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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