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Columbia Poetry Review: Who was the first poet (or poets) important to you?
Jerome Sala: When I was starting out, I was interested in poetry as performance. I was drawn to writers with a declamatory tone, particularly Futurists of all nationalities. I loved Apollinaire, Marinetti and Mayacovsky. I think I discovered this mode through reading Frank O’Hara, who, of course loved Mayacovsky. A little later, I added Nicanor Parra to my list, as I admired his direct, break-the-fourth-wall style.
CPR: Could you talk a little bit about your process?
JS: I’ve done a lot of commercial writing; mostly forms of advertising that often need to be written quickly, even instantaneously. Lately, I write poetry in the opposite way. I come up with three or four lines that I want to work with after playing around a while, and store them in my poetry ideas file. (I usually write at my computer.) I return to this file, either at home or in the middle of the workday, over a period of weeks or even months, and add to or edit what I have, as the poem gradually suggests itself to me. I usually have about three or four of these little projects going at one time. I can tell when one is finished, as it develops to the degree where it makes a fairly definite point.
CPR: Would you make an observation about today’s poetry landscape?
JS: Once, not long ago, that landscape could have been summed up in a few major modes – like a country with a flag that carried three bold stripes. What seems to be happening now is that a number of styles are springing up, each of which draws its own micro-audience of writers, readers, bloggers, critics, etc. What’s sort of cool about this is that often these enclaves seem nearly unaware of each other; they’re almost monads unto themselves. It’s like the world might have been before the homogenization of globalism – enabling you to hope that someday something exotic will appear out of nowhere.
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Jerome Sala The Cheapskates
Lunar Chandelier Press
"Jerome Sala’s cheeky, splashy poetry seems never to be in a bad mood: he sails through profound political and historical issues with a tone of insouciance that—like an erudite carnival-barker’s—successfully lures us into the tent. Indeed, The Cheapskates has a Cecil B. DeMille fullness, each of its sideshows masterfully spacious within close quarters. I hear in Sala’s voice the lovable sound of a storyteller-trickster who wants to beguile listeners into a reverie with no strings attached."-- Wayne Koestenbaum
"From The Flintstones to the Khalisi in Game of Thrones, nothing on TV has escaped Jerome Sala’s attention, though as you can tell from these examples he has a affinity for the Other, for the cult of primitive, animal power transferred from animals, be they dragons or dinos. And where does he run with this knowledge? I have long admired Sala’s wit, his vulnerability, the astute social analysis like a knife that cuts through pretension and cruelty. But we love him for his cheapskate beauty, its rare unearthly gleam. The best poems here come “lit by a supernatural brightness/ that broadcasts delicious ideas, as only light can,/ at the very edge of palpability.” -- Kevin Killian
Excerpts
LATER, CLIFF
when I was a mouse
in a cartoon
chased by a cat
I said, "later, cliff"
as I ran into midair
but the cat followed me out
into the mighty void
of
(I thought)
escape
and we stayed there
above the infinite drop
feet and paws pedaling
long and short noses gasping
tails whipping into the great cool
nothingness
perpetual popular machines
until
we
looked
down
WHO WILL BE AMERICA'S NEXT TOP MANNEQUIN?
in the commercial
men and women audition
to become mannequins
for a chain of stores
that sells casual party clothes
it's easier to work in the "Service Industry"
with a perpetual smile, hands frozen
in a greeting that broadcasts happiness
with professional grace
once people begged to be awakened from their roles
now they must prove
that they can sell in their sleep
there's an elegance to their somnambulism
a courage and a confidence:
that it's possible to achieve warmth with a blank stare
one that never bumps into the wall
of a customer's personality
one that reflects all interpersonal affection
back onto the clothes at hand
REALITY EVERYTHING
The great thing about everything becoming public
is that this means nothing is.
You are traceable like a cigarette at night,
but no one is there to enforce the no smoking sign.
The lights are on, but no one's on the phone.
Those peaceful scenes after the plague
has annihilated the small town,
and no one's left in the restaurant or department store,
have all come true -- and yet no one's dead,
the market is more crowded than ever,
the street packed with stalled traffic,
the sky dark from flocks of planes,
punks in the overpopulated corners, the gangways,
under the street lamps, still sniffing glue --
but no one's there to get high --
all gone somewhere far away
leaving their lives behind
to go on living without them.
Poet Jerome Sala reads his poem "Urban Warrior"
Jerome Sala at the BPC 3/7/09
Poets Jerome Sala & Stacey Harwood @ Big Apple BAP
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'Lucas de Lima’s poetry is a hot mess. Spittle comes out of its mouth. Blood is contaminated, the flesh inflamed. It is a thing of feathers, teeth, scales and primordial black gunk. The manuscript from which these poems are excerpted recently earned the distinction of being rejected by the Minnesota State Arts Board, who found de Lima’s treatment of the propelling event—the killing of a close friend in 2006 by an alligator—melodramatic” and “inappropriate.”
'They didn’t get it. As de Lima has contended elsewhere, poetry is “obscene adornment” in which “we lose control of our narratives, and inevitably end up thwarting not just our intentions for a poem, but also the way we conceive of ourselves and our bodies.”
'De Lima’s spiritual and political cousin can be found in the fever dreams of artist Manuel Ocampo. His paintings, with their baroque phantasms of Catholic iconography, Nazi symbolism, monster roaches and Klansmen are the bastard products of history. Similarly, De Lima’s poems tear a hole through accepted feeling and reason to inhabit the “SPACE WHERE WRITER & READER BLEED THROUGH PAPER.”
'In his transfiguration of his friend’s death, the tabloid-ready luridness of it all, de Lima locates the ‘HOLY UNCAGING” of the American immigrant and the immigrant artist, who are “NEVER DONE CRYING, LAUGHING, SPURTING, DYING” in the face of the fear of foreign bodies thrashing in our midst: “LIKE THE GATORS UNDERNEATH NEW YORK/WE CLOG THE SEWERS OF LITERATURE.” Or to bastardize the headline from Time magazine’s June cover story, “We are poetry. Just not legal.”' -- Lisa Chen
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Lucas De Lima Wet Land
Action Books
'Lucas de Lima's stunning book affected me so profoundly at all the stages of reading it, encountering it—before it was a book and afterwards, when it was. In the work of this extraordinary writer, the fragment is not an activity of form. It's an activity of evisceration.'-- Bhanu Kapil
'These poems lurch from the murky waters of our collective unconscious and side-swipe us with a lyric invocation of the dark forces of... what? Nature? History? The alien life-force that drives planetary evolution? A primal being raises itself from the swamp of human consciousness, animated by the archaic and archetypal Sobek, the Egyptian god in crocodile form. The two voices that alternate in this narrative of trauma—the quotidian voice of the poet and a ritual voice of invocation—queer the story in the most profound way. Together with de Lima we call forth the god who will transform the narrative. As queers, we are the incarnation of countless shamans, medicine men, magicians and priests. The poet places himself in this tradition through his invocation.'-- AA Bronson
Excerpts
MARIAS
I DREAMT OF MY MOTHER DYING & WANTED TO BUILD A FIRE
MY MOTHER IS ONE OF MANY MARIAS FLICKERING
IN CIUDAD JUAREZ, ONE MARIA DIES EVERY WEEK ON THE WAY TO A
FACTORY
AS A WOMAN I CALL MYSELF MARIA & WEAR THE DARKEST RED ON MY
LIPS
WHEN I KISS PALE BOYS I TRY TO SET THEIR FACES AFLAME
SO THE WHITE BOYS’ CHEEKS MELT
THEN I RECALL MY PAST LIFE AS A WHITE BOY WRITHING IN A WHITE
BLANKET
WHENEVER I WANT TO THROW THE PAGE INTO THE FIRE
ANA MARIA STOPS ME BY CRASHING INTO MY BACK
LIKE A WAVE OF THE VIRGIN MARY’S TEARS IN A LATIN AMERICAN
CHURCH
ANA MARIA WAS THE FIRST PERSON TO GIVE ME A CLOVE
CIGARETTE
IT SET MY LIPS OFF
WITHOUT BURNING THEM UP
ONE TIME MY MOTHER ACCIDENTALLY KISSED ME ON THE LIPS
I STARTED WRITING POEMS WITH A MATCH
KILL SPOT
MY BULLET CRACKS THE GATOR’S SKULL LIKE AN EGG.
MY BULLET SHATTERS THE GATOR THE WAY A WORD BREAKS OPEN THE
LORD.
MY BULLET IS BEAUTIFUL.
IT SHIMMERS IN THE QUARTER-SIZED KILL SPOT ON THE GATOR’S NECK.
MY BULLET MAKES MY FATHER PROUD.
HE HOISTS THE HUGE GATOR INTO THE FISHING BOAT BY USING THE HEAD AS
A COUNTERWEIGHT TO THE ARMOR-PLATED BODY.
IS THE GATOR A MANLY PINK UNDERNEATH?
I FANTASIZE ABOUT STRIPPING HIS SCALES.
HIS LEG STILL TWITCHES, FADING SLOWLY WITH THE LIGHT
WHEN I SHOOT HIM NEAR THE HEAD AGAIN.
THE BLACK CRY OF A HAWK COINCIDES WITH MY BANG.
I KNOW THE HAWK IS ANA MARIA BECAUSE HER CRY PIERCES
MY EGGHEAD.
I CRY YOLKY TEARS IN THE BOAT WHILE MY FATHER FROWNS AT ME.
THE SKY IS BUBBLING
YELLOW ABOVE.
O FATHER,
I MOAN IN THE CYPRESS GROVE,
O.
ONCE A GATOR INGESTS THE HOOK
WITH THE BAIT OF CHICKEN,
WINGS TEAR THE SKIN ON MY BACK AS THEY GROW.
GHOSTLINES
THE GATOR’S BRIMMING RED EYE DEPRIVES US OF THE GHOST.
MY MUTE WINGS TALK AFTER SOMEONE CUTS THEM OFF.
THEY REVERBERATE OUT OF MY BODY. THEY FALL BACK TOWARD THE
RED SUN.
IF I FALL INTO THE GATOR’S EYES, HE WILL GLITTER WITH ALL POSSIBLE
COLORS.
HE WILL LOSE HIS COLD-BLOODED BLANKNESS & BECOME A HOT BODY.
WHAT ANA MARIA WAS TO HIM.
ANA MARIA. I JUST WANT TO CHECK IN WITH YOU. I’M NOT GOING TO YELL.
ARE YOU THIS BOOK YET?
ARE YOU, ME & THE GATOR ALL
HANGING OFF THE SAME SPINE?
WITH FORMALDEHYDE, OUR BOOK COULD BE PRESERVED AS IT TURNS
BLACK:
OUR MAGNIFIED MEAT BURNING IN SUNLIGHT.
LET US MINGLE IN THE SWAMP A FEW MORE DAYS. THE BEST SHADE FOR
A TEAM TO PERCOLATE & PRAY IN.
WE TEEM AGAINST ALL ODDS IN THE QUICKSAND OF ALL EYES.
ANA MARIA.
YOUR ADUMBRATION.
I SEE YOUR SPLASH OF WATER FROM THE SKY WETTING THIS BOOK.
MANY READERS ARE GHOSTS
OBSESSED WITH OUR BODIES.
Lucas de Lima reads from 'Wet Land'
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Megan Lent: You slightly resemble the lead singer to the mid-2000s emo-pop-turned-fake-folk-rock band Panic (! is optional) at the Disco. The band’s prettiest song is called “Northern Downpour.” The band’s biggest hit is called “I Write Sins Not Tragedies.” Please write a piece of very short fiction or poetry with the title of one of those songs. Or a different song would work too, I guess.
Andrew Duncan Worthington: The Northern Downpour came upon the hills of our kingdom. The white wolf sang from the depths of the forest and we heard him, we heard his call, and we prepared for the winter tumult.
ML: I just skimmed through a bunch of your stories (some I’d read before, some I hadn’t, they were what Google gave me), and you mentioned New York a few times, and Nancy Drew twice. Also, you wrote in one story that you “hate ice cream sundaes.” Why are New York and Nancy Drew important? And what did ice cream sundaes ever do to you?
ADW: My sister read Nancy Drew when I was a kid. I read the Hardy Boys. I think I mention Nancy Drew because it is something that has always been close to me but which I have never read/understood.
The significance of New York is that I live in New York. I went to 3 years of college upstate at Bard, then I lived in Bed-Stuy for a year, and for the past year I have lived in Harlem. I like to juxtapose Ohio (where I’m from) and New York in my writing a lot. Some might call it played out but I like to call it a rich tradition.
Ice cream sundaes are okay. I think when I wrote the line “hate ice cream,” I was having a weird thought about the ice cream shop near my house growing up. It used to get held up all the time. I think I was thinking that what if those people who robbed it weren’t robbing it because they wanted the money but because they hated ice cream. I thought that was poignant and funny.
ML: Physicists have proved that a “god particle” exists. This happened recently. Is this sad or is this beautiful? Do you like science? What was Galileo like in bed, do you think?
ADW: I didn’t bother to google “god particle” because I don’t care. Even if there was a god, I know it wouldn’t give a shit about me.
Galileo was probably a monster in bed, because he was under house arrest forever, so he probably had a bunch of stored up desire or was sexually desperate or something. Other sexually desperate people would walk past his house and the guards outside would point inside and say, “Fuck that guy.”
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Andrew Duncan Worthington Hot Dogs!
NAP
'Homes are full of heart. Cities hold millions of homes. People pay rent for the homes dependent on location, desirability, and need. Andrew Duncan Worthington lives in one of those apartments that people tend to look at and wonder “Why do people live in New York?” Rats of varying sizes hang out outside of his apartment. Unlike Andrew Duncan Worthington who has to pay rent and worry about overdrafts, the rats live rent-free. Benefits of being a rat in New York City include strength in numbers, free food, and the power to terrify others. With enough time spent in the city the rats get less terrifying and more annoying.'-- Beach Sloth
Excerpts
harry potter as a sex guide
harry was often brooding throughout the books
he had issues such as mortality and the fate of the universe that were worrying him
but i wonder if his lack of sexual excursion may have also been a large reason
for his brooding
an asshole killed his mother and left a mark on his forehead immediately
thereafter
i read the more romantic sections in “goblet of fire” over and over again
he even had a kind of hot date to the yule ball
but he just broods the whole time about cho chang
and then he kind of kills her boyfriend
or at least he feels responsible for his death
he is always too busy to bother
and the end of the series he kills voldemort
after coming back from the dead
and then it jumps forward 19 years
and he must have had sex because he has kids
and he probably has a nice house
and a yard
and he takes care of it
maybe even with muggle landscaping equipment
and ginny has a garden
and maybe even takes care of it with muggle landscaping equipment
but they might just use magic for all of the yard work
fast asleep and smiling in front of a 7-11 international terrorist massacre
there is bad shit going on, bad shit
and I want you to know
that I know
that there is a possum growing out of my legs
it has little blood shot eyes that are falling out the socket
and they keep swinging up and down and back
and forth because they are what
one could consider slinkies
bought from the dollar store
made of cheap plastic that
your mom would say isn’t allowed on the carpet
so you play outside
and kill plastic kill
open your wide open eyes
outside
there are helicopters the size of fruit flies
and you cant tell the difference
I can but you cant
I can but you cant
lets eat healthy for now but not care
lets do all the socially acceptable things but not care
if we fail in that ambition because we have none
My Body is a Temple
Well it’s just great that I am taking care of myself.
I spent a lot of money and ordered in for a while
and that made me feel shitty or I felt shitty because
I got broke.
I quit smoking because it was bad for my health,
economically.
I also haven’t been snorting or popping.
All that is bad
for my health, economically.
I realized I was using my partner
so I said we were done.
I started wacking again
after having never done that really
too regularly or religiously,
and I feel a bit more at ease,
except that I always want to
wack it.
I dont
drink as much, anymore.
Some days
I dont drink.
I bought an air conditioner because
it gets unbearably hot over the summer.
I am getting on
a more normal sleep schedule,
except for right now at 609 am
as I write this poem
and the sun comes up.
Things really are going great.
Book Release Party in Brooklyn
mike bushnell at 'keep this bag away from children' reading
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'The biggest hindrance to American art is the inability to see anything outside our own walls. We’re proud of being a “melting pot,” but when it comes to culture not inherently American (Wendy’s, baseball, crime drama, pop music, fences), it’s hard to convince us that we should care. In literature, as opposed to other media, introducing work to a US audience requires translation, an undertaking that brings with it a bag of problems most profit-oriented American publishers won’t approach unless it’s a ready-made bonanza, like the books of Roberto Bolaño. Imagine, then, the continuum of masterworks we’re missing out on from every language we don’t speak.
'In the introduction to Kim Hyesoon’s All The Garbage of the World, Unite!, translator Don Mee Choi recounts a great example of the type of problem translated works often run into. An American literary journal, after showing interest in one of Choi’s Korean-to-English translations of a Kim poem, requested that the word “hole” be replaced with something else, on the grounds that “hole has negative connotations in our culture.” Choi had used the word in reminding her reader that, during the Korean War, 250,000 pounds of napalm were dropped by the American military each day, turning her country into a mass of holes where once there had been houses, mountains, rice fields. She told the magazine she “didn’t have time to think about it.”
'Kim is no stranger to stodgy literary types. At the time she began writing, classical forms in the hands of aristocratic men had long dominated Korean poetry. “I often felt as if my tongue were paralyzed,” Kim has said. “For me the vast open field of the unknown and the prison existed simultaneously.” Over time, poetry in her country has slowly opened up with the rise of free verse, feminism, and activism.
'Reading Kim’s most recent translated work, Sorrowtoothpaste Mirrorcream, one finds a swarming body of imagination and ideas, which, given the book's social context, could hardly be more rebellious. Any traditional mythos of “the woman” has been completely shattered into a body teeming with imagery that mutates from line to line, melding everyday roles such as mother and teacher into phantasmagoric collages of rats wearing black bras, a house with hands buried in chocolate cake, aspirin hatching into more aspirin. The limits of creativity here are so wide that very quickly we find we’ve fallen through the holes old wars blew open, into something like the endless dreams of millions dead.'-- Blake Butler, VICE
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Kim Hyesoon Sorrowtoothpaste Mirrorcream
Action Books
Kim Hyesoon is a prominent South Korean poet who has received numerous prestigious literary awards. She teaches creative writing at Seoul Institute of the Arts. Her work translated into English includes three titles from Action Books, SORROWTOOTHPASTE MIRRORCREAM (2014), ALL THE GARBAGE OF THE WORLD, UNITE! (2011) and MOMMY MUST BE A FOUNTAIN OF FEATHERS (2008). "Her poems are not ironic. They are direct, deliberately grotesque, theatrical, unsettling, excessive, visceral and somatic. This is feminist surrealism loaded with shifting, playful linguistics that both defile and defy traditional roles for women."-- Pam Brown
Excerpts
Cloud's Nostalgia
Rabbit's ear entered as the white wall laughed
I pulled that smelly thing
Rabbit-cloud mushroomed-mushroomed
Buttocks-cloud came down from the ceiling
Those buttocks belong to the wrestler at our neighborhood gym
A rope for strangling came down, but it dispersed as soon as it hanged a neck
The walls floated in air and barked
The door to the room opened, where the angels were tortured and had cried
My screams poured out like shit, so I opened an umbrella to receive them
A thousand nipples protruded from my body
Every nipple needed to be milked white milk
My body overflowing with milk was swollen like a jar
The jar smelled of white rabbit
Those plastic things, paper, cloths
I sang about the memories of my attachment to those things in my room
When I sang, all the sweat pores on my body salivated
my black fur got wet
I pulled the mask tightly like a shoestring
and waddled-waddled out like a wrestler
Now it's time to confess, my lover is that cloud
Water falls from its face every time its expression changes hundreds of times a day
Shall I call it The morning nap of someone who has left?
(I almost said A dirty sight, for I'm unable to forget it)
Shall I say It's a flustered rabbit because its hutch has vanished?
Shall I say My melancholy's nostalgia?
or Your facial expressions fall off every second and get buried in the ground?
Green-strawberry-summit-cloud
White-hair-cloud encircles god's neck
Hook-cloud hooks my neck's artery onto a cloud
Lens-cloud opens the lid of my house and peers into it
Over there, the boys from martial arts gym run into the sunset with red-red briefs
over their heads and
I pull threads from the crimson cloud and weave my undergarments and
twist my fat fattened body
The Way Mommy Bear Eats a Swarm of Fire Ants
that my body grows uncontrollably large
that every time a wound appears I cut up a small piece of cloth to cover it
cut up and cover, cover again then
find myself covered with a quilt blanket over my head
my mommy told me never get under a quilt blanket
never learn to quilt
she told me as I patch and patch I'll never get out of poverty
that I'm now walking like a bundled up garbage quilt
that at one point you used to eat me bite me control me
use me but now I've become a quiet
thing like a bundle of garbage
that I smell like a homeless person who has become one with a pull cart
that when kicked lightly by front paws, I'm like a deer, roe deer
that I'm so huge to the point of dying
that there is only me on the freeway scorched by sun
that there are only things that run away when they see me
like the enormous gray bear that sleeps while it walks
like the enormous black lace cloud fluttering above eyelids
like the dump truck leaking dribbles of oil in the middle of a desert
like the house with rotten stairs and six feet of dust collected in the ceiling
that there is no one except me standing all alone
that I'm getting larger and larger
as I'm chased, chased off the road
that I'm filled with all the screams of the world
that there is nothing else but that
Trailer: SORROWTOOTHPASTE MIRRORCREAM by Paul Cunningham
Kim Hyesoon 'ALL THE GARBAGE OF THE WORLD, UNITE!'
Kim Hyesoon 'SHE, JONAH'
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p.s. Hey. So, to fill you in on the blog's plans for this week, I will be returning to Halle, Germany this evening where I'll be working on the new Gisele Vienne theater piece for a few days. If you remember how things worked during my last trip there a couple of weeks ago, it's basically the same story. You'll get rerun posts combined with the usual, full-fledged p.s.es from tomorrow until Friday, and then new posts will start appearing here again on Saturday. The only possible glitch will be if the internet is fucked up where I'm staying on one of those days, as happened once during my last trip, in which case the p.s. might experience a temporary interruption, but hopefully that won't happen and things will run smoothly and usually this week, I mean apart from you being asked to look at posts that you might or might not have seen before. ** Misanthrope, Hi, G.I guess your LPS-enhanced period is in full swing. I hope the drive there and back wasn't too grueling, and that you guys are having a blast. I can see that about working out being an artistic enterprise, sure. Definitely an interesting/good viewpoint. Yeah, the times I tried to read post-60s Roth, I guess I had the same problem, although I think it only took me a few pages to close and lock the hatch. ** les mots dans le nom, Hi. Oh, yeah, Falcon's Fury did look scary in a most alluring way. I'm very glad that you're doing super well! Awesome! Do dissertations have blurbs? That's wild, but, well, why not, I guess. Thanks about the wrestling/Barthes and 'in France' posts. Days are short: boy, I hear that. Mine have been shorter than short for quite a while now. ** David Ehrenstein, Thank you for the kudos on the Harrington post. That means a lot coming from you. Thanks too for the VK interview link. What a curious fella. ** Tosh Berman, Hi, Tosh. That's cool: I wondered if you had met or knew Harrington in any fashion. Yes, Drag City putting out his films is very interesting, isn't it? Feather in Drag City's notion of itself. ** Bitter69uk, Hey. Thanks a lot. I remember seeing a few of his horror films back in the day not knowing who made them or even imagining that I should think about who made them but nonetheless thinking how particular and odd they were. For me, discovering where they came from came much later. Anyway, that was a lovely, exciting comment. Thank you kindly. ** Kyler, Hi, K. Whoa, July 8th! That's, like, practically tomorrow in the publishing world's time zone. Congrats! That's great! You'll have to let me do a celebratory post around the pub date about the book, that is if you want. Quite the charismatic promo sentence there. Surreal as hell. Great, Kyler! ** Steevee, I, of course, share your hopes for St. Marks Bookshop's continuance. Last I checked, their moving-related fundraiser still had quite a ways to go to reach their goal. Obviously, high hopes for the best result for your CT scan today. Let me know. ** Zach, Hi. Exactly, those missing studs in the coaster. That really did a little haunting number on me too. Ouch, wow, about that Batman coaster beheading thing. I think I remember reading about it. It's one of those true life incidents that you can't not end up imagining obsessively. Cool that Kathy's books are keeping their word to you so far. ** White tiger, Hey! Oh, my bad, I thought for some unknown reason that you were already down there. I guess you were there for the audition, or maybe you weren't even there for that. Weird head on my shoulders. No, this might sound strange, but I didn't end up being able to finish the Antarctica slideshow post because I just couldn't find a way to do it and do Antarctica justice. Just couldn't represent it accurately or fairly enough. It's that kind of place. Even trying to tell people what it was like leaves me spouting vague superlatives. Thanks, I am good, just so crazed. So much to do, too many things to do at once, but it's all good. Love, me. ** Paul Curran, Thanks a bunch, Paul. Your book creeping out of purgatory is great news and a stylish way to think about it. May it be a speedy creep, the creepiest kind of creeping. Glad your weekend was a goodie. Right, the chewy blossoms, sigh. It's cold here too, strangely. What's the regular job? Something you're okay or more with? ** Kier, Hi, Kier! 'Who Slew ...' almost lives up to its title, if I'm remembering correctly. I loved it: the drawing! It's on my desktop, and I keep blowing it up full-frame randomly and obsessively. That's so weird, or not, because the moment I saw it, I wanted it on a t-shirt. I even started thinking about how I could have it put on a t-shirt. A white t-shirt, exactly! You should do it, or I should do it, or everyone should do it! ** MANCY, Hi, S. Okay, cool: you're good with it. Makes sense: all your thinking about it, yeah. And you reclusing and working on stuff is music to my ears. Yeah, great, man! ** Schoolboyerrors, Thank you, D! I don't think I ever met Mr. Harrington, or, if I did, it would have been peripherally, and I didn't really know who he was at the time maybe. What a great article pitch! Seems like that single sentence you wrote would be enough to snag an editor. I really like those three writers you mentioned too, quite a lot, and there are a bunch of others in that 'alt poetry' realm whom I'm really into too. People gripe about the 'quick shit' aspect of that writing, but I find it exhilarating mostly, and it reminds me in a way of the earlier work by the second generation NY School poets, who were huge for me when I was figuring out how to write. Yeah, I did an interview recently that's going to be in the first issue of Lazy Fascist's new zine where I talked a bit about how strange it is that there are some really good, UK-based 'alt lit and/or poetry' writers but no seeming support for them in the UK, although Dazed & Confused has begun supporting 'alt lit', and letting UK-based guys like Crispin Best write for them. Anyway, I'm way into your idea of you giving those writers literary clout over there. I don't know E.R.O.S., no, but, based on my quick jump through your link, it looks fascinating, and I'll pore over them/it. I don't know Limb either, but that lacking will be solved today. Thanks, man. I have a feeling that they might not be your thing, or might be too elaborate or something for your current interest, but I've been really into the new Pyrrhon album of late. I love when Stephen gigs on his own too. He is so fucking good. Ah, the incorrigible Mr. Hudson! I haven't seen him too many ages. My weekend was good, very busy, with some projects-related good news and setbacks and blah blah. But, yeah, it was a more than decent and progressive couple of days, thank you, buddy! ** Bill, Hi, B. Yeah, 'Night Tide' has a strange goodness about it, yeah. So, you're a 'fresh face' kind of guy, are you? Can't argue with that priority. ** Rigby, Hi, Rigs, and thank you kindly! Kittens are annoying, ha ha. You generalizing bastard. I can almost see that. ** Sypha, Your list was very interesting, of course. I think I might do an update on my favorite albums list, inspired by yours. Probably not alphabetical, though. Having ABBA at the top of it might be too off-putting. Wow, I so don't think 'DSotM' is Pink Floyd's most important work. Best selling, most familiar, period. At best I think it's the jewel in the crown of their least important and worst work. I think I was way too old when 'The Wall' came out to get whatever its allure may be. I hope all goes very well with your GI doctor. ** Rewritedept, Being the weird bi punker kid at family gatherings sounds like nothing but a good time, but that's easy for me to say, obviously. I always liked being the weirdo in my family. As I told SBS, my weekend was productive, busy, up and down, and ultimately very good. Your blog goodness is highly anticipated and most welcome. Oh, I tried out Future Islands. I didn't like them much at all. Self-consciously clever retro blah. Bon Monday! ** Slatted light, Hi, Davideroony. Your name is very hard to play with affectionately. Which is to its credit. 'Certain things': huh?! I don't know, man. The cut of that guy's therapeutic job is most suspect maybe. No, I haven't talked to Jesse or written to/from him for a few months. He seemed to be pretty determinedly post-Facebook when we last spoke, but you never know. But, no, I haven't heard from or of him since then, and I sure hope he's okay too. I'll try writing to him today. Ha ha, your reaction to the amusement park post is the ideal reaction that I was hoping against hope for from everyone. I can 'die' now. Or I mean it can 'die' now. Thanks so much about the ballet/haunted house connection thing, yeah. That's in our heads. Also ... too long to explain, but one of the main characters was a very promising ballet dancer until he hit puberty and his body was physically changed by that in a way that destroyed his dancing, causing him to be expelled from his high end, ultra-respected French ballet school, and there's something key and important in the film about physical growth, the attainment of new sensations at the expense of the physical form's external organization/pleasure, and related things too complicated to get into here. I'll read that Elizabeth Robinson essay, thank you! The excerpt is really gorgeous! Wow, I mean really gorgeous! Thank you so kindly, D. Have the finest day you possibly can. I will too. Love, me. ** Right. Those are some books I read and loved of late, all poetry for some strange or not strange reason. I recommend them all, duh. I will see you with a rerun post in tow tomorrow.
Columbia Poetry Review: Who was the first poet (or poets) important to you?
Jerome Sala: When I was starting out, I was interested in poetry as performance. I was drawn to writers with a declamatory tone, particularly Futurists of all nationalities. I loved Apollinaire, Marinetti and Mayacovsky. I think I discovered this mode through reading Frank O’Hara, who, of course loved Mayacovsky. A little later, I added Nicanor Parra to my list, as I admired his direct, break-the-fourth-wall style.
CPR: Could you talk a little bit about your process?
JS: I’ve done a lot of commercial writing; mostly forms of advertising that often need to be written quickly, even instantaneously. Lately, I write poetry in the opposite way. I come up with three or four lines that I want to work with after playing around a while, and store them in my poetry ideas file. (I usually write at my computer.) I return to this file, either at home or in the middle of the workday, over a period of weeks or even months, and add to or edit what I have, as the poem gradually suggests itself to me. I usually have about three or four of these little projects going at one time. I can tell when one is finished, as it develops to the degree where it makes a fairly definite point.
CPR: Would you make an observation about today’s poetry landscape?
JS: Once, not long ago, that landscape could have been summed up in a few major modes – like a country with a flag that carried three bold stripes. What seems to be happening now is that a number of styles are springing up, each of which draws its own micro-audience of writers, readers, bloggers, critics, etc. What’s sort of cool about this is that often these enclaves seem nearly unaware of each other; they’re almost monads unto themselves. It’s like the world might have been before the homogenization of globalism – enabling you to hope that someday something exotic will appear out of nowhere.
Lunar Chandelier Press
"Jerome Sala’s cheeky, splashy poetry seems never to be in a bad mood: he sails through profound political and historical issues with a tone of insouciance that—like an erudite carnival-barker’s—successfully lures us into the tent. Indeed, The Cheapskates has a Cecil B. DeMille fullness, each of its sideshows masterfully spacious within close quarters. I hear in Sala’s voice the lovable sound of a storyteller-trickster who wants to beguile listeners into a reverie with no strings attached."-- Wayne Koestenbaum
"From The Flintstones to the Khalisi in Game of Thrones, nothing on TV has escaped Jerome Sala’s attention, though as you can tell from these examples he has a affinity for the Other, for the cult of primitive, animal power transferred from animals, be they dragons or dinos. And where does he run with this knowledge? I have long admired Sala’s wit, his vulnerability, the astute social analysis like a knife that cuts through pretension and cruelty. But we love him for his cheapskate beauty, its rare unearthly gleam. The best poems here come “lit by a supernatural brightness/ that broadcasts delicious ideas, as only light can,/ at the very edge of palpability.” -- Kevin Killian
Excerpts
LATER, CLIFF
when I was a mouse
in a cartoon
chased by a cat
I said, "later, cliff"
as I ran into midair
but the cat followed me out
into the mighty void
of
(I thought)
escape
and we stayed there
above the infinite drop
feet and paws pedaling
long and short noses gasping
tails whipping into the great cool
nothingness
perpetual popular machines
until
we
looked
down
WHO WILL BE AMERICA'S NEXT TOP MANNEQUIN?
in the commercial
men and women audition
to become mannequins
for a chain of stores
that sells casual party clothes
it's easier to work in the "Service Industry"
with a perpetual smile, hands frozen
in a greeting that broadcasts happiness
with professional grace
once people begged to be awakened from their roles
now they must prove
that they can sell in their sleep
there's an elegance to their somnambulism
a courage and a confidence:
that it's possible to achieve warmth with a blank stare
one that never bumps into the wall
of a customer's personality
one that reflects all interpersonal affection
back onto the clothes at hand
REALITY EVERYTHING
The great thing about everything becoming public
is that this means nothing is.
You are traceable like a cigarette at night,
but no one is there to enforce the no smoking sign.
The lights are on, but no one's on the phone.
Those peaceful scenes after the plague
has annihilated the small town,
and no one's left in the restaurant or department store,
have all come true -- and yet no one's dead,
the market is more crowded than ever,
the street packed with stalled traffic,
the sky dark from flocks of planes,
punks in the overpopulated corners, the gangways,
under the street lamps, still sniffing glue --
but no one's there to get high --
all gone somewhere far away
leaving their lives behind
to go on living without them.
Poet Jerome Sala reads his poem "Urban Warrior"
Jerome Sala at the BPC 3/7/09
Poets Jerome Sala & Stacey Harwood @ Big Apple BAP
____________________
'Lucas de Lima’s poetry is a hot mess. Spittle comes out of its mouth. Blood is contaminated, the flesh inflamed. It is a thing of feathers, teeth, scales and primordial black gunk. The manuscript from which these poems are excerpted recently earned the distinction of being rejected by the Minnesota State Arts Board, who found de Lima’s treatment of the propelling event—the killing of a close friend in 2006 by an alligator—melodramatic” and “inappropriate.”
'They didn’t get it. As de Lima has contended elsewhere, poetry is “obscene adornment” in which “we lose control of our narratives, and inevitably end up thwarting not just our intentions for a poem, but also the way we conceive of ourselves and our bodies.”
'De Lima’s spiritual and political cousin can be found in the fever dreams of artist Manuel Ocampo. His paintings, with their baroque phantasms of Catholic iconography, Nazi symbolism, monster roaches and Klansmen are the bastard products of history. Similarly, De Lima’s poems tear a hole through accepted feeling and reason to inhabit the “SPACE WHERE WRITER & READER BLEED THROUGH PAPER.”
'In his transfiguration of his friend’s death, the tabloid-ready luridness of it all, de Lima locates the ‘HOLY UNCAGING” of the American immigrant and the immigrant artist, who are “NEVER DONE CRYING, LAUGHING, SPURTING, DYING” in the face of the fear of foreign bodies thrashing in our midst: “LIKE THE GATORS UNDERNEATH NEW YORK/WE CLOG THE SEWERS OF LITERATURE.” Or to bastardize the headline from Time magazine’s June cover story, “We are poetry. Just not legal.”' -- Lisa Chen
Action Books
'Lucas de Lima's stunning book affected me so profoundly at all the stages of reading it, encountering it—before it was a book and afterwards, when it was. In the work of this extraordinary writer, the fragment is not an activity of form. It's an activity of evisceration.'-- Bhanu Kapil
'These poems lurch from the murky waters of our collective unconscious and side-swipe us with a lyric invocation of the dark forces of... what? Nature? History? The alien life-force that drives planetary evolution? A primal being raises itself from the swamp of human consciousness, animated by the archaic and archetypal Sobek, the Egyptian god in crocodile form. The two voices that alternate in this narrative of trauma—the quotidian voice of the poet and a ritual voice of invocation—queer the story in the most profound way. Together with de Lima we call forth the god who will transform the narrative. As queers, we are the incarnation of countless shamans, medicine men, magicians and priests. The poet places himself in this tradition through his invocation.'-- AA Bronson
Excerpts
MARIAS
I DREAMT OF MY MOTHER DYING & WANTED TO BUILD A FIRE
MY MOTHER IS ONE OF MANY MARIAS FLICKERING
IN CIUDAD JUAREZ, ONE MARIA DIES EVERY WEEK ON THE WAY TO A
FACTORY
AS A WOMAN I CALL MYSELF MARIA & WEAR THE DARKEST RED ON MY
LIPS
WHEN I KISS PALE BOYS I TRY TO SET THEIR FACES AFLAME
SO THE WHITE BOYS’ CHEEKS MELT
THEN I RECALL MY PAST LIFE AS A WHITE BOY WRITHING IN A WHITE
BLANKET
WHENEVER I WANT TO THROW THE PAGE INTO THE FIRE
ANA MARIA STOPS ME BY CRASHING INTO MY BACK
LIKE A WAVE OF THE VIRGIN MARY’S TEARS IN A LATIN AMERICAN
CHURCH
ANA MARIA WAS THE FIRST PERSON TO GIVE ME A CLOVE
CIGARETTE
IT SET MY LIPS OFF
WITHOUT BURNING THEM UP
ONE TIME MY MOTHER ACCIDENTALLY KISSED ME ON THE LIPS
I STARTED WRITING POEMS WITH A MATCH
KILL SPOT
MY BULLET CRACKS THE GATOR’S SKULL LIKE AN EGG.
MY BULLET SHATTERS THE GATOR THE WAY A WORD BREAKS OPEN THE
LORD.
MY BULLET IS BEAUTIFUL.
IT SHIMMERS IN THE QUARTER-SIZED KILL SPOT ON THE GATOR’S NECK.
MY BULLET MAKES MY FATHER PROUD.
HE HOISTS THE HUGE GATOR INTO THE FISHING BOAT BY USING THE HEAD AS
A COUNTERWEIGHT TO THE ARMOR-PLATED BODY.
IS THE GATOR A MANLY PINK UNDERNEATH?
I FANTASIZE ABOUT STRIPPING HIS SCALES.
HIS LEG STILL TWITCHES, FADING SLOWLY WITH THE LIGHT
WHEN I SHOOT HIM NEAR THE HEAD AGAIN.
THE BLACK CRY OF A HAWK COINCIDES WITH MY BANG.
I KNOW THE HAWK IS ANA MARIA BECAUSE HER CRY PIERCES
MY EGGHEAD.
I CRY YOLKY TEARS IN THE BOAT WHILE MY FATHER FROWNS AT ME.
THE SKY IS BUBBLING
YELLOW ABOVE.
O FATHER,
I MOAN IN THE CYPRESS GROVE,
O.
ONCE A GATOR INGESTS THE HOOK
WITH THE BAIT OF CHICKEN,
WINGS TEAR THE SKIN ON MY BACK AS THEY GROW.
GHOSTLINES
THE GATOR’S BRIMMING RED EYE DEPRIVES US OF THE GHOST.
MY MUTE WINGS TALK AFTER SOMEONE CUTS THEM OFF.
THEY REVERBERATE OUT OF MY BODY. THEY FALL BACK TOWARD THE
RED SUN.
IF I FALL INTO THE GATOR’S EYES, HE WILL GLITTER WITH ALL POSSIBLE
COLORS.
HE WILL LOSE HIS COLD-BLOODED BLANKNESS & BECOME A HOT BODY.
WHAT ANA MARIA WAS TO HIM.
ANA MARIA. I JUST WANT TO CHECK IN WITH YOU. I’M NOT GOING TO YELL.
ARE YOU THIS BOOK YET?
ARE YOU, ME & THE GATOR ALL
HANGING OFF THE SAME SPINE?
WITH FORMALDEHYDE, OUR BOOK COULD BE PRESERVED AS IT TURNS
BLACK:
OUR MAGNIFIED MEAT BURNING IN SUNLIGHT.
LET US MINGLE IN THE SWAMP A FEW MORE DAYS. THE BEST SHADE FOR
A TEAM TO PERCOLATE & PRAY IN.
WE TEEM AGAINST ALL ODDS IN THE QUICKSAND OF ALL EYES.
ANA MARIA.
YOUR ADUMBRATION.
I SEE YOUR SPLASH OF WATER FROM THE SKY WETTING THIS BOOK.
MANY READERS ARE GHOSTS
OBSESSED WITH OUR BODIES.
Lucas de Lima reads from 'Wet Land'
_____________________
Megan Lent: You slightly resemble the lead singer to the mid-2000s emo-pop-turned-fake-folk-rock band Panic (! is optional) at the Disco. The band’s prettiest song is called “Northern Downpour.” The band’s biggest hit is called “I Write Sins Not Tragedies.” Please write a piece of very short fiction or poetry with the title of one of those songs. Or a different song would work too, I guess.
Andrew Duncan Worthington: The Northern Downpour came upon the hills of our kingdom. The white wolf sang from the depths of the forest and we heard him, we heard his call, and we prepared for the winter tumult.
ML: I just skimmed through a bunch of your stories (some I’d read before, some I hadn’t, they were what Google gave me), and you mentioned New York a few times, and Nancy Drew twice. Also, you wrote in one story that you “hate ice cream sundaes.” Why are New York and Nancy Drew important? And what did ice cream sundaes ever do to you?
ADW: My sister read Nancy Drew when I was a kid. I read the Hardy Boys. I think I mention Nancy Drew because it is something that has always been close to me but which I have never read/understood.
The significance of New York is that I live in New York. I went to 3 years of college upstate at Bard, then I lived in Bed-Stuy for a year, and for the past year I have lived in Harlem. I like to juxtapose Ohio (where I’m from) and New York in my writing a lot. Some might call it played out but I like to call it a rich tradition.
Ice cream sundaes are okay. I think when I wrote the line “hate ice cream,” I was having a weird thought about the ice cream shop near my house growing up. It used to get held up all the time. I think I was thinking that what if those people who robbed it weren’t robbing it because they wanted the money but because they hated ice cream. I thought that was poignant and funny.
ML: Physicists have proved that a “god particle” exists. This happened recently. Is this sad or is this beautiful? Do you like science? What was Galileo like in bed, do you think?
ADW: I didn’t bother to google “god particle” because I don’t care. Even if there was a god, I know it wouldn’t give a shit about me.
Galileo was probably a monster in bed, because he was under house arrest forever, so he probably had a bunch of stored up desire or was sexually desperate or something. Other sexually desperate people would walk past his house and the guards outside would point inside and say, “Fuck that guy.”
NAP
'Homes are full of heart. Cities hold millions of homes. People pay rent for the homes dependent on location, desirability, and need. Andrew Duncan Worthington lives in one of those apartments that people tend to look at and wonder “Why do people live in New York?” Rats of varying sizes hang out outside of his apartment. Unlike Andrew Duncan Worthington who has to pay rent and worry about overdrafts, the rats live rent-free. Benefits of being a rat in New York City include strength in numbers, free food, and the power to terrify others. With enough time spent in the city the rats get less terrifying and more annoying.'-- Beach Sloth
Excerpts
harry potter as a sex guide
harry was often brooding throughout the books
he had issues such as mortality and the fate of the universe that were worrying him
but i wonder if his lack of sexual excursion may have also been a large reason
for his brooding
an asshole killed his mother and left a mark on his forehead immediately
thereafter
i read the more romantic sections in “goblet of fire” over and over again
he even had a kind of hot date to the yule ball
but he just broods the whole time about cho chang
and then he kind of kills her boyfriend
or at least he feels responsible for his death
he is always too busy to bother
and the end of the series he kills voldemort
after coming back from the dead
and then it jumps forward 19 years
and he must have had sex because he has kids
and he probably has a nice house
and a yard
and he takes care of it
maybe even with muggle landscaping equipment
and ginny has a garden
and maybe even takes care of it with muggle landscaping equipment
but they might just use magic for all of the yard work
fast asleep and smiling in front of a 7-11 international terrorist massacre
there is bad shit going on, bad shit
and I want you to know
that I know
that there is a possum growing out of my legs
it has little blood shot eyes that are falling out the socket
and they keep swinging up and down and back
and forth because they are what
one could consider slinkies
bought from the dollar store
made of cheap plastic that
your mom would say isn’t allowed on the carpet
so you play outside
and kill plastic kill
open your wide open eyes
outside
there are helicopters the size of fruit flies
and you cant tell the difference
I can but you cant
I can but you cant
lets eat healthy for now but not care
lets do all the socially acceptable things but not care
if we fail in that ambition because we have none
My Body is a Temple
Well it’s just great that I am taking care of myself.
I spent a lot of money and ordered in for a while
and that made me feel shitty or I felt shitty because
I got broke.
I quit smoking because it was bad for my health,
economically.
I also haven’t been snorting or popping.
All that is bad
for my health, economically.
I realized I was using my partner
so I said we were done.
I started wacking again
after having never done that really
too regularly or religiously,
and I feel a bit more at ease,
except that I always want to
wack it.
I dont
drink as much, anymore.
Some days
I dont drink.
I bought an air conditioner because
it gets unbearably hot over the summer.
I am getting on
a more normal sleep schedule,
except for right now at 609 am
as I write this poem
and the sun comes up.
Things really are going great.
Book Release Party in Brooklyn
mike bushnell at 'keep this bag away from children' reading
_______________________
'The biggest hindrance to American art is the inability to see anything outside our own walls. We’re proud of being a “melting pot,” but when it comes to culture not inherently American (Wendy’s, baseball, crime drama, pop music, fences), it’s hard to convince us that we should care. In literature, as opposed to other media, introducing work to a US audience requires translation, an undertaking that brings with it a bag of problems most profit-oriented American publishers won’t approach unless it’s a ready-made bonanza, like the books of Roberto Bolaño. Imagine, then, the continuum of masterworks we’re missing out on from every language we don’t speak.
'In the introduction to Kim Hyesoon’s All The Garbage of the World, Unite!, translator Don Mee Choi recounts a great example of the type of problem translated works often run into. An American literary journal, after showing interest in one of Choi’s Korean-to-English translations of a Kim poem, requested that the word “hole” be replaced with something else, on the grounds that “hole has negative connotations in our culture.” Choi had used the word in reminding her reader that, during the Korean War, 250,000 pounds of napalm were dropped by the American military each day, turning her country into a mass of holes where once there had been houses, mountains, rice fields. She told the magazine she “didn’t have time to think about it.”
'Kim is no stranger to stodgy literary types. At the time she began writing, classical forms in the hands of aristocratic men had long dominated Korean poetry. “I often felt as if my tongue were paralyzed,” Kim has said. “For me the vast open field of the unknown and the prison existed simultaneously.” Over time, poetry in her country has slowly opened up with the rise of free verse, feminism, and activism.
'Reading Kim’s most recent translated work, Sorrowtoothpaste Mirrorcream, one finds a swarming body of imagination and ideas, which, given the book's social context, could hardly be more rebellious. Any traditional mythos of “the woman” has been completely shattered into a body teeming with imagery that mutates from line to line, melding everyday roles such as mother and teacher into phantasmagoric collages of rats wearing black bras, a house with hands buried in chocolate cake, aspirin hatching into more aspirin. The limits of creativity here are so wide that very quickly we find we’ve fallen through the holes old wars blew open, into something like the endless dreams of millions dead.'-- Blake Butler, VICE
Action Books
Kim Hyesoon is a prominent South Korean poet who has received numerous prestigious literary awards. She teaches creative writing at Seoul Institute of the Arts. Her work translated into English includes three titles from Action Books, SORROWTOOTHPASTE MIRRORCREAM (2014), ALL THE GARBAGE OF THE WORLD, UNITE! (2011) and MOMMY MUST BE A FOUNTAIN OF FEATHERS (2008). "Her poems are not ironic. They are direct, deliberately grotesque, theatrical, unsettling, excessive, visceral and somatic. This is feminist surrealism loaded with shifting, playful linguistics that both defile and defy traditional roles for women."-- Pam Brown
Excerpts
Cloud's Nostalgia
Rabbit's ear entered as the white wall laughed
I pulled that smelly thing
Rabbit-cloud mushroomed-mushroomed
Buttocks-cloud came down from the ceiling
Those buttocks belong to the wrestler at our neighborhood gym
A rope for strangling came down, but it dispersed as soon as it hanged a neck
The walls floated in air and barked
The door to the room opened, where the angels were tortured and had cried
My screams poured out like shit, so I opened an umbrella to receive them
A thousand nipples protruded from my body
Every nipple needed to be milked white milk
My body overflowing with milk was swollen like a jar
The jar smelled of white rabbit
Those plastic things, paper, cloths
I sang about the memories of my attachment to those things in my room
When I sang, all the sweat pores on my body salivated
my black fur got wet
I pulled the mask tightly like a shoestring
and waddled-waddled out like a wrestler
Now it's time to confess, my lover is that cloud
Water falls from its face every time its expression changes hundreds of times a day
Shall I call it The morning nap of someone who has left?
(I almost said A dirty sight, for I'm unable to forget it)
Shall I say It's a flustered rabbit because its hutch has vanished?
Shall I say My melancholy's nostalgia?
or Your facial expressions fall off every second and get buried in the ground?
Green-strawberry-summit-cloud
White-hair-cloud encircles god's neck
Hook-cloud hooks my neck's artery onto a cloud
Lens-cloud opens the lid of my house and peers into it
Over there, the boys from martial arts gym run into the sunset with red-red briefs
over their heads and
I pull threads from the crimson cloud and weave my undergarments and
twist my fat fattened body
The Way Mommy Bear Eats a Swarm of Fire Ants
that my body grows uncontrollably large
that every time a wound appears I cut up a small piece of cloth to cover it
cut up and cover, cover again then
find myself covered with a quilt blanket over my head
my mommy told me never get under a quilt blanket
never learn to quilt
she told me as I patch and patch I'll never get out of poverty
that I'm now walking like a bundled up garbage quilt
that at one point you used to eat me bite me control me
use me but now I've become a quiet
thing like a bundle of garbage
that I smell like a homeless person who has become one with a pull cart
that when kicked lightly by front paws, I'm like a deer, roe deer
that I'm so huge to the point of dying
that there is only me on the freeway scorched by sun
that there are only things that run away when they see me
like the enormous gray bear that sleeps while it walks
like the enormous black lace cloud fluttering above eyelids
like the dump truck leaking dribbles of oil in the middle of a desert
like the house with rotten stairs and six feet of dust collected in the ceiling
that there is no one except me standing all alone
that I'm getting larger and larger
as I'm chased, chased off the road
that I'm filled with all the screams of the world
that there is nothing else but that
Trailer: SORROWTOOTHPASTE MIRRORCREAM by Paul Cunningham
Kim Hyesoon 'ALL THE GARBAGE OF THE WORLD, UNITE!'
Kim Hyesoon 'SHE, JONAH'
*
p.s. Hey. So, to fill you in on the blog's plans for this week, I will be returning to Halle, Germany this evening where I'll be working on the new Gisele Vienne theater piece for a few days. If you remember how things worked during my last trip there a couple of weeks ago, it's basically the same story. You'll get rerun posts combined with the usual, full-fledged p.s.es from tomorrow until Friday, and then new posts will start appearing here again on Saturday. The only possible glitch will be if the internet is fucked up where I'm staying on one of those days, as happened once during my last trip, in which case the p.s. might experience a temporary interruption, but hopefully that won't happen and things will run smoothly and usually this week, I mean apart from you being asked to look at posts that you might or might not have seen before. ** Misanthrope, Hi, G.I guess your LPS-enhanced period is in full swing. I hope the drive there and back wasn't too grueling, and that you guys are having a blast. I can see that about working out being an artistic enterprise, sure. Definitely an interesting/good viewpoint. Yeah, the times I tried to read post-60s Roth, I guess I had the same problem, although I think it only took me a few pages to close and lock the hatch. ** les mots dans le nom, Hi. Oh, yeah, Falcon's Fury did look scary in a most alluring way. I'm very glad that you're doing super well! Awesome! Do dissertations have blurbs? That's wild, but, well, why not, I guess. Thanks about the wrestling/Barthes and 'in France' posts. Days are short: boy, I hear that. Mine have been shorter than short for quite a while now. ** David Ehrenstein, Thank you for the kudos on the Harrington post. That means a lot coming from you. Thanks too for the VK interview link. What a curious fella. ** Tosh Berman, Hi, Tosh. That's cool: I wondered if you had met or knew Harrington in any fashion. Yes, Drag City putting out his films is very interesting, isn't it? Feather in Drag City's notion of itself. ** Bitter69uk, Hey. Thanks a lot. I remember seeing a few of his horror films back in the day not knowing who made them or even imagining that I should think about who made them but nonetheless thinking how particular and odd they were. For me, discovering where they came from came much later. Anyway, that was a lovely, exciting comment. Thank you kindly. ** Kyler, Hi, K. Whoa, July 8th! That's, like, practically tomorrow in the publishing world's time zone. Congrats! That's great! You'll have to let me do a celebratory post around the pub date about the book, that is if you want. Quite the charismatic promo sentence there. Surreal as hell. Great, Kyler! ** Steevee, I, of course, share your hopes for St. Marks Bookshop's continuance. Last I checked, their moving-related fundraiser still had quite a ways to go to reach their goal. Obviously, high hopes for the best result for your CT scan today. Let me know. ** Zach, Hi. Exactly, those missing studs in the coaster. That really did a little haunting number on me too. Ouch, wow, about that Batman coaster beheading thing. I think I remember reading about it. It's one of those true life incidents that you can't not end up imagining obsessively. Cool that Kathy's books are keeping their word to you so far. ** White tiger, Hey! Oh, my bad, I thought for some unknown reason that you were already down there. I guess you were there for the audition, or maybe you weren't even there for that. Weird head on my shoulders. No, this might sound strange, but I didn't end up being able to finish the Antarctica slideshow post because I just couldn't find a way to do it and do Antarctica justice. Just couldn't represent it accurately or fairly enough. It's that kind of place. Even trying to tell people what it was like leaves me spouting vague superlatives. Thanks, I am good, just so crazed. So much to do, too many things to do at once, but it's all good. Love, me. ** Paul Curran, Thanks a bunch, Paul. Your book creeping out of purgatory is great news and a stylish way to think about it. May it be a speedy creep, the creepiest kind of creeping. Glad your weekend was a goodie. Right, the chewy blossoms, sigh. It's cold here too, strangely. What's the regular job? Something you're okay or more with? ** Kier, Hi, Kier! 'Who Slew ...' almost lives up to its title, if I'm remembering correctly. I loved it: the drawing! It's on my desktop, and I keep blowing it up full-frame randomly and obsessively. That's so weird, or not, because the moment I saw it, I wanted it on a t-shirt. I even started thinking about how I could have it put on a t-shirt. A white t-shirt, exactly! You should do it, or I should do it, or everyone should do it! ** MANCY, Hi, S. Okay, cool: you're good with it. Makes sense: all your thinking about it, yeah. And you reclusing and working on stuff is music to my ears. Yeah, great, man! ** Schoolboyerrors, Thank you, D! I don't think I ever met Mr. Harrington, or, if I did, it would have been peripherally, and I didn't really know who he was at the time maybe. What a great article pitch! Seems like that single sentence you wrote would be enough to snag an editor. I really like those three writers you mentioned too, quite a lot, and there are a bunch of others in that 'alt poetry' realm whom I'm really into too. People gripe about the 'quick shit' aspect of that writing, but I find it exhilarating mostly, and it reminds me in a way of the earlier work by the second generation NY School poets, who were huge for me when I was figuring out how to write. Yeah, I did an interview recently that's going to be in the first issue of Lazy Fascist's new zine where I talked a bit about how strange it is that there are some really good, UK-based 'alt lit and/or poetry' writers but no seeming support for them in the UK, although Dazed & Confused has begun supporting 'alt lit', and letting UK-based guys like Crispin Best write for them. Anyway, I'm way into your idea of you giving those writers literary clout over there. I don't know E.R.O.S., no, but, based on my quick jump through your link, it looks fascinating, and I'll pore over them/it. I don't know Limb either, but that lacking will be solved today. Thanks, man. I have a feeling that they might not be your thing, or might be too elaborate or something for your current interest, but I've been really into the new Pyrrhon album of late. I love when Stephen gigs on his own too. He is so fucking good. Ah, the incorrigible Mr. Hudson! I haven't seen him too many ages. My weekend was good, very busy, with some projects-related good news and setbacks and blah blah. But, yeah, it was a more than decent and progressive couple of days, thank you, buddy! ** Bill, Hi, B. Yeah, 'Night Tide' has a strange goodness about it, yeah. So, you're a 'fresh face' kind of guy, are you? Can't argue with that priority. ** Rigby, Hi, Rigs, and thank you kindly! Kittens are annoying, ha ha. You generalizing bastard. I can almost see that. ** Sypha, Your list was very interesting, of course. I think I might do an update on my favorite albums list, inspired by yours. Probably not alphabetical, though. Having ABBA at the top of it might be too off-putting. Wow, I so don't think 'DSotM' is Pink Floyd's most important work. Best selling, most familiar, period. At best I think it's the jewel in the crown of their least important and worst work. I think I was way too old when 'The Wall' came out to get whatever its allure may be. I hope all goes very well with your GI doctor. ** Rewritedept, Being the weird bi punker kid at family gatherings sounds like nothing but a good time, but that's easy for me to say, obviously. I always liked being the weirdo in my family. As I told SBS, my weekend was productive, busy, up and down, and ultimately very good. Your blog goodness is highly anticipated and most welcome. Oh, I tried out Future Islands. I didn't like them much at all. Self-consciously clever retro blah. Bon Monday! ** Slatted light, Hi, Davideroony. Your name is very hard to play with affectionately. Which is to its credit. 'Certain things': huh?! I don't know, man. The cut of that guy's therapeutic job is most suspect maybe. No, I haven't talked to Jesse or written to/from him for a few months. He seemed to be pretty determinedly post-Facebook when we last spoke, but you never know. But, no, I haven't heard from or of him since then, and I sure hope he's okay too. I'll try writing to him today. Ha ha, your reaction to the amusement park post is the ideal reaction that I was hoping against hope for from everyone. I can 'die' now. Or I mean it can 'die' now. Thanks so much about the ballet/haunted house connection thing, yeah. That's in our heads. Also ... too long to explain, but one of the main characters was a very promising ballet dancer until he hit puberty and his body was physically changed by that in a way that destroyed his dancing, causing him to be expelled from his high end, ultra-respected French ballet school, and there's something key and important in the film about physical growth, the attainment of new sensations at the expense of the physical form's external organization/pleasure, and related things too complicated to get into here. I'll read that Elizabeth Robinson essay, thank you! The excerpt is really gorgeous! Wow, I mean really gorgeous! Thank you so kindly, D. Have the finest day you possibly can. I will too. Love, me. ** Right. Those are some books I read and loved of late, all poetry for some strange or not strange reason. I recommend them all, duh. I will see you with a rerun post in tow tomorrow.