Zero hesitation. Best pan of a review this week. Can't praise it enough.

Um! Custom!

Appellate Thursday. Addicts are permitted to use. Some journeys cannot be put in birds. My shoe travelled way underneath. There are no more birds. Fairchild hoodlums, formless pastries, obsolete. That actress studied a chance to make amends. The militia at this hour, your mammoth kit, everyone at work. One step away a governing history. Milk is anything but sixties. Trust them to love you. Local honeys and lions eating grass. What are whales? All warm, driftless Serena.

A title for July 14, below, might be The Canadian Watteau.

Masa sits on a rock. The sky is falling and I'm on the move. It's not falling in point of fact. I'm flowing like a dancer and stripper in a downward spiral. Gravationally, Picasso's greatest came early, Cezanne's late. I've found someone else, a thinly veiled version of me. The flow is hard to describe. Persimmons even now. The mounting look, what you did. There are broken download, odd quirks and turns, block party, informatics about crash, thorny semen — a man, a higher up, goes blind. Perfect fall. My baby traps me.

Frenemies on my left, bromantics to the right (and vice-versa), it's timely losing track of one's good assets, one's cognitive handbag, one's climactic identity, one's roadside loved one. And now, thanks to world health officials, bed bugs are back. It's hard to maintain dissidence under these conditions.

To clarify, crossing swords, laughing out loud at the Whitney are fairly easy. It's the bespoke inattention that smarts. Inattention to posturing belies underdevelopment, like coming too fast holding on to the avant-garde dead. I'm a failure sometimes, and it's never been tasty. It disgusts me how effortless it is to giggle and go nasty when one is thru.

Dead sex. Bad things.

My entire practice is one obsessive habit. (I know I don't know what I don't know I know.)

I'll give you directions. Could be fun. (I know she needs me, but I know I need her even more.) I'm leaving disjunction behind. (We may write between cracks of sidewalks, 'cause different people will understand the same thing in a different way, Public Enemy's John Ashbery and alternative modes (upending normative modes).) I've got some sentences to show yah on my sleeve. (Ready? Some are going to question the timing of this.)

I watched my stock options go to a reverse split. (And let me just say that this rapprochement has been in the works for a while.) I just sat there I started slinging shit the minute I saw her I could read her like a book. I had her, yah know I am sorry to say, I had her on the tip of my finger. (Was that sensuous? Mmmm.) Really. I just, yah know, I really. I was twirling her on the end. (I've never believed that I nor anyone else needs a title to do this.) I knew how to play her. Completely. Completely, yah know? (And finally I pulled out the most important mapping system in my life, modernists, and their masterpieces, where the count was unanimous. And the "hell yeah" sealed it —) Disjunction is dead and so is sincerity. Back tingles. Anything goes, as long as it's not on paper. (Life is too short to compromise time and resources and though it may be tempting and more comfortable to just kind of keep your head down and plod along and appease those who are demanding, hey, just sit down and shut up.)

Chills emerge. Oh, we are sailing, yes, give Jesus pants. I got some glue and a sharp web scissors. (And I've given my reasons now, very candidly, truthfully. And my last days won't be for another few weeks so the hoo-hoo arising will be very smooth.) Poetry sets priorities right. Like a Ken Doll in the wind. Posthuman redigitalizing of the future via puns and archived recipes. Pulling muscles with Michelle. (Let me go back quickly to a comfortable analogy for me — sports, basketball. And I use it because yah're naïve if yah don't see the dots appearing blue picking away right now.)

Finally she's giving me head citations. (And I know when it's time to pass the ball for victory.) Blood rushes out of penis. (I think, though, much of it for the kids had to do with recently seeing their baby brother mocked and ridiculed.) Licks wet. Whistle this time. (Let us begin with the punctuations that are not.) Hey doe! Betsit. (In fact, we look forward to swearing in head wedged against wall up there at the conclusion of our picnic.) Crudely, shrewdly. (All I can ask is that yah trust me with this and know that it is no more disjunction as usual.) The Java applet invokes duration and presence. Riched lightly. Arching four and blade middle and not touching ground. Still harrow. (And then I thought, that's what wrong.)

If every word spoken daily were somehow to materialize as a snowflake, each day there would be a blizzard. (My choice is to take a stand and effect change and not just hit our head against the wall and watch valuable time go down the drain in this new disjunctive environment.) Xaler swaJ .wollawS .pil fo cra gniwollof tfel ot htuom fo edis thgir morf gnivom pil reppu ssorca snur eugnoT. (I promised efficiencies and effectiveness. That's not how I'm wired. It's not meant to be read linearly — none of my work is. I'm not wired to operate under the same old poetics as usual.) The Bride Stripped Bare, the buck stops here, The Carpenters, the coast is clear, The Cockateer. (Though I think of the saying on my parents' refrigerator, a little magnet that says, "Don't explain: your friends don't need it and your enemies won't believe yah anyway.") Yet they did, and the history they made is worth at least one sunny summer day 137 years later. For three dinners with prime rib, loin of lamb, or filet mignon and one selection of vegetable, I'll take yah to LaGuardia. (I thought about, well, how much fun some constellations have as number systems.)

I could no longer find a way back to seeing speech as transparent. (Now, despite this, I sure don't want anyone dissuaded from entering poetics.) Hold me closer, Tony Danza. Objects In Mirror Are Closer Than They Appear. (She drives through, protecting the ball, keeping her head up because she needs to keep her eye on the basket.) It's her, Marjorie Perloff and, uh, I'm meeting her actually at the MOMA Members Dining Room for lunch today. To work with a plan that is preset is one way of avoiding subjectivity. (Really, we've just got to put first things first.) In poetry it is a little different but more so and later I'll go into that.

Yah want to cause some trouble? I quit. Eyelids close. (She's not working out.) Yah got the hang of it. (But don't do it from a desk.)

Last night I crossed the line. (I am a deformed flamer but language itself is deformed and it's subversive so I want to go home now and read Kahil Gibran and try to get it right.) I did some bad things and I definitely crossed the line. (I forgot my tuned art of exile in the new poignant and painful wave last night and that was both eerie and real like a flashlight and recklessly middlebrow I guess.) Not the sex line. (Ok, we had a little mundane, surreal sex but it wasn't that great from across the room so does that count?) But I crossed the line in any case. (Like I said I had sex and decided to interweave other voices and limit my vocabulary, severely so, come to think of it.) I know I knew that I knew I was swept up. (I'm stalling here. I'm concatenating pithy phrases throbbing in my brain, taking a hike on the dark edge far away from familiar belief in shaken contextuality and diorama. Joshua, Merle, Ayukawa.. Rage on, beachy boys.) I'm planning to remain in office tho because King Solomon has to build after the fall. (And O Volvo! was that babe ever quotidian a fall into the deepest apeshit played to the limits of silence. I'm imagining a total eclipse. Oh, yeah, I adore a babe.) It's straightforward learning, even if it's on a curve of some sort. (The only thing that's curvy now is the place between my ass and my rectum exploding at that dangerous intersection of domesticity and science fiction. I see the fishermen. I see their daughters. What a water plane spray into the Oresteia, the lush junkyard of ecstacy!) I've been thrown a few curves of late and, I'm not crossing any more sex lines. (Not until I get my head dismembered and break into discomfited lyricism, plumbing the light in the terror of my long-predicted and now brazenly apocalyptic breakdown.) This was more .. a whole lot more than a simple affair. (Kevin and Brandon patrol this territory. They are beautiful poems. Reading them I want to bomb and then rape the living earth. Losing my soul is a revelation. I'm mad at heart. It was fun, actually.) It's a love story over time. (I love to have fun. I love to celebrate poetic living. I live to celebrate fun. I reside in California! Somehow I feel better now.) Forbidden for sure tragic but at the end of the day I promise to repay every cent I stole from every teacher, curator, art critic, and the public. (I have a carbon black Amex because that's the kind of brushed covering I am. Want to see it?) My travel costs are my business even tho I let my guard down. (Yeah, what do we care? All we want is an elegantly accessible chronicle of interdisciplinary montage. What is identity?) I had to let off steam. (I'm unafraid of the harrowing human experience, always beginning, coming like a corollary thick as molasses. Yeah, yeah..)

It's a pleasure, a belated and weird pleasure, that Al Franken has been declared winner of his Senate seat on what should be the eve of his six month freshman anniversary.

There's a messed-up embedment of sly, failed masculinity translated from when realpolitik kicks in during one's youth with hyacinths: Capital martyrdom: Historical subjectivity smothered by permanent gender discomfort, male or female. The sight of Bruce Willis loosens some stitches. Willis, Stallone, William Hurt. Also Steven Seagal is a huge, nominal failure. We're waiting for their last movie, the one about Seagal paying Willis, Stallone and Hurt off (they pretend to be his protection team) so heroes four can whomp Lilia the Easter Cretaceous Bunny.

Four and half months of March-April...love it!

So it's apparent I've written most of a short essay this month on pantaloons. Like a poem, for me, a prose piece happens in stages and different sequences. I'd say by now the argument of the essay is laid out. Paragraphs 1; 2; 3 & 4; 5 & ff (to be edited); ante-penultimate; penultimate; last paragraph (I think it will be one paragraph) to come. Will finish soon.

Before cymbals rang and the first song reached the human ear, and long before verse was parsed, there were snores of ancestors and their coughs and grunts thundering in caves. Back then the body taught itself speech with shrieks and groans to signal pain, humming to sign comprehension and varietals of cognition. Cuddling together in dampened corners, our predecessors, given time, gave up other sounds moving their tongues and lips, expanding somatic-sonic repertoires into an output of contrivances to express feelings, humming first, lilting, orating, poeticizing, then, most abstract, writing stuff down, occasioning poetics. But only in the last hundred years or so, and regarding poetics, only in a fraction of recent years, did we learn, finally, to collect human emotions and temper individual will to instrumental gains in order to live within the ad agency. The ethos of clients and us first. Teamwork. Our people are what make us great. Our underground. Cave One.

Moreover. Or less. Let's see. How about a new brand? Save the world in one minute. Brief history of the ad agency as business model, and its impact on XXIst century poetics (first decade). Subtopics: Intramurals among principals and creatives (who are which? not always the same? etc.); growth marked by add-on strategic functions, media specialists, pr, brand mentoring, marketing research; evolution of adjunct strategists into stakeholders as the agency takes on more accounts -- curators, publishers, department heads as major accounts; readers, bloggers, and other friends-of-the-agency as secondary (but highly influential) clients; WPP Group as prototype of theory-conscious, esthetically-informed, globalized commercial collective; fish eating fish -- the parallels (//) concept-search swallows language, flarf, oulipo (flattery through affiliation -- a.k.a., cross-selling) // WPP eats Ogilvy, Grey, Young & Rubicam); actionable insights and data-based advice enable the agency to speak its clients' mind.

Switching personnel faster than Steinbrenner in his heyday, harriet perks up: Camille T. Dungy, Martin Earl, Annie Finch, Eileen Myles.

Frankly, until this weekend I thought Twitter and tweeting were ridiculous. Language reduced to bullets. Bullets of the moment to a supposed audience waiting to be shot with what? Hey, I'm walking south on Greenwich going to my favorite dairy restaurant. Eh, I just hopped on the elevator on four headed to the 12th.

But two bullets about tweeting this weekend have shifted my views. Protestors in Tehran succeeded through Twitter S.O.S. messages in exposing international media, especially CNN, in lackluster and spotty coverage of the Iranian election aftermath. May the protests and tweeting lead to something productive.

Meanwhile, poetics students at Penn are registering an increase in Twitter traffic featuring Joe Brainard's invention prompt "I remember." Brainard, ahead of his time, again. Brainard's topos, I remember, appeals to an American mindset. I'd describe that mindset as production-geared and prosaic at base, that is, atheoretical, factual, and inclined toward visuals and visual language cut out of everyday experience as empirical evidence: "I remember one of the very few times I ever got in trouble at school. I got caught doing drawings all over my hand with a ball point pen in music class." That mindset is a lasting form of protest, too.

I got married on my day off. Once. I don't know what to say. I have all the coverage I need. My gaze is met.

With or without roadside assistance you have to maintain respect for subsequent generations — no matter how they look or do.

Things are serpentine. All those tattoos halfway up the arm, over the shoulder. Like last year's t-fashion, with filigree computer-generated designs, tiny at the navel, flowering asymmetrically in a burst of excess around the neck. My goodness, glad that's done. Still, it's serpentine. The poetry scenes have converged on Chambers Street Station. (The MTA has assigned Chambers to poets. Can't say why, except it's a short sprint to so much.) Hey, it's crowded with groups, subgroups, couples. More of everyone. There was a spot, once, where poets could hold forth, shout out their conceptualisms. But now, thanks to PDAs and piled-up agendas, everyone's here and shouting, almost at once. Only a handful of still-discernible subgroups are taking time to listen (to one another). Shouts slither to the ceiling and up the stairwells. I wonder what the affect is at street level, on the roads out of town?

Down here we let this happen.

Still not having opened the book, I'll sign off on my perusal of Conceptualisms acknowledging its (perhaps) strongest argument, one that comes inside the phoneme s. By professing potential for more than one theoretical construct to conceptual text production, Venessa Place and Rob Fitterman strike down a narrower campaign that allows for conceptualism v. an everything- or anything-else. Conceptualisms introduces innumerable ideas behind (perhaps) competing spectra of conceptual approaches. The short order, then, is that s blows a hole through regulation of or authority for conceptual poem making. There is a plurality of conceptualisms, as the s demonstrates. Like good conceptualists, the authors of Conceptualisms make it easy; the gist of their commentary is texted instantly, phonemically. There are conceptualisms, there are flarfs, pieces of many practical approximations within poetics that have yet to be categorized with precision.

Pop in here favorable assertions concerning Venessa Place and Rob Fitterman, Notes on Conceptualisms collaborators. Rob is long-committed to re-schooling poetics, understanding better the divides as well as the confluences among various practices, especially those that have impacted NYC Downtown. His varieties of Metropolis attest to his quickened allegorizing of appropriation, establishing the bloodlines that connect him to praxes that could be called language-y, process-generated, and historicist. I've followed Rob periodically over four years, and I find him a poet of now, closely listening to the public surround of glossolalia, a poetics exemplary of late narrative and, if you will, of an imported thematics buffoonishly accessorized with all the bells and whistles of open thievery, as he attests, "I like subjectivity; it just doesn't have to be my own." Vanessa Place listens closely to everything, as well. Back in December I said her La Medusa "bubbles up from the most bugged bedroom imaginable" or, to paraphrase, her texts appropriate the audible and the imaginable and just beyond, more centered on sensual impressions, recording them, and making them. I can think of a half dozen women of her cohort who, like Venessa, freely borrow and re-order what they think they see and hear. But Venessa covers more ground, makes more conquests (according to my score card) through her stylistic leasehold on truncated discourse. Her poetry keeps dangling a nexus that is never quite there. Poets and readers keep grabbing for it, but all there is was a zapping sound, which altogether resonated as a lyrical whiff of repeated and perpetual coitus interruptus, a party trick that you may know requires cooperation on the part of both whiffers, poet and reader (or collaborator). Vanessa is one of the high-heeled poets, usually women, in my experience, who drive other poets, readers, et al wild with zap and fear of domination. It's that zap we crave.

Hey, Friday! Time to lay some cards on the table. The stoopid Stoopid Cards. The ones that count.

Human agency is last week, last century. Today it's simpler.

Simple is good. Easy is better. Stoopid is simple, easy, and nonchalant to the nth. Treeless intimacy in the Wild Forest.

First there's google poems. That's good, creates buzz but takes some stitching time. That's work. Busy busy. A tactical improvement is to have ideas for discourse projects and keep concentrating on ideas, subordinate the text, forget it. With respect to which all the manual labor is alleged — I'll say I keyboarded a text even tho sweat equity is invested in/by someone else doing it, scanning it, whatever, then for another idea looking around for some new guy to press a few keys so an algorithm does mostly everything. Simple. Easy product. Like Warhol 2009.

The nonchalant part is offhand and genius — stoopid genius; call your product a nonproduct, a failure; just walk away from it.

Next, sweet talk a senile critic or two into New Stoopid Relevance, hand them the S Cards. Mastery is toxicity. Text is schlock. Failure is ironic.

Then a book like Conceptualisms can emerge. Buzzing and busy. If a poetics critique can talk about texts we never read I guess I am qualified to talk about Conceptualisms. It seems awesome and timely. It's a collab, among other things, and singles out items in the authors' knowledge fields, taking real care not to be comprehensive. That's so cool. It seems a little language-y however in that its critique side is so tenuous, given its noncomprehensive constraints, it will strike a reader, say this reader (if I do 'read' it), as more of a meta-trope that weirdly competes with its topic(s). I think that's one thing that's language-y. (I like language-y, btw.) Whereas a so-called stoopid critical maneuver would be more pointed in the direction of generating meta-ideas about nonmastery and projects that fail. (And that could be great and cool.) But who knows, maybe Conceptualisms does meta-idea generation too. I'll have to read up more on the web. Anon.

There's a new heart beating around here, and nationally! It's a regimented elite-ish poetics sector within the sensational and expanding social networking of American culture. Yes! Making poems is blazingly cool when you can follow corporate models and even cooler when you can boil down ideas to templates, epithets, and simple adjectives. As Verizon Wireless states, "When people work well together, it shows." Maybe that's inappropriate. Or it's conceptual. (But not both, 'cause this would overload the Lego framework.)

More.

The tightropes Ron Silliman traverses today in his reading of Conceptualisms are super collidal. I think his survey is commendable for a start. More soon.

Ripped off the sports page, queasy does it.

Everything is hard:
How to tie a tie,
How I met your mother,
How to kiss,
How to get pregnant,
How stuff works,
How to make money,
How to
for How long,
How much,
How to lose weight,
How to cook a turkey,
How to make a website;
1980s, 1990s.

— Rodrigo Toscano

Wired for Spotasaurus. You'd like to part of this minority. It looks so good. Any requests? Hurting construction arrives with a basic message. Imprisonment will come to liberate us. And we'll always do it for less. When life gives us lemons hallucinations may occur within an opaque regime to restore the mutated. Didn't I see your character more rounded, forced more to join the death march? That was a still apostrophized. Then came the filching of imitation in existence, slightly crafted like a soup.

Mortgage your bank accounts. No sleep for renters of a stall. Ref. lack of.

In the journalistic and blogospheric sense May 4 is a long time ago. But this date stands as when a threshold was crossed with the publication of "Treatment," a seventeen-line composition that marks high achievement deploying a severe economy of means, argument, conceit, repetition. This is a poem's job. This is a poem's poem. Although Ange Mlinko would abhor the essentialisizing comparison, her "Treatment" is on scale with fine short pieces by John Ashbery (of almost any period!) in its sweeeping intake of landscape, social realities, microscopic accuracies, and perhaps most important, palatable distances. What's missing is the mannerist wink-wink. A nice deletion. Superb work, merging insights from "all its."

Terrifying. Ruth Padell and Derek Walcott cancel each other out of the Oxford chair in poetry. Padell, who held the post for 10 days, resigned yesterday after admitting she covertly diminished Walcott's candidacy for the Oxford chair by sending reporters e-mails about allegations of Walcott's numerous acts of sexual harassment. Thank goodness no backbiting like this takes place Stateside! America's poets are much better behaved. No nastiness. No insinuation, no innuendo, no whispering at the back of the room. Our poets praise their publishers unqualifiedly. And the feelings are mutual. Curators of readings respect their responsibility, choose performers strictly on the merits. Agendas, if there are any, are stunningly unhidden. Open houses. Fabulously engineered parties. Welcoming e-lists. No poisonous e-mails are tolerated in the lower forty-eight. From New York to San Francisco, from Bard to UCLA, one never wades through a bricolage of truths, half-truths, and lies to distinguish the good guys from the less good. Power and position mean nothing. Why, we're all mostly good guys! That's what it means to succeed in poetry today. Utter lack of combat and spoiled attitudes. Pleasure, deep pleasure in another's achievements. This is what an educated community of poets and its public deserves. Joy. Solidarity.

The translator means anything. Whole sequences juxtapose pajamas with alienation. Water flows among us like a heated rug. Deprecation: It's bad for the economy, a friend writes. Zinc down, cosmos down, President Denzer. A cloaked woman with a purr in her voice encourages terrorists, the maelstrom of youth. A piece of purity inches away. Tomorrow the network will be sunk, purple gallinule in tow as twin attachés spar twice achieving a handsome apotheosis to etch the "pink hawthorns," como eso. We give not a flying fuck. Like I said in other whoofs, inundated with liberty from the camphor compartments, back to places we ragged to moral efficacy, like hems to derails. Still, the festival curator’s a raspy, borough voice in a tanktop calling for contingent inscriptions, cryptogrammic to mis-arrange arcades countervailing seepage along the tide flats of Brigand Inc. As he votes veep still dresses left, holing up in precision of observation and details slightly askew.

Sorry, winner, "precision of observation" and "details...slightly askew" are discourse samples coughed up (like leather bracelets) to veil mild opprobrium.

Stiffen my nasturtiums. Buddha on facebook.

A good number of readers here regularly go to Dennis Cooper's blog too, but a couple of recent treatments at DC's are severally concept-avowing so I'll just say, check them out. First, there's today's post by Alan Horn on Amazon's project involving "statistically improbable phrases" or SIPs. The post/essay illustrates again how the manipulator of digital code can create contradictory forces resulting in a spectacular gamut of text generation that opens up (mine) fields for expediting poetics into more encompassing detail.

Second, don't pass up Kevin Killian's Jack Spicer 101 w/ comments that number 85, so far.

Feast or beast?

(a) Hydroxycut;

(b) Dereck Walcott;

(c) Cheerios.

It's time for sibyls to inflate their physiques, focusing on feeling good on television. Our first vice, spindly. There's nothing linear going on. I want to do something very pure and disgusting, eking it out, measuring it by their one rare smile by one and hints of merciless discipline. I thought so! See, a vocal hollow. I need everything at the bank to get to the nail salon. I'm a self-challenging entrepreneur. I wear the biggest suspenders yet I'm a foil coming back for more off-guardedness from Hugh, my wife. Her bubbies are so blood-filled all through Starbucks they never leave the table. A pair of gory stories with flashbacks. You can hear them crashing. She's a Jeep Victory accident I keep dating to kill the sordidness of being nourished. Stopless wiretapping has surprising thematic depth sometimes. Unfortunately disrespect can feel like eavesdropping. Everyday voice is a loop of operatic passion restraining everything else, like with Hugh. Or more like getting to be made up and automatically turning up for a goodbye pageant, moving through an infancy stage, adolescence — no further — then a kind of death with ironic rebirth as the winner! Hugh was with me right up to the sibyls. I was saying.

Basically: tops the list of incoming freshman fudge words, as we know.

He basically authorized it.

— Dick Cheney, in response to Bob Shieffer's question this morning whether George W. Bush understood details of enhanced interrogation techniques deemed legal by the Department of Justice.

When I was asked about why Robin had another poem after The Moth Poem is over ... He's had for some time a suspicion that all of these poems — the poems he hasn't written and the poems that he read and some other things which may be included — are part of a large book called The Holy Forest. But I think his holy forest is rather different from the Grail forest, where you simply meet odd beasts and odd maidens and knights that get mad at you for some reason, or as Percival says, people either tell me to do something, which I do or don't do because I get angry. That's the kind of forest that I'm talking about. It's probably the silva oscura of Dante more than anything else, which is also known as the human condition.

— Jack Spicer

Marking the end of suspicion, Robin Blaser, RIP.

Thus the universe is gerbils-friendly. Fess up. Insert turgid search data. Biggies. Smalls. I'll-show-you Samson as a genre youth with the power of oxygen then all-things-unsettling, notorious, and crust colors (from grabbing an acoustic guitar too long, too much) so hell feels warmer. Toss and go. A few nights later over breakfast Outrage Bridge is ground in. Wood ants with infectious moods fly to Paris or Dalila, a ham amassing narrative. Rumble with me, slabs. Discover your psychic legacy, putt our kingdom on the map, dash neediness and flatten all sponge-festering symmetry into a gargantuan pizza. Tortured pizza.

Ok. I hear voices in the kitchen. My thoughts freeze in total makeover as we recede, putting it mockingly, without being egotistical. Search data. Search date. I could reduce the service charge for flirting with you in an ascot as a hired driller. (We let the elders dictate everything.) Voices. Parcels smeared on the arc for a female anchor shorn of hair. My mawkish arrogant diva-opportunist. Marriage is looking good, a mistake but "not a lasting one." Meow.

I won $8100!

For craftspeople and strategists of poetry to move out of its pamphleteering halfway house, events such as last week's Segue gathering (sketched by Tim Peterson in assertive detail) need to take precedence. Imagine the recursive appropriateness and bitter timing of having a young architect demonstrate that poetry's "relationship to the larger culture" is that of a cattle egret to a cow. The Segue reading (which I did not attend) featured architects Robert Kocik, Benjamin Aranda, and Vito Acconci. What these three prove is that multiple domains and merged disciplines constitute a genuinely collectivist impulse that contributes to their individual ingenuity. Acconci has long been wordsmithing as we know from his early conceptualist performances. He knows how to do architecture, according to Tim, "through words." (Are there contemporary poets who know how or make the effort to write through chemical biology or physical therapy?) Kocik has developed a schematic engaging words for the Prosody Building, a design tailored for poets. (Quick, let's get a laureate to write Kocik verse to live in!) Aranda has the most adventurous approach, I think. Tim summarizes Aranda as exploring

various ways in which a building can be built from language using scripts to generate self-perpetuating forms which have analogies to the way nanotechnology works. Aranda's discussion captured a fascinating dynamic between building and dismantling, as when he noted that "in architecture, and perhaps also in poetry, you need to break things down and decompose them into their finite parts in order to build them up again." This analytic activity is related to the analogy of sand piles and the way in which they can model what he calls "aggregate assemblies," noting with a slightly anthropomorphizing delight that "the parts themselves know how to reproduce or grow into larger structures."

Sounds familiar.

Tom Clark is overworking the blogs, holding down his own site and another curated for Vanitas. He sent me links that react to or resonate with my note on smart phone texting (Monday, below) and here they are. A "brief punch," as it were, "no, I don't care what you say / Said the champion"; "Hope" (noting the "Valley and Wind Gap" that encapsulate the texting experience; and "TC: Sadly X (A Text)," which says it all (for one): "text is variously / a life, but the purpose / of an individual / is single." There you go.

Question for today (and if you have an answer or a reaction reach me at the e-mail address to the right): Are there small presses working with the Kindle format? Wouldn't it be kindly of Amazon if they were to cut a deal for the little folk? I have no qualms thinking about books set up for digital distribution and reading. I object to Amazon's fee system that is unquestionably stacked against the independent small press. Boo hoo.

Queen size. Bite size. Those are the two pathways digital media will continue to take. Slightly extravagant flat screen jumbo monitors are dull necessity for execs who are or who want to be seen as i.t. informed. What had first been engineered as a tool for graphics and video functionaries (oops, I mean creatives) three or four years ago, has become pretty much commonplace, thanks in part to cheaper overseas production of big screens.

But I'm still spooked by the opposite direction. As recent and late adapter to the smart phone, I'm reading blogs, news, e-mail, etc. on a glowing screen, approximately 3" x 2". The glow of text and imagery is as through a keyhole or smallish aperture. Websites and e-mail messages are more than ever stuff to scan quickly (like the oldtime microfiche), rather than to peruse thoughtfully. As I scroll down and right- and left-ward to complete my read of long sentences and hypertext designed for a wider screen, the impression is settling in that wide is out.

That's because brief punches of text look great on the phone!

In a war between journalistic paragraphs v. powerpoint bullets, guess who's winning?

Tiny apertures clobber you with / within short iterations. That's the plan.

They will continue to influence how we express ideas, simple or not.

Big, multi-tiered ideas will be broken down.

Constituent, subordinated data will emerge, as important as big data, simple or not.

The simpler the better, natch.

Bad poetry, yes, poetry nonetheless.

Nonethess does not belong on a smart phone.

Vocab will be hugely influenced.

That is, which vocab will be utilized.

Used.

More soon.

They're back.

Just who is playing whom? Poets, comedians, derivative assemblists, step back. The arguments for invention, uses of technology, concept-breeding, and so forth are confidently unfolding around us. As noted last week, the prime forces are the experts and geniuses with code who manage programming, construct new apps, invent software, add-ons, shortcuts, silliness as novelties — our very own first-order of conceptualists, so-called, to celebrate. For instance here's Jim Andrews pointing to web-based command line programming possibilities at goosh.com.

Well I never. In yesterday's Sunday supplement Education Life Charles McGrath recategorizes university creative writing programs as "vocational training," intimating, I surmise, the discipline is less fine art than crafty application akin to refrigeration repair or flowchart mastery à la Bernie Madoff. McGrath reviews two texts that tackle the "inescapable fact" that writing programs are here to stay and that their liberally bent operative rule remains "there are no rules. . . . Don’t pay any attention to someone who tells you what you should be doing,” per Chris Offut, one of the authors of The Writer's Notebook under review. The other text is The Program Era by UCLA associate professor of English Mark McGurl. McGrath emphasizes the dirty-little-secret aspects of teaching creative writing, finding confirmation in McGurl's book, for instance, that "few of even the most ardent teachers of creative writing believe it can really be taught." McGrath sees The Writer's Notebook the "more entertaining," partly because the essays come out of actual workshops, representative then of "a pretty fair summary of where actual writing instruction is at these days." McGrath's exaggerated fear may seem cartoonishly familiar to today's poets and small press publishers, "we are conceivably approaching a state in which there are more writers in America than there are readers." Thanks to the writing program phenomenon we can count on exponential growth in production within a shrinking marketplace of consumers. Sounds right if writers never take up reading again. The review piece is titled for the pop moment, "The Ponzi Workshop."

Video by Chris Funkhouser of Sat.'s readings at the Whitney document the following results.

Best reading, by far, Christian Bök.

Best costume, a tie, Nada Gordon, K. Silem Mohammad.

Best walk-on/on-camera, Katie Degentesh (in audience, why not on stage?) looking introspective (during Kenny Goldsmith's weather delivery, in the middle of the segment about a sand storm; Katie's face & Kenny's utterance, "sand storm" = simultaneity — pronounced in gay dialect SImulTA-NAYiiiiitee with exclam!).

Best music, Christian Bök.

Most static produced under self-imposed time constraints, Kenny Goldsmith (his sobering introduction).

Sometimes I don't think I miss much. But not getting to NYC tomorrow looks like a mistake. Lungfull could be doing the best gala this spring this weekend.

You know what? Doug Rothschild is a head of the game. dbqb's write-up, blurbs and all.

You still can get a seat at readings you might have missed, thanks to Dodie Bellamy's reports about Wind Chill, among others, spelling out contexts and showing lots of pictures, in other words, varied roots, bespectacled timbres, personalized (the way we like it).

Against Apollo, Dionysius (sort of), and poets who know better. Attempting to discredit newyorkcrew with blanket negativity (that stupid crew is stupid, I mean really stupid) shuts fun down. Bland, strategic dismissal resides in a sorry intellectual half-sleep parallel to defensive, adolescent tedium. Beethoven is old. (I don't need to listen.) Ashbery bores me. (Nobody reads anymore.) (Oh, by the way, my friends-of-convenience, the flarfists and conceptualists, write inappropriate and boring poetry, respectively. They gather at the Whitney tomorrow to prove they are inappropriate and boring but in artfully sanctioned ways. They are Dionysian and Apollonian.)

Dadaists, forefathers and welfare moms to flarf, according to flarfists, were stupid and knew it intellectually and they showed it emblematically, way down to panties and pointed toes. I remember when flarf started (I know the genealogy, after all); they too seemed belatedly proud, proud they were stupid (in the benign sense of stupid-funny). They were and often still are brilliant self-paradists (and I mean that in the kindest sense). In some practical domain (praxis with a big p) flarfists are precursors to newyorkcrew. Piercing critique often is fun, making fun of everything in sight, including itself, joining stupid and droll. That's the harvester of experiment.

Any mention of something they almost do or any insight into their own failures, real Dionysians welcome competitors in, keep things rolling, and never stop laughing (L=O=L) at themselves. That's not the way it's going for stupids who have evolved into thinking they are stupid-important. But the real problem is other poets who know better and keep quiet. Like me. Without much intellectual distance and self-effacement on the part of flarfists and conceptualists, who are better seen as processualists or procedurists, and without much poetics of critique, newyorkcrew — teeny LA art students, apparently, not poets — substitutes for and beats other poets' silence and acquiescence in response to surface claims about usage of technology to shot-gun-marry the Apollonian conceptualists with Dionysian flarfists. (Rather than poets, neworkcrew, descendents of Paul Ricoeur and Pierre Bourdieu, can easily and playfully unpack the strategy underlying flarf and the conceptualists, while the ease with which they apply their analysis speaks to how baldly such stratagems spin from art-world mercantilism.) Apollo and Dionysius — academic speak for an equation in which processual formality wins, of course. Apollonian = Logo Channel handsome, worth contemplating in the mentalist sense; Dionysian = cute, can't think straight, stupid. Work by Apollonians becomes course material at four-year colleges. Books from Dionysians wind up in remainder bins. Meantime, my libido rushes to get into the new, stupid, fun orgy, busing pitchers of Grey Goose for newyorkcrew.

And a final word on technology which could be addressed to Kenny Goldsmith and his proud crew. Everyone uses technology. The profuse semen of techno-appropriation and processualism shoots forth from invention, writ large, and more particular, from the inventors of the codes that make fast copying and collating of lexicons available species-wide. Everyone fucks with their codes. Everyone is carrying their babies. Yay.

The opposition occupies a holding area across from democrats. It opposes gruntingly, keeping the Hummers running, waiting (and waiting) for a shoe to drop so it can motorcade down the streets, take them back along with all the mega churches standing off select interstates. Tag lines for 20-second action-committee tele-spots are waiting, too, declaiming failure, formally and utterly, on the part of democrats of all stripes, socialists, liberals, so-called centrists — doesn't matter. The grunts, John Boehner, Mitch McConnell, Eric Cantor, stand by until the highest score, your-problem-here speech acts can be put to work. Focus groups work overtime to lend a hand. The strategy is flawless by 1990 standards. Wait for mistakes (1) and (2) pounce. Flawless to a point but stupid strategy vis a vis the discipline of the Obama Administration, taking charge of their own mistakes (vetting processes, vacuums in financial management), shifting public opinion to historically more substantive matters (with regard to historical narrative, that is), cruxes like nearly impeccable style and water-dog atmospherics.

Could democrats be blessed with their first firm grip on power and citizens' imagination in decades? Enter Senator Evan Bayh, democrat of Indiana, the stiff-jawed failed presidential candidate passed over for vice president and cabinet positions, about to loose his good looks to middle age. He must feel it's now or never. Bayh has assumed the spoiler-from-within role, always cast by a type of democrat, most recently played by Joe Lieberman (whose time is never). Bayh has founded a centrist group of democratic senators whose aim is to exercise fiscal restraint on Administration plans to move on universal health care and greener energy policies. It's more than fretting over the budget, though, it's closer to grabbing hold of public opinion, plus something else. Maybe it's personal. In effect what the opposition can't do, these centrists can make happen, as they did last week by joining republicans to stop the reconciliation process in the Senate that would allow passage of energy initiatives by a simple majority vote. Twenty democrats, members of a party that's one vote short of a super majority, have thereby ceded power to the opposition. The good phone that Obama's chief of staff Rahm Emanuel can give will be put to use for weeks to come. The Administration must turn a good fraction of its attention centerward, as it were, massaging Bayh and cohorts, begging them not to give up the prize. Fewer than four full months in office, and Obama's time already feels like the last years of Julius Caesar, with potential of his being undermined by betrayal and intrigues spawned on his side of the Senate, grunts in waiting on the other side.

The soul is ludicrous. It's untidy and young. It's also limp clear gel rubbed into your hair in all these dubious directions you're going in (until you do), gentle pun, onslaught in a riveting presence, O on the outside, a demographic close-up or two first staged for gory days and people like high security with no sweetness or theorem, only magical credits for adamance bookmarked with social media.

The soul's entirety broods out the nose, shadowing my gawking at my shoes until bedtime. Its metabolism looks sloppy in a circle of campaigns for a price of a movie. Orchestra level, on my knees, I'm full of graphs. The rest of the world is headlong watercolors, a homemade crowd combating aristocracy step by step, old and new species of doomed perjurers and flying satyrs. Not mine, theirs. We're alone. You're commanding a position wincing at the clunky largess and bogus scale my notebook-size haunt chews on a piece of your waist before many revisions.

The soul is deeply talented as a rapper, then renouncing proof of its mettle, cornered at once, sparking the alder-wood branches before it's shot dead at the age of 24.

I'm off the phone. A friend. If there were verb in it it would carry a marker of past action. He turned himself into a client. Not mine.

If opinions shift/shifted in a climate of... I'm being tactician now... of opinions or climates I should say, if you let yourself be subverted, influenced... funny thing... corrupted, whose fault is that.

Other guys I talked to: I couldn't get away fast enough. They told me there was a tape running through their brains. They were planning to erase the tape and tape over it. I thought the analogy was more than crazy, it was dated. Who listens to tapes? No clients of mine.

Gastronomy is to implicit confidence as ___________ is to bacchanals, almost.

a) breaking the ice
b) spinal reconstruction
c) biodata
d) "fucking / sponginess"*

*Larry Fucking Kearney

Christ... Here's another question. This time for empiricist critics: Are 'art' 'collectives' stuck in a kiddie pageant?

A couple of days reveling in haunting grimness. That would be the real delirium, dreaming along with amalgamated events that are summarized best, perhaps, in this question I've been asking myself.

Do I want a carport? In extreme beachhead situations, yes, a low, single-storey sand-colored structure, nondescript, arched around twin pools, with breezeways and, yes, a carport for a few four-wheelers off to one side. A subtropical or temperate climate with yoga and fog for a macho eloquence hatched from the 1950s, the last full decade of unquestionable, superlative design taste and buckaroo-progressive styling.

In New England, Nancy, no, thanks.

On top of that, I've been reading about accelerating destruction in the Amazon. A chunk the size of Rhode Island is burnt down each year. This buckaroo practice results in rich farmland that's productive for about four or five years. After that, the soil turns into dust and sand.

Carports, then, are an interim step. Haze steam the color of moist illusion, bubble like gum.

This achingly distraught back-and-forth (noted at digital emunction) reflects a dynamic featuring common hauteur smacked down into silly impotence, an arched dynamic, here, often sustained within the poetics guild, top down. In the deep glens (part of the slogan of The Pitch Review); here, glens = barrel bottom.

This is the best possible news. And, wheew, poetics needs it.

Pleasure is to ethics as _____________ is to epistemology.

a) a bunny stuffed in an envelope
b) the Yellow Sea
c) unknowing
d) one's tonnage

Lexicon of the day, what with all the boy racers of London and the obbo lads, onions, and the filth cooking the books, giving lags a tug. That is, one Hobbit shiny arse to another.

Barack Obama's cheesy gift giving is now a set pattern. Obama handed over DVDs, remainders, to Gordon Brown on Brown's first sit-down with Obama after the inaugural. Today Obama slipped an iPod loaded with show tunes inside Her Majesty's purse on his first visit to Buckingham Palace. Are the Obamas completely in the camp of the pop entertainment industry, regifting prizes they've aquired on their to the White House? Regifting. Can you imagine our peppy, intelligent president stooping this low? I can. He's just about re-legitimated such a strategy — how do I get rid of this pile of stuff? oh, give some of it over to dignitaries! — Brown and the Queen top the regifting list. Next, what will Nicolas Sarkozy get? Something with dead batteries, I bet.

As for the conficker virus, so-called, it seems Windows computers without updated os software are most in danger. The conficker plan is to take over infected computers on April 1 and effect hacker commands that, among other things, could use the infected computers to spam or otherwise assault others. An IT-savvy colleague suggests Windows users change the date on their computers today, and keep operating with the 'wrong' date until after April 1. That way your computer bypasses the April Fool's kick-off. Could it be that simple?

The "placeholder" strategy has taken hold in poetics blogging. Placeholding, as in keeping a hand in by dropping off readymades like lists for readings, links to other places, an occasional note, this dash or that. Whahappn'd? Like so much else mooning around the artist herd mentality, off-handedness is the avant chic to attain, thus the notion of not taking one's blog too seriously has won out for the moment. It's no biggie in itself, yet reflects larger things that go mostly under the radar. Off-handedness in general produces a writer's culture that doesn't amass or allow a show of enthusiasm except for extreme pets. Skip readings except those by people you really like or may need. Let the free unread books pile up to impress your friends who pick them up to check out the publisher, the dedications, first lines, last lines. Publishers matter for as long as they hold out on you. As for blogging, sitemeter counts are down, comment boxes don't overflow; we all have to survive this period of hell in hand basket and what better way than to display palpable indifference to poets and their blogs outside your spheres of influence. Why did I get started on this? I became a poet out of necessity at a point when others were doing this too. Couldn't help myself. Was that a 'period' condition or a default? This also is a topic sentence.

Walk it off.

Is there anything more sincere than Anne Boyer's "We are all content"?

Least enticing meme of the week: Which Anglican theologian are you?

This is unqualifiedly hard-on great. The Coop just keeps on re-vitalizing the blog medium, keeps giving.

When I look more closely, the event at the Whitney noted parenthetically yesterday is a poetry reading, not a panel. Better, maybe, but chitchat could get heated.

Have been obsessing about archives for a few days (3/17, e.g.). A history making. Thinking about how archives do it and how they behave gives me a headache. It's a pulsating, labyrinthine brain banger — comes on out of nowhere, like catching a cold from Jorge Luis Borges holed up in a library of all libraries (one of a million, or more!) sneezing dust blowing over a book of all books you grab off the list of all lists (updated perpetually). The first thing to think about, for me, is how archival matters tie up with the lore of book making, a skill tethered to history and to a factuality some see nearly as fraught and consecrated, if you will, as authorship. I don't see that at all, but I respect the fragility of material conveyance that a book represents, text that's written down and offered to others to pour over. Amazing! hermeneutics has been with the species for millennia, and the transactional exchange, writer to reader, is constant —

writer / copyist / plagiarist / assemblist / et al. = A;

reader = B;

the written down text (and by extension the archive of texts) = "to" as in A to B.

The next things to think about archives will branch in all directions, according to the conventions of labyrinths in three dimensions, books flying off [sic] to do as they please (they must). Hold on. Books or parts of books can fly in the sense that they get lodged in people's cortexes (that's a belief of mine) and when two or more do this, they get above the physical labyrinth (i.e., their materiality) establishing a matrix of ideas or, you know, thinking. So this leads to jumps in an argument, funneling through or bracketing what is pressing now, cross-referencing massive data that are picked at and stored in human neurons. I think I can say human neurons (here). I prefer to return to Borges, whose Library of Babel and other ideas about books anticipate or at least approximate the internet, and to an American poet as wild as Borges, Hannah Weiner. She strikes me as someone who has walked inside of texts, having famously seen texts pop up on walls and go sprawling over a plethora of material objects, including her forehead. Weiner was only a few minutes ahead of Jenny Holzer's rather tame text projections that have popularized the notion that the written word animates materiality. We are impressed with the quantification if not the scope of Holzer's illustrations of book making, much in the way we are impressed by Kenneth Goldsmith's Day, in which he retypes September 1, 2000 as archived by The New York Times. Goldsmith (who on April 17 will convene a panel of conceptualist poets, among others, in conjunction with Holzer's exhibit at the Whitney Museum) is obviously aboard a vehicle of a sort, a step above the hedgerow of three-dimensional archiving, doing things to texts that enliven the exchange, A to B.

This week's least tentative assessment of a film venture: Everyone Involved With This Project Needs To Die Soon And Painfully.

Multi-inappropriates. This one is nasty and, so far, unfunny, unbrilliant.

Last week Nicholas Hughes, son of Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes, hung himself. His mother committed suicide years earlier as did his stepmother who also killed her daughter, Nicholas's half-sister. At some point, let's call it a point of wicked dramaturgy or of awesome extremity for monolog, the daimon rushes to center stage dressed in black-on-black rags, stares directly at her numbed audience, and condemns Ted Hughes to countless reincarnations for eternity.

O Spring

Nothing concentrates the mind like a life sentence. Exquisite lingo is not in danger, though, even as Elmo was stripped of exaggerated status and worth. That's if I hit what I feel in the morning. It's different from the evening and you hit back.

Hi cute girl in black hat that works here.

I still think you and your poetry are amazing, crazy fancy, and headed for greatness. Not the jealous, zipper-broke, deglamorized chip of scrub your dangly acquaintances say you are. It's not their fault. You have that itch. Garish tulip brocaded with energy. You are man-y crisp, a color too orange for anything that can happen if you try to pretend you care. It's not simple but very fluid how you kill fidelity like mine. I'm a fan.

This week's most lavish speculation about poet and amateur anthropologist Clayton Eshleman comes from a museum department chairwoman with a very un-gendered Bostonian name, Elliot Bostwick Davis. Thinking out loud about Eshleman's request to examine her department's Mayan artifacts not on public display, she supposes the best, "After all, who knows, he may be the next John Keats." Yes, if Keats had worked out more on the poetry-is-applied-dabbling-raised-to-revelation side of things. Shake or date? Your call.

This depiction of the role of language in evolutionary niche construction couldn't be crunchier.

As language progressed, it took on a life of its own, incorporating more arbitrariness, more complexity, more displacement. An endlessly recursive, autocatalytic system, it became the breakaway mechanism of our evolution. Its feedback made us smarter.

— Ange Mlinko, in her inaugural essay for "The Short of It," her new column in the online version of The Nation.

Irrepressible high jinks tinged with chagrin? (AKA, American Party Animus? Wht-ev?) If that's your brand of poetry, supplement it with boner-phone antics that go further into schizoid gloss than drooping words over the screen (like these). I'm talking unparalleled über-flarf pouring out of iPhone OS 3.0, with over an hour of application previews yesterday at Apple's Software Developers Kit Conference (click "Watch the presentation"). Minutes 51:00 to 57:00 are a case in point. Lanky Chris Plummer plays with his Touch Pets Schnauzer "Scruff" who's out on a date with "Mittens." The results of the encounter and Scruff's conquest are IM'd into the Touch Pets Social Network for all of Chris's pals with pets to chuckle over. Arf, arf. Then Chris breaks off to play Live Fire, "a multiplayer first-person shooter." Chris's avatar aims to kill a pal's avatar with the help of another pal who's been 'push-notified' to join the bloodbath through the Live Fire global server. Chris along with his helper spread their power across the touchscreen. Fade out on pixels of human serum flying upward like Snickers.

Alan Davies and I are preparing a selection of poetics publications that represent one end of what I'll characterize as the ambition spectrum. Over the next few months we will release a series of works that are fairly huge, works that give ample evidence of sizeable production or an opus.

In our process, large production shows up in a couple of ways. One is that the opus will arrive in its entirety, such as the re-release of all forty issues of A Hundred Posters, a monthly hand-typed newsletter Alan edited in the late 1970s, featuring seminal texts from writers advancing alternatives to confessional and / or formalist poetries prevalent at that time. Many pieces in Posters engaged with the first stages of Language methodology, others moved in different directions, but all together, these combined texts capture a richly experimental and volatile history of writers developing multiples of strategies and stylistics, as well as radically conceived contents for American poetics.

Again, an opus will often show up as part of the greater, whole ambition. Central chapters from Michael Gottlieb's memoir-in-progress are an example of this. Michael's personal history coincidentally reviews many of the times and personnel associated with Posters and like publications during the 1970s and 1980s when the New York School was becoming slightly more self-conscious, entering a second generation.

Alan Davies is a prolific poet in his own right and his sponsorship of others' work is well-documented — countless magazines, pamphlets, and books, often imprinted under the aegis Other Publications. Alan and I will soon publish Michael's memoir, along with A Hundred Posters and additional larger works under a new name, combining Alan's imprint and Faux Press. Our combined efforts will be Faux / Other. I'll be detailing plans for more releases here. I think what Alan and I are undertaking could be immensely valuable to more than a handful of writers and readers, and that's why I also would like to hear from you if you have a proposal (or just an idea) about specific larger works that might feel at home under the Faux / Other aegis (you can reach me at the e-mail address, jk at fauxpress.com).

I'll be back with an outline of publishing initiatives at the opposite end of the ambition spectrum — Faux Press administering tiny injections of poetry, nuggets of psychotropic brilliance, killer widgets, the small get. I'll do this soon.

Agreed, and worth a look-through.

A writer, even a poet, will develop a broad-mindedness toward most any version of family, even when family centers on other writers. All of this is implicit in the simplest rejoinder to the dullest gossip.

Yes, I do get swept up like anyone in the bitterness of poetry. Luckily, there is the sweet-bitterness of love and one's family and poetry itself.

— David Shapiro (in an interview w/ Kent Johnson)

Finally it's front page news. The Feds' claim of "zero tolerance" for mortgage fraud will have to overcome their bad batting average: "the government’s odds of winning drop when they go after Wall Street executives." We'll see, we'll have to see.

There's a mother cruise ship that's not exactly losing its bearings, but off on a perpetual champagne and powdered hydrochloride junket. It's a market gawker's delight, since the vessel is overbooked with coked-up yet stiffened-upper-lip financiers who don't bother to keep their fingers crossed, because they don't have to (and, anyway, they can't feel their fingers). They're set on a course and certain of getting away with all the cash extracted from trading stocks, futures, and derivatives over the past few years. They know no one in government or in the landlocked court of public opinion is going to pay attention long enough to bring them, most of them, to justice. A single day with a 4%-plus uptick in the market, yesterday, and you are confirmed in the idea these inebriated moguls are right. Yesterday, public wailers and blatherers, starting with Ben Bernanke, announced a turnaround, an end to the recession by year's end, and a much better 2010. I guess the wailers and blatherers will let Barack Obama return, for a few hours, to plan for the longer range future. As recently as Monday former GE chief Jack Welch and über-investor Warren Buffett were declaiming, separately, that Obama is spread too thin. Better that Obama have only one message at a time, that he should drop mention of improving public education and providing universal health care, that he focus solely on economic recovery. To add punch to his warning, nervy Welch blamed the downturn entirely on Obama, insisting that when Obama campaigned in the fall the market was several hundred points higher, the economic recession had not yet been declared. After years of deregulation, tax cuts, and war — it's all due to Obama and his lack of focus! Welch is not even a politician, just a retired magnate screaming the plutocrats' theme songs to seem more important than his big shot riches. Who's shouting about traders and accomplices who poured their brew of fraudulent practices over every nook and into every coarse channel, sabotaging the entire credit and loan infrastructure? Who? It won't be Welch or Buffett or Bernanke, since they are each part of the loosely convened governance now committed to hiding the rotten bodies, the losers and casualties in the explicit war between rulers and the ruled. That governance comprises republican and democratic politicians, including Obama, constituents in a bipartisan compact to bury our losses, to make the so-called hard choices, to carry on as if our land and the sea under its domain and all the ships at sea comprised a grander, more encompassing metaphor to uplift late capitalism into some promise of a middle way, as if the proverbial middle were fixable and pointed to the common wealth.

This is abnormally exciting, a special section focused on Tony Towle, including new poetry, title story from Dennis Cooper's new book Ugly Man due in May, poems from Eileen Myles, Elaine Equi, Noelle Kocot, Sharon Mesmer, others, hands-on design — overall configuration plumbed from the itinerant unconscious: Agricultural Reader #3. Let's say Michel Foucault and Samantha Stephens woke from twin erotic dreams and did something with epistemes.

We're smitten.

High finance is off limits to the lit temperament — an intellectual encumbrance that's in force at most everyone's peril, except (or maybe especially) when backed up by a tophat dad, player husband, or hoodie boyfriend. V.P. Wallace Stevens was surely an exception, maybe the only notable one. Even retired, land-rich souls like Richard Wilbur or Donald Hall are watching their shrinking 401k's wondering with the rest of us, what the fuck. I'm not so much concerned with Wilbur and Hall as those less privileged and much less well-informed like me. I'm talking scary shit flung at us by financial markets. And we still don't know what it is. It's not an it, a defined, containable, short-lived phenomenon. Maybe we can do better to conceive of this as an excrement flow in a broad array of propulsion stages, all headed our way. Our own very nonprivate Sluiceville now in progress.

Toxic instruments is one term of many to reference the triggering device to the crises revving up. Toxicity, though, is a pale metaphor, pale and misleading as it implies there's potential for a curative antitoxin to bring the gray sick guys back. Base-to-core-inhabiting pathologies are afflicting the markets, not just ours but internationally. They are unlike any others in history, and no cures are in sight. Take the now infamous CDS, a credit default swap or derivative contract between so-called counterparties, one betting on failure of a given investment (such as a residential mortgage) or instrument (a bundle of mortgages) completely separate from the contract, another betting the other way. This investment / wager is highly abstract in that it is not supported by capital or a reality represented by capital (such as real estate); it is determined by the fractional movements toward the outcome of the wager itself. The guarantee that at least one of the parties will lose the bet is just one problem. Counter-counterparties enter the game, as well, with hedged wagers on the widening or shrinking possibilities that one counterparty (one side of the CDS contract) will fail.

The CDS, in short, is a slice of an opinion on an internationalized instrument (a bundle of U.S. mortgages or loans) and the CDS can be further sliced / hedged downward. But if you look up, you find other problems. The mortgagors you bet on may default. And mortgagees' assumptions may be based on felonious actions somewhere in the pipeline from loan application to commitment. Until recently many mortgages were issued that were beyond people's means. Some borrowed too much money for property that was overvalued. Others were snookered into no- or low-money down mortgages with teaser starter payments that ballooned into usurious interest rates. These are the easy targets for CNBC's Rick Santelli, his 'losers' who ought not to be bailed out of their bad indebtedness. What are murkier and harder to narrate on cable or in a court of law are the many counts of systematic felony yet to be prosecuted concerning the packaging of these mortgages into third-party investments. Sizable fractions of mortgage-based instruments are fictional products, high-commissioned temptations and occasions of corruption and collusion involving stolen identities (to shore up bona fides in credit applications), dishonest appraisals (values given to deficient or nonexistent properties), malfeasance at major credit rating agencies (AAA ratings on highly speculative instruments), legal misdoings (natch), etc. One problem with banking then is the foundational corruption of the mortgage and credit business. Good lending has been smooshed with high-risk and outright fraudulent loans to manufacture enormously profitable sales packs, which get promoted as sound investment instruments and further divided into credit swaps and hedged bets, everything radiated with lethal dosages of fiction as fact.

Three products top the gay list from Wal-Mart, after I went shopping off Bill Keckler's hot search pages: 1) Space Saver Cabinet Espresso: hey, this shiny new beverage revitalizes an exhausted food service category (and it's really sex-laden, as in "Meet you at 3 we'll knock down a Cabinet, Evil One..."); 2) Smoked Wranglers: coarse, frank (some editing here, ok?); and 3) Michael Strahan Autographed Sack Celebration: the webpage copy reads, "It's a recurring nightmare." The runner-up is Taylor Swift Carpet Ready: copy reads, "Transforming two-in-one gown..." I'm a little less sure about that one and the next: I don't remember the product but the copy got me thinking, "Cool-climate roll-up exposes mesh for better air circulation and creates a head rest." Let's invent this!

I'm building on Ron's list of 20-40 (really 40) women whose poetry has been influential (i.e., influential for him), since there are scores more that have impact on me. So along with at least half (20 or so) of the 40 Ron catalogs, I'll add the following mostly contemporary poets, including some extras off his list but mentioned by Ron in his follow-up paragraph. I'm missing more than I name here; however these are among the poets I'm thinking of now. They entertain me. Some have crawled into my brain to mess around. Dodie Bellamy, Louise Bogan, Anne Boyer, Nicole Brossard, Tina Celona, Emily Clark, Allison Cobb, Norma Cole, Jen Coleman, Shanna Compton, Brenda Coultas, Corina Copp, Katie Degentesh, Stacy Doris, Marcella Durand, kari edwards, Betsy Fagin, Joanna Furhman, Kate Greenstreet, Nada Gordon, Barbara Henning, Mary Rising Higgins, Brenda Iijima, Erica Kaufman, Jennifer Knox, Wendy Kramer, Joanne Kyger, Susan Landers, Dorothea Lasky, Katy Lederer, Denise Levertov, Rachel Levitsky, Mina Loy, Kim Lyons, Sharon Mesmer, Carol Mirakove, Ange Mlinko, Marianne Moore, Jennifer Moxley, Eileen Myles, Sawako Nakayasu, Sianne Ngai, Alice Notley, Jeni Olin, Sylvia Plath, Kristin Prevallet, Laurie Price, Barbara Jane Reyes, Laura Riding, Lisa Robertson, Martha Ronk, Sappho, Jen Scappettone, Susan Schultz, Sei Shonagon, Prageeta Sharma, Stevie Smith, Juliana Spahr, Susanne Stein, Christina Strong, Stacy Szymaszek, Anne Tardos, Sara Teasdale, Susie Timmons, Sara Veglahn, Jean Vengua, Rosemarie Waldrop, Alli Warren, Jo Ann Wasserman, Africa Wayne, Karen Weiser, Stephanie Young, Maggie Zurawski.

Now, with regard to that swipe yesterday about nuts in poetry, I admit I don't know any. So I really am jerking around and there's no excuse. Bottom line, if I knew of a nut or two, you know, real dash-off, me-first freaks, I'd ask them how their work can be differentiated from that of more celebrated nuts in public discourse, such as Ann Coulter or Rush Limbaugh, both of whom wear their heavy armor like cultural warriors, saying (thus doing) awful, disconcerting, wildly unsuitable things, lancing opponents as footloose treasonous fiends or middling enemies of a dimensionality that they, Coulter & Limbaugh, make up on the fly. The making-up part unaccountably shifts (it's improvised!) with each utterance and that's what puts C & L in a league that adjoins poetry (which, after all, is accountable to none); the confrontation-mockery-and-kill-agenda underneath and very much attached to their making-up is what commits them to the nut house, dancing to a pathology that's as close to postlanguage improv as you want to get in politics, "Barack the Magic Negro."

The ratio of nuts on the street to nuts in poetry is 1-1.
It wasn't always melee like this. Men came in uniforms,
Women with children. We traveled from Camp
Friendly to the enemy, blowing their nodes.
Free extrapolation was a wholesome signal
To obese teenagers. Dead Americans were then
The frontier in the stimulus spurring restless
Science. Make-up artists never dabbled, they
Plunged. Beneath it all a tall singer with a sparse
Brown beard could not break his musical direction.
We never took advantage of soldiers who were
The very definition of starving radicals. Today
All torture does poorly so college kids get caged
In fraud, pegged at low points in one-sided polls
That kick the ball down the road in a recession
Once allegations against them were without merit.
Pell Grants aim again at A.T.M.s pushing shyness
Aside, with half still unsure of their performance.

College=Army (of debt). I was only kidding.

Pakistan is the new sentence.

O Oregon!

Like most everyone else, I suspect, John Latta has close friends and detractors. I'm neither, just a reader who follows for two days (last Wednesday and Thursday) his sudden music and insights (which he calls "spelunking," among other things) on Clark Coolidge and Bernadette Mayer's The Cave. It's a relief there's "no shilly-shallying."

[Continuing from yesterday...] Confronting another text directly is one desire, whether it's subliminal or you're consciously in pursuit. Prepositions are helpful when you write what you read through indirection, or when you write beside your reading, under it, over it. Fold the zine or close the book or turn down the screen and compose (from) the ghost image of another text. Wait a day or longer and write after it.

Reading and responding to reading are the bed and bedroom to a writer's sociability. Then, there is the life that leads into and out of the room. Somehow, your social life and writing combine, exciting truths and falsehoods in a dramatic spiel. Over thirty years ago while a Columbia undergraduate Brad Gooch wrote, "I want to get older with you / but not sleep with you yet," a half-sexy and fairly sensible proposition for a poem and for a young poet whose life and writing have since taken him to the drama and mastery of literary biography, notably City Poet: The Life and Times of Frank O'Hara and, published two weeks ago, Flannery: A Life of Flannery O'Connor. An irreproachable biographer with a poet's gift for ephemera is a splendid model of the writer living out of his writing, pilfering from others' lives, for sure, but stealing devotionally. In Gooch's case the writer is devoted to whiz kids, choosing functional geniuses for sleeping partners — a graceful stratagem to live and age expressively.

Where was I? Reading is different for writers.

For poets, reading is poetry, pre-poetry, or at minimum its それゆえ, original potential. As John Ashbery has said often in a number of ways, and most recently in "Uptick" (published in Poetry this month), "poetry dissolves in / brilliant moisture and reads us / to us." It's snowing heavily as I cut and paste Ashbery's three lines. It's timely for me to face the brilliant moisture idea. This is unmitigated happenstance, like a majority of what I read. Circumstance or not, writers, not just poets, skew toward reading that prompts wordy consideration and response. Poets appear to go out begging for it, finding relief in processing text, principally but certainly not only poetry. We're not addicted to reading because we're feeding off catharsis or anything like it. That's what normal readers do. We're not normal. We're not compelled to read to feel emotion or have ideas, primarily. We read to do something with emotion and ideas. We look them over, kick their tires, test ride them. Who among close readers of Ashbery's has not taken him for a ride and been piqued? When we feel this way we can figure the time-emoticon game out, just a little. The hold-it-now frolic that Ashbery creates with registers is one way. In another of this month's four poems in Poetry, "El Dorado," he plays with loose, dim-witted utterance, with "'No rest for the weary'," which he puts in quotes to annoy his reader, a poet, more; then "I disagree / with you completely but couldn't be prouder / and fonder"; followed up by "So drink up. Feel good for two." For the fun of it he's talking down to one of his most cherished categories of reader, a poet, acknowledging the troublesome and timely antagonism between the writing and the being read, a live act passing on as it addresses, writes the other, the live act in reading, the future, both merged continuously. More obvious, we find a symptom of time shifting as Ashbery reaches (up, across, down?) for a choice of word that spins his reader's head, because, well, when the curious-yet-killer word comes along you feel it... because you're thinking 'what a cool choice,' and now you're more immersed (state-of-the-art term) with what you're reading and with the writer as you both had to have speculated, as if together, on the word, on how, and on why it came to be such a good choice. I'd say in this month's four short pieces there are three poems with three amusing choices (about the right ratio, I think): dovetail (the verb), subfusc, arroyo. In a fourth poem I find a patch of syntax that enforces the semantemes bubbling overtime, "Then up and pipes the major..." So reading and writing about reading suggest rewards.

Pretty good riff on the joy of Obamaesthetics.

I'm going to write about sociability within poetry and another way to be social not practiced much among writers of poems, but it's going to take time to get to it. Intellectuals — a subset among poets — or maybe vice versa? — act out large portions of their sociability through reading. My reading includes daily newspapers like the print version of The NY Times. This is beginning to take on qualities of habit in a rarefied, overly precious routine, made rarer with Pulitzer-garnering dailies falling by the planeload. Handheld freedoms, newspapers, are not to be sniffed at, just yet. How many of them, for instance, will we have a few years from now? Shuffling between the print and online Times puts me midway between the ancien régime and ingénues; with every dual read feeling more like a mix of allegiances to, on one hand, a lost generation of angry Kennedys pouring over text, coverage, substance and, on the other, a blamelessly jovial crew of Web readers perusing the design and larkiness of niche features and disaster updates. Today I'm going more for niches, liking Holland Cotter's review of the German entertainer / artist Martin Kippenberger. Born in 1953 a little ahead of his time, or maybe not, a meta-ironic humorist and recombine appropriationist who often turned on himself as a target and who died at age 44 in 1997. A party type from the beginning, Kippenberger, per Cotter, is "the juiced-up guy who made scintillating speeches, picked stupid fights and periodically dropped his pants." Kippenberger's self-portraits have a big range: before age 30, according to Cotter, Kippenberger is "a matinee idol lounging on a discarded sofa beside a Manhattan street"; by his mid-thirties, "he’s a paunchy, pugnacious middle-aged Picasso in boxer shorts. And from this point on the line between self-depiction and self-debasement blurs." A few years later Kippenberger was doing self-portraits of a dead man. And you have to love Kippenberger's outdoing, out-insulting Rauschenberg's erasure of a De Kooning — Kippenberger "bought a small gray 1972 monochrome painting by Gerhard Richter, fitted it with metal legs and turned it into a coffee table, which became by default a sculpture and original Kippenberger." Anyway, the phrase that stands out in Cotter's first paragraph describing Kippenberger's rise through the ranks is "compulsive sociability." This is the descriptor lost on so much of poetry and many writers. What are our distinctive compulsions today? We still read a great deal (at least I think we do) and we talk a lot about what we read, as well as about our sampling movies and art we see, music sometimes, sometimes politics, usually in chatty clumps of yes / no, affinity / repulsion, that sort of consumerist give-and-take. So there is enthusiastic discourse about reading, which is primary, and movies, music, art viewing, perhaps politics, etc., a little more guarded chat about other poets (strategic gossip), and other topics branching out to our lives and careers, subjects that are, I believe, carefully monitored, usually reserved for the right moment among particular friends or acquaintances. I'm not finding many Kippenbergers among us, then, guys that get out of the studio, so to speak, and forget themselves or, you know, pick a fight, drop their pants. Writers' gatherings are constrained by work-and-wages mores that our forbearers disdained. That is, if your mom is Gertrude Stein and your dad is Frank O'Hara like mine. How nearly gratuitous and cursory to indulge in a challenged habit reading the newspaper, especially reading it in hand, and be reminded of the compulsively social, The Other Way that still makes news.

If you own a copyright, you are "in the settlement" between Google and two sub-classes, authors and publishers. That's one of the points in a legal statement sent out by Rust Consulting, Inc. as part of "Court-Ordered Information" [sic] for authors and publishers about the Google Search Settlement. The legalese doesn't get clearer, but it is online. If you can figure enough of it out and you object to something, May 5 is the first of several key deadlines. Signed, Big Brother.

I was waking up this morning after Obama's joint session speech. He's still talking but he's whittled it all down to bitchspeak. In a crisis we pull together like molecules of programmable matter, flexible, sticky balls of sadness.

An uneasy read.

I solemnly swear I have no idea where Thomas Basbøll is heading, but in three short posts, so far, he's initiated a critical appreciation of textual flarf, and it's terrific appreciation. No matter the partisan tic or extra-textual motive, I just jump around feeling real good whenever a poet takes on matters at hand like language, stylistics, prosody, and so forth. Writing today about variations in delivery afforded by Sharon Mesmer's work, Basbøll observes, "I have found the image of [inaugural bard] Elizabeth Alexander's 'poet's voice' reading... through a PA system aimed at the Washington monument useful..."

When does stagecraft snap apart? By what measure does asymmetry become askew? President Obama is true top dog. When he takes the podium and staffers stand in the back — the rearguard in fact — that's asymmetry we have come to the occasion, either in person or on tv, to see and expect. When Eric Kantor or John McCain must rise and bob his neck skyward to respond to Barack Obama's question, "any thoughts?" — that's askew. The audience is beneath the President. All due respect to President Obama, it looks cracked.

Hey, why not?

I can't stop reading this groovy stuff.

It seems I forgot how to mean
something. Let's go camping.

-- from "dccclxxxv"

And why would I?

Avant-bourgeoisie. Taking offense is tragic and bullying. And stupid. Well, not 100%. But one thing David Orr got mostly right on poets in coterie: ...we begin to think of real criticism as being "mean" rather than as evidence of poetry's health; we stop assuming that poems should be interesting to other people and begin thinking of them as being obliged only to interest our friends... If this smarts or even if it barely tingles, I am advised. Maybe it's your turn, since several times now I have heard and read the m-word in discourse about another poet's criticism. The word mean and words to that affect, like judgmental. Criticism that's judgmental! Ew. To put it only slightly exaggeratedly, anything less than a tummy rub (i.e., prostrated flattery) will not attain or regain approval of the offended? The m-word and its like are used ungeneratively to wipe out the message / messenger and stop discussion. The core strategy is to shrink the discourse field and the heads that are off putting: The atmosphere or the group is thus rendered more charmingly bourgeois for fun and influence. How shrunken is one's head? I see a new line of criticism that demonstrates how we (or some) turn making discourse about discourse into a kind of friends and family plan.