This is newness: every little tawdry
Obstacle glass-wrapped and peculiar,
Glinting and clinking in a saint's falsetto. Only you
Don't know what to make of the sudden slippiness,
The blind, white, awful, inaccessible slant.
There's no getting up it by the words you know.
No getting up by elephant or wheel or shoe.
We have only come to look. You are too new
To want the world in a glass hat.
--Yet another Plath
Monday, December 31, 2007
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
The smile of the snow is white
Plath's "Nick and the Candlestick" spliced with "Wintering"
I am a miner. The light burns blue.
Waxy stalactites
Drip and thicken, tears
At the heart of the house
Next to the last tenant's rancid jam
and the bottles of empty glitters--
Sir So-and-so's gin.
The earthen womb
Exudes from its dead boredom.
Black bat airs...
This is the room I have never been in
This is the room I could never breathe in.
The black bunched in there like a bat,
No light
But the torch and its faint
raggy shawls,
Cold homicides.
They weld to me like plums.
Chinese yellow on appalling objects--
Black asininity. Decay.
Possession.
It is they who own me.
Neither cruel nor indifferent,
Old cave of calcium
Icicles, old echoer.
Even the newts are white,
Only ignorant.
This is the time of hanging on for the bees--the bees
So slow I hardly know them,
Filing like soldiers
To the syrup tin
Those holy Joes.
And the fish, the fish -
Christ! they are panes of ice,
To make up for the honey I've taken.
Tate and Lyle keeps them going, The refined snow.
It is Tate and Lyle they live on, instead of flowers.
They take it. The cold sets in.
A vice of knives,
A piranha
Religion, drinking
Now they ball in a mass,
Black
Mind against all that white.
The smile of the snow is white.
It spreads itself out, a mile-long body of Meissen,
Its first communion out of my live toes.
The candle
Gulps and recovers its small altitude,
Into which, on warm days,
They can only carry their dead.
Its yellows hearten.
O love, how did you get here?
O embryo
The bees are all women,
Maids and the long royal lady
(They have got rid of the men,
The blunt, clumsy stumblers, the boors.)
Remembering, even in sleep,
Your crossed position.
Winter is for women--
The woman, still at her knitting,
At the cradle of Spanis walnut,
The blood blooms clean
In you, ruby.
The pain
You wake to is not yours.
Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think.
Love, love,
I have hung our cave with roses,
With soft rugs -
Will the hive survive, will the gladiolas
Succeed in banking their fires
To enter another year?
The last of Victoriana.
Let the stars
Plummet to their dark address,
The bees are flying. They taste the spring.
Let the mercuric
Atoms that cripple drip
Into the terrible well,
What will they taste of, the Christmas roses?
You are the one
Solid the spaces lean on, envious.
You are the baby in the barn.
I am a miner. The light burns blue.
Waxy stalactites
Drip and thicken, tears
At the heart of the house
Next to the last tenant's rancid jam
and the bottles of empty glitters--
Sir So-and-so's gin.
The earthen womb
Exudes from its dead boredom.
Black bat airs...
This is the room I have never been in
This is the room I could never breathe in.
The black bunched in there like a bat,
No light
But the torch and its faint
raggy shawls,
Cold homicides.
They weld to me like plums.
Chinese yellow on appalling objects--
Black asininity. Decay.
Possession.
It is they who own me.
Neither cruel nor indifferent,
Old cave of calcium
Icicles, old echoer.
Even the newts are white,
Only ignorant.
This is the time of hanging on for the bees--the bees
So slow I hardly know them,
Filing like soldiers
To the syrup tin
Those holy Joes.
And the fish, the fish -
Christ! they are panes of ice,
To make up for the honey I've taken.
Tate and Lyle keeps them going, The refined snow.
It is Tate and Lyle they live on, instead of flowers.
They take it. The cold sets in.
A vice of knives,
A piranha
Religion, drinking
Now they ball in a mass,
Black
Mind against all that white.
The smile of the snow is white.
It spreads itself out, a mile-long body of Meissen,
Its first communion out of my live toes.
The candle
Gulps and recovers its small altitude,
Into which, on warm days,
They can only carry their dead.
Its yellows hearten.
O love, how did you get here?
O embryo
The bees are all women,
Maids and the long royal lady
(They have got rid of the men,
The blunt, clumsy stumblers, the boors.)
Remembering, even in sleep,
Your crossed position.
Winter is for women--
The woman, still at her knitting,
At the cradle of Spanis walnut,
The blood blooms clean
In you, ruby.
The pain
You wake to is not yours.
Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think.
Love, love,
I have hung our cave with roses,
With soft rugs -
Will the hive survive, will the gladiolas
Succeed in banking their fires
To enter another year?
The last of Victoriana.
Let the stars
Plummet to their dark address,
The bees are flying. They taste the spring.
Let the mercuric
Atoms that cripple drip
Into the terrible well,
What will they taste of, the Christmas roses?
You are the one
Solid the spaces lean on, envious.
You are the baby in the barn.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Plath takes on new meaning this century
Blackberrying
Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries,
Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly,
A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea
Somewhere at the end of it, heaving. Blackberries
Big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes
Ebon in the hedges, fat
With blue-red juices. These they squander on my fingers.
I had not asked for such a blood sisterhood; they must love me.
They accommodate themselves to my milkbottle, flattening their sides.
Overhead go the choughs in black, cacophonous flocks ---
Bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky.
Theirs is the only voice, protesting, protesting.
I do not think the sea will appear at all.
The high, green meadows are glowing, as if lit from within.
I come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies,
Hanging their bluegreen bellies and their wing panes in a Chinese screen.
The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them; they believe in heaven.
One more hook, and the berries and bushes end.
The only thing to come now is the sea.
From between two hills a sudden wind funnels at me,
Slapping its phantom laundry in my face.
These hills are too green and sweet to have tasted salt.
I follow the sheep path between them. A last hook brings me
To the hills' northern face, and the face is orange rock
That looks out on nothing, nothing but a great space
Of white and pewter lights, and a din like silversmiths
Beating and beating at an intractable metal.
--Sylvia Plath, 1961
Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries,
Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly,
A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea
Somewhere at the end of it, heaving. Blackberries
Big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes
Ebon in the hedges, fat
With blue-red juices. These they squander on my fingers.
I had not asked for such a blood sisterhood; they must love me.
They accommodate themselves to my milkbottle, flattening their sides.
Overhead go the choughs in black, cacophonous flocks ---
Bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky.
Theirs is the only voice, protesting, protesting.
I do not think the sea will appear at all.
The high, green meadows are glowing, as if lit from within.
I come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies,
Hanging their bluegreen bellies and their wing panes in a Chinese screen.
The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them; they believe in heaven.
One more hook, and the berries and bushes end.
The only thing to come now is the sea.
From between two hills a sudden wind funnels at me,
Slapping its phantom laundry in my face.
These hills are too green and sweet to have tasted salt.
I follow the sheep path between them. A last hook brings me
To the hills' northern face, and the face is orange rock
That looks out on nothing, nothing but a great space
Of white and pewter lights, and a din like silversmiths
Beating and beating at an intractable metal.
--Sylvia Plath, 1961
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Paul McCarthy: Chocolate Santa with Butt Plug
Paul McCarthy's latest show, currently running at Maccarone (630 Greenwich Street) through 24 December, employs themes that the artist has been discussing for decades: unbridled sexuality, iconography in popular culture, the role of fame in public life, politics, and the nature of violence. His new show continues a number of these themes, if only in a manner that can only be described as charming. For this show McCarthy turned the gallery into a fully-functioning chocolate factory, in which workers, under the direction of master chocolatier Peter P. Greweling, produce 1-lbs Santas composed entirely of, well, chocolate. However, McCarthy's edible version of the holiday icon, sold at $100 a piece and packaged in boxes filled with shredded copies of Artforum, is accompanied by a molded butt plug, that most democratic and accessible of sex toys. (Do we really need another reason to eat in bed?) McCarthy, of course, has always been interested in psychological disruption, shock treatments, and in exploring base desires--as well as the impulses that drive them. Using foodstuffs to explore these themes (like mayonnaise, hot dogs, and ketchup), McCarthy makes it a point to jar us out of our emotional and physical havens, as if to reinforce the notion that comfort has no place in the modern world, and that even our most precious of cultural artifacts are subject to corruption. Collectors, get your checkbooks ready.
http://www.peterpaulchocolates.com
http://www.maccarone.net
http://www.ubu.com/film/mccarthy.html
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
My true nemesis is Rachael Ray
She is currently interviewing and having coffee with John Cusack.
She is not a trained chef and cooks like I do, yet gets to dine with leading men like this...
The difference is I would not sell out and support Dunkin Donuts...I would keep it real and do commercials for Illy Espresso.
I am currently eating Danish sugar cookies for breakfast and watching daytime television. (Edgy just stole one of my cookies and ran off with it.) Where is the justice?
She is not a trained chef and cooks like I do, yet gets to dine with leading men like this...
The difference is I would not sell out and support Dunkin Donuts...I would keep it real and do commercials for Illy Espresso.
I am currently eating Danish sugar cookies for breakfast and watching daytime television. (Edgy just stole one of my cookies and ran off with it.) Where is the justice?
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Wow Poem from Slate
The World War Speaks
When I was born, two incisors
had already come through the gum.
They gave me a silver bell to chew on,
brought me home in a wicker basket,
and kept me by the stove's coal heat.
Every morning my mother boiled
a huge vat of mustard greens,
steam drifting over to my crib and
after a few hours, souring into a gas.
I breathed it all in. I began to walk
so they fitted me with braces.
I began to run, so they fitted me
with books: Mars, hydrogen, Mongolia.
I learned to dig a deeper kind of ditch.
I learned to start a fire in three minutes.
I learned to sharpen a pencil into
a bayonet. Sometimes at night
I'd sneak into the house of our neighbors,
into the hall outside their bedroom,
and watch as they moved over each
other like slow, moonlit fish.
Sometimes my mother would comb
my father's hair with her fingertips,
but that was it. They wanted an only
child: the child to end all children.
--Sandra Beasley
When I was born, two incisors
had already come through the gum.
They gave me a silver bell to chew on,
brought me home in a wicker basket,
and kept me by the stove's coal heat.
Every morning my mother boiled
a huge vat of mustard greens,
steam drifting over to my crib and
after a few hours, souring into a gas.
I breathed it all in. I began to walk
so they fitted me with braces.
I began to run, so they fitted me
with books: Mars, hydrogen, Mongolia.
I learned to dig a deeper kind of ditch.
I learned to start a fire in three minutes.
I learned to sharpen a pencil into
a bayonet. Sometimes at night
I'd sneak into the house of our neighbors,
into the hall outside their bedroom,
and watch as they moved over each
other like slow, moonlit fish.
Sometimes my mother would comb
my father's hair with her fingertips,
but that was it. They wanted an only
child: the child to end all children.
--Sandra Beasley
Monday, December 10, 2007
Thursday, December 06, 2007
So THAT'S what happened to my manuscript...
From Scott Donaldson’s excellent biography, Edwin Arlington Robinson: A Poet’s Life (2007):
Neither Robinson nor Peabody understood how the fates—and human frailty—were conspiring to prevent publication of Captain Craig. Normally, EAR would have received proofs early in 1901. He did not and could not, for on a cold winter’s night a member of the staff at Small, Maynard paid a visit to a Boston brothel, left the manuscript behind, and quite forgot about it. Robinson wanted the script back for revision, and the publishers were forced to stall him while they turned the office upside down in a futile search for it. Months went by before springtime, with the sap rising, lured the erring staffer back to the whorehouse. There the madam presented him with the manuscript she had carefully preserved.
Unfortunately, Small, Maynard had by then gone into receivership and decided not to publish Captain Craig after all.
Neither Robinson nor Peabody understood how the fates—and human frailty—were conspiring to prevent publication of Captain Craig. Normally, EAR would have received proofs early in 1901. He did not and could not, for on a cold winter’s night a member of the staff at Small, Maynard paid a visit to a Boston brothel, left the manuscript behind, and quite forgot about it. Robinson wanted the script back for revision, and the publishers were forced to stall him while they turned the office upside down in a futile search for it. Months went by before springtime, with the sap rising, lured the erring staffer back to the whorehouse. There the madam presented him with the manuscript she had carefully preserved.
Unfortunately, Small, Maynard had by then gone into receivership and decided not to publish Captain Craig after all.
Sunday, December 02, 2007
SNOW
The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window
was
Spawning snow and pink roses against it
Soundlessly collateral and incompatible:
World is suddener than we fancy it.
World is crazier and more of it than we think,
Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion
A tangerine and spit the pips and feel
The drunkenness of things being various.
And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world
Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes--
On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of
your hands--
There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses.
--Louis MacNeice
was
Spawning snow and pink roses against it
Soundlessly collateral and incompatible:
World is suddener than we fancy it.
World is crazier and more of it than we think,
Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion
A tangerine and spit the pips and feel
The drunkenness of things being various.
And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world
Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes--
On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of
your hands--
There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses.
--Louis MacNeice
Sunday, November 25, 2007
WBOR
You're listening to WBOR Lite FM, where we play the safest, most insipid reggae this side of Kingston. Up next, “Red, Red Wine” by UB40...
*
"Superstars of Asian ladyboy scene invite you to the backstage for some fun."
I suspect that the term "backstage" is some sort of euphemism.
*
"Baseball, it is said, is only a game. True. And the Grand Canyon is only a hole in Arizona.” - George F. Will
*
Up next on WBOR Lite FM, some music to do some light house cleaning, or, perhaps, get an early start on preparing those taxes. But first, a check of local traffic conditions...
*
*
"Superstars of Asian ladyboy scene invite you to the backstage for some fun."
I suspect that the term "backstage" is some sort of euphemism.
*
"Baseball, it is said, is only a game. True. And the Grand Canyon is only a hole in Arizona.” - George F. Will
*
Up next on WBOR Lite FM, some music to do some light house cleaning, or, perhaps, get an early start on preparing those taxes. But first, a check of local traffic conditions...
*
We are interested in shock - in convulsion. We are obsessed with the failed attempt at producing objects with a vertiginous obscenity attached to them; in being purely gratuitous and rejecting critical worth. But even more, we are interested in how even the most abject object is recuperated to 'use value'. We are interested in the redemptive value of transgression, and how morality is squeezed from sin. We fantasize about producing things with zero cultural value, to produce aesthetic inertia - a series of works of art to be consumed and then forgotten.
I find it terribly funny that the Chapman Brothers (Jake & Dinos), those English rabble-rousers of the modern art scene, have desecrated prints of Goya's Disasters of War by drawing clown faces all over them. The official title of such subversive acts against the establishment? Well, Insult to Injury, of course.
And speaking of the Chapman Brothers, somebody needs to get me their book, Unholy Libel, for Christmas.
*
This is WBOR Lite FM, where we play the music most suited for hibiscus planting. Or needlework. Yeah, needlework. Ah, how relaxing. And now, a ballad from America's princess of lite-pop, Celine Dion in duet with Whitney Houston...
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Let Us Go Then, You and I... No, Really, We Gotta Go
Poems by myself and Mr. Rivera are now appearing on the Smyles & Fish Poetron.
I am wrongly identified as a "Spanish Diplomat" (everyone knows I serve at the pleasure of the Queen of Portugal). Mr. Rivera is identified as someone who can't keep a secret (true--don't tell him the combination to the wall safe... SERIOUSLY, DON'T TELL HIM!).
Mr. Rivera is also the author of a review now posted in the Editors' Journal at The One Three Eight.
Does anyone at all read this except for ourselves and our significant others?
{gc}
I am wrongly identified as a "Spanish Diplomat" (everyone knows I serve at the pleasure of the Queen of Portugal). Mr. Rivera is identified as someone who can't keep a secret (true--don't tell him the combination to the wall safe... SERIOUSLY, DON'T TELL HIM!).
Mr. Rivera is also the author of a review now posted in the Editors' Journal at The One Three Eight.
Does anyone at all read this except for ourselves and our significant others?
{gc}
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Movie Movie
No Country for Old Men is an excellent Western Noir, and quite faithful to Cormac McCarthy's grim vision. I was thinking about it in terms of the classic Western tropes and realized that it's basically Shane, except for the fact that Shane never shows up. Then I realized that Javier Bardem's stone cold killer is Shane, walking into the sunset with a broken arm, a force that even the universe cannot kill. Kudos to the Coen Brothers--this makes up for their utterly misguided remake of The Ladykillers.
Before the Devil Knows You're Dead is a crackerjack example of the crime-gone-wrong genre, but the real reason to see it is for its painful delineation of a family that lost its way long ago. Philip Seymour Hoffman's performance is stunning, but then his character is the crux of the whole tragedy: a man who, as he puts it to his drug dealer at the Trump Tower (!), "doesn't add up," and who doesn't understand why this is so. Kudos to Sidney Lumet, who can knock this sort of ball out of the park at 83.
The Darjeeling Limited is another fine example of Wes Anderson's sensibility, and even with its flaws (it becomes fairly pedestrian after the bravua funeral/flashback sequence) is pretty enjoyable. If for no other reason, Anderson should continue to make films for the soundtracks they inspire.
{gc}
Before the Devil Knows You're Dead is a crackerjack example of the crime-gone-wrong genre, but the real reason to see it is for its painful delineation of a family that lost its way long ago. Philip Seymour Hoffman's performance is stunning, but then his character is the crux of the whole tragedy: a man who, as he puts it to his drug dealer at the Trump Tower (!), "doesn't add up," and who doesn't understand why this is so. Kudos to Sidney Lumet, who can knock this sort of ball out of the park at 83.
The Darjeeling Limited is another fine example of Wes Anderson's sensibility, and even with its flaws (it becomes fairly pedestrian after the bravua funeral/flashback sequence) is pretty enjoyable. If for no other reason, Anderson should continue to make films for the soundtracks they inspire.
{gc}
Monday, November 12, 2007
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Recent Records of Note
Black Dice - Load Blown - [Paw Tracks]
The Darjeeling Limited: Original Soundtrack - [Abcko]
The Darjeeling Limited: Original Soundtrack - [Abcko]
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Friday, October 26, 2007
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Righteous Ruminations
The following may point to just how naive I am, but I find it wrong that Nissan, in all its corporate wisdom, has licensed a song performed by The Clash, a cover of the roots reggae standard "Pressure Drop," for use in one of its commercials. Given the nature of the products the company sells, including the SUV prominently featured in its latest advertisement, wouldn't it have made more sense for the carmaker to use, say, "Rock the Casbah" or "Bankrobber," instead?
Oh, the irony, the bitter, bitter irony.
*
"The center is not the center." - Derrida
*
I love quoting dead French philosophers because, in all frankness, the practice makes me feel closer to common folk.
*
Oh, the irony, the bitter, bitter irony.
*
"The center is not the center." - Derrida
*
I love quoting dead French philosophers because, in all frankness, the practice makes me feel closer to common folk.
*
My Daddy was a bankrobber,
but he never hurt nobody.
He just loved to live that way,
and he loved to steal your money.
So we came to jazz it up,
we never loved a shovel.
Break your back to earn your pay,
and don't forget to grovel...
*
The Grand Marquis Coterie "Song of the Week!" honors go to Teenage Fanclub for "Speed of Light." Yeah!
*
One of the more curious headlines on the Internet: "Dating Advice: 'Help, I'm Falling For a Priest.'" Uh, is this supposed to be news?
*
It must be pretty obvious to those who know me, but I am getting old. As in, I can see at least two gray hairs on my head, and that shit is pissing me off old. But if only that were the last sign proving that the ravages of age are upon me! You see, if I sit down for more than fifteen minutes, I end up having a dull pain in the left side of my hip. When I stand up to walk around, I feel as though someone had just place a two-ton slab across my body. Such is the terror that has befallen me, but I shall perservere through all attacks against my youth!
*
We had chicken for dinner tonight. What did you have?
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Monday, October 15, 2007
Definition of the Day
draw - to pull out to full or greater length; make by attenuating; stretch: to draw filaments of molten glass.
Sunday, October 07, 2007
Sledge!
you could have a steam train
if you'd just lay down your tracks
you could have an aeroplane flying
if you bring your blue sky back
all you do is call me
I'll be anything you need
you could have a big dipper
going up and down, all around the bends
you could have a bumper car, bumping
this amusement never ends
I want to be your sledgehammer
why don't you call my name
oh let me be your sledgehammer
this will be my testimony
show me round your fruitcage
'cuz I will be your honey bee
open up your fruitcage
where the fruit is as sweet as can be
I want to be your sledgehammer
why don't you call my name
you'd better call the sledgehammer
put your mind at rest
I'm going to be-the sledgehammer
this can be my testimony
I'm your sledgehammer
let there be no doubt about it
sledge sledge sledgehammer
I've kicked the habit
shed my skin
this is the new stuff
I go dancing in, we go dancing in
oh won't you show for me
and I will show for you
show for me, I will show for you
yea, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, I do mean you
only you
you've been coming through
going to build that power
build, build up that power, hey
I've been feeding the rhythm
I've been feeding the rhythm
going to feel that power, build in you
come on, come on, help me do
yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, you
I've been feeding the rhythm
I've been feeding the rhythm
it's what we're doing, doing
all day and night
--Peter Gabriel
if you'd just lay down your tracks
you could have an aeroplane flying
if you bring your blue sky back
all you do is call me
I'll be anything you need
you could have a big dipper
going up and down, all around the bends
you could have a bumper car, bumping
this amusement never ends
I want to be your sledgehammer
why don't you call my name
oh let me be your sledgehammer
this will be my testimony
show me round your fruitcage
'cuz I will be your honey bee
open up your fruitcage
where the fruit is as sweet as can be
I want to be your sledgehammer
why don't you call my name
you'd better call the sledgehammer
put your mind at rest
I'm going to be-the sledgehammer
this can be my testimony
I'm your sledgehammer
let there be no doubt about it
sledge sledge sledgehammer
I've kicked the habit
shed my skin
this is the new stuff
I go dancing in, we go dancing in
oh won't you show for me
and I will show for you
show for me, I will show for you
yea, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, I do mean you
only you
you've been coming through
going to build that power
build, build up that power, hey
I've been feeding the rhythm
I've been feeding the rhythm
going to feel that power, build in you
come on, come on, help me do
yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, you
I've been feeding the rhythm
I've been feeding the rhythm
it's what we're doing, doing
all day and night
--Peter Gabriel
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Poem of the Day
The Letter
I am not feeling strong yet, but I am taking
good care of myself. The weather is perfect.
I read and walk all day and then walk to the sea.
I expect to swim soon. For now I am content.
I am not sure what I hope for. I feel I am
doing my best. It reminds me of when I was
sixteen dreaming of Lorca, the gentle trees outside
and the creek. Perhaps poetry replaces something
in me that others receive more naturally.
Perhaps my happiness proves a weakness in my life.
Even my failures in poetry please me.
Time is very different here. It is very good
to be away from public ambition.
I sweep and wash, cook and shop.
Sometimes I go into town in the evening
and have pastry with custard. Sometimes I sit
at a table by the harbor and drink half a beer.
--Linda Gregg, from The Sacraments of Desire [Graywolf Press].
I am not feeling strong yet, but I am taking
good care of myself. The weather is perfect.
I read and walk all day and then walk to the sea.
I expect to swim soon. For now I am content.
I am not sure what I hope for. I feel I am
doing my best. It reminds me of when I was
sixteen dreaming of Lorca, the gentle trees outside
and the creek. Perhaps poetry replaces something
in me that others receive more naturally.
Perhaps my happiness proves a weakness in my life.
Even my failures in poetry please me.
Time is very different here. It is very good
to be away from public ambition.
I sweep and wash, cook and shop.
Sometimes I go into town in the evening
and have pastry with custard. Sometimes I sit
at a table by the harbor and drink half a beer.
--Linda Gregg, from The Sacraments of Desire [Graywolf Press].
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Wild Boys, 1984
The wild boys are calling on their way back from the fire
in august moon's surrender to a dust cloud on the rise
wild boys fallen far from glory
reckless and so hungered on the razors edge you trail
because there's murder by the roadside in a sore afraid new world
they tried to break us, looks like they'll try again
wild boys never lose it
wild boys never chose this way
wild boys never close your eyes
wild boys always shine
you got sirens for a welcome there's bloodstain for your pain
and your telephone been ringing wile you're dancing in the rain
wild boys wonder where is glory
where is all you angels now the figureheads have fell
and lovers war with arrows over secrets they could tell
they tried to tame you looks like they'll try again
wild boys never lose it
wild boys never chose this way
wild boys never close your eyes
wild boys always shine
--Duran Duran
in august moon's surrender to a dust cloud on the rise
wild boys fallen far from glory
reckless and so hungered on the razors edge you trail
because there's murder by the roadside in a sore afraid new world
they tried to break us, looks like they'll try again
wild boys never lose it
wild boys never chose this way
wild boys never close your eyes
wild boys always shine
you got sirens for a welcome there's bloodstain for your pain
and your telephone been ringing wile you're dancing in the rain
wild boys wonder where is glory
where is all you angels now the figureheads have fell
and lovers war with arrows over secrets they could tell
they tried to tame you looks like they'll try again
wild boys never lose it
wild boys never chose this way
wild boys never close your eyes
wild boys always shine
--Duran Duran
Jean Valentine poem in The New Yorker
On a Passenger Ferry
by Jean Valentine
(For Grace Paley)
The deck is big, and crowded. In one corner,
an old woman, sick, on chemo, not in pain, is
writing in an elementary-school notebook.
Nobody else saw her, but I saw her.
I had seen her before. Her round, kind face,
smiling and still as a photograph
outside a window—
The New Yorker
September 24, 2007
by Jean Valentine
(For Grace Paley)
The deck is big, and crowded. In one corner,
an old woman, sick, on chemo, not in pain, is
writing in an elementary-school notebook.
Nobody else saw her, but I saw her.
I had seen her before. Her round, kind face,
smiling and still as a photograph
outside a window—
The New Yorker
September 24, 2007
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Poem
Mango
Delicious slivers of mango
cut like long tongues--so it's as if we eat
our passion, this longing
sticky like the afterglow of our sex,
with skin the reddish mottle of mango skin.
How often had I eaten these alone
bought at some Upper West Side bodega
and cut open with a pocket knife,
sitting at Riverside park, sunset
orange in the Hudson below:
sunset orange with a knife in it,
bleeding orange in my hands.
Delicious slivers of mango
cut like long tongues--so it's as if we eat
our passion, this longing
sticky like the afterglow of our sex,
with skin the reddish mottle of mango skin.
How often had I eaten these alone
bought at some Upper West Side bodega
and cut open with a pocket knife,
sitting at Riverside park, sunset
orange in the Hudson below:
sunset orange with a knife in it,
bleeding orange in my hands.
--Gerry LaFemina
Originally published in the Winter 2004-2005 issue of The Southeast Review.
Originally published in the Winter 2004-2005 issue of The Southeast Review.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Spinner
Some recent records of note:
Liars - Liars - [Mute]
I'm not entirely convinced that Liars, one of my favorite bands, have written a cohesive, fully-realized record with this, their fourth release, but that particular truth may not matter, given that the new songs are more about mood and tone, as opposed to ideas. Having said that, it is best that would-be listeners not overlook Liars for what it is: a document of a daring, risk-taking music prepared by a band interested not in pleasing its audience, but in circumventing tired norms.
The tracks to which my ear is especially drawn include: "Leather Prowler"; "Sailing to Byzantium"; "Clear Island"; and "Protection," a song that can best be described as haunting (a falsetto has never sounded so right), and which is probably the best album-closer that I've heard in the last five years.
I will take your Polaroid / You will show me how to drink...
M.I.A. - Kala - [XL]
It has a good beat and you can dance to it.
The tracks to which my ear is especially drawn include: "Leather Prowler"; "Sailing to Byzantium"; "Clear Island"; and "Protection," a song that can best be described as haunting (a falsetto has never sounded so right), and which is probably the best album-closer that I've heard in the last five years.
I will take your Polaroid / You will show me how to drink...
M.I.A. - Kala - [XL]
It has a good beat and you can dance to it.
Monday, September 17, 2007
from "Stars" by McGrath
We are human and our form is a corruption of starlight
poured like heavy syrup into soft-skinned molds,
like decorative soaps, or candles.
Like the stars we burn fiercely, reluctantly,
as a dragon consumes its golden hoard.
Of my eyes, of my skin, the stars shall know nothing.
--Campbell McGrath, a selection from his forthcoming Seven Notebooks, published in mipoesias.com
poured like heavy syrup into soft-skinned molds,
like decorative soaps, or candles.
Like the stars we burn fiercely, reluctantly,
as a dragon consumes its golden hoard.
Of my eyes, of my skin, the stars shall know nothing.
--Campbell McGrath, a selection from his forthcoming Seven Notebooks, published in mipoesias.com
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Writing Tips
1. Parenthetical Remarks (however relevant) are (usually) unnecessary.
2. Don't use no double negatives.
3. Proofread carefully to see if any words out or mispeld something.
4. Eschew obfuscation.
5. Verbs HAS to agree with their subjects.
6. And don't start a sentence with a conjunction.
7. It is wrong to ever split an infinitive.
8. Avoid cliches like the plague (they're old hat).
9. Be more or less specific.
2. Don't use no double negatives.
3. Proofread carefully to see if any words out or mispeld something.
4. Eschew obfuscation.
5. Verbs HAS to agree with their subjects.
6. And don't start a sentence with a conjunction.
7. It is wrong to ever split an infinitive.
8. Avoid cliches like the plague (they're old hat).
9. Be more or less specific.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Close, But No Fine, Hand-Rolled, Imported Cuban Cigar
Dear Danny _________:
Thank you for sending us "The Cartographer." We really enjoyed this piece, but it didn't work for (esteemed literary journal) right now. We hope that you will continue to send us your work.
Sincerely,
The Editors of (esteemed literary journal)
I love Google translate this page
Linee di Florinda Fusco, from www.editricezona.it/linee.htm:
“Like clearly enunciated sin from the frontispiece, those collections from the Fusco are `lines here', not “backs”, or “poetries” (even if the proposed tiration wants obviously to be offered like vicaria regarding such alternatives). `A line' is something of other (not “less”, even if is fuor of doubt the tone `in minor') regarding a back. But in what consists this difference? Or, said otherwise, and perhaps little better: what characterizes `a line' of the Fusco and of it it determines its same leggibilità? They said, a lot in order to express to me with a formula, the coincidence and nearly the superimposition, between `the capacity' of its development on the page (just in the sense of the amount of oral materials, of images etc that every `line' transports to the just inner) and its ritmica necessity. The prosodia, insomma, it is a category of analysis that with `the lines' works little: you notice yourself, in so far as, the nearly absolute lack of the enjambement, that is the ritmica figure that than more every other denunciation the collision between prosodiche requests and syntactic requests. For against, those turn out amplify all to you mark them (lines white women, inner spaziature to the back, paginations to step: and then also parenthesis, italics etc) that they stretch to isolate every single `line' or fragment of it like unit in sure measure self-sufficient person.” (from the famous one of Mark Berisso).
to have a north wind to two ropes (I could perhaps be raised)
I dredge in the water the shapes of I dredge in the water
the body that wheel (a grooved pleasure)
to prepare itself in the bottom of the sand/to imitate the shapes of the water
misurala as you can you remove the coat and misurala with the body
sordamente
the minimum sinks to articulate
glacial states of waking and generations
to go up or to wait for to touch the field
to have the just words to mistake with the words
to try the force points
to float like the north wind
(not there is certainty in repairing
in the repair broken one is something much
of untied frozen cut I confirm
broken one is something much
I want to say that the center is various from the side
the repair is maceration)
to soil the face of black
to be based to a small table in station
“Like clearly enunciated sin from the frontispiece, those collections from the Fusco are `lines here', not “backs”, or “poetries” (even if the proposed tiration wants obviously to be offered like vicaria regarding such alternatives). `A line' is something of other (not “less”, even if is fuor of doubt the tone `in minor') regarding a back. But in what consists this difference? Or, said otherwise, and perhaps little better: what characterizes `a line' of the Fusco and of it it determines its same leggibilità? They said, a lot in order to express to me with a formula, the coincidence and nearly the superimposition, between `the capacity' of its development on the page (just in the sense of the amount of oral materials, of images etc that every `line' transports to the just inner) and its ritmica necessity. The prosodia, insomma, it is a category of analysis that with `the lines' works little: you notice yourself, in so far as, the nearly absolute lack of the enjambement, that is the ritmica figure that than more every other denunciation the collision between prosodiche requests and syntactic requests. For against, those turn out amplify all to you mark them (lines white women, inner spaziature to the back, paginations to step: and then also parenthesis, italics etc) that they stretch to isolate every single `line' or fragment of it like unit in sure measure self-sufficient person.” (from the famous one of Mark Berisso).
to have a north wind to two ropes (I could perhaps be raised)
I dredge in the water the shapes of I dredge in the water
the body that wheel (a grooved pleasure)
to prepare itself in the bottom of the sand/to imitate the shapes of the water
misurala as you can you remove the coat and misurala with the body
sordamente
the minimum sinks to articulate
glacial states of waking and generations
to go up or to wait for to touch the field
to have the just words to mistake with the words
to try the force points
to float like the north wind
(not there is certainty in repairing
in the repair broken one is something much
of untied frozen cut I confirm
broken one is something much
I want to say that the center is various from the side
the repair is maceration)
to soil the face of black
to be based to a small table in station
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Brooklyn Book Festival
The second annual Brooklyn Book Festival will take place this Sunday, September 16 in various venues throughout the borough, and is due to feature a number of interesting poets/writers, including: Jonathan Lethem, Colson Whitehead, Jonathan Safran Foer, Kimiko Hahn, A.M. Homes, and many others. Of the gathering, Marty Marokowitz, Brooklyn borough president, writes:
Greetings,
The second annual Brooklyn Book Festival on September 16, 2007 is a book lover’s dream come true! The festival presents exciting and innovative fiction and non-fiction programs with author discussions and readings—come early to get a seat! Nearly 100 booksellers and thousands of books will fill beautiful Borough Hall Plaza and Columbus Park. You can hear a poetry slam, participate in a define-a-thon, and have your favorite book signed by the author. Children can hear their best-loved books read at the Target Children’s Pavilion; teenagers will find sports, fantasy, graphic novels and more at the Independence Community Foundation Youth Pavilion. The Brooklyn Book Festival is a best seller! See you there!
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Wow Poem by Anne Carson
Poem: ‘Triple Sonnet of the Plush Pony’
Anne Carson
I
Do you think of your saliva as a personal possession or as something you can sell?
What about tears? What about semen? Linguists tell
us to use the terms alienable and inalienable
to make this distinction intelligible.
E.g. English speakers call both blood and faeces alienable on a normal day
but saliva, sweat, tears and bowels they do not give away.
Bananas and buttocks, in Papua New Guinea, belong to the inalienable class
while genitalia and skin of banana are not held onto nearly so fast.
Such thinking will affect how a word like rape is defined
or how sorcerers aim their spells or how you feel in your mind
when you address animals. Of course cows and cats,
sheep, pigs, donkeys, dogs and rats
depend on their owner to keep or dispose.
But your pony you cannot sensibly classify with those.
II
Another thee.
A summer’s day.
Double vantage me.
Never to repay.
And Will in overplus.
Making addition thus –
your pony is all these to you – and more:
he can detect the smell of danger
and will not take you through a door
if there is doom or pain there.
So at the end of his life if you want to sell him for meat
you’ll have to change the pronoun with which you greet
at dawn his shaggy head,
at dawn his shaggy head.
III
A body in the dawn.
A body in the cold.
A body its breath.
Its breath a plume.
A dance a plume.
A dance not thou.
A thou, a thee.
Thou, breath.
There stands.
Breath, plume.
How cold is.
A dawn is.
How still stands.
Thy breath.
Anne Carson
I
Do you think of your saliva as a personal possession or as something you can sell?
What about tears? What about semen? Linguists tell
us to use the terms alienable and inalienable
to make this distinction intelligible.
E.g. English speakers call both blood and faeces alienable on a normal day
but saliva, sweat, tears and bowels they do not give away.
Bananas and buttocks, in Papua New Guinea, belong to the inalienable class
while genitalia and skin of banana are not held onto nearly so fast.
Such thinking will affect how a word like rape is defined
or how sorcerers aim their spells or how you feel in your mind
when you address animals. Of course cows and cats,
sheep, pigs, donkeys, dogs and rats
depend on their owner to keep or dispose.
But your pony you cannot sensibly classify with those.
II
Another thee.
A summer’s day.
Double vantage me.
Never to repay.
And Will in overplus.
Making addition thus –
your pony is all these to you – and more:
he can detect the smell of danger
and will not take you through a door
if there is doom or pain there.
So at the end of his life if you want to sell him for meat
you’ll have to change the pronoun with which you greet
at dawn his shaggy head,
at dawn his shaggy head.
III
A body in the dawn.
A body in the cold.
A body its breath.
Its breath a plume.
A dance a plume.
A dance not thou.
A thou, a thee.
Thou, breath.
There stands.
Breath, plume.
How cold is.
A dawn is.
How still stands.
Thy breath.
Friday, August 31, 2007
recipe for suddenly single
Cockgobbler Cocktail
6 oz. Marino's cherry italian ice
6 oz. Finlandia Vodka
Stir into slushy liquid. Drink.
6 oz. Marino's cherry italian ice
6 oz. Finlandia Vodka
Stir into slushy liquid. Drink.
wooden spoons
from http://www.oddtodd.com/message434.html:
Dear Mr. & Mrs. Marino,
The other day I was at the supermarket looking for some alternative to ice cream because my face is too round and when I push my chin into my neck it doesn't look so good. I was considering some yogurt fat-free frozen gunk when I saw a box of Marinos Italian Ices. Watermelon flavor. Six cups in the box! I'm like, 'Italian ice! I loved italian ice as a kid! Psyched! Yummy with the wooden spoon thing scrape scrape fun delicious activity thing!' I threw the box in my cart and shoved off.
When I got home and opened the box and was hugely disappointed. There were no wooden spoons in the box! There were no spoons at all! Just the six things of italian ice all alone! I shook the box out and looked inside. What?! No wooden spoons?! WTF!? That's half the fun of having italian ice I think! How could you (of all people!) not know this!? So I grabbed a stupid regular old metal spoon and did the scrape scrape with that but it wasn't the same. It sucked. And there was something slightly chilling doing the scrape scrape with the metal. Like chalkboard nails stuff.
So Mr. & Mrs. Marino, I'm telling you you're making a huge mistake by not including the wooden spoons! I'm definitely not going to buy any more take-home italian ice until you rectify the situation with the wooden spoons! You're f'in crazy to not have the wooden spoons in there! Is it a cost cutting thing? How much could a wooden spoon cost? Uncheapify yourself! I'd settle for one and just reuse it!
Get your act together Mr. & Mrs. Marino! C'mon! Jeez louise!
ok bye!
tOdd
Dear Mr. & Mrs. Marino,
The other day I was at the supermarket looking for some alternative to ice cream because my face is too round and when I push my chin into my neck it doesn't look so good. I was considering some yogurt fat-free frozen gunk when I saw a box of Marinos Italian Ices. Watermelon flavor. Six cups in the box! I'm like, 'Italian ice! I loved italian ice as a kid! Psyched! Yummy with the wooden spoon thing scrape scrape fun delicious activity thing!' I threw the box in my cart and shoved off.
When I got home and opened the box and was hugely disappointed. There were no wooden spoons in the box! There were no spoons at all! Just the six things of italian ice all alone! I shook the box out and looked inside. What?! No wooden spoons?! WTF!? That's half the fun of having italian ice I think! How could you (of all people!) not know this!? So I grabbed a stupid regular old metal spoon and did the scrape scrape with that but it wasn't the same. It sucked. And there was something slightly chilling doing the scrape scrape with the metal. Like chalkboard nails stuff.
So Mr. & Mrs. Marino, I'm telling you you're making a huge mistake by not including the wooden spoons! I'm definitely not going to buy any more take-home italian ice until you rectify the situation with the wooden spoons! You're f'in crazy to not have the wooden spoons in there! Is it a cost cutting thing? How much could a wooden spoon cost? Uncheapify yourself! I'd settle for one and just reuse it!
Get your act together Mr. & Mrs. Marino! C'mon! Jeez louise!
ok bye!
tOdd
Friday, August 10, 2007
Monday, August 06, 2007
Up in Smoke
Found on a postcard at St. Mark's Bookshop:
If Jesus smoked he would have made
It easier for those who pray
A little match, a little flame,
A little smoke that spells our name
And by that smoke, immortal life--
By Camel, Kool or Lucky Strike
If Jesus smoked he would have made
It easier for those who pray
A little match, a little flame,
A little smoke that spells our name
And by that smoke, immortal life--
By Camel, Kool or Lucky Strike
Sunday, August 05, 2007
Charles Simic for the Win
Charles Simic has been named the new poet laureate of the United States. Of the new consultant to the Library of Congress, the Academy of American Poets writes: Simic was appointed the fifteenth Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry in 2007. About the appointment, Librarian of Congress James H. Billington said, "The range of Charles Simic's imagination is evident in his stunning and unusual imagery. He handles language with the skill of a master craftsman, yet his poems are easily accessible, often meditative and surprising. He has given us a rich body of highly organized poetry with shades of darkness and flashes of ironic humor."
Late September
The mail truck goes down the coast
Carrying a single letter.
At the end of a long pier
The bored seagull lifts a leg now and then
And forgets to put it down.
There is a menace in the air
Of tragedies in the making.
Carrying a single letter.
At the end of a long pier
The bored seagull lifts a leg now and then
And forgets to put it down.
There is a menace in the air
Of tragedies in the making.
Last night you thought you heard television
In the house next door.
You were sure it was some new
Horror they were reporting,
So you went out to find out.
Barefoot, wearing just shorts.
It was only the sea sounding weary
After so many lifetimes
Of pretending to be rushing off somewhere
And never getting anywhere.
This morning, it felt like Sunday.
The heavens did their part
By casting no shadow along the boardwalk
Or the row of vacant cottages,
Among them a small church
With a dozen gray tombstones huddled close
As if they, too, had the shivers.
Friday, July 27, 2007
The Poets on Ponies Series
Click on the following pictures for a clearer, undistorted view of the poet(s):
(Imagine a photograph of Marquis de L-Mo here.)
(Imagine a photograph of Marquis de L-Mo here.)
Monday, July 23, 2007
Monday, July 16, 2007
Rules for the Road
I'm jealous! I love Audrey Hepburn and cross-country trips. Though I could do without the U-Haul of baggage...
p.s. when are you going? Sure, you can take my portrait! I just went on a 4-hour kayak trip (against the wind with oncoming thunderstorms). Now would be a great time, cuz I look ravishing. Anyway, here are my tips for long road trips:
Avoid nothing. Be open to going to crazy places and take pictures of your UHaul in front of monuments.
Pack light. Bring travel sized toiletries. You can always buy more.
Bring iPod and headphones because there are gonna be times you wanna be in your own world. Lots of CDs. Lots.
Bring roll of toilet paper.
Buy water by the 2.5 gallon
Know the difference between and exit and a rest stop
Bring a cooler with ice and yummy drinks/food
Good food to pack: apples, chips, crackers/bread, peanut butter, trail mix, Beef Jerkey...
Bring a sleeping bag or blanket and a pillow just in case
Sleep on a field in Alabama
Layer
Have camera ready at all times for you may see a black bear cross the street (as I did yesterday in Jersey)
Make hotel reservations. Don't drive drowsy.
Get a good lock for the U-Haul and protective blankets.
Write the world's greatest book of travel poems.
Write travel haiku, like:
Bush bumper sticker.
Sing sexy motherfucker.
Crush your Dirty Mind.
People look like cars
you must be a limousine
the ride is so smooth
Side of the road stop
Seven-Eleven Big Gulp
Wait. I have to pee.
berries sweet mulch pies
pausing for traffic to pass
black bear looks hungry
p.s. when are you going? Sure, you can take my portrait! I just went on a 4-hour kayak trip (against the wind with oncoming thunderstorms). Now would be a great time, cuz I look ravishing. Anyway, here are my tips for long road trips:
Avoid nothing. Be open to going to crazy places and take pictures of your UHaul in front of monuments.
Pack light. Bring travel sized toiletries. You can always buy more.
Bring iPod and headphones because there are gonna be times you wanna be in your own world. Lots of CDs. Lots.
Bring roll of toilet paper.
Buy water by the 2.5 gallon
Know the difference between and exit and a rest stop
Bring a cooler with ice and yummy drinks/food
Good food to pack: apples, chips, crackers/bread, peanut butter, trail mix, Beef Jerkey...
Bring a sleeping bag or blanket and a pillow just in case
Sleep on a field in Alabama
Layer
Have camera ready at all times for you may see a black bear cross the street (as I did yesterday in Jersey)
Make hotel reservations. Don't drive drowsy.
Get a good lock for the U-Haul and protective blankets.
Write the world's greatest book of travel poems.
Write travel haiku, like:
Bush bumper sticker.
Sing sexy motherfucker.
Crush your Dirty Mind.
People look like cars
you must be a limousine
the ride is so smooth
Side of the road stop
Seven-Eleven Big Gulp
Wait. I have to pee.
berries sweet mulch pies
pausing for traffic to pass
black bear looks hungry
1a) Last Monday, GMC Category A member Lothes and I saw a tiny film called Wait Until Dark. The film, starring Audrey Hepburn (was she always this cute?) and Alan Arkin, tells the story of a blind woman who is terrorized by a trio of men who are after a doll packed to the frilliest lace with baggies of heroin. (Score!)
I'll try not to ruin too many of the plot surprises for you, but let me just say that in the span of two hours, some interesting things...oh, you'll just have to see it.
1b) While the sexism in the film speaks to a certain time in the twentieth century (is it possible for a blind woman to save herself and hold off criminally-minded men intent on hurting her?), the heroine emerges victorious, overcoming any and all disabilities, while confirming the belief that, yes, there is hope for Hollywood actors/actresses past their prime.
I'll try not to ruin too many of the plot surprises for you, but let me just say that in the span of two hours, some interesting things...oh, you'll just have to see it.
1b) While the sexism in the film speaks to a certain time in the twentieth century (is it possible for a blind woman to save herself and hold off criminally-minded men intent on hurting her?), the heroine emerges victorious, overcoming any and all disabilities, while confirming the belief that, yes, there is hope for Hollywood actors/actresses past their prime.
Thanks again, Reagan!
*
The GMC Album of the Week is Our Love to Admire by Interpol.
Hot Wax:
"No I in Threesome"
"The Scale"
"The Heinrich Maneuver"
"Pace Is the Trick"
"Rest My Chemistry"
"The Lighthouse"
This album is one the finest of the year, for sure--ignore it at your own peril!
*
Who has ever been an extended road trip? Do you have any tips on how to make the trip a successful one? What should I avoid doing/seeing while crossing this nation in a U-Haul?
*
I haven't written anything in weeks--not even a grocery list.
*
All I bought today was a small iced coffee at Dunkin Donuts, which cost me a total of two dollars and sixteen cents. (For those of you who are numerically inclined, that means: $2.16.)
*
Is anyone up for allowing me to take their portrait?
*
Have a good week, everyone.
*
I haven't written anything in weeks--not even a grocery list.
*
All I bought today was a small iced coffee at Dunkin Donuts, which cost me a total of two dollars and sixteen cents. (For those of you who are numerically inclined, that means: $2.16.)
*
Is anyone up for allowing me to take their portrait?
*
Have a good week, everyone.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Blackout Poetry
Yesterday was weird to say the least. I went to the mechanic to pick up my car (which had broken down on the way here and which needed, yet again a new battery and alternator. $300. OK, reasonable). Upon driving it away, it stalled out five times. Needed another "remanufactured" alternator. I had to hitch a ride home. Starving, I went to the dining hall to catch the end of dinner. The dining hall blacked out. As I left, I encountered a squirrel emerging from a garbage can carrying an ice cream cone in his teeth. I went back to the dorm to finish my laundry. I put my wet clothes in the dryer and pushed start. The dorm blacked out. I hung up my soaking clothes all around my room. Charles Simic was scheduled to read in the lecture hall. I was looking forward to it all week. The blackout dominoed all around town, from here to Albany. Campus was dark. We mulled around, waiting. The reading resumed, with the help of lamps. It was hot and smelly. Then the lights went back on. Alix Olin read a short story about a murder. Then Charles Simic was introduced. He walked onto the stage and the lights went out. So he read poems about the dark, in the dark.
Butcher Shop by Charles Simic
Sometimes walking late at night
I stop before a closed butcher shop.
There is a single light in the store
Like the light in which the convict digs his tunnel.
An apron hangs on the hook:
The blood on it smeared into a map
Of the great continents of blood,
The great rivers and oceans of blood.
There are knives that glitter like altars
In a dark church
Where they bring the cripple and the imbecile
To be healed.
There's wooden block where bones are broken,
Scraped clean--a river dried to its bed
Where I am fed,
Where deep in the night I hear a voice.
Butcher Shop by Charles Simic
Sometimes walking late at night
I stop before a closed butcher shop.
There is a single light in the store
Like the light in which the convict digs his tunnel.
An apron hangs on the hook:
The blood on it smeared into a map
Of the great continents of blood,
The great rivers and oceans of blood.
There are knives that glitter like altars
In a dark church
Where they bring the cripple and the imbecile
To be healed.
There's wooden block where bones are broken,
Scraped clean--a river dried to its bed
Where I am fed,
Where deep in the night I hear a voice.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Let the Rhythm Hit'em
Shopping in the Chinese mega-market on Broadway is one of the more, shall we say, interesting experiences in Elmhurst. I was there earlier buying some unsweetened soy milk (I take care of my body, you know--ha!), but decided to walk around to see if any other products were worth buying. Oh my, you bet there were! Among the usual products one would expect to see in an Asian market (dried noodles, quail eggs), I came across some decidedly more adventurous offerings: spicy bamboo shoots, black chicken (I've never seen something so strange in my life), and much to my surprise, live frogs (on sale at $4.49 per pound). I had the urge to pick one of them up, but decided against it. I might return later this week to give them names; the frog at the top of the heap looked like a "Harry."
Anyhow, I did not make any particularly brave choices, and stuck to my soy milk. But, along with that bottle of soy milk, I bought a package of vegetable spring rolls, the label of which reads like so:
Anyhow, I did not make any particularly brave choices, and stuck to my soy milk. But, along with that bottle of soy milk, I bought a package of vegetable spring rolls, the label of which reads like so:
No need to defrost. After the oil turns hot, fry until the bread turns golden brown. It taste good.
It taste good, indeed.
It taste good, indeed.
*
I can't believe that I've been walking around without knowing of the existence of what doctors call a "didelphic uterus." How is it possible to be this uninformed?
*
Eric B & Rakim's "Don't Sweat the Technique" sounds as fresh and alive as when it was first released in 1992. The track is, without question, a classic of hip-hop: it is sample-heavy, and loaded with Rakim's smooth vocal delivery. (One wonders how this usually rhythmic genre could have shifted, in the span of about fifteen years, from being filled with beats to one that is nearly minimalist [refer to Southern hip-hop for a bit of what I mean] in its construction.)
And speaking of music, the GMC Single of the Week is Interpol's "The Heinrich Maneuver." The track is classic Interpol; those fans who are looking for experimentation and change are advised to look elsewhere. However, the song (from the forthcoming Our Love to Admire, the band's first for Capitol) has a lot going for it, given that it has an incredibly propulsive beat and lyrics that actually make sense ("today my heart swings," for example, as opposed to "you wear those shoes like a dove").
*
Like I used to say, at the end of my radio show, until next time, be safe...
And speaking of music, the GMC Single of the Week is Interpol's "The Heinrich Maneuver." The track is classic Interpol; those fans who are looking for experimentation and change are advised to look elsewhere. However, the song (from the forthcoming Our Love to Admire, the band's first for Capitol) has a lot going for it, given that it has an incredibly propulsive beat and lyrics that actually make sense ("today my heart swings," for example, as opposed to "you wear those shoes like a dove").
*
Like I used to say, at the end of my radio show, until next time, be safe...
Saturday, June 23, 2007
My Next Reading: 6/26/2007
Dear All,
My next poetry reading will take place on Tuesday, June 26, 2007. Here are the details:
Graduate Reading Night at Cornelia Street Cafe
29 Cornelia Street
New York, NY 10014
212-989-9319
Traci Bimhall - Sarah Lawrence College
Amy Lawless - The New School
Danny Rivera - City College
Zach Sussman - New York University
Angela Veronica Wong - The New School
Time: 6pm
Admission: $6 gets you one free drink
I hope to see some of you there!
[DR]
My next poetry reading will take place on Tuesday, June 26, 2007. Here are the details:
Graduate Reading Night at Cornelia Street Cafe
29 Cornelia Street
New York, NY 10014
212-989-9319
Traci Bimhall - Sarah Lawrence College
Amy Lawless - The New School
Danny Rivera - City College
Zach Sussman - New York University
Angela Veronica Wong - The New School
Time: 6pm
Admission: $6 gets you one free drink
I hope to see some of you there!
[DR]
Friday, June 15, 2007
Celebrate Brooklyn
http://www.briconline.org/celebrate/schedule_2007.asp
Come to my backyard for a picnic and concert! June 29/ 30.
Come to my backyard for a picnic and concert! June 29/ 30.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
2 cool events, fyi...
FREEQueerin' Queens Pride Celebration
@ Queens Museum of Art
June 17th
an evening of poetry, music and dance featuring
Climbing PoeTree
Queen GodIs
DJ Ashu Rai
and many more!
Film Festival: 3-5pm
Performance: 5-7pm
**Complimentary Light Refreshments will be served.**
SATURDAY 6/16
DOORS: 8pm
SHOW: 9pm
DANCE PARTY: all night long!
WHERE: Clemente de Soto Velez cutural center, NYC
107 suffolk st ( between DElancy and Rivington)
3rd floor studio 307 (Afro Brazil Art Capoiera Studio
MUSIC * POETRY * FOOD * ACTION
*Raising FUNDS for ONE* LOVE's trip to SOUTH AFRICA
*Celebrating MOANA and* OJA's born days
*MOURNING and HONORING*
30th Anniversary of Soweto Children Uprising
One Love South Africa
is an international team of Artist, Educators, Leaders and Activist standing together in action to end AIDS in South Africa.
SUGGESTED DONATION: $15-$ 50
2nd whale shark dies at Ga. Aquarium
In January, Ralph, another whale shark that was among the aquarium's first stars after it opened in 2005, also died there.Ralph had stomach problems that led to an inflammation of a membrane in his abdomen, according to aquarium officials. The aquarium has theorized that a chemical it no longer uses in the tank to treat parasites might have contributed to his loss of appetite and health problems.
The two new whale sharks, Yushan and Taroko, join Alice and Trixie in the aquarium's 6-million-gallon tank. The sharks can grow up to 40 feet long.
Saturday, June 09, 2007
Poetry! Live! Tonight!
Here are the details for the reading that I'll be giving tonight at the Bowery Poetry Club:
Saturday, June 9 2007
8:00pm - 9:30pm
Saturday, June 9 2007
8:00pm - 9:30pm
Greetings Magazine celebrates the release of aural issue #13 at the Bowery Poetry Club with a concert/reading featuring poets Jacqueline Waters, Daniel Rivera, and magazine editor Jeffrey Joe Nelson. Bands Legends and Drachein are also scheduled to perform, as well as experimental musicians John Clair and Jed Shahar. Greetings Magazine, a ten-year-old literary magazine, is primarily published as a limited-edition, handmade CD of live music and poetry performances. This issue includes performances by comedian Nick Kroll, R&B tandem Simone and Blaze, hip-hop master MC Extra-Cheese, and poets David Cameron, Paul Killebrew, and Cliff Fyman. The Allman Brothers, Bill Evans, and the double-dutch jumping, bike-pumping children of Brooklyn also make cameos. All attendees will receive copies of the CD. In the past two years alone, Greetings has been proud to host a diverse group of musicians: Adam Matta, Julianne Carney, The Woes, Sabir Mateen, Val Geffner, Danny Erker (of the Cobble Hillbillies), Bryan Eubanks, Blaise Siwula, Warslut, John Clair, Spin 17, and Marina Rosenfeld. In the same time period the magazine has published the work of writers Bob Holman, Filip Marinovich, Matvei Yankelevich, Julien Poirier, Geoffrey Cruikshank-Hagenbuckle, James Hoff, Stan Apps, Michael Ruby, Eddie Berrigan, Phil Cordelli, Dustin Williamson, Steve Dalachinsky, Yuko Otomo, Micah Ballard, Stan Apps, Vanessa Place, Harold Abramowitz, Joseph Mosconi, Ilya Bernstein, Ara Shirinyan, and Mathew Timmons. As always the editors encourage musicians, writers, and entertainers to submit works and proposals for the next issue and/or reading in person at the show.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
fun with pearl jam
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xLd22ha_-VU
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ePjESN9pRdg&mode=related&search=
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ePjESN9pRdg&mode=related&search=
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Teddy began collecting his things...
Adventures of a Teddy Bear by Mrs H. C. Cradock: An Abridged Version
First published October 1934 by George G Harrap & Co. Ltd. 182 High Holborn, London
THE NURSERY
"Deep breathing now," said Elizabeth.
TEDDY LEAVES HOME
"I don't think I can have an adventure sitting here. Do you think so, Owly?" He said the last few words aloud. The other part was thinking. Then he wished he had not spoken, for he wanted the adventure to be a secret.
Hanky, Biscuits, Honey, a little string, a knife--in case, a man's proper leather purse. Three tiddly-wink counters. He called them pennies. One was blue, one red, and one green. Walking-stick! He put on an important sort of grown-up look. "P'raps I'll write."
"Writing paper, one envelope, one stamp."
TEDDY BEGINS HIS ADVENTURES
Now his legs were not very long, and soon his strides became shorter, then shorter still.
TEDDY SAVES THE LIFE OF A LITTLE GIRL
I'll pay, said Teddy, feeling very grand
TEDDY KEEPS A SCHOOL
Teddy felt a little anxious about the school, for, truth to tell, he wasn't a very clever little bear. He knew that an island was a piece of land with water all around it--
My dear Mummy,
I am having wonderful adventures. I will tell you all about it some day. Love to John and Owly.
EDWARD BEAR, ESQUIRE, HEADMASTER.
TEDDY SLEEPS IN A TREE
"Now listen to this," he said. "'The rat ran away when it saw the cat.'"
They gazed at him open-mouthed. What learning!
"Now the reading lesson is done," said Teddy. "Geography next."
"What is an island, children?"
Silence.
Cock-robin, Sparrow, Jenny Wren, and Blue Tit sometimes came too.
TEDDY SEES FAIRIES
They rowed very quietly up to the island
TEDDY DECIDES TO GO HOME
Teddy writes in his little blue notebook:
SAVED THE LIFE OF A FAT LITTLE GIRL
BEING HEADMASTER
SLEPT IN A TREE
TELEGRAMS
FAIRIES
Never again, surely, would they roll him on the nursery floor and call him "Fatkins."
THE HOUSE IN THE WOOD
"Not a bad idea," said John. "But I can remember things without a notebook. If you write down everything, Teddy, you'll spoil your memory."
But Teddy didn't know what that meant. He wrote:
BIG STICKS
LITTLE STICKS
LITTLEST STICKS
CONES
MOSS
STICKY MUD
Teddy and Owly worked very hard
MUMMY COMES
"I don't think it's light enough for tomorrow," he thought.
To-morrow soon came; it generally does when you go to sleep quickly.
It was the very loveliest party.
THEY ALL GO HOME
Owly was murmuring, "I thoughted of the best adventure. Nobody ever had such nice people to tea"; and as he was so young they didn't contradict him.
First published October 1934 by George G Harrap & Co. Ltd. 182 High Holborn, London
THE NURSERY
"Deep breathing now," said Elizabeth.
TEDDY LEAVES HOME
"I don't think I can have an adventure sitting here. Do you think so, Owly?" He said the last few words aloud. The other part was thinking. Then he wished he had not spoken, for he wanted the adventure to be a secret.
Hanky, Biscuits, Honey, a little string, a knife--in case, a man's proper leather purse. Three tiddly-wink counters. He called them pennies. One was blue, one red, and one green. Walking-stick! He put on an important sort of grown-up look. "P'raps I'll write."
"Writing paper, one envelope, one stamp."
TEDDY BEGINS HIS ADVENTURES
Now his legs were not very long, and soon his strides became shorter, then shorter still.
TEDDY SAVES THE LIFE OF A LITTLE GIRL
I'll pay, said Teddy, feeling very grand
TEDDY KEEPS A SCHOOL
Teddy felt a little anxious about the school, for, truth to tell, he wasn't a very clever little bear. He knew that an island was a piece of land with water all around it--
My dear Mummy,
I am having wonderful adventures. I will tell you all about it some day. Love to John and Owly.
EDWARD BEAR, ESQUIRE, HEADMASTER.
TEDDY SLEEPS IN A TREE
"Now listen to this," he said. "'The rat ran away when it saw the cat.'"
They gazed at him open-mouthed. What learning!
"Now the reading lesson is done," said Teddy. "Geography next."
"What is an island, children?"
Silence.
Cock-robin, Sparrow, Jenny Wren, and Blue Tit sometimes came too.
TEDDY SEES FAIRIES
They rowed very quietly up to the island
TEDDY DECIDES TO GO HOME
Teddy writes in his little blue notebook:
SAVED THE LIFE OF A FAT LITTLE GIRL
BEING HEADMASTER
SLEPT IN A TREE
TELEGRAMS
FAIRIES
Never again, surely, would they roll him on the nursery floor and call him "Fatkins."
THE HOUSE IN THE WOOD
"Not a bad idea," said John. "But I can remember things without a notebook. If you write down everything, Teddy, you'll spoil your memory."
But Teddy didn't know what that meant. He wrote:
BIG STICKS
LITTLE STICKS
LITTLEST STICKS
CONES
MOSS
STICKY MUD
Teddy and Owly worked very hard
MUMMY COMES
"I don't think it's light enough for tomorrow," he thought.
To-morrow soon came; it generally does when you go to sleep quickly.
It was the very loveliest party.
THEY ALL GO HOME
Owly was murmuring, "I thoughted of the best adventure. Nobody ever had such nice people to tea"; and as he was so young they didn't contradict him.
Girl of Sixteen
Lyrics and Conversation
I don’t want to start any blasphemous rumors
But I think that god’s got a sick sense of humor
And when I die I expect to find him laughing.
*
Mother: When are you going to have kids?
Daughter: Should I get married first?
*
what day is it
and in what month
this clock never seemed so alive
*
Mother: You gained some weight.
Daughter: You stayed the same.
*
Girl of sixteen, whole life ahead of her
Slashed her wrists, bored with life
Didn’t succeed, thank the lord
For small mercies
*
The sun is sinking down
I'm standing 'round my window
You say you're going away
But I believe in love
*
Fighting back the tears, mother reads the note again
Sixteen candles burn in her mind
She takes the blame, its always the same
She goes down on her knees and prays
*
Peace be with you.
And also with you.
*
Mother: What are you writing?
Girl: Stupid typewriter.
Typewriter: You’re a star.
Girl: I’m a lowly planet.
Typewriter: Don’t forget to dream.
*
TO DO: Buy: To Buy or Not to Buy Organic
Build Your Own Treehouse.
I Like You. Lose weight.
Take advice from Amy Sedaris
*
Girl of eighteen, fell in love with everything
Found new life in Jesus Christ
Hit by a car
*
The moon is coming up
And I'm still here in prayer
You say you've had enough
And that you just don't care
*
Time Out Moon Café
Huge storm hits bay window
Slant sheets of hail
On the top of the mountain
My heart rises and falls
*
Summers day, as she passed away
Birds were singing in the summer sky
Then came the rain, and once again
A tear fell from her mother’s eye.
I don’t want to start any blasphemous rumors
But I think that god’s got a sick sense of humor
And when I die I expect to find him laughing.
*
Mother: When are you going to have kids?
Daughter: Should I get married first?
*
what day is it
and in what month
this clock never seemed so alive
*
Mother: You gained some weight.
Daughter: You stayed the same.
*
Girl of sixteen, whole life ahead of her
Slashed her wrists, bored with life
Didn’t succeed, thank the lord
For small mercies
*
The sun is sinking down
I'm standing 'round my window
You say you're going away
But I believe in love
*
Fighting back the tears, mother reads the note again
Sixteen candles burn in her mind
She takes the blame, its always the same
She goes down on her knees and prays
*
Peace be with you.
And also with you.
*
Mother: What are you writing?
Girl: Stupid typewriter.
Typewriter: You’re a star.
Girl: I’m a lowly planet.
Typewriter: Don’t forget to dream.
*
TO DO: Buy: To Buy or Not to Buy Organic
Build Your Own Treehouse.
I Like You. Lose weight.
Take advice from Amy Sedaris
*
Girl of eighteen, fell in love with everything
Found new life in Jesus Christ
Hit by a car
*
The moon is coming up
And I'm still here in prayer
You say you've had enough
And that you just don't care
*
Time Out Moon Café
Huge storm hits bay window
Slant sheets of hail
On the top of the mountain
My heart rises and falls
*
Summers day, as she passed away
Birds were singing in the summer sky
Then came the rain, and once again
A tear fell from her mother’s eye.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Homely
Literary Journals that Have Rejected My Poems, an Unabridged List:
LIT
New Ohio ReviewLIT
New American Writing
The Saranac Review
Cue: A Journal of Prose Poetry
Eye-Rhyme
The Columbia Review
jubilat
Notre Dame Review
New York Quarterly
*
Pages 37 - 38 of my Moleskin journal:
Lebanon's religious make-up: Sunni Muslims; Shiite Muslims; Maronite Christians; Druze.
U.S. Mint > Bureau of Engraving & Printing > Mutilated Currency Unit
*
A Conversation Between Category A Members Rivera and Crosby, in Brief:
C: Aren't you a little old for a velcro wallet?
R: Don't you dare judge me, motherfucker exclamation point
C: I see you haven't refuted my judgment.
R: You obviously can't appreciate the finer things in life. Like a velcro wallet made in China. Hi-yo!
C: Sad, sad little man.
R: Your point is what, exactly?
C: If you strike me down, I will only become more powerful than you can imagine.
R: Like He-Man?
C: Loser.
*
Glossolalia: n. tongue; ecstatic usually unintelligible utterance usually.
*
Have a happy and healthy Memorial Day weekend, everyone.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Fast Fashionable
It's great to go through your record/CD collection and rediscover those old favorites that sound good years, if not decades, after first hearing them. For me, Depeche Mode's Violator is one of those records--vaguely detached without being cold (those damn synths!), but full of drive and raw energy (without resorting to macho bravado). And while the lyrics leave something to be desired (Dave Gahan is no Bob Dylan), there is nothing wrong with the frankness and simplicity of the following words: Words like violence / break the silence / come crashing in / into my little world / painful to me / pierce right through me / can't you understand / oh my little girl?
And speaking of music, the Album of the Week is Mirrored by Battles (see cover art, above), which is epic, sprawling, instrumental post-rock for the twenty-second century.
http://www.amazon.com/Mirrored-Battles/dp/B000OLHGBQ/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1/002-0001001-5034422?ie=UTF8&s=music&qid=1180063931&sr=8-1
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Calling all alumnaes and almost alumuses
Congratulations to the Class of 2007 from all of us here at Katz's Delicatessen...we got your tongues.
*
Love to TP, my homies, FGT, and the biatch patrol.
*
"I'm tired of Love: I'm still more tired of Rhyme.
But money gives me pleasure all the time." --Hilaire Belloc
*
Congratulations and best of luck to the Marquis de Mercury "freewriting saves all" Mystique, Marquis de "Stee-rike! Hi-O!" Rivera, Marquis de "Is that sexual?" Modig, and Marquis de "Gimme some jello I love you Myella so much" Cosby, for yet another gruel-filled semester. You've made a world of difference on my soul. XXOO
*
My orange cat sleeps on my pillow next to my head while my evil cat tries to poke our eyes out from under the bed.
*
"I hardly ever tire of love or rhyme--
That's why I'm poor and have a rotten time." --Wendy Cope
*
I never told you this before but I've been watching you in class.
*
K.I.T. Never change! Remember the fried green tomatoes!
*
Love to TP, my homies, FGT, and the biatch patrol.
*
"I'm tired of Love: I'm still more tired of Rhyme.
But money gives me pleasure all the time." --Hilaire Belloc
*
Congratulations and best of luck to the Marquis de Mercury "freewriting saves all" Mystique, Marquis de "Stee-rike! Hi-O!" Rivera, Marquis de "Is that sexual?" Modig, and Marquis de "Gimme some jello I love you Myella so much" Cosby, for yet another gruel-filled semester. You've made a world of difference on my soul. XXOO
*
My orange cat sleeps on my pillow next to my head while my evil cat tries to poke our eyes out from under the bed.
*
"I hardly ever tire of love or rhyme--
That's why I'm poor and have a rotten time." --Wendy Cope
*
I never told you this before but I've been watching you in class.
*
K.I.T. Never change! Remember the fried green tomatoes!
Saturday, May 19, 2007
"I prefer your face as it is now. Ravaged."
The above, it goes without saying, is the album cover of the year.
*
Is there anything cuter than Rufus Wainwright in lederhosen?
*
Ever notice how conservatives will resort to using words like "illegal," while liberals prefer to use "undocumented"?
*
Song of the Moment: CSS - "Fuck Off is Not the Only Thing You Have to Show" [Sub Pop, 2006]
*
Station platform scene. What unpredictable calm--it's the inner voice.
--Tomas Transtromer
*
We need not know the details of history to recognize its children.
--Tony Tost
*
Dislocate, the literary journal of the graduate creative writing program at the University of Minnesota, has published "Permanence."
With this event, modern American poetry has finally suffered creative collapse.
*
I'm in the middle of drawing up a summer reading list. So far (have you any suggestions?), I've only been able to come up with the following books:
Nicanor Parra - Antipoems: How to Look Better and Feel Good
Various - Scoring from Second: Writers on Baseball
Eliot Asinof - Eight Men Out: The Black Sox and the 1919 World Series
Dave Eggers - What Is the What*
*denotes nearly completed; progress impeded by arrival of life events.
*
I was looking forward to a cross-country road trip from Chicago to San Diego, but will have to do with with my own plans, tired heat.
*
how do we make sense
of such evil,
ashen stream over
Murray Street
*
Song of the Moment: CSS - "Fuck Off is Not the Only Thing You Have to Show" [Sub Pop, 2006]
*
Station platform scene. What unpredictable calm--it's the inner voice.
--Tomas Transtromer
*
We need not know the details of history to recognize its children.
--Tony Tost
*
Dislocate, the literary journal of the graduate creative writing program at the University of Minnesota, has published "Permanence."
With this event, modern American poetry has finally suffered creative collapse.
*
I'm in the middle of drawing up a summer reading list. So far (have you any suggestions?), I've only been able to come up with the following books:
Nicanor Parra - Antipoems: How to Look Better and Feel Good
Various - Scoring from Second: Writers on Baseball
Eliot Asinof - Eight Men Out: The Black Sox and the 1919 World Series
Dave Eggers - What Is the What*
*denotes nearly completed; progress impeded by arrival of life events.
*
I was looking forward to a cross-country road trip from Chicago to San Diego, but will have to do with with my own plans, tired heat.
*
how do we make sense
of such evil,
ashen stream over
Murray Street
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Hot Wax - May 2007
Pressure Drop - "Theme for the Outcaste"
Radio 4 - "Dance to the Underground"
Young Love - "Discotech"
Liars - "It Fit When I Was a Kid (Don't Techno For an Answer Remix)"
!!! - "Yadnus"
CSS - "Alala"
Battles - "Atlas"
Moa - "Joy & Pain"
DJ Shadow - "Red Bus Needs to Leave!"
Tricky - "Demise"
Jarvis Cocker - "Tonite"
Sean Lennon - "Wait for Me"
Johnny Cash - "Further Up On the Road"
[track deleted]
Bruce Springsteen - "O Mary Don't You Weep"
Radio 4 - "Dance to the Underground"
Young Love - "Discotech"
Liars - "It Fit When I Was a Kid (Don't Techno For an Answer Remix)"
!!! - "Yadnus"
CSS - "Alala"
Battles - "Atlas"
Moa - "Joy & Pain"
DJ Shadow - "Red Bus Needs to Leave!"
Tricky - "Demise"
Jarvis Cocker - "Tonite"
Sean Lennon - "Wait for Me"
Johnny Cash - "Further Up On the Road"
[track deleted]
Bruce Springsteen - "O Mary Don't You Weep"
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Hunter College - BFA Thesis Exhibition
My brother, Steve, will take part in Hunter College's BFA degree exhibition (entitled "TEN."), which opens on Thursday, May 17. All are invited to attend.
The other artists in the group show, whose work ranges from painting to sculpture to performance art, are Michael Berube, Claudio Blanco, Ian Campbell, John Gonzalez, David Hudec, Jun Imamura, Jen Phippen, Norah Quinn, and Jesse Willenbring. The show is curated by Professor Gabriele Evertz.
The nitty-gritty:
TEN.
May 17 through June 16, 2007
The Bertha and Karl Leubsdorf Art Gallery
Hunter College
68th Street and Lexington Avenue (SW corner)
New York, NY 10021
Gallery hours: Tuesday through Saturday, 1-6pm
Telephone: 212-772-4991
The other artists in the group show, whose work ranges from painting to sculpture to performance art, are Michael Berube, Claudio Blanco, Ian Campbell, John Gonzalez, David Hudec, Jun Imamura, Jen Phippen, Norah Quinn, and Jesse Willenbring. The show is curated by Professor Gabriele Evertz.
The nitty-gritty:
TEN.
May 17 through June 16, 2007
The Bertha and Karl Leubsdorf Art Gallery
Hunter College
68th Street and Lexington Avenue (SW corner)
New York, NY 10021
Gallery hours: Tuesday through Saturday, 1-6pm
Telephone: 212-772-4991
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Race Carded
Last night, after Gregory's fantastic reading for EARSHOT at the Lucky Cat, Laura casually mentioned that I was "too ethnic for Williamsburg." The young poetess is right, of course; I am of foreign extraction (a big holla to all my brown peoples), and nobody would ever confuse me for a hipster (tight jeans and a single tattoo notwithstanding). Anyway, her comment reminded me of a game that my little brother and I like to play whenever we attend indie-rock shows in the city: Find the Minority.
"How does one play Find the Minority, Danny," you must all be asking yourselves. Well, dear friends, it's all pretty simple: Just find someone whose coloration and hair texture suggests that the person you have spotted has inherited genes from a much lighter pool. "That game sounds like fun, Danny, but how does one win," you question. Again, it's pretty easy. Just refer to the following points system, which can be printed out for your convenience (and hidden in the pocket of your multi-colored thrift-store shirt):
Blacks = 5 points
Latinos = 3 points
Asians = 1 point
Whites with Dreadlocks = -5 points
At a recent Black Dice show (in January at the Bowery Ballroom), I scored a total of five points (two Asians plus one Latino). I probably would have scored more, but couldn't tell the ethnicity of Black Dice's former drummer, Hiram (whose skintone approximates that of export-grade cocoa), who was spotted near the front of the stage prior to the beginning of the gig.
What are your experiences at New York City rock shows? Have you ever been referred to as a "Mexican" by white punks at a Bad Religion show?
Discuss.
"How does one play Find the Minority, Danny," you must all be asking yourselves. Well, dear friends, it's all pretty simple: Just find someone whose coloration and hair texture suggests that the person you have spotted has inherited genes from a much lighter pool. "That game sounds like fun, Danny, but how does one win," you question. Again, it's pretty easy. Just refer to the following points system, which can be printed out for your convenience (and hidden in the pocket of your multi-colored thrift-store shirt):
Blacks = 5 points
Latinos = 3 points
Asians = 1 point
Whites with Dreadlocks = -5 points
At a recent Black Dice show (in January at the Bowery Ballroom), I scored a total of five points (two Asians plus one Latino). I probably would have scored more, but couldn't tell the ethnicity of Black Dice's former drummer, Hiram (whose skintone approximates that of export-grade cocoa), who was spotted near the front of the stage prior to the beginning of the gig.
What are your experiences at New York City rock shows? Have you ever been referred to as a "Mexican" by white punks at a Bad Religion show?
Discuss.
Friday, May 11, 2007
The Rewards are Small
The following interview is taken from http://www.coldfrontmag.com:
The second section of Jenny Boully’s second book is titled “He Wrote in Code.” Much the same could be said of Boully. Her pioneering first book, The Body¸ was written entirely in footnotes and its blend of vision and experimentation rendered it among the only books by contemporary young writers that can be deemed a collectors item—a used copy currently fetches about $100 on Amazon. Her experimental spirit and romantic largesse were continued, perhaps emboldened in her second book, [one love affair]*, among the best and most challenging must-owns published in 2006. With a third title on tap for 2007 and a reissue of The Body in the works, Boully here addresses her love affair with the footnote, the complexity of relationships, getting by as a poet, finding meaning among remains or fragments of a fallen something¸ and the layer cake that is [one love affair]*.
. . .
JD: What to you is the most difficult thing about writing and publishing poetry in the 21st century?
JB: I think that ultimately, no matter what, you wake up most mornings and feel like a failure. To write and publish poetry in the 21st century is to oftentimes feel that you've given your life to something that isn't giving you much or anything in return, to realize that you, in this relationship, are the one who loves more. Poetry seems to love you less. You start to get older, and the youth of your twenties starts to slough and you look around and your friends are doing things with their lives. They're traveling to Europe, they're getting married, they're having children, they're buying houses, they're sitting on nice couches while you scour your neighborhood on trash days for ironing boards and bowls. Poverty and uncertainty are the most difficult things about writing and publishing poetry in the 21st century. The challenge is to fine-tune your imagination, to make-believe that life isn't as dreadful as it might seem. Luckily I live in a city full of museums and bizarre occurrences, and I've always been an avid daydreamer. The challenge is to surround yourself with metaphor and beauty, to not succumb to feelings of failure and dread. If you are a poet, it's very easy for you to be perfectly surprised and happy to see a perfectly cooked egg-over-easy. The rewards are small and few and far between. I had a poetry professor once tell me that in this business, you had better be enough for yourself. That's always stuck, and it's always what draws me to my desk to write--that, and the promise of make-believe, the thought that perhaps today I could write a perfectly cooked something.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
for free love click here...no really it's not spam
http://gammm.org/index.php/2007/05/10/free-love-pics-linh-dinh
Friday, May 04, 2007
Catalonian Crustaceans
Hemingway Dines on Boiled Shrimp and Beer
I'm the original two-hearted brawler.
I gnaw the scrawny heads from prawns,
pummel those mute, translucent crustaceans,
wingless hummingbirds, salt-water spawned.
As the Catalonians do, I eat the eyes at once.
My brawny palms flatten their mainstays.
I pop the shells with my thumbs, then crunch.
Just watch me as I swagger and sprawl,
spice-mad and sated, then dabble in lager
before I go strolling for stronger waters
down to Sloppy Joe's. My stride as I stagger
shivers the islands, my fingers troll a thousand keys.
My appetite shakes the rock of the nation.
The force of my fiction makes the mighty Gulf Stream.
Excerpted from FLORIDA POEMS © Copyright 2002 by Campbell McGrath.
I'm the original two-hearted brawler.
I gnaw the scrawny heads from prawns,
pummel those mute, translucent crustaceans,
wingless hummingbirds, salt-water spawned.
As the Catalonians do, I eat the eyes at once.
My brawny palms flatten their mainstays.
I pop the shells with my thumbs, then crunch.
Just watch me as I swagger and sprawl,
spice-mad and sated, then dabble in lager
before I go strolling for stronger waters
down to Sloppy Joe's. My stride as I stagger
shivers the islands, my fingers troll a thousand keys.
My appetite shakes the rock of the nation.
The force of my fiction makes the mighty Gulf Stream.
Excerpted from FLORIDA POEMS © Copyright 2002 by Campbell McGrath.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Almost, almost spring
Barking Dogs in the Snow
Barking dogs in the snow! Good weather is coming!
Good weather is coming to barking dogs in the snow.
A man changes only slowly. And winter is not yet past.
Bark, dogs, and fill the valleys
Of white with your awful laments.
--Kenneth Koch
Barking dogs in the snow! Good weather is coming!
Good weather is coming to barking dogs in the snow.
A man changes only slowly. And winter is not yet past.
Bark, dogs, and fill the valleys
Of white with your awful laments.
--Kenneth Koch
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Toy George
His plane is gone!
He left it right here
on a red suitcase!
Where could his toy plane have gone?
Come on George! It’s boarding time!
George thought
if he could only
find that suitcase…
Whoohoohoohehahawah
Our plane is taking off in ten minutes!
One important rule of travel:
if you’re on a moving sidewalk
make sure you’re going the right way
or you won’t go anywhere.
Finally Hawaii!
It was just like a carousel. Except
it had suitcases. Not just any suitcases.
The red suitcase. Luggage got to have
all the fun. Maybe it was a monkey mover.
Our plane might be cancelled!
Would the parent or guardian
of a little lost money please
report to the information desk
again?
Whatever you do, don’t go anywhere.
What are you doing here? You should be
on the animal loading area.
Where’s your crate? You have a ticket?
Enjoy your flight George!
Do you have any bananas on this flight?
Oh hello there. Do you remember me?
From the line? Whoohoohoohehahawah
You left this on my suitcase!
George wants to know everything.
We bet you do too.
p.s. This is what I’m doing on my spring break…watching cartoons.
He left it right here
on a red suitcase!
Where could his toy plane have gone?
Come on George! It’s boarding time!
George thought
if he could only
find that suitcase…
Whoohoohoohehahawah
Our plane is taking off in ten minutes!
One important rule of travel:
if you’re on a moving sidewalk
make sure you’re going the right way
or you won’t go anywhere.
Finally Hawaii!
It was just like a carousel. Except
it had suitcases. Not just any suitcases.
The red suitcase. Luggage got to have
all the fun. Maybe it was a monkey mover.
Our plane might be cancelled!
Would the parent or guardian
of a little lost money please
report to the information desk
again?
Whatever you do, don’t go anywhere.
What are you doing here? You should be
on the animal loading area.
Where’s your crate? You have a ticket?
Enjoy your flight George!
Do you have any bananas on this flight?
Oh hello there. Do you remember me?
From the line? Whoohoohoohehahawah
You left this on my suitcase!
George wants to know everything.
We bet you do too.
p.s. This is what I’m doing on my spring break…watching cartoons.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Friday, March 09, 2007
Notes on the People We Love
Breaking News:
1. Word on the blogosphere (such an ugly word) has it that Elaine Equi's poem, "Etudes," has been selected for inclusion in Best American Poetry 2007. This appearance marks her fourth (if I'm counting correctly) in the series. The poem was first published in the second issue of The Tiny, the literary journal edited by Gina Meyers and Gabriella Torres.
Etudes
Autumn is a solitude.
Winter is a fortitude.
Spring is an altitude.
Summer is an attitude.
Summer is a multitude.
Autumn is an aptitude.
Winter is a quaalude.
Spring is a prelude.
Spring is a lassitude.
Summer is a longitude.
Autumn is a gratitude.
Winter is an interlude.
Winter is a beatitude.
Spring is a platitude.
Summer is a verisimilitude.
Autumn is a semi-nude.
2. The Seattle Times has written a story about AK Allin and her experiences as "The Poetess of Green Lake."
Congratulations to both Elaine and Mimi.
Links:
*Ron Silliman on Elaine Equi
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Bowling a-Go-Go
Last night at Leisure Time Bowl, hidden deep within the bowels of the Port Authority (actually, it was on the 2nd Floor), certain members of the Grand Marquis Coterie gathered to push pink bowling balls down a smoothed-out surface for the expressed purpose of well, I really don't know.
The highlights:
Category A member Modigliani (employing the pseudonym "Chachhhhhhhhhhhhhi") got out of the gates pretty fast, notching a couple of strikes and clearing pins as though she had just spent the last week on the Ladies' Professional Bowlers Tour. Make no mistake about it: Modigliani is a total mercenary in multi-colored, yet very tasteful, bowling shoes.
Category A member Rivera, christened with the nickname "Da Fonz" (what else could it possibly be?) looked especially cute.
The highlights:
Category A member Modigliani (employing the pseudonym "Chachhhhhhhhhhhhhi") got out of the gates pretty fast, notching a couple of strikes and clearing pins as though she had just spent the last week on the Ladies' Professional Bowlers Tour. Make no mistake about it: Modigliani is a total mercenary in multi-colored, yet very tasteful, bowling shoes.
Category A member Rivera, christened with the nickname "Da Fonz" (what else could it possibly be?) looked especially cute.
Category A member Lothes, after protesting the nickname blessed upon her ("My Humps"), played well enough to maintain second place for most of the match; however, her level of play dropped during the most critical of frames, and ended up in third place.
Unfortunately, no member managed to break the 100-point barrier, which could only mean that Modigliani, Lothes, and Rivera were all severely inebriated, or that they simply have no athletic talent to speak of.
The scores, kind sir:
Chachhhhhhhhhhhhhi: 97
Da Fonz: 86
My Humps: 84
Sunday, February 18, 2007
The Pretty Redhead
Behold me before all a man of good sense
Knowing life and death what a living man can know
Having experienced the griefs and the joys of love
Having been able to assert his ideas on occasion
Knowing several languages
Having travelled a good bit
Having seen the war in the Artillery and Infantry
Wounded in the head trepanned under chloroform
Having lost his best friends in that frightful struggle
I know of the old and of the new as much as one man alone can know of them
And without being uneasy today about this war
Between us and for us my friends
I pronounce judgment on this long quarrel of tradition and innovation
Of Order and Adventure
You whose mouths are made in the image of God's
Mouths which are order itself
Be indulgent when you compare us
To those who have been the perfection of order
We who seek everywhere for adventure
We are not your enemies
We wish to appropriate vast and strange domains
Where flowering mystery offers itself to whoever wishes to pick it
There are new fires there and colors never yet seen
A thousand imponderable phantasms
To which reality must be given
We would explore goodness a vast country where everything is silent
There is also time which one can banish or call back
Pity us who fight always in the front lines
Of the limitless and of the future
Pity our errors pity our sins
Behold the return of summer season of violence
And my youth died like the spring
O Sun it is the time for flaming Judgement
And I wait
To follow forever the sweet noble form
It assumes in order that I may love it alone
It comes and it attracts me as a magnet does the needle
It looks for all the world like
My redhead darling my beloved
Her hair is really gold you'd say
A flash of lightning which endures
Or flames which dance a proud pavane
In roses as they slowly fade
But laugh laugh long at me
Men from everywhere above all men of this place
For there are so many things I dare not tell you
So many things you will not let me say
Have pity on me
--Guillaume Apollinaire (translated by Michael Benedikt)
Knowing life and death what a living man can know
Having experienced the griefs and the joys of love
Having been able to assert his ideas on occasion
Knowing several languages
Having travelled a good bit
Having seen the war in the Artillery and Infantry
Wounded in the head trepanned under chloroform
Having lost his best friends in that frightful struggle
I know of the old and of the new as much as one man alone can know of them
And without being uneasy today about this war
Between us and for us my friends
I pronounce judgment on this long quarrel of tradition and innovation
Of Order and Adventure
You whose mouths are made in the image of God's
Mouths which are order itself
Be indulgent when you compare us
To those who have been the perfection of order
We who seek everywhere for adventure
We are not your enemies
We wish to appropriate vast and strange domains
Where flowering mystery offers itself to whoever wishes to pick it
There are new fires there and colors never yet seen
A thousand imponderable phantasms
To which reality must be given
We would explore goodness a vast country where everything is silent
There is also time which one can banish or call back
Pity us who fight always in the front lines
Of the limitless and of the future
Pity our errors pity our sins
Behold the return of summer season of violence
And my youth died like the spring
O Sun it is the time for flaming Judgement
And I wait
To follow forever the sweet noble form
It assumes in order that I may love it alone
It comes and it attracts me as a magnet does the needle
It looks for all the world like
My redhead darling my beloved
Her hair is really gold you'd say
A flash of lightning which endures
Or flames which dance a proud pavane
In roses as they slowly fade
But laugh laugh long at me
Men from everywhere above all men of this place
For there are so many things I dare not tell you
So many things you will not let me say
Have pity on me
--Guillaume Apollinaire (translated by Michael Benedikt)
Haiku by Shirao
The First Day of the Year;
Under the protection of a big tree,
People’s hearts are at rest.
The long chin performer!
It is New Year's Day!
The sound of a flute,
On a moonlit night
of mid-January.
Already in February!
Scattered soot
in my kitchen.
A rainy night
Of the Doll’s Festival;
Only the smell of candles.
The spring wind;
A hire hand
Is scattering ash.
Yearning fills my heart
When the candles are lit;
Cherry blossom fall.
A butterfly
Is floating
Above the cleaned up sink.
Calamus bath water:
Leaves of the calamus coming
Close to my nipple.
Making a sound,
The camellia fell
On the tatami mat.
In the dark garden
Of the night,
The peony remains quiet.
Among the grasses
Of passing autumn,
the stream hides itself.
To the setting sun
The scarecrow's face
Is indifferent.
*The Doll's Festival is an annual event for girls held on March 3, when people wish little girls will be happy and grow healthily.
*Japanese would often take a bath with leaves of a calamus floated on bath water on May 5, the day of the Boy's Festival, so as to exercise a kind of exorcism.
Under the protection of a big tree,
People’s hearts are at rest.
The long chin performer!
It is New Year's Day!
The sound of a flute,
On a moonlit night
of mid-January.
Already in February!
Scattered soot
in my kitchen.
A rainy night
Of the Doll’s Festival;
Only the smell of candles.
The spring wind;
A hire hand
Is scattering ash.
Yearning fills my heart
When the candles are lit;
Cherry blossom fall.
A butterfly
Is floating
Above the cleaned up sink.
Calamus bath water:
Leaves of the calamus coming
Close to my nipple.
Making a sound,
The camellia fell
On the tatami mat.
In the dark garden
Of the night,
The peony remains quiet.
Among the grasses
Of passing autumn,
the stream hides itself.
To the setting sun
The scarecrow's face
Is indifferent.
*The Doll's Festival is an annual event for girls held on March 3, when people wish little girls will be happy and grow healthily.
*Japanese would often take a bath with leaves of a calamus floated on bath water on May 5, the day of the Boy's Festival, so as to exercise a kind of exorcism.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
"Who's On First?"
In honor of the arrival of yet another Spring Training in Major League Baseball (Yankees' pitchers and catchers are scheduled to report today at Legends Field in Tampa), here is a poem by Donald Hall called "Ninth Inning," from his series, "Baseball."
P.S. Play close attention to this fifth stanza, which reveals not a little bit about the new poet laureate's thoughts on writing programs (such as the one in which we found ourselves).
(This piece was originally published in AGNI [issue 36], and followed in the full-length book, The Museum of Clear Ideas.)
P.S. Play close attention to this fifth stanza, which reveals not a little bit about the new poet laureate's thoughts on writing programs (such as the one in which we found ourselves).
(This piece was originally published in AGNI [issue 36], and followed in the full-length book, The Museum of Clear Ideas.)
The Ninth Inningby Donald Hall1. My dog and I drive five miles every 2. when I lift my hand from his ear to 3. because they squat so much. “The barn is 4. coming up from Triple A the first 5. By 2028, when K. C. 6. to publish anything jagged on 7. under howling houses of the dog. 8. In New Hampshire, late August, the leaves 9. No Red Sox tonight, but on Friday |
Friday, February 09, 2007
Monday, February 05, 2007
Sunday, February 04, 2007
Friday, February 02, 2007
Many times you wake up/in February make-up...
If You Forget Me
I want you to know
one thing.
You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.
But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.
--Pablo Neruda
I want you to know
one thing.
You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.
But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.
--Pablo Neruda
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Friday, January 26, 2007
The Bridge
He paints
in big brown overalls
and thin leather boots
breasts that defy gravity.
The square house has rounded edges.
A monkey stands on his right shoulder,
her smile thin and wise beyond her years.
Mirror on bed frame reflects hand-painted
cast. Crutch and easel.
There are no lemons in Mexico.
The monkey grins in the background, knowing
yet naive. Soon, even she is subject
to silent betrayal.
Somewhere in the courtyard a baby is crying
in Spanish. He is locked out of a room.
A steep blue staircase leads to a narrow
bridge, where a glittered star plunges.
The piñata is swollen and empty.
My only loyalty is to my monkey, he said.
The hallway leads to the bathtub,
where she lay, blood running down her
feet. You can still see the red on white tile.
It is a beautiful painting.
The melons are ripe and cut in half.
The cord is still connected.
The needle is piercing heaven.
Viva la Vida is the title.
A bee is circling las bugambilias,
aged by the dust and altitude.
He is still eating sour cherries,
still missing his mujer.
in big brown overalls
and thin leather boots
breasts that defy gravity.
The square house has rounded edges.
A monkey stands on his right shoulder,
her smile thin and wise beyond her years.
Mirror on bed frame reflects hand-painted
cast. Crutch and easel.
There are no lemons in Mexico.
The monkey grins in the background, knowing
yet naive. Soon, even she is subject
to silent betrayal.
Somewhere in the courtyard a baby is crying
in Spanish. He is locked out of a room.
A steep blue staircase leads to a narrow
bridge, where a glittered star plunges.
The piñata is swollen and empty.
My only loyalty is to my monkey, he said.
The hallway leads to the bathtub,
where she lay, blood running down her
feet. You can still see the red on white tile.
It is a beautiful painting.
The melons are ripe and cut in half.
The cord is still connected.
The needle is piercing heaven.
Viva la Vida is the title.
A bee is circling las bugambilias,
aged by the dust and altitude.
He is still eating sour cherries,
still missing his mujer.
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