Thursday, December 13, 2018
A Dozen Leaking Buckets (2014)
Wednesday, December 12, 2018
Poets on the GR Blog
When the invitation came to contribute to the Eileen Tabios Poets On The Great Recession blog in the fall of 2011, I was still in Center City. But the Aughts couldn't have been more over.
Drawing the Line
Some of the poems originally intended for GR/Under the Knife have bled into being used for the expanded edition of Cheltenham. This naturally follows from the fact that many of the characters I used when writing the GR vignettes were people I knew in Cheltenham, during the years of my childhood and adolescence. This 2013 Otoliths page demonstrates how ambiguous the line was and still is, in separating the writer's impulse to find genuine roots from the writer's impulse to explore a specific period of time.
Tuesday, December 11, 2018
The Great Recession Pt. 2: Under the Knife
Over the years, the never-quite-completed Great Recession manuscript developed a second title: Under the Knife. Some pages say GR, some UTK. Same still-developing book. And this 2013 page from Halvard Johnson's On Barcelona takes us to another recessional locale, and lets us wander around.
Four Quarters Magazine: The Great Recession
In 2012, I began work on a manuscript I wanted to call The Great Recession. The motivating idea was similar to American Tour; to devise a series of miniaturized dramatic monologues, which would lay bare what the state of the American psyche was circa 2012 and out, in the midst of all kinds of recessional down-turns. Some of the characters I was channeling were known to me, some I invented. This 2013 page, from India's Four Quarters Magazine, is as good a representation as any of how the manuscript looked. Even if it got stalled roughly halfway through, and hasn't found its way home quite yet.
Monday, December 10, 2018
Chimes #30
Saturday, December 8, 2018
Staten Island Baby
Friday, December 7, 2018
Stray App Blues
Stray poems around published books are interesting sometimes, too. These two Apparition Poems appeared in COR (Cricket Online Review), numbers 218 and 219, but weren't quite right, I felt, either for Apparition Poems or Cheltenham. Close. Whatever book they're precisely right for, maybe a Collected in the next ten years, we'll have to wait for. But having them in COR is already nice.
Mirror Games
One of the original placements, as of 2012, and before the July '12 release of the first edition of Cheltenham, for the Cheltenham Elegies, was a Los Angeles web-journal called Quarter After. The " mirror flash" from coast to coast was unique; the great Aughts triumvirate of cities for innovative poetry in the United States was Philly-NYC-Chicago, rather than NYC-Chicago-L.A. That arrangement, Philly-NYC-Chicago, has managed to hold pretty steady for innovative poetry right up through the present moment.
Saturday, December 1, 2018
Friday, November 23, 2018
denver syntax Part 2
Thursday, November 22, 2018
Thanksgiving: The Teens & Continuance
Apparition Poems, which came out in 2010, is a pretty rich song-book. Rich enough that, through 2011 and 2012, new pages continued to appear featuring portions of the book, and/or outtakes from the initial edition (which have been included in later editions): from 2011, here is a page from Sawbuck Poetry, and from 2012, here are pages from On Barcelona and diode. Something to be thankful for on Thanksgiving. Happy turkey!
Monday, November 19, 2018
Seven Corners (7C): Ode On Jazz
I met Steve Halle in Henniker, doing my M.F.A. in the Boston 'burbs. Steve shared my penchant for the new, the twisted & the avant-garde in poetry, angled somewhat against most of the New England College M.F.A. faculty. We graduated together in the summer of '06. When I visited Chicago for the first time, that December, I stayed with Steve and his wife Monica in Palatine, a suburb about forty-five minutes outside the city. We read together at Myopic Books in Wicker Park (Guyville), Chicago's answer to Manayunk in Philly, and in preparation Steve uploaded this page onto his Seven Corners (7C) blog, which includes the Ode On Jazz. The Jazz Ode as of now has, in mp3 form, become a hit on a number of sound-file sites.
Sunday, November 18, 2018
Hinge Time: COR (Cricket Online Review)
In the early Aughts, I met a writer/poet in Philly named J.D. Mitchell (later J.D. Mitchell-Lumsden). J.D. had migrated to Philly from the Mid-West. We commiserated, and while he was in Philly did one important reading together: with Jeremy Eric Tenenbaum, and under the aegis of Jeremy's There is such noise & gravity series, we read at Villanova University, Jeremy's alma mater in the Philly 'burbs, in 2001. For a number of years, we kept in touch loosely. In the mid-Aughts, and having migrated to the South-West, J.D. mentioned to me via e-mail that he and his buddies were starting an online poetry journal: Cricket Online Review. COR ran from the Aughts into the Teens, and I published in it a number of times. Most significantly, here are Apparition Poem 1558, 1571, and Sarah Israel from the Madame Psychosis section of Beams.
Wednesday, November 14, 2018
Twisted Limbs
One of the exciting things about the Aughts Revolution was the growth of internet literary publishing as an enterprise, hand-over-fist and in all directions. You could publish poems in multiple editions over comparatively short increments of time, either online-to-print (as happened to me, from Jacket to the & Now Awards/Best Innovative Writing anthology) or online-to-online anthology, and what have you. From '06 to '07, my poem Twisted Limbs migrated from Andrew Lundwall's Melancholias Tremulous Dreadlocks to Halvard Johnson's Big Bridge "Death" anthology, and was none the worse for it.
Beams in Henniker
Summer '06 marked my final residency in Henniker, NH. It coincided, more or less precisely, with my debut on the As/Is group poetry blog, which is still active today. For the length of the residency, I was writing a portion of a series of poems which would end up in the Blazevox e-book Beams: Madame Psychosis. Two of these poems, lizzie mclean and eye eye eye, were placed on the As/Is blog from the NEC library during the residency. More headiness, along with a little wistfulness. I was due at Temple in August: the Aughts fast-moving train was in full-speed-ahead mode.
Tuesday, November 13, 2018
Luzmag in Henniker
As of early January '06, doing a residency in Henniker NH, I sent Lars Palm in Malmo some poems for an e-zine he was putting together, called Luzmag. On the night of the 9th, I got the e-mail and saw that the page was up. I walked out of the NEC library carrying an intense sense of euphoria; the Aughts Revolution was on. And it was one of my best nights in Henniker.
Monday, November 12, 2018
Hinge Time: denver syntax
My poetry pages, even pages from many years back, which happen to be valuable ones, all must find their way onto Blogger to be hinged. It's part and parcel of a matrix-system around what Blogger is for poetry. Luckily, the matrix is a capacious one, and bottomless and fathomless the right way. So: these pages appeared in Luke Simonich's denver syntax in 2010 for, respectively, Apparition Poems 1339, 1343, 1497, and 1473. Now, they may begin to come into their own.
Sunday, November 11, 2018
Twenty Years and a Song
As of twenty years ago, more or less precisely today, I was living in a West Nittany Avenue sublet in State College, writing my Song for Maria (Gingerich). At the end of November '98, I left. As is nifty, the British Library Wayback Machine several times captured the first of three versions of my Argotist Online poetry page, when all it had on it was one Beam, and Song for Maria, and as it was established in the mid-Aughts. Cheers.
Saturday, October 27, 2018
Feast or Famine
I knew the Manhattan you grew up in well indeed—
the Upper West Side— gruesomely built of blocks
of primitive brick & stone. But, for you, with two
orchestra musician parents, a ticket into New York
Bohemia, bagels & lox from Zabar’s, then nothing,
popcorn, then back to Zabar’s. Whether feast or
famine, no forced schooling for you, just days at
home with paints and canvases, from a young
age, for company, hours of repetition, breakthroughs.
Always unease, that what you wanted to paint
was too formal, too advanced, for the land
of Warhol & Koons. You were ready for Philly.
PAFA, drugs, dykes, all in preparation for
finding it, your mind’s precious Rosetta Stone.
Your vision grew limpid as your life went crazy—
ensconced in the Center City beau monde,
directing traffic, wedded to an Irish witch
who wished you the worst in the end, every
distillation of visual perfection in your brain
found refulgent form, as you found time to
fall into my arms as well, & I rode analogous waves—
why it was all lost then was simple— the girls,
your girls, didn’t like it. They were threatened
by a genius they knew to be easily trounced.
I never let you go. I still won’t: the halcyon
nights we spent remain the guiding light of
my life, in this world & beyond, you & Mary,
& bruises or afterthoughts be damned, Rosetta Stoned—
Monday, October 22, 2018
Treasure Trove
As is interesting, Trove, a subsidiary of the National Library of Australia, now has, as holdings, a collection of pdfs of entire Otoliths issues, including issues 47 and 50, and 53. Issues 47 and 50 feature a handful of sonnets from my manuscript-in-progress Something Solid. Issue 53 features the Ode On Waves. Peace.
Thursday, October 4, 2018
Strange Angles
Way up in the mountains, the air itself
is a drug, & hippies stand in a driveway,
smoking pipes. An inquisitive thirteen-
year-old boy tours a long, winding, high-
ceiling'd bungalow, property of two
antique dealers, stuffed full of junky
trinkets. Their redheaded daughter is
his age, and invites him into her room.
Within a few hours, he remembers nothing.
Thirty years later, a woman stands in
a driveway in Woodstock, New York,
wondering who her parents are, surprised
at what must be the altitude, skewering
her thoughts, cutting into her at strange angles.
Thursday, September 20, 2018
Tuesday, September 4, 2018
Feel on X-Peri
Tuesday, August 28, 2018
Ode On Psyche at This Charming Lab...
Thursday, August 23, 2018
Wednesday, August 22, 2018
Answered Prayers: The 90s
Wednesday, August 15, 2018
Edition Consolidation
Through ways and means inhering in the Digital Age, these two edition consolidation pdfs now occupy cyber-space: one conflating the two existent editions of Posit ('07/'17), one conflating the two existent editions of The White Album ('09/'18). And a second front for Posit 2 Editions, and a second for TWA.
Monday, August 13, 2018
Friday, August 3, 2018
Ode On Psyche (2001)
Wednesday, August 1, 2018
Flaming Red Hair
The Last Drop lost its joie de vivre in 2009— Dani
enforced this, acting out a script (tease/taunt/topple)
written for her by South Philly goons. Why I'm now
bemused by the gaucherie of Dani's gestures— cheap,
black, low-cut dresses worn to reveal ample cleavage,
flaming red hair styled always in plummeting cascades—
is that in '18, no one's titillated by anything, let alone Dani—
negligee stores derelict. How I pined for her on those nights
the grim reality of the recession still hadn't sunk in— as though
the revelation of her breasts could deliver me from shadows
which impinged, but (it seemed) possibly only temporarily.
Once, in her Pine Street apartment, she bothered to walk
around before me in a bath towel. Why was I a gentleman?
The twist in the tale was to stick the thing in, & win.
P.S. Another twist in this tale.
Friday, July 20, 2018
Thursday, July 12, 2018
Ode On Love (2003)
What is the essence of a too-brief kiss?
The rigor of reaching the thing-in-itself,
from subject to object, chaos to bliss,
our frail intuition of heavenly health?
Our love is not molecules, dumbly colliding,
nor it it knowledge, formal and static,
nor it it accident, reasoned and plumbed—
it's real, meta-rational, soaring and gliding,
felt like an earthquake, bringing up panic,
taking our parts and achieving a sum.
The greater part of love is sacrifice—
flesh intermingled, tensing and tingled,
this is the secret I learn from your eyes.
Giving my body- knotted, single,
tiny eruptions that come from my tongue—
plunging down surface, slicking the flesh,
thoughtless as leopards or hurricane winds—
watching you shudder, watching you come,
rapt in the throes of an innocent death,
giving my life to an inch of your skin.
Thus, we trade in secure oblivion
for reckless reality, messy and fleeting.
Such is the cosmos: creation, carrion,
motions of molecules merging and meeting.
Nothing is lost but notions of self-ness,
hard ideations that closet and clatter,
rages of ego that strain at their walls—
nothing is gained but a sense of the deathless,
"there-ness" of spirit, "there-ness" of matter,
ultimate "there-ness" that scares as it calls.
Sunday, July 1, 2018
Eratio 26: The White Album (2nd Edition)
Sunday, June 17, 2018
Ode On Jazz
Physical beauty, Formal Rigor of God—
spiritual beauty, Economy of God—
Natural Will, Transcendent Will,
Facile Will in all its’ dismal “there-ness”—
Piano broken chords breaking down space
like watching bits of paper collect,
contained in a 12-bar blues; root
notes you tend to lean on,
or maybe a honking minor third,
a harmonic multi-colored sharp…
Follow your compulsion into flurries,
clusters of connecting phrases,
then a pause to sanctify as the progression
resolves after lingering on the fifth
for the appointed time—
pentatonics mainly w/ some suspensions,
sheets of sound, there it is...trademark leaps
only found in Coltrane,
like watching a rainbow erupt
out of the placid bowels of street-lakes,
sparrows in the gutters,
Eliot-esque alienation syncopated
impossibly high & mighty…
Repeat the repetition now into major scale—
Ionian gold, major-third suspensions again,
almost midnight for tremulous trees,
also hipsters, flights of birds, rabbis
in the wilderness as blues ends; here’s a quicker
quirkier jarring bit to cut
your teeth on…
Base bottom notes natural like ferns,
ride the ride cymbal like musical fellatio,
roll w/ rolls & kick-drum ejaculations,
what Hart Crane heard in bridges,
only blues (so bridge seldom comes),
stasis achieved nicely replicates movements,
bowel, kidney, heart-beat, daring snare of lip-ness,
thickness, quickness,
get it all out for all of us into the brick-laden city,
mutter of exhausted midnight buses
as vibrato notes shiver, miniature
solos on the toms creates energy
of emptiness among the weird abundance,
concluding w/ roll on the snare, now bass
also investigates metaphysical space,
not so much implacable as inexhaustible
eruptions; spring of autumn,
autumn of spring…
Seasons of balance, compromise,
away from extremes; Middle Path exteriorized,
oh piano on a minor seventh which bespeaks
longing for a more ethereal world,
elegiac as the last apple of October, eaten
by a Halloween camp-fire, beyond blues
of Earth into cadence, dying fall of pure moon,
ravaged, torn from the throat of persistence,
mute existence destroyed completely
and on fire, a universe of fingers & mouths,
looking down the tide of Death into eternity,
square-shouldered & erect,
freezing into whims of Ultimate “there-ness”,
beyond ordinary notions of quotidian abyss
in one long sitting pow-wow peace-pipe corn-cob
wholesome dinner of Voidness,
but insinuated only to drive away singularity….
Jazz is plural,
they give you a space, show you its’ contours,
allow you to move around & drown
if you want over hilltops of remorse, created
by Love or dolorous longing & especially
Central Parks of the soul & intellectual Bordello
life cut & pasting its’ bleak outline over rooftops
& bluebirds —
Friday, June 15, 2018
Side-Armed
She said, undressing, to love is to be
an orphan hiding from a hurricane in
a church made of glass. Impractical, I
said, & I don't like metaphors in bed
anymore, in my old age, any more than I
like spiders. Then, as we made love, she
said, you're an orphan, hiding from a hurricane.
Oh, I said, are you a church made of glass?
Well, she said, I'm a little cracked, aren't I?
Outside, cars slithered by, oblivious, exhaust
fumes tingeing humid summer air. You're
cracked alright, & so is your sister, I said,
throwing stones from my glass church, side-armed—
block. A month later: the City Hall court
yard blazed with summer heat. We
were over, that was it. She wanted,
she said, some order & discipline in
her life. Chinatown simmered under
our feet; I looked (futilely) for a Go
board; she bought some incense. She
turned quickly, I tried to kiss her; she
resisted; it was close. Two brains tried
to coalesce into one, about love & us.
Epochs passed; I've got order & discipline
right here, in these lines, Ruth. I trust
you understand. Much of the rest is dust.
Tuesday, June 12, 2018
Friday, June 8, 2018
Wednesday, June 6, 2018
Thursday, May 31, 2018
Walkin' On Down the Hall
As of almost June, and the new Otoliths page, I've reached a moment of reckoning concerning the manuscript I'm working on called Something Solid. The manuscript, as it subsists now, is comprised of three sections: the first covers the Nineties, the second, the swingin' Aughts, and the third are miscellaneous poems that cover a range of times and themes. Most of the poems are, or could be called, sonnets; and yet they have so little in common with traditional sonnets and sonnet writing that they might just as well be called fourteen line poems. I don't honor sestet and octave conventions; the volta may happen at any time in the poem; and, most importantly, an impulse is honored in the Something Solid poems which has nothing to do with lyricism, and more to do with a hard-bitten, earthy, empirical devotion to the darker side of human life and truth. The poems are not "little songs," they're glass shards. And the next step is a fourth section I am planning but haven't written yet. I want it to cohere around a central theme, an event, individual or time-period, and harness the rest of the book's energy into a burning, laser-like focus on...we'll see what later.
Tuesday, May 29, 2018
Ode On Jazz: I'll Be Your Mirror
Thursday, May 24, 2018
Poems in Otoliths (50)
Here is Otoliths 50 in its entirety. And in print.
Sunday, May 20, 2018
Friday, May 18, 2018
Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da
Molly strips at The Office
in Center City Philly: high-
school drop-out, pot-fiend,
child in second grade, puffed
up from downing lager during
down-time. She told me her
story because Desmond beats
the hell out of her, she needs
a better gig. Health insurance
does not exist for her or the kid,
she lives in fear of Italian Market
ruffians bearing down on little Bradley.
I brought her back to my pad,
fucked her, told her I would gladly
be a father to Bradley if I had
the time, or the money, but I don't.
Wednesday, May 2, 2018
Tuesday, May 1, 2018
Apparition Poem #1488 (French Translation)
Friday, April 20, 2018
New Jersey Blood
I.
The first
bedlam-infested Free School show:
I caught Jeremy
doing his reconnaissance routine,
ribbing audience to
leave. I didn’t realize
then who Jeremy was,
where he came from
(South Jersey),
& why he worked, in Philly,
to stay (&
remain) small. The Highwire shows
were too high for
his, & Jersey’s, leveled lowliness;
who had no recourse
but to (hostilely) spy on us.
New Jersey squirmed,
itchy for its Philly;
Jeremy slunk back,
wine in hand, began snapping
pictures again. As
he knelt to get a special
angle on Mike Land,
who stood reading at
the podium, I
remembered Avalon as a teenager,
New Jersey at
midnight— waves into emptiness.
The dirge droned
over the dimly lit dance
floor, “Stop Me If
You’ve Heard This One Before,”
& Tara, a
bowl-headed Jersey redhead, heaved
against me. Suburban
Jersey slowed her pace
like a sprained ankle;
tall tales, excuses abounded
of potential
husbands, other elaborate entanglements,
making it dodgy to
take her too seriously.
She sought ins with
us; we always said yes;
yet we bled
something out of her style & self-possession.
Mike Land, who
(oddly) was no dancer, drank
our grungy group
under the table, in a short-lived joint
off of Rittenhouse
Square— Tara made
a gesture to her
girlfriend to step outside. “It’s
a conspiracy;” I
kidded Mike, “bring on the shots.”
Friday, March 16, 2018
Butler Pike
The entropy, enervation of a recession—
consciousness rots, abraded by the obtrusiveness
of a dull, jagged populace— I stroll down
Butler Pike, snapping pictures of the houses,
& the buildings penetrate into my brain,
more than the people. Architecture is its
own phenomenological explosion, occupying
space inside/outside the mind, standing in now,
for better or for worse, for the people who
could occupy similar space— what I notice,
as sentience emanating from the buildings,
is that architecture is how the human race
expresses its relationship to nature. Here,
our choice is a sturdy yet ethereal harmony,
formidable, eerie, which foresees who might
occupy the houses, & yet chooses to manifest
the ornate over the plebeian, or merely practical.
When the ornate (the aesthetic) is set in place
in the Philadelphia suburbs, it is an expression,
also, of the region's apparitional vision, relation to
a wider world than even material nature; out
into physical space, into the cosmos, against
the restraining force of the earthly. So, in a
roundabout way, I get closer to the individuals
who have planned or charted the buildings
through allowing them (both) to seep into my brain.
Relationships, in recessional times, abstract
themselves— I stretch towards acceptance, gratitude.