The Anthologist

If we could just--just stop. For one year. If everybody could stop publishing their poems. No more. Stop it. Just--everyone. Every poet. Just stop.

That's a paragraph from page 19 of Nicholson Baker's The Anthologist, which I'm reading now.

The speaker, Paul Chowder, a poetry critic, is clearly tired, and he's posing the question from a tired person's perspective.

But what if it were to happen? Perhaps this is a picture of that world:

from Mike Young's WE ARE ALL GOOD IF THEY TRY HARD ENOUGH

Here is a line from the first poem in Mike Young's book, which will be released by Publishing Genius in June 2010:

Feelings are expensive greeting cards.
You buy them several times a year and wonder:
how does the hologram work?

I love it.

Martin Luther

I have a poem called "Martin Luther" in the inaugural issue of Divine Dirt Quarterly, whose mission is stated like this:

Theology began as mankind's highest creative endeavor--the prototype of literature, with each story and/or myth fine-tuned according to the individual's life experience. Our mission is to return theology to its democratic and dynamic state.

We Are Champion

I have three poems in We Are Champion, a new journal that saved space for some also-rans like Blake Butler, Mathias Svalina, Giancarlo DiTripano, Gary Lutz, Ally Harris, Chris Higgs, Rachel B. Glaser, Carl Annarummo, Jonathan Papas. Whoa whoa whoa, read that Glaser story and get pumped for summer, when PG will mail you her collection of stories.

This PDF Chapbook: Francis Raven

Francis Raven’s poem covers the C&O Canal, but manages to be about much more. Raven was driven to write the piece based on his reflection while walking along the canal to work each day – that in America we have so few ruins.



The poems match that sentiment, themselves falling apart, tracing out what was but what is left hanging on.



Francis Raven is a graduate student in philosophy at Temple University. His books include 5-Haifun: Of Being Divisible (Blue Lion Books, 2008), Shifting the Question More Complicated (Otoliths, 2007), Taste: Gastronomic Poems (Blazevox 2005) and the novel, Inverted Curvatures (Spuyten Duyvil, 2005).



Francis lives in Washington DC; you can check out more of his work at his website.

Whale Box by Lauren Bender is now available as an eBook

Lauren Bender's long poem, "Whale Box," was released by PGP in October 2007 as a limited edition chapbook. It sold out of its 100 copies in less than two months. Now it's available to read online as an eBook.

Whale Box, read it.

Everyday Genius: Juliet Cook

Juliet Cook's poem, "Pig Trough as Concept" -- posted today in Everyday Genius -- really delights me. Give it a read. Doesn't it strike you like a Mike Young piece in the way that she juxtaposes unusual (though plainly syntactical) sentences about one thing which culminate in a sentiment that is distinctly different from those one things.

Er, uh.

I honestly didn't do a close reading to sense what happens in this poem; I just let myself associate with it and from that association comes the, what, the grist (if you will), and then I allowed that grizzle (um) to be enough in terms of "understanding," and to be part of the thing that is the poem. I guess I'm arguing for an "Against Interpretation"-type reading here, as always. And why not? Otherwise, I'd be reminded of David Orr's condescending article in the Times --

" . . . the trendiest contemporary style, which relies heavily on disconnected phrases, abrupt syntactical shifts, attention-begging titles (“The Gem Is on Page Sixty-Four”), quirky diction (“orangery,” “aigrettes”), flickering italics, oddball openings (“The scent of pig is faint tonight”) and a tone ranging from daffy to plangent — basically, two scoops of John Ashbery and a sprinkling of Gertrude Stein . . ." (link) --

And I'd think, yeah, but come on Tackleberry: it's good. Orr lists these characteristics like they're a detriment, as if to say they're cataloged, so clearly Juliet Cook didn't think of this first -- so what can the value be? A checklist of tropes employed does not strike me as a productive way to read Cook's poem, or any poem.

I don't want to know what's happening in a poem or how it derives its meaning. The fact that it's possible to recognize a good poem means precisely that it's possible to recognize what's good in a poem. Being able to language those elements, though, is a different, often superfluous matter.

In that regard, I've enjoyed reading these essays on negative reviews.

A Real Poem

Do you like the poem I published at Keyhole? It's okay if you don't. I consider it "a real poem," as opposed to other poems that I write which are "fake poems." It should be read very fast.

It's true, and it's called "Some Men in My Family." I think it is very sad.

Fabrits

I bathe in the morning for an hour and read. Often I fall asleep with the book in my hand, but I never drop the book in the water. I used to bathe too long and then hurry up so as not to be late to work. Now I wake up earlier so I can drink coffee for a while and revise poems. That's what I do now for the last three days. Joe Young told me about that, told me about how it's fun to sit around and drink coffee. This morning I added music to the routine.

Wake, bathe and read, drink coffee and revise, listen to music. It's like a full day that's over by 8:10. Then I ride my bike to work.

In the past I only "took cream" occasionally at dessert. Now I drink coffee with cream in the morning because otherwise I will never finish my one gallon of milk.

Ah, blogging.

Yesterday I wrote the best poem I ever wrote. It's about Elisabeth Elliot, the missionary/evangelist. A section, then:

Once she discussed Chekhov's story "Verotchka"
At length, off the cuff,
In order to warn against the dangers of holding hands.
It actually makes a lot of sense, if
You don't want to get laid.
No one wants to not get laid,
But sometimes you want to stay a virgin a while.
That's important to people and I support it.
My advice to these people would be
Don't hold hands.

Then at night in bed I watch a movie that I downloaded during the day. Last night I watched Lonesome Jim starring Casey Affleck and Liv Tyler and Seymour Cassel and I kept wanting to punch it. But I could not fall asleep.

High Score: 10,400

I finally beat level 16 on Brick Breaker. It took me a month, about, at one game per day, about. There are 34 levels. My high score is 10,400. It was very fun to see what level 17 and 18 look like.

Level 16 is a beast. It's a tall box like level 11 but with more of the orange bricks that you have to hit three times. The thing is that the box is surrounded on three sides by the grey tiles that you cannot ever break unless you shoot them with the gun, if you get the gun. Level 16 is a beastly monster and I do not like it.

I like the book I'm cooking up so far. I've got poems about Kierkegaard and Frederick Law Olmstead. I will revise more, but here is an excerpt:

He didn't go to college because he got sumac poisoning and that messed up his eyes!
He thought slavery was bad business and he wrote so when he was a journalist.
He was like a Red Cross guy in the Civil War.
He designed the park system in Milwaukee and also in Buffalo.
Buffalo Buffalo Buffalo Buffalo Buffalo Buffalo Buffalo Buffalo.
That is a complete sentence!
Buffalo Buffalo Buffalo Buffalo Buffalo Buffalo Buffalo Buffalo.

Mystery

Some mornings though I stand on the stoop and wonder what I'm supposed to do next. I have already locked the door behind me. I lock it so that when my girlfriend comes out of the house to drive me to work she will have to first unlock the door. In this way I am sure she will see my keys and bring them to me. The thing is that I take her keys to start the car so that when I hop out at the corner, her still at the wheel, she is left with her own keys. And since I don't know how long it will be until she comes downstairs and dies. I can negotiate all this, but when I'm done I don't know what to do anymore. I see that there is a lot of trash along the curb, and I could unlock the door, go back inside and fetch the broom to sweep up the trash. The broom has been used to this end so often that all of the bristles have broken off; there is just a clump of remains at the bottom of the stick. Also, the gutter is nearly full of garbage, mostly black bags, diapers, chicken boxes, bleach bottles, soda bottles, whiskey bottles, soda cans, large format beer bottles, crab shells, styrofoam plates, large format soda bottles, wet cardboard, some hair. The thinking is that wait what?

Writing the Disaster

Hi. Oh yeah, there's blogging. I've been reading blogs since I last posted, and they're often like, "Whoops, forgot to post, busy busy" and even then it didn't occur to me that I too ought to post a post. Here's one, finally, about where I live and whether or not I should write poems about it.

So, of course my neighborhood is ramshackle and neglected, and when I moved in it was the first I saw of this type of America. It didn't seriously occur to me for a long time, like a year, that it was a thing to write about (because I was sort of busy habituating, which is an intentional thing to do around here), and then when it did I wasn't sure that I should write about it. I should, on one hand, because I'm pretty sure that there aren't many middle class whitey's in the world who have firsthand experience of what America's hard neighborhoods are like, even a little, and they ought to. On the other hand -- there are lots of other hands. One is that even though it's where I live, I'm not all that aware of what's going on. And more importantly, it's not what I've been wanting to write about. I'm more interested in pre-apocalypse stuff.

But what the heck, I've begun working a new how lives the other half, in hope that I will get written into The Wire. Hey David Simon, there's a new problem in the Eastern District, and he's writing poetry.

this house
this street
this trash
this noise
those siren
those fire
those blow
those camera
that wind
that scatter
that vial
that mange
these cuff
these wave
these swear
these flicker

Political Poem

the baddest assed police
are so righteous oh baby
one said im tired
of this tired of this im
tired yall of this cussin'
his hunkered arms quivered
his partner said well actually said
nothing just deflated into a squad car

these righteous police exasperated
roll out huffing no arrests
and the hoodlums shake no collars
can crime climb so high oh baby
above the knee high strides of
our baddest acid cops

Say Poem

As read at the Narrow House event at the 2008 Baltimore Book Festival, Friday, September 28, CityLit tent: Say Poem.

Why so much death? Because I am afraid.

Then, like an idiot###, I picked up myself and walked back toward the men who shot me. Only one of them shot me. Armwise. I walked back toward him and the other men, winged, bloody, in shock, expecting they’d have realized their error, they didn’t mean it, thought I was someone else, they’d like to help out. I walked stably. Maybe I could have pulled up my bike and glid home, all down a slight hill, but still was I a few blocks out and doubted could I make it. I figured could they give me a ride. Their car was so nice and cavernous like a gold-trimmed ambulance. But black like a hearse, too, sure, although I didn’t think of that then, like an idiot##. I picked up myself then and walked back toward the man who shot me, one of them, but another man stepped forward expecting to realize my error. I thought I was someone else. Maybe could I have pulled up my bike down a few blocks, leaning bent like a winged man ahorse, or in their big black car, like an idiot# I thought finally then.

Dogwalkers

This is the first version of "Laps Like a Little Dog," the short poem I posted in April.

Bad Manners

Tell me your dream sequence
Let me know what your dream sequence is
I’m fascinated by those crazy things you dream up

I’m convinced that the things you do are affected
by the things you dream
That’s why I want to hear every detail of our country
no city house with a pool as you remember it
So I can better understand who you are as a person
a person in a space car in the crust of a pizza

I’m not a bad psychoanalyst this is a bad couch
You’re a bad lover
Hey Bad Lover
dream more succinct

The Deli Case is Gone!

Hey goodbye,
massive burden!

So long,
hunkered oaf.

I have longed
to spin aback and flail
in the place you commandeered,

so hasta la never again,
metal cloud.

Laps Like A Little Dog

on a spring day and dog walkers
we roll and cherish

of understanding like Laska’s –
ended, unbegun

Among Other Things

Why are dogs so filled with love?
-- Because they are brown and spotted.

It’s true.
Kangaroos carry Joeys with so much affection
on account of the added “y”.

So -- is “such” a word made from the wreckage of “so much”?

What else am I missing?

-- At a party Meagan brought out an ornament,
a zebra looking with intent at a snow globe.
Inside the snow globe: a baby zebra.
She found it at the dollar store,
where failed products are drastically reduced,

-- and I wonder: if not this,
-- -- then WHAT?