which destroys you from inside
Deeply you invent something
not precisely new
But you introduce a new
wrinkle to paraphrase
I came out to your parents.
Am not believing this
She and he become the center
--
(you might infer
lack of plutonium)
The blur of pronouns embodies
subject matter
I fuck over and run through
social filters
And built in sample periods
and more access
So forms of address change
the ideology.
A boyfriend has no social meaning to
speak English
Holding within a panorama
and sweeping mountainous apex, below
Where a range of knowing's larger
than the lap pool of belief.
Thing is, others keep faith
better than you, becoming either
Products of signifying ("practices")
or the cheap rotgut itself.
Let's now prescribe an observance of justice
for each game
In which fashion seminarians cohere
"knocking down" stultifying dead flame.
Pyrography, rehab and thereby ambience hold
these basic referents in common. As Petunia
Crumbles I deliver a left knee to his face
and finish him off.
1/4/06
If it smooches it's touch-go, male bent hetero, 2 tone pink.
Slant: Sound familiar, my chien?
Chien, in a poeming, sort of spanks Pascal. Geegaws,
tattooed pigs have no starting point. No harrumph.
I crouched on felching their raider. So odd, so silvery her vice.
The sun gets into gangbangs along her throat.
Puss Abraham
was a lamb,
A bone marvel the gorgon-wiping flowers and plants allure,
sweet to the touching the floor
As Longfellow crumbles I deliver a left knee to his face
and finish him off.
Slant: Sound familiar, my chien?
Chien, in a poeming, sort of spanks Pascal. Geegaws,
tattooed pigs have no starting point. No harrumph.
I crouched on felching their raider. So odd, so silvery her vice.
The sun gets into gangbangs along her throat.
Puss Abraham
was a lamb,
A bone marvel the gorgon-wiping flowers and plants allure,
sweet to the touching the floor
As Longfellow crumbles I deliver a left knee to his face
and finish him off.
1/3/06
My resolution.
I won't play the game any more, dog. Not blogging about you, either. I can't stand your moves and don't speak that codework of yours 'amid' superiority and poop sheets on symbolically prestructured integuments. I'm splitting from you and monsters like you. I don't get rules, your rules, which consist in working at limits of what the polis permits just so you can invent new games and some positive fucking identity.
As I thump away on my delete button, there is nothing but hope. I find myself pausing at the poem that says it will rid me of poetry, washing you barking. It may only be a hungry parrot.
To remain on top of the parrot, paragraphs must be outlined and jotted down on an extremely tight schedule. Each installment hammered out and finished in three minutes.
When forty winters besiege thy brow, albino apes and gorillas with drums will be immensely useful but they will have problems. Their lifestyle (diet, exercise and so on) will cost them. Heredity makes everything more complex and red dog bad doggy shatters like a cabbage. It is also a problem that you're confused about the frontier, dirt weed sending pigs to sheepskin, and what could be the recommended perspective for Longfellow pronounced by Bush.
As the poet crumbles I deliver a left knee to his face and finish him off.
I won't play the game any more, dog. Not blogging about you, either. I can't stand your moves and don't speak that codework of yours 'amid' superiority and poop sheets on symbolically prestructured integuments. I'm splitting from you and monsters like you. I don't get rules, your rules, which consist in working at limits of what the polis permits just so you can invent new games and some positive fucking identity.
As I thump away on my delete button, there is nothing but hope. I find myself pausing at the poem that says it will rid me of poetry, washing you barking. It may only be a hungry parrot.
To remain on top of the parrot, paragraphs must be outlined and jotted down on an extremely tight schedule. Each installment hammered out and finished in three minutes.
When forty winters besiege thy brow, albino apes and gorillas with drums will be immensely useful but they will have problems. Their lifestyle (diet, exercise and so on) will cost them. Heredity makes everything more complex and red dog bad doggy shatters like a cabbage. It is also a problem that you're confused about the frontier, dirt weed sending pigs to sheepskin, and what could be the recommended perspective for Longfellow pronounced by Bush.
As the poet crumbles I deliver a left knee to his face and finish him off.
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