Saturday, December 30, 2017
from Something Solid: Aughts Philly: Undulant
I'd made plans to meet you in Bar Noir
on 18th, you were there; we drank. What
happened after that, in the Logan Square
flat, is that in defrocking you knocked over
an antique lamp bequeathed to me by my
aunt in Mahopac. Serendipity, I thought,
stunned then into silence by your bedroom
elan. Outside, a sultry night simmered; this
night of all nights, scattered green glass littered
my bedroom floor, & I finally got taken, past
liquor, to what eternity was only in your mouth—
as though you'd jumped from a forest scene
(ferns, redwoods), a world of pagan magic,
into a scene still undulant with possibilities—
Saturday, December 16, 2017
P.S. Not to forget...
To follow up on yesterday's piece, these two Apps/Sonnets Argotist Online reproduction pages, here and here, which feature British Library Wayback pages as captured by archive.is, bring to (it would seem) an apogee or crowning peak the ideals I have set out here for solidity/durability in poetry/literature web pages in general. Many thanks to all the operating systems, including The Argotist Online, behind them.
Friday, December 15, 2017
Another twist in the wall...
Over the summer, I laid down what for me are some general guidelines as regards the ranking of web pages: looking for solidity, durability, potential permanence. The page I ranked highest is the British Library Wayback version of my Argotist Online Apps/Sonnets page. Here's an interesting twist: when a British Library Wayback page is captured by archive.is, with the British Library insignia stitched into it, as is the case here with two Disturb the Universe essays, On the Necessity of Bad Reviews and Century XX after Four Quartets, it adds up to another potential "fortress" configuration, prestige and solidity both accounted for.
Monday, December 11, 2017
Another Interview Retrieved: Goss 183
Another interview retrieved, this one rather "henna'd," or "henna-dyed," done for Goss 183 in 2009. Peace.
Friday, December 8, 2017
Opera Bufa Hothouse
Some upgrades and improvements to the appearance of Opera Bufa, and all its ancillary channels/expressions, online: here, in refined form, is Laura Goldstein's summer '08 Loyola University syllabus (English 271), which features two days on Opera Bufa and a third with me reading/lecturing to the class, which included Stacy Blair. Here, also, is Ms. Blair's term paper for the class on Opera Bufa. Lastly, a piece I wrote for a later (2013) edition of Opera Bufa, which relates the story of the book's genesis in Aughts Philadelphia and Chicago.
P.S. Another syllabus of interest from the late Aughts.
Sunday, November 26, 2017
Swiss Army Knife on X-Peri
This image, by Irene Koronas, accompanies my poem Swiss Army Knife in the web-journal X-Peri, which went up last night. The multi-media angle X-Peri are exploring is an interesting one, and I recommend those watching to explore the whole journal; the clash/clang of words and images is unique.
Tuesday, November 21, 2017
fieralingue.it: Pigs and Planes
This 2006 page, from Anny Ballardini's fieralingue (specifically, from the Poets' Corner section of the journal), features the poem later known as Pigs and Planes, which I also read at the MLA Off-Site reading in Philly that December.
Monday, November 20, 2017
Interview with Anny Ballardini: University of New Orleans: Lavender Ink
Tuesday, November 7, 2017
from The Great Recession: Inelegant
Her mind, she tells herself, is a Center
City mind. It's connected (somehow) to
the whole world. She still goes into Joan
Shepp on Walnut, even if she can't buy
anything. The fabrics, the cuts of the
dresses- this is who she is. Somewhere
in the back of her mind, she knows she's
been cut like a piece of fabric; & the hands
that cut her have made her inelegant.
To handle Joan Shepp silk with dishrag
hands, is to have waded into the deep
sogginess of the 'burbs, & emerged like jell-o.
Monday, November 6, 2017
Another tool for the shed...
Another tool for the proverbial shed is this site, which offers solidly backed-up pages, easy access, and a promise of staunch support over a long period of time. This is crucial to satisfy the architectural impulse... happy holidays.
Monday, October 30, 2017
from Something Solid: The Nineties: Black Box
When theater-ace Terry trooped down that staircase
into the bowels of the Theater Building,
on the fringes of North Halls, I noticed
he (it seemed) felt nothing. For me, it was like
a plunge into empty nothingness, some
infernal realm of inversions; several
times I almost fainted. The Black Box
theater space was always mobbed on
those Thursday nights, not far from
midnight, where Terry reigned as secret
Outlaw Playwrights king— officious, daring,
beneficent or malign, as the mood took him;
& as Justine Caskey traipsed past me in the line,
vulpine teeth glistening in the fluorescence—
Justine, who we referred to as "Caesar Girl"
around North Halls, for making Caesar Salads
for herself daffily in the dining commons.
I spent an uncomfortable few months obsessed
with Ms. Caskey, whose eyes stretched
lugubriously across a pinched, cadaverous
face. Was she a witch? Did she worship Satan?
Did she know who I was? Yet here, Terry
didn't think she could act, & that was all that
mattered. As I did my apprenticeship, Terry
decided I couldn't act but write. I began to
spew out one-acts, working my way assiduously
up the ladder to him. A dispensation of God-
like power— to see my work staged— was at hand.
Friday, October 13, 2017
from Something Solid: The Nineties: To Happy Valley
The State College townie kids, bound
to Happy Valley, got their kicks where
they found them, gave off an air of
ennui shot with doom (human life
having granted them no escape valve),
yet were accommodating to me. On
what it means to look around a small
town, and know that it is everything to you,
encompasses all you are, Lords over you
confining curses: to trip with these kids was
to understand these limitations, the magic
& the agony. Lisa smirked, skinny in her boots,
hair cut short but for the one fringe over
her left eye, & passed me water for the E high—
Lisa— after twenty years, the bathroom,
you remember, in The Coffee Cellar,
was all black, with a wide mirror.
Stoned, I dragged you (sweet sixteen) in there
to see if I could kiss you, wrapped in
black leather pants; you banged in
two-inch-high boots, tawny hair-fringe
there, over your eye. I got the kiss; we ambled
out hand in hand; wound up back in
again. You made me vow to you
something I can't remember. How
townie girls talked— I'd nod, get lost.
But the womb-space was complete—
we were safe, ascendant into space, hopeless—
Thursday, September 21, 2017
Halloween Again...
As we head towards Halloween again, and with the new e-book in circulation, I am left to reflect on what it means to live/work through a transitional time. Some home truths seem to be both stark and Halloween-ish; television, print media, popular culture are all bottoming out on an atrocious level of thoughtlessness and mediocrity. The vacuity of what's "around," in all these contexts, is breathtaking. Meanwhile, the world created from, and out of, the Internet, while it has to have some of the earmarks on the century XX world, has set in place the possibility that those with the brains and gumption to do so can forge their own worlds, universes, contexts. Is it that stark in 2017: the Internet set against the rest of America, or the rest of the world? I am given to wonder because, as the Halloween skull you see here being flown at 1521 Fayette Street in Conshohocken, Plymouth-Whitemarsh, the contrasts are so stark, so deathly. If we are moving towards an era in which online universes win more of the time against the hollowed-out stuff, you can bet the plebeian sector of humanity won't be particularly happy about it; they'd gladly stay in century XX forever. It was a show-biz (Disneyland, as Baudrillard had it) century. But the individualistic portion of humanity, who dare to live beneath the surface and develop their cognitive capacities, will have a much easier time finding outlets for creative self-expression. That seems to me to be more important; even if the "skull" hovering around the endeavor, which suggests rancor and even physical violence, has to be flown, because between those of my kith and kin and the plebes it must, it seems, be never-the-twain.
Monday, September 18, 2017
Sunday, September 17, 2017
Tuesday, September 12, 2017
Volo Coffeehouse, Manayunk
The Posit Trilogy was released September 9, 2017, as an Argotist E-Book. Posit, the first third of the Trilogy, was written in December/January '06/'07 in my Logan Square apartment in Center City Philadelphia, and released as a Dusie chap on June 9, 2007. The second and third portions of the Trilogy (Deposit and Re-Posit) were initially drafted here, at Volo Coffeehouse, on Main Street, Manayunk, Philadelphia, in late August 2013. I re-drafted them earlier this year. Volo resembles the Last Drop in Center City Philadelphia very specifically; the high, coffered ceiling, large bay window facade, and general ambiance of all things indie, avant, and Bohemian distinguish it. I happened to be reading Augustine's Confessions as I drafted Deposit and Re-Posit; I also happened to be wearing all my Carnaby Street/Urban Outfitter's gear from the Aughts. And carrying a cigarette case. The coffee was super-potent.
P.S. The super-potent coffee at Volo created another moment in January 2023, which resulted in Posit Part 4, a.k.a. Volo: A Chapbook.
Saturday, September 9, 2017
New Argotist Online E-Book: The Posit Trilogy
The new Adam Fieled Argotist Online E-Book is The Posit Trilogy.
Many thanks to Jeffrey Side.
"The Posit Trilogy initiates a cycle, and then repeats it twice: a kind of Father, Son, Holy Ghost structure around the poet's quest to achieve self-hood, through analysis of different kinds of subjectivity (visionary, practical), explorations of dreams (consciousness creating its own kinds of matrixes and mazes to wander around in), and attempted resonances with the American city of Philadelphia (birthplace of America, enchanted by history, architecture, hidden depths, and interstitial, subterranean structures). The cycles that constitute The Posit Trilogy ricochet back and forth, with an eye towards creating a poetic landscape individual, idiosyncratic, and loopy enough to stimulate any human brain receptive to its advances."
Friday, September 1, 2017
Boys/Girls, Aughts/Teens
The born-in-the-90s generation are in an interesting position. Because the era we happen to be living through is a transitional one, they will not have the problem my generation was forced to work around- of being stuck in a crawl-space, with a rapacious, monomaniacal system of information dissemination dictating what our economy should be to us. We had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide- everyone was more-or-less forced to experience the same events, catastrophes, uprisings, and conflagrations at the same time. Kids born in the 90s can, via the Internet especially, take their pick of what to believe, what to experience, what to study, what to internalize, and who to trust. The popular entertainment 'biz, important for kids, does happen to be in a huge slump now; but the Net offers a variety of alternatives, so that as the brighter, more inquiring kids develop their own "routes," their brains can expand in whatever direction happens to appeal to them at any given moment.
Wednesday, August 23, 2017
From The Tool Shed...
As an archiving tool, archive.fo presents some distinct advantages, some distinct disadvantages. Pages generated by archive.is tend to be rock solid, and the archive.is servers are pretty solid too. The main disadvantage, as I see it, is about prestige. Archive.is can be employed as an archiving tool by anyone, at any time, for any reason. As such, the idea of adjudication, of a page judged by a serious authority to have or embody worthiness, for some solid reason, in the world, does not come into play here. Lowly pages receive the same treatment loftier pages receive. Thus, the rock solid pages generated by archive.is must accrue prestige based on an original source. This chips away at the kind of consummate package deal we are looking for in our quest for the perfect webpage; the page which has all bases covered, as the saying goes.
Tuesday, August 22, 2017
Five Poems in Otoliths (47)
Five new poems up in Otoliths (47). Many thanks to Mark Young.
Here is Otoliths 47 in its entirety. And in print.
Here is Otoliths 47 in its entirety. And in print.
Tuesday, August 15, 2017
from Something Solid: Aughts Philly: September Heat
Sultry September: we warily followed this bar-hopping
party back to a twin near City Hall, under
an aegis which was not for us, & which
included our enemies, dirt & grime came
down, settled on our backs. Now, I blame
a sense of excess which was just the Aughts;
I got used to knowing a step up on a Philly
ladder could be a step down. They were
snorting coke in a room upstairs at this
party, and, it was rumored, playing Russian
Roulette. The pistol (I saw) had a silencer on it.
I looked upstairs again, from the landing, at a greasy light.
September shadows cast an eerie glow of nowhere—
someone pushed past me, frankly, to join the affair.
Saturday, August 12, 2017
Eyewear
The UK blog Eyewear has adopted a rather tumultuous approach to what stays and what goes, conservation/preservation, over a long period of time. Most of what I had on Eyewear as of '13/'14 is now erased. Yet, Eyewear is being archived by both the British Library and the Internet Archive Wayback Machines; and this page, from 2008, which contains my poetic apostrophe to Dawn Ananda Hulton, is here completely intact.
Friday, August 11, 2017
Another interesting Ur-page
Another now-offline Ur-page salvaged by the Wayback Machine: poems from Apparition Poems in Listenlight, ed. Mackenzie Carignan, 2010.
Saturday, August 5, 2017
Tears in the Fence 66
Tears in the Fence 66 is now out and available to be purchased. It features two new sonnets from me, lots of other good stuff. Many thanks to David Caddy.
Saturday, July 29, 2017
Thursday, July 27, 2017
King of Prussia
Last month, for a rather random reason, I managed to make it over to King of Prussia. King of Prussia, and the King of Prussia mall, are always fun for me, both because I like to gawk at the architecture and because I like to indulge in Nineties nostalgia. My semester breaks home from PSU in '94, '95, and '96, I would drive around KOP doing various errands, not necessarily realizing that the architecture was casting a potent spell on my imagination, which it was. KOP looks like it was imported from outer space (and/or the moon), and yet so much of it is so gracefully melded to what mother nature has to offer that it appears entirely organic. Many Philly 'burbs are magical that way; Conshohocken is. The ride from Bridgeport to Conshohocken is another stunning "on the moon" one. If you have wheels, highly recommended.
Tuesday, July 25, 2017
o debbie jaffe, wherefore art thou?
A sign of the times and the Zeitgeist: now that the British online journal Nth Position is offline, we find the key Fieled Nth Position page preserved on The Wayback Machine, archive.org. This 2006 page is mostly notable to me for containing "debbie jaffe" from Beams. Now, you won't ever get the Ur-page again, but can always come here and get the post-Ur-page, as Blogger ricochets become more distinct/useful, if you so desire. Cheers!
Tuesday, July 18, 2017
from Something Solid: The Nineties: Trooper (for Jeremy Eric Tenenbaum)
In La Tazza, a coffee shop in Manayunk,
a stairway steered you stiffly into a steep-ceiling'd,
Spartan, red-painted basement, where I
was stationed with Chris one autumn night
in '97. How Jeremy's posse picked us up
I don't know, but we all wound up in an
apartment, steep-ceiling'd again, on Main Street. Everyone
was wearing army jackets; Jeremy was uncharacteristically
quiet. He had already lost control of his
tribe, & blew in the wind. The poems sat,
then, wrapped in a dossier-like presentation,
at Villanova, among other secret files; as they
lay, also, in Jeremy's brain, as tokens that
he once cared to be a real army trooper.
Jeremy walks down Main Street. In his hands
is a copy of "d" magazine, which he
hopes to consign anywhere. Rather, he
hopes to dump in the river, a few blocks
down. The fame he wants is fast, or nothing.
He always thought he would make it someday.
If he doesn't, it's not his fault. Perhaps he
should move to New York, after all. Or
teach, tutor, bartend, give up the architecture
routine. His brain is a jumble of low & high.
It's worth something to him, to be big. Why
starve? Why play pauper? It's true: unless he feels
royal, royally protected, he can't write.
Main Street dead-ends: it's ruthlessly midnight.
Spartan, red-painted basement, where I
was stationed with Chris one autumn night
in '97. How Jeremy's posse picked us up
I don't know, but we all wound up in an
apartment, steep-ceiling'd again, on Main Street. Everyone
was wearing army jackets; Jeremy was uncharacteristically
quiet. He had already lost control of his
tribe, & blew in the wind. The poems sat,
then, wrapped in a dossier-like presentation,
at Villanova, among other secret files; as they
lay, also, in Jeremy's brain, as tokens that
he once cared to be a real army trooper.
Jeremy walks down Main Street. In his hands
is a copy of "d" magazine, which he
hopes to consign anywhere. Rather, he
hopes to dump in the river, a few blocks
down. The fame he wants is fast, or nothing.
He always thought he would make it someday.
If he doesn't, it's not his fault. Perhaps he
should move to New York, after all. Or
teach, tutor, bartend, give up the architecture
routine. His brain is a jumble of low & high.
It's worth something to him, to be big. Why
starve? Why play pauper? It's true: unless he feels
royal, royally protected, he can't write.
Main Street dead-ends: it's ruthlessly midnight.
Tuesday, July 11, 2017
Clear Channel?
If by 40 you do not believe in other worlds, above and beyond the world/context of the human race on earth, you can look forward to a pretty paltry existence. Aleister Crowley clearly believed in the existence of other worlds; in Book of the Law, he seems to be channeling one of them. What I find interesting in the book, as the manifestation of a channeling exercise, is the way/manner in which Crowley wrestles with his voices. The first voice is a female voice, and a caressing one (Nuit). With Nuit, Crowley seems simpatico. The second and third voices, Hadit and Horus, are male, imposing, phallic presences. With Hadit and Horus, Crowley not only wrestles with their phallic impositions, it is difficult to tell in the text if Crowley is "clear channeling," or deliberately mangling what may have been being transmitted through the airwaves on those two April afternoons. Why was Crowley quarreling with his voices? The answer seems to be clear: Hadit and Horus espouse a form of spiritual elitism and classicism, against the intercession of plebeians/the plebeian, which Crowley, not wanting to alienate a potential audience, finds distasteful. It is a theory I have that, literary/occult acumen aside, Crowley as an individual may have been less remarkable than has been commonly supposed. His aims in the world were conventional ones, and he craved conventional success. Maybe.
Wednesday, June 28, 2017
Addendum
As an addendum to yesterday's post about Crowley's The Book of the Law, I want to make something clear about the text. Both Crowley's intro to the text and his postscript are written rather gauchely. Because, in the postscript, Crowley inappropriately suggests that the book should not be studied, for fear of the life of the individual who might study it, he comes across as rather a histrionic adolescent; or, as we see here, The Fool. The Fool on the Hill does, indeed, have a problem; through fooling around with states of non-being and nothingness, while trying to seem to himself like a substantial individual, a something, as it were, on the surface, the Fool has reduced himself to a Zero-state. As he plummets off the cliff, he is a reminder not to be half-assed, where Nothing/Something dichotomies are concerned. Crowley could have used this reminder. Those who will study The Book of the Law, for its literary excellence, will just have to deal with an author unwilling to handle what he has created, and who is more than willing to play the fool.
Tuesday, June 27, 2017
Do what thou wilt...
There is the big chunk of Crowley's Book of the Law which reads to me as superior poetry; then, there is the dictum which in many circles has become a commonplace: Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law. Crowley remarks, in his introduction, that Do what thou wilt constitutes a simple code of conduct; which implies that what is being signified is a simple Do what you want. Thus, the bastardization of Crowley into Satanic, adolescent cults and orders, mostly undeserved, is due partly to Crowley's own negligence; because there is another, richer way of reading Do what thou wilt. The way I have always chosen to read the dictum, Will (Thelema, in the text) is something, an individual essence, which must be divined for through processes of arduous spiritual labor and eventual catharsis. To "do one's will," one first has to know one's will thoroughly. The process of learning one's own will involves not only introspection but awareness of all levels and gradations of positive and negative Otherness; how the individual must stand in relation to the rest of the (complex, contradictory) human race. Not simple stuff. Just as Love is the law, love under will can only be the manifestation of internalizing complex realities and assimilating them over long periods of time. For the love to be there, under one's will, it must be directed concretely; you must be loving something or someone; and it is impossible to love everyone and everything.
Monday, June 26, 2017
I posit no boundary between us...
The line in the title poem of Posit (I posit/no boundary/between us) is one I'd like to parse, in reference to what Neo-Romanticism is meant to be in the humanities world in 2017. If looked at objectively, an argument could be made that Modern art, post-modern art, and Deconstructionist literary theory are all largely constituted by a succession of boundaries, and a succession of boundaries effect. In other words, the works of art, and the texts, are a game and a gambit against both intimacy, and the possibility of intimacy, between reader/viewer and creator. Deconstructionism configures intimacy as naive, as both an intention and a possibility, largely through the perceived obtrusion of the arbitrary into language and linguistic significations. Modernity and post-modernity lean heavily on alienation tactics and irony motifs. To torque Wilde, the importance of being earnest is lost. Yet Deconstructionism must withstand its own contradictions; as Roland Barthes enumerates how we might be seduced by texts, it must be understood that what is seductive in textuality is, in itself, the possibility of writer/reader intimacy; and that intimacy can only be a viable possibility if what is arbitrary in language is balanced and offset by what in language and linguistic symbolization is purposeful (as Wordsworth would have it), and penetrant into the psyche of those who read and experience the text.
Neo-Romanticism is, in fact, predicated on a belief in the efficacy of aesthetic symbolization, and (specifically), the positing of no boundary between creator and viewer/reader. Neo-Romanticism, on a primordial level (manifest, perhaps, from a ricochet to Philadelphia's buildings), believes in itself, and believes in its audience. Why the Dusie chap Posit, which ten years ago was ricocheting across the country for the first time, was more a statement of intention than I at first perhaps perceived, is because I failed to grasp the underpinnings of the work itself (and of The Posit Trilogy, and Volo, which came later) in regards to the primordial compact I unconsciously projected onto it, as I created it; a self-regulated, self-sustaining world of good faith, good intentions, and genial good will towards whoever might choose to read the text. The Neo-Romanticism which arose from Aughts Philadelphia does, in fact, attempt to take the first person singular and make it genial again. There cannot be a "you," a second person singular, without an "I"; and the significance of poetry's primordial perspective, an "I" addressing a "you," is that it becomes a Heideggerian sheltering device against what might corrupt it from without. The succession of boundaries effect embedded in Modern and post-modern art, the creation of more and more vast distances between reader/viewer and creator, is not an effect Neo-Romanticism finds interesting. Formality is another issue, and off the table here; but, suffice it to say, formality creates the inherent genial good will of a rich relationship to history and histories, continuity of consciousness over long stretches of time.
When formality is shifted into place as a prominent element of a literary text, as in The Witches of South Philadelphia, the genial good will of the artist is to, among other things, fulfill an imperative function that both Deconstruction and post-modernity largely lost: to entertain, edify, and enlighten the reader on the highest possible cognitive level. Readers read the poem because they enjoy it. This seems simple; it is not, in practice. Literature in the American Academy is so painfully onerous, as a Babel-level enterprise or (often) anti-enterprise, that literary types stick to books as a mode of self-abnegation and self-abasement. As a graduate student, I worked under a professor once, and I endeavored to bring this complex to the surface. We stick to these texts, I said, because we enjoy them; we study literature because we like it; correct? You'd be amazed that he was nonplussed enough that producing an answer seemed, to him, inadvisable and impossible. I never forgot the sense I had that here, folks, was an impostor; someone doing something for the wrong reason, whatever that reason might have been. Posit, The Posit Trilogy, Volo, Witches, and the rest are all aiming to cut out the proverbial middle man, academic or not.
Saturday, June 17, 2017
Ode: On the Schuylkill
Borne by the river’s back, boat-legions rolled
in search of
commerce, bridges to build;
souls, cargo (heavy, light), bought & sold,
coffers waiting in
Philly to be filled.
Ladies leaped gingerly onto green banks,
bound in satin or
lace, versed in politesse or no,
& walked rote patterns, inscribed insignias in the air;
crew-ship kids, underlings already in their ranks,
sought to make the
landing show-offy, slow,
hulked a hundred
yards from a drunken fair.
Add a century, an Expressway looms over
the murk—
wave-sounds, squeals, & metal—
which the Schuylkill cannot
answer, hovering
under—
slow-moving, patient, & settled.
The river’s mind is limpid— the human race
churns around it
restlessly, adding bodies
shorn of dignity, bloated, pulp-bloody,
blue,
having carried burdens the river never dreams
of, emptiness so
incorrigible the Schuylkill ’s face
registers nothing but disinterested
waves— tender, true.
The Over-brain, peering in, questioning, elevates
the Schuylkill ’s mystery into frozen heat—
truth & beauty buoyed up in the browning, decay, fate
of all
water-bodies prone to human meat—
I sit on the edge, watching overhanging leaves,
frozen myself by
the gross negligence
of what lies
beneath the river’s surface,
& my own, as the summer sun inverts, grieves
for the masses,
exploring no penitence
as I am, grounded, here, & diving for
purpose—
Monday, June 12, 2017
The Smitten European Syndrome
Anyone who's lived in Philadelphia for more than a few years knows the Smitten European Syndrome. On one's travels in Philly, periodically one will run into European folk, who passionately vow for Philadelphia against all the other American cities: for class, style, distinction, and dignity. It's just something that happens. Much of the European hoopla around Philadelphia has to do with architecture: after all, what a city essentially amounts to is a collection of buildings. As a collection of buildings in the continental United States, Philadelphia is peerless. What the Philly Free School amounts to, is an extended attempt to transmute the grandiosity, stateliness, and gravitas of Philadelphia's architecture into a body of higher artistic work; why I called one of our key pdfs Our Architecture Did This To Us. All these facets of Philly, as a construct, point to one essential reality: Philadelphia is an adult city; a city about solidity, on and beneath the surface. For the continental United States to grow into an appropriate awareness of PFS, all the sectors of America which remain Babyland sectors (the press corps are the worst, and NYC, with its bold-facade-with-nothing-behind-it emptiness, runs a close second) will have to grow up. What I'm doing here now amounts to planting seeds, because wheels this extensive and ponderous can only turn slowly.
Saturday, June 10, 2017
& Now, Chicago...
As per other Happenings Ten Years Time Ago: on July 6, 2007, I read with a bunch of Chicago poets at Kate the Great's bookstore in Andersonville, Chi-Town. We wound up doing three Philly Free School readings at Kate the Great's; the final one, in the summer of '08, capped off a trip on which I lectured at Loyola behind Opera Bufa. Illustrated here is a Loyola (Prof. Laura Goldstein) syllabus featuring the book:
this, also, is a term paper written on the book for the class by Stacy Blair:
But, back to the main: I forgot to mention: Philadelphia and Chicago do share many key issues. Chicago's image problem is a hinge to Philadelphia's: that to make Chi-Town simple is a fool's game. Down to rich Chicago suburbs appearing in 80s movies with which we learned our moves as kids (Bueller? Bueller?). And here's another big Aughts Chicago push for Opera Bufa. Here is Opera Bufa in its entirety on WAV file:
Friday, June 9, 2017
Posit: 2 editions
Posit, original print pdf and e-chap, first edition, 2007, Dusie Press.
The Posit Trilogy, Argotist Online e-book, 2017, boasts the second edition of Posit.
.........................................................................................................................................
Ten years ago today, on June 9, 2007, I stepped into the post office, on Chestnut Street between 20th and 21st Streets in Center City Philadelphia, to mail out the first copies of my Dusie chap Posit. The Dusie Kollektiv extended its reach all over the world at that time. A decade and many books and e-books later, it is interesting to reflect, on June 9, 2017, what it means to spend ten years publishing on high levels. What it brings to the surface, for me, is an awareness and an acknowledgment that we are living through a transitional time, where publishing is concerned. The splintered or splintering effect in publishing, created by the competing, not always commensurate demands of online life against print life, has created a sense of the whole enterprise as a whirling dervish highwire act, in poetry if not prose. Posit, in 2007, was released as a print chapbook and an e-book simultaneously; Mark Young's journal Otoliths had that double-pronged effect going then, and still does. Beams came out as an e-book later in '07, and pirated print editions soon appeared on the market; while later books like Apparition Poems and Cheltenham were released in print without precise online counterparts. To make up that difference, I placed the pdfs on sites like Scribd and Internet Archive, where they have enjoyed some success. But the point, that the publishing imperative should, of necessity, become a double imperative by '17, is one which adds gravitas to a semi-Sisyphean conception or paradigm model of publishing, in which only the super-diligent and highly motivated might survive, and the idea of standing, confidently and suavely, behind print alone, is an antiquated one.
In fact, from '17 on out, it looks like in many ways online is winning, which I did not expect. The reason is simple: online offers a more pure, less riddled-with-corruption reading experience than print does. The paradigm which held sway in my mind for many years, of print and online holding commensurate weight and finding ways and means of balancing each other out, now in and of itself seems antiquated. Online, of course, cannot be completely utopic; the human race en masse are not capable of producing utopic contexts; but many of us at least do not feel, by '17, that we've stepped into a Rosemary's Baby-level Satanic orgy when we read online. Amazon is just that, an obvious, obviously corrupt jungle; as is the University library system in the United States. It is the province of rackets and racketeers. The problem, for myself as a literary individual, is that I love print books. I adore them. Yet, if the integrity and the purity is online, there I must remain. When I stepped into the post office on Chestnut Street ten years ago today, many poetry voices were still dismissive of online as a viable context for poetry. So much has changed that, unbelievably, if you want to ride the publishing cutting edge in '17, you may have to admit that print can be expendable now. Preservation techniques have made online a suitable venue for eternity, and the eternity sweepstakes; and print has become a fool's paradise's, at least part of the time, for clods and literary clod-ism.
Monday, May 1, 2017
Monday, April 3, 2017
Aphorisms Pt. 2
No community is as rich as a community of one.
If you are a "people person," it is because you don't know who or what people are, yourself included.
Contrary to what Stein said, the rules are not already known.
Never revile what's solid beneath the surface.
When a society succeeds in destroying the individual, it also succeeds in rendering itself obsolescent. The individual is the agent of human progress (to the extent that human progress is possible), always.
The primordial perspective poetry sets in place- one individual writing to, for, or about another individual- is also the most durable possible literary perspective.
Pop World/Pop Church, when it happens, is a cruel phenomenon, because it is meant, from its inception, to be erased. The individual is not.
The masses are always implored to admire things that add up to nothing. They are also implored to reject what's solid beneath the surface. What's solid cannot be widely popular.
Yet solidity, is all its myriad forms, is the only ostensible reason for the continuation of the human race.
The individual is solid.
This contradiction; solidity being the only ostensible reason for the continuation of the human race, yet solidity being widely unpopular; strikes at the heart of any perception of the human race en masse other than almost-complete absurdity.
The masses chop things into place, and are chopped into place.
America is more variegated, less absurd, than most other human race locales.
By the most solid standards, the twentieth century was far quieter than the nineteenth. Most of the noise was on the surface, and easily erased. The twentieth century "school" was of quietude; surface-level spectacles now razed to zeroes, permanently.
The profound silence of the twentieth century may have been supposed to work as a riposte to Keats and English Romanticism, a solid apotheosis of the individual. Even Deconstruction is suspect on this level.
Neo-Romanticism was conceived, developed, and disseminated to be solid.
Much more so than other American cities, Philadelphia is solid.
Solidity is louder than what's on the surface. The twenty-first century has already consolidated a position as louder, more solid, than the twentieth.
Philadelphia architecture is solid. Even before Neo-Romanticism, it stood beneath the surface as a representation of Philadelphia's solidity over the rest of America.
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The principle of solidity in serious art has to do with depth and well-roundedness; the sense, in the work of art, that all possible imperatives built into the respective form have been honored and fulfilled. Post-modernity has been one long denial of both the possibility and the desirability of solidity.
Post-modern poetry denies thematics, outright and wholesale. This is absurd. Poetry which addresses no important themes is placed into circulation to preclude seriousness and solidity from emerging in contemporary poetry, at any time this chooses to happen.
There is no reason to read poetry which addresses no important themes, or will only address important themes in a deliberately obfuscated fashion.
The distaste for solidity in serious art is degenerate; and evinces a hunger for art, and all other humanistic endeavors, to be reduced to zero-level beneath the surface.
If you are a "people person," it is because you don't know who or what people are, yourself included.
Contrary to what Stein said, the rules are not already known.
Never revile what's solid beneath the surface.
When a society succeeds in destroying the individual, it also succeeds in rendering itself obsolescent. The individual is the agent of human progress (to the extent that human progress is possible), always.
The primordial perspective poetry sets in place- one individual writing to, for, or about another individual- is also the most durable possible literary perspective.
Pop World/Pop Church, when it happens, is a cruel phenomenon, because it is meant, from its inception, to be erased. The individual is not.
The masses are always implored to admire things that add up to nothing. They are also implored to reject what's solid beneath the surface. What's solid cannot be widely popular.
Yet solidity, is all its myriad forms, is the only ostensible reason for the continuation of the human race.
The individual is solid.
This contradiction; solidity being the only ostensible reason for the continuation of the human race, yet solidity being widely unpopular; strikes at the heart of any perception of the human race en masse other than almost-complete absurdity.
The masses chop things into place, and are chopped into place.
America is more variegated, less absurd, than most other human race locales.
By the most solid standards, the twentieth century was far quieter than the nineteenth. Most of the noise was on the surface, and easily erased. The twentieth century "school" was of quietude; surface-level spectacles now razed to zeroes, permanently.
The profound silence of the twentieth century may have been supposed to work as a riposte to Keats and English Romanticism, a solid apotheosis of the individual. Even Deconstruction is suspect on this level.
Neo-Romanticism was conceived, developed, and disseminated to be solid.
Much more so than other American cities, Philadelphia is solid.
Solidity is louder than what's on the surface. The twenty-first century has already consolidated a position as louder, more solid, than the twentieth.
Philadelphia architecture is solid. Even before Neo-Romanticism, it stood beneath the surface as a representation of Philadelphia's solidity over the rest of America.
.......................................................................................................................
The principle of solidity in serious art has to do with depth and well-roundedness; the sense, in the work of art, that all possible imperatives built into the respective form have been honored and fulfilled. Post-modernity has been one long denial of both the possibility and the desirability of solidity.
Post-modern poetry denies thematics, outright and wholesale. This is absurd. Poetry which addresses no important themes is placed into circulation to preclude seriousness and solidity from emerging in contemporary poetry, at any time this chooses to happen.
There is no reason to read poetry which addresses no important themes, or will only address important themes in a deliberately obfuscated fashion.
The distaste for solidity in serious art is degenerate; and evinces a hunger for art, and all other humanistic endeavors, to be reduced to zero-level beneath the surface.
Thursday, March 16, 2017
Something Solid: Miscellaneous Sonnets: Frequencies
I.
“We’re at our most bestial when threatened not
with hatred but indifference; what our blood wants
is reaction of some kind.” New Hampshire night,
our own reaction, you pliant, penetrable, laid out beneath me as
flies fidgeted our room, pirouetted moist air, but
we sank beneath bestiality to do just what indifferently
we wanted, beneath our glut of blood, so the summoned
beasts might react with this: ripped limb from limb,
buried in low-lying Virginia swamp marsh, given what
aphorism is only got in extinction, darling, as I quote
what you said at the bar before. In other words, they
hated us. The one-night stand wouldn’t matter if your
brain didn’t have the right words in it: stories, sequences,
slammed-down metaphors of a singed self. Frequencies.
II.
As the world between her legs tightened around
her, what she saw in bed with me was stark: okra,
stamens, roots, all that in nature coalesces in erect
growth; and a shadow father bent, then erect, then
bent again, perverse from amassing wealth in a world
whose submissiveness poisons him. Beneath the sultry,
wooded surface, what I saw was a semi-frightened
animal, along for an all-night ride (gruesomeness of
4 a.m. New Hampshire sun), knife thusly thrusting
into the backs of everyone around her, managing
to have stamina enough against constraint to take
what she was taking. The mattress thumped: above,
an angel was unable to conceal laughter, understanding
it was all in the script, including the garish sun’s leer.
Wednesday, March 8, 2017
Something Solid: The Nineties: Defiance
I see her occupy the back of a motorbike: complicit
in the destruction of established orders, expressive
of the willful imposition of the defiant on any
alternative life-path. The front’s only half a curmudgeon.
The road is slick with moisture. If they hydroplane,
you can say goodbye to my own future life. Yet
she’s quiet at PennCrest, stubbornly resistant to
attempts to draw her out. She’s his girl Friday more
than wife. Real marriage hovers in the future as
a homing beacon, against the ravages of too many
deal-related parties, intermediaries imploring her
to step back, climb on his loaded lap, the one & only.
Body/soul unity haunts her waking hours, a vision
inherited from the Renaissance shakes her semi-addled brain.
The most crucial future comrade migrates from flat to flat,
the length of Manhattan; saved from school’s repetitive
rigors, yet awkward against others more normal. As is
often the New York spin, there is no getting close. Kids
come & go. She’s got the pluck, as is ascertained, to paint
what she wants. The most difficult forms flow easily
out of her, as though she were a weird, worrisome windup
doll to defy the lightness of touch used to lighting up
the New York art firmament, a gem for someplace else,
not dust-binned yet, but close. Half-noticing, she also
imposes a posture of defiance on her life, wired into willfulness.
Day-to-day, the grind is to take the advanced forms, find
somewhere to migrate with them. The vision behind is crystal.
I was destined to defy the motorbike with paper piles, marriages. Right?
in the destruction of established orders, expressive
of the willful imposition of the defiant on any
alternative life-path. The front’s only half a curmudgeon.
The road is slick with moisture. If they hydroplane,
you can say goodbye to my own future life. Yet
she’s quiet at PennCrest, stubbornly resistant to
attempts to draw her out. She’s his girl Friday more
than wife. Real marriage hovers in the future as
a homing beacon, against the ravages of too many
deal-related parties, intermediaries imploring her
to step back, climb on his loaded lap, the one & only.
Body/soul unity haunts her waking hours, a vision
inherited from the Renaissance shakes her semi-addled brain.
The most crucial future comrade migrates from flat to flat,
the length of Manhattan; saved from school’s repetitive
rigors, yet awkward against others more normal. As is
often the New York spin, there is no getting close. Kids
come & go. She’s got the pluck, as is ascertained, to paint
what she wants. The most difficult forms flow easily
out of her, as though she were a weird, worrisome windup
doll to defy the lightness of touch used to lighting up
the New York art firmament, a gem for someplace else,
not dust-binned yet, but close. Half-noticing, she also
imposes a posture of defiance on her life, wired into willfulness.
Day-to-day, the grind is to take the advanced forms, find
somewhere to migrate with them. The vision behind is crystal.
I was destined to defy the motorbike with paper piles, marriages. Right?
Sunday, March 5, 2017
Something Solid: Aughts Philly: Star Child
So, there we sat in Kim’s car, for the hour’s
ride back from New Hope to Center City, drowsy,
all three of us, on a bunch of laced weed, thinking
whatever we were thinking, as Kim kept putting
the pedal to the metal at times slightly off. We all
could’ve been as good as dead, if we didn’t have it,
but we did. What we had was a shared pact, into
the air, the spheres, the universe, that whatever befell
us at that time, that place, we would have to survive,
because we just would. And we did. Which didn’t
change the state of affairs, stagnant for both of us
with Kim, not brimful of anything, so that whatever
soporific fantasies I might’ve had, our taking her out
to canoe on the Delaware did not result in any
consummation, & with her forgetting her purse on
one of the islands, where we got even more trashed,
forgot about this, the ride home, Kim’s reflexes, how
the rest of our lives depended on something not proven,
trustworthy. The two buddies had brains circling
similarly, nothing to worry about, go with it, understand
your invincibility, it’s there if you believe, it just is.
Where shields like that come from, I don’t know, but I
will say— exclusivity is the rule. You only depend on it
if you know it’s there. Off the two of them went, into
the late afternoon sun, after dropping me off in Logan
Square. Somewhere, a frequency in the sky consolidated
itself. Gaetan didn’t look like a star-child then, but he was.
His magnanimity, more than a lion’s, granted him more than nine lives.
ride back from New Hope to Center City, drowsy,
all three of us, on a bunch of laced weed, thinking
whatever we were thinking, as Kim kept putting
the pedal to the metal at times slightly off. We all
could’ve been as good as dead, if we didn’t have it,
but we did. What we had was a shared pact, into
the air, the spheres, the universe, that whatever befell
us at that time, that place, we would have to survive,
because we just would. And we did. Which didn’t
change the state of affairs, stagnant for both of us
with Kim, not brimful of anything, so that whatever
soporific fantasies I might’ve had, our taking her out
to canoe on the Delaware did not result in any
consummation, & with her forgetting her purse on
one of the islands, where we got even more trashed,
forgot about this, the ride home, Kim’s reflexes, how
the rest of our lives depended on something not proven,
trustworthy. The two buddies had brains circling
similarly, nothing to worry about, go with it, understand
your invincibility, it’s there if you believe, it just is.
Where shields like that come from, I don’t know, but I
will say— exclusivity is the rule. You only depend on it
if you know it’s there. Off the two of them went, into
the late afternoon sun, after dropping me off in Logan
Square. Somewhere, a frequency in the sky consolidated
itself. Gaetan didn’t look like a star-child then, but he was.
His magnanimity, more than a lion’s, granted him more than nine lives.
Sunday, February 26, 2017
Something Solid: The Nineties: Central Pennsylvania
I.
I’d locked myself in the bedsit flat, still North Halls.
It was now or never, to pass the self-imposed
comprehensive exams which might conclude
my literary apprenticeship. What emerged was, for the first
time, an authentically real, authentically original
voice. The Beats in there, Symbolists, Montreal,
but, in the end, it was good, & it was really me.
That I had only three years of college credits to my name
was not a crippling disappointment. I could finish
the BA somewhere else. Happy Valley’s ‘98
spring: gorgeous days in a golden string. Beckoned
by recurring dreams of sublet dynasty, I re-occupied
South Atherton Street in May.
II.
Sublet dynasty: West Nittany emerged after South Atherton.
I surveyed the papers, which for me were
drenched in the ecstasy of tears, terror, & tremors
transcended. Plays were staged. No longer inchoate,
I felt charmed. I charted Central Pennsylvania as a mighty
mind— a million shades of green. For a few
months, this college town was representatively,
legitimately my possession. I consumed College Ave.
as though it were nitrous, my diploma made of universe.,
the heaven of poetry’s gravel-paths. Shifting winds
would have to take me elsewhere. Yet much of me,
I mused, must remain in the place the breakthrough
occurred, could never change. Nature’s way.
The final autumn here the first real May.
I’d locked myself in the bedsit flat, still North Halls.
It was now or never, to pass the self-imposed
comprehensive exams which might conclude
my literary apprenticeship. What emerged was, for the first
time, an authentically real, authentically original
voice. The Beats in there, Symbolists, Montreal,
but, in the end, it was good, & it was really me.
That I had only three years of college credits to my name
was not a crippling disappointment. I could finish
the BA somewhere else. Happy Valley’s ‘98
spring: gorgeous days in a golden string. Beckoned
by recurring dreams of sublet dynasty, I re-occupied
South Atherton Street in May.
II.
Sublet dynasty: West Nittany emerged after South Atherton.
I surveyed the papers, which for me were
drenched in the ecstasy of tears, terror, & tremors
transcended. Plays were staged. No longer inchoate,
I felt charmed. I charted Central Pennsylvania as a mighty
mind— a million shades of green. For a few
months, this college town was representatively,
legitimately my possession. I consumed College Ave.
as though it were nitrous, my diploma made of universe.,
the heaven of poetry’s gravel-paths. Shifting winds
would have to take me elsewhere. Yet much of me,
I mused, must remain in the place the breakthrough
occurred, could never change. Nature’s way.
The final autumn here the first real May.
Wednesday, February 22, 2017
Cheltenham at Poetry Library at Southbank Centre, London
Proud to say that Cheltenham is now on the shelves at the Poetry Library at the Southbank Centre, London, UK. Many thanks to the Poetry Library staff!
Friday, February 10, 2017
from Something Solid: Aughts Philly: Gratis (for Mike Land)
Spring '05: I swung a drunken loop from
the warehouse space back into the Highwire
Gallery itself— throngs of hipsters milling
around, whiskey, wine disappearing from
the little island space situated near
windows picking up western sun-
light, as night descended on Cherry
Street, with an ambiance of anticipation.
When anything can happen in human
life, nothing usually does— what coalesced
here, art mania, was manna to us. Avalon established
eye-contact; off we pranced to the stairwell—
Mike Land grinned lasciviously, as usual,
& polished off a beer he'd received gratis.
Tuesday, February 7, 2017
Cheltenham Elegies on PennSound
The Cheltenham Elegies mp3, with the Cheltenham Elegies from the Blazevox print book Cheltenham ('12), is now up on my PennSound Author Page. Peace.
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