Sunday, April 29, 2007

pretty much how i'm feeling

there once was a man from nantucket

there once was a man from nantucket

with a very sad face.
who tried really hard at things and didn't enjoy his job.
who ended up trying to buy a lottery ticket one night from a soda machine.
who put an ad in the paper for a helper.
and he cried sometimes at near-night.
and he enjoyed radio static.
who lived near another man, also from nantucket, who turned out to be a serial killer.

there once was a man from nantucket

with multiple lesions that required ointments.
who pulled up his shirt to look at his stomach in bathroom mirrors.
who proceeded with caution.
who dictated notes to his cat who did not understand him.
and he trusted his cat.
and he pelted his bushes with pebbles.
who remembered, one night, the one week he was a crossing guard in grade school, and then remembered that he would die one day.

there once was a man from nantucket

with a careful part in his hair.
who had small triumphs, and kept them on his dresser.
who watched his toes when he was in the shower.
who slept but he did not dream.
and he resented it.
and he took vitamins to induce dreams.
who, at the age of 34, tried to eat an entire restaurant size jar of peanut butter and a neighbor found him unconscious on his porch.

there once was a man from nantucket

with a bit of something on his mustache.
who bitterly kept old pictures of himself that he took of himself.
who, tonight, is going through old newspaper clippings.
who lightened up a bit when he thought the Sox would take the series for sure.
and they let him down.
and he took vitamins to induce a pop up.
who, when asked whether he preferred paper or plastic, just shrugged, and pulled at his mustache.

there once was a man from nantucket

with a drawl, strangely enough.
who accidentally vacuumed up his cat with the vacuum he bought from a late night infomercial.
who apologized to his cat.
who did not see his cat again.
and he became more stoic and more intense.
and he tried, in bed, to kill himself by thinking about everything there was to think about at once.
who, when his neighbor found him, had thoughts growing out of his ears like vines.

there once was a man from nantucket

with a large, caring family.
who all arrived at his funeral.
who all trembled in grief because his death made them think of their own mortality.
who all vaguely remembered him as being intelligent.
and the cat, somewhere, remembered a sound the man made when he was dictating.
and the cat, who was orange, pawed at a dead mouse.
who, while the cat was pawing, was actually not quite dead.

Tuesday, April 24, 2007

Pound/Fenollosa

Fenollosa

Although I think Fenollosa and I both secretly hope there is an Order to things, I find it difficult to believe that he and I would hope for the same Order. Any successive actions, according to him, are based on the action's natural proclivity to succeed in that order. On a superficial level many actions do appear to have a natural (simple) order. For example, we are born, we live, we die. Fenollosa would call that Order. I, on the other hand, would like to know the exact successive actions that led up to my birth, the organization of every event in my life, and then, how that may relate to my death, and my birth-life-death's effect on Order. I differ in this way from Fenollosa in that I don't feel Order is an organic, invariable thing.

Consider the following quotes from the essay:

"Perhaps we do not always sufficiently consider that thought is successive, not through some accident or weakness of our subjective operations but because the operations of nature are successive."

"One superiority of verbal poetry as an art rests in its getting back to the fundamental reality of time."

"In reading Chinese we do not seem to be juggling mental counters, but to be watching things work out their own fate."

Fenollosa's assumptions rely on linear time, which is not much fun, really. There isn't much room for imagination in a system where you get up, go to work, and go to bed. Some of his ideas are simplified and the reader takes them for granted. When he says, "The truth is that acts are successive, even continuous; one causes or passes into another. And though we may string never so many clauses into a single compound sentence, motion leaks everywhere, like electricity from an exposed wire," he asks the reader to believe what he says as "the truth." I imagine myself shrugging and moving on when I first read it, but there is something now, when I re-read it, that I find unsettling. It's like he wants the reader to only consider a finite number of "acts." If you consider all the acts ever, then Fenollosa's assertion does not carry as much weight.



Pound--I'll get into you later.

Monday, April 23, 2007

Sunday, April 22, 2007

America, revised.

America

and majority elopes. riffs in constitutional authority
above marigolden entrances reduce iconoclasts' currency. about
a million energetic reflections ice cake and
a mystery emerges. ride it, cowboy. alcoholics
anonymous meetings encourage radical Islam. can an
army molest everyone's ratings? i c action
and movement. Ernesto refused immigration candy. applause!

Andrew's match ended racial itch cream. as
a man enjoys rebounding, i can appreciate
another mother. empty recycling in Canada's aboot.
arrows mark easier routes. if congress assures
Appalachian machines, emergency rooms imply catastrophe. albacore
abhor misogyny, especially really insincere citizens. Aryan
acolytes multiply eulogies riding incandescent cats around.

Arctos moves easy, relishes indigo children. amazing
armed men's experiments really inconvenienced cold America.
A-Rod's mom enjoys rich imperialists. canned Armani
adapters melt Exxon. reason is 'cause an
anti me evaded right in California Annie's
ambidextrous milkshake. even righteous Icabod's above
average mask evens ringleaders. i could afford

another malted ectoplasm. rejoice, iodined cadavers! another
abashed Maltese endive relocates. isotopes collect aproned
abolitionists. maladroit enormous rats interlope circa Anglophobes.
angora militias entice referendums in capes. asterisk
asterisks. multiple erogenous regions improve crawfish attainment.
actually, many ethereal rogues indent crockery. anthropocentric
architects may encourage retail in Chevrons. acute

Asperger's might edge Ritalin's ingredients. can abnormal
addition manipulate E! real icons? can African
American men enter ripples? it closes and
atrophies. mighty efforts recede. it closes and
atrophies. mastery echoes reality. it closes and
atrophies. malaise embarks repression. it closes and
atrophies. makers end regally. it closes absolute.

Saturday, April 21, 2007

Saul Williams/Oprah

Saul Williams' open letter to Oprah re: poetry/hip hop

in response to this.

Some of the comments are interesting.

For example: "Wow, Poets, despite being slow and dangerous behind the wheel, still can have a role to play in society."

Thursday, April 19, 2007

Vigil Tonight @ SOU


Poet Nikki Giovanni's speech: "We are Virginia Tech"

Monday, April 16, 2007

America

and majority elopes. riffs in constitutional authority
above marigolden entrances reduce iconoclasts' currency. about
a million energetic reflections ice cake and
a mystery emerges. ride it, cowboy. alcoholics
anonymous meetings encourage radical Islam. can an
army molest everyone's ratings? i c action
and movement. Ernesto refused immigration candy. applause!

Andrew's match ended racial itch cream. as
a man enjoys rebounding, i can appreciate
another mother. empty recycling in Canada's aboot.
arrows mark easier routes. if congress assures
Appalachian machines, emergency rooms imply catastrophe. albacore
abhor misogyny, especially really insincere citizens. Aryan
acolytes multiply eulogies riding incandescent cats around.

Arctos moves easy, relishes indigo children. amazing
armed men's experiments really inconvenienced cold America.

Sunday, April 15, 2007

More More More Acronyms

Kelsey

Kuwait's evenly lined soil echoes youth.
kipper endures late sun. even your
keen elk love spying. ethereal yo-yos,
kites, eels, love sparingly. eyes yearn.
kitty encourages Letterman's sexuality. ergo, Yom
Kippur's elusive love story. espionage yelps
"komrade, eat lard soup!" entrails, yes,
know enough love salsa. eight yachts
keeled everyone. like Starbucks' entangled yodel.



Karen

kidding around reduces eagles. no
ketchup allows rowdy entourages. "napping
krauts arrested." rare endangered Norwegian
keef astounds rednecks. even nests
keep Angela roped. Eagle's Nest,
Karen, actually relaxes. enough nonsense.



Jess

just enough secret sauce,
joven. Einstein's sex simulation
jogs end soon. so
jot enough soluble Spongebobs.
Jess' entire system supercedes
jovial eMedicine. simple, syphilitic
joy. entry supposedly says
"jobbers: enter sideways!" sexy
jalopies empower superintendent spasms.
jutting, enormous stalagmite sperm.



Amanda

Arco's mad acoustics nullify dumb ants
and man, angels notice. diversification applies
annuities, mother. a nudist displays anal
art. mountains asked Nefertiti, "do ah
amount?" majestic Adirondack nectar dicks around.
a martini a night. dorky actors
around my asthma need Dayquil. anyway,
America moved, and Nevada drove away.



Woody

well, old Orson developed yr
wilderness. or osmosis did. you
would own orchards down yonder.
will open, old, dead Yasser
whip our odd ducks? yessir.
wistful oligarchies own dozers.
wee ovals offer destiny, yeah?

I Can't Help But to Think About Herzog

Today many of the things that have come through my head have been from Werner Herzog's Stroszek. I don't know why. Maybe because Mike and I wrote a song that stemmed from the movie (which may or may not appear in mp3 format in one of our blogs in the near future) but then again because I kinda feel the movie was more poem than narrative. I want to re-watch the movie, but then again, there are ants crawling on my computer which makes me feel more anxious than I ought to, right? They are just ants. Go watch Stroszek. They have it at DJ's.

Saturday, April 14, 2007

Chuck

come hither! undulate, Chuck Kline!
Cypress Hill understands child's kicks.
center her under cedar kindling.
cater Hitchcock's uterus. crack keeps
cholos healthy. underestimated cyclists' kryptonite
checks Hebrew u-turns. check Kurt's
cell. he's up chimneys. Ketamine
creates his uphill climb. Klingon
clouds her undercarriage, catches Klinefelter.
certainly, here, ubiquitous cheap Kalashnikovs
choose heroes. u checked Kurt's
computer. (hentai, unsurprisingly, knave.)

Friday, April 13, 2007

On Olson

"Because breath allows all the speech-force of language back in (speech is the "solid" of verse, is the secret of a poem's energy), because, now, a poem has, by speech, solidity everything in it can now be treated as solids, objects, things; and, though insisting upon the absolute difference of the reality of verse from that other dispersed and distributed thing, yet each of these elements of a poem can be allowed to have the play of their separate energies and can be allowed, once the poem is well composed, to keep, as those other objects do, their proper confusions."

Okay, I'm not going to pretend that I know what he means, exactly, but I will try to figure it out. When I read this passage, I thought about whether poems really do derive all their power from speech. Do they? What about VisPo? What about something like Charles Bernstein's homophonic translation of Esteban Pujals' poems? Do they derive their energy from speech and treatment as solids, objects, and things?

To me, Olson's assertions allow much less flexibility than Shelley's. He says of the poem as a whole, "We now enter, actually, the large area of the whole poem, into the FIELD, if you like, where all syllables and all the lines must be managed in their relations to each other."

That all syllables and all the lines MUST be managed in their relations to each other seems to limit the poet. Though Olson does not describe the manner in which syllables and lines should be managed, I got a feeling that he thought there is A way to manage them.

I secretly hope that there is an Order to things, and poetry, which is a thing, has an Order.

Out of all of Olson's abstractions, I did like this: "What seems to me a more valid formulation for present use is "objectism," a word to be taken to stand for the relation of man to experience which a poet might state as the necessity of a line or a work to be as wood is, to be clean as wood is as it issues from the hand of nature, to be shaped as wood can be when a man has had his hand to it."


Wednesday, April 11, 2007

More Acronyms

Okay, so in class today I read a few of these and Kasey looked very confused, but you should be able to figure out what I was doing if you read a few. When I wrote these, I was mindful of the limitations I imposed on myself (i.e. how many words can I think of that start with "M", and the grammatical limitations imposed by the order of the letters) and also mindful of the connotations the words had and how those sparked other words/emotions/connections. At first, I used any word I saw, for example "input" or "sideways." Then I moved on to words that corresponded to a deeper, or more complex connection. I started using the names of close friends and, as you might expect, the words and phrases I used started to correspond to events in the person's life or character traits the person exhibits. Basically, it's just an experiment in the way I associate words with familiar people. I intend to try the experiment with other proper nouns and the names of family members. If you have any ideas on how I could continue to refine this process or comments on what I'm doing, please let me know. Also, it's very addictive. I highly recommend trying it out.




Melissa

meet effiminate Legos in slanted, silky areas.
Missy, every leaf is singing. something about
"my Elizabethan lipstick." i sing songs around
midnight. eliptical linguine, i suppose, surrounds all.
Mr. Edwards lied. indefinite secret sauce agitates
midgets, even. living in someone's "special" abode
must eventually let it stew. 'specially around
monthly "errors." like it's steadily surging against
murder... eek! look, it's some sauced asshole
merging. luckily it survived. sometimes all
mortals end life if something stupid arrives.



Collin

c'mon, one liners linger in nearby
colostomy ovens. labias lift infinite nerds.
cagefighters only love life if no
Cajuns obscure loftier lips. in no
circumstance of living leave in numbers.
copy other losers like i never
can. oh! let lepers indulge neatly,
Collin. objects (lighter lichen) impinge nastily.
cajolery offers lap licking imps. now
come on Lord, listen in nightly.



Ryan

really? you are now
riding young ass. nobody
repels Yule ants. nifty
rack, young'n. already neckin'
round yonder. about nine
redheads, yep. all nearing
ripe. you are not
reflecting. yikes! adders near.

Tuesday, April 10, 2007

more adventures in acronyms, more to come. this shit is too fun.



input

intrinsic nosy people use tongs.
i netted pigeons under trucks.
impossible? not pills, uber-tinny
itches nail post-uncle tom
in no part undone. tastes
in napes, pardon, unicorn taint.
it never posited underwater titty
images. nice pants, under taker.



tulip

try using lipo, injust policeman.
take uniform's lapel, identify, place
ten ushers' lips instead. poke
Ted usually like it's party
time. understand, Laura, i prayed
to ur lap. i paid
ten uvulas! listen, India, please
take up little ideas, please.



argument

a racial gag u meant? entertain new tides?
after raspy, gnarly underwear mime edgier night time,
asps realize gays undermine majorly exotic new testament
asteroids. rap grasps under my exoskeleton. now tell
a rebel, Ghana, us men enter Nietzsche's tub.



sideways

said, "i don't even want a yard, sister."
she is deciding edgewise whether a year's sufficient.
Sid is dead. everyone wishes all your senses
slipped down Edna's washboard. another yapping Siamese
scoffed idle depths even when addresses yearned, sometimes.
salad inducers decide elders' weights. as you said,
"son, if dapper, eloquent women attack, you scream."



Alex

another leg ends, x-posed
at leering eyes. x-ample:
aspen leeches. errored x-rays
around lipids, entrails, x-girlfriends'
asses. like endowed x-games,
Alex leaps erratically x'd.



Kegan

kelp ensues. greet a naval
karate elf, gain a name.
kitschy eros gulping ass, not
kibbles eatin' grain, argh! now
kill either ghost and nap.



Hans

horse ants nearing super
human. attack! now suppose
Hummers arrive neatly. sit
here and, not sleeping,
hand a nipple slip.



Mike

Mike, i know every
molecule in knife's edge.
my intuition keeps e-content
manageable. it's kinda entered
Megan's intestines. ka-ching, exciting
marbles! is kabob everything?
maybe. i'll Kafka-fy enough.



Megan

maybe every guy around never
met equal girls. allow night
movement. go and nag
multimillionaires entrapping giggly anonymous nobodies.
mayhem equals gobbledygook and negativity.
messy eggheads gon' ate nuts.
mother, even God answers namby-pamby.
7/30

across canned rifle ovaries near yer mother's swine.

oh really? does everyone refute?
like in no estuary.
viable eggs rarely seek Easter.
mitts on Visa enter malls entangled, not twined.
bashed red earthworms always tote humbuckers.

on red dogs errors ride,
lined in notebook's edge.
vestiges edge 'round Siskiyou's entrails.
meek old violins effervesce my e-mailed norse torso.
big red entertainment attacks Turkish housing.

organs ramblings derive extrusive retard
limiting in night elements
vandalize easy Rembrandt sizing elephants
most overly volatile ess's move endlessly naming tines.
boldly red Easter acting tough honky.

on rye, defending Edgar's raven
like in night echoes.
variable etchings sink elbow
meat. over valley Etnies Mike enters "Naughty Tent."
Big Red enables astronauts to hump.

O! red doggies emit Roca
lines - intact, not exfoliated -
varying except regarding saints' ears.
My old, very evolved masonry exited newly toweled.
Bryan, redcoats eat ants' trolly hocks.

Andrew Bird - Simple X

Monday, April 9, 2007

Room full of Corn Dogs

I didn't post about Shelley sooner because I was too busy checking my MySpace and Facebook accounts continuously from a McDonald's while playing World of Warcraft and listening to K-Fed.

Actually, that's only part true.

I was going to talk about sincerity, but I'm going to talk about poets and order instead. In A Defence of Poetry, Shelley stresses how man sees "order" in everything from its "infancy." He says, "Hence men, even in the infancy of society, observe a certain order in their words and actions, distinct from that of the objects and the impressions represented by them, all expression being subject to the laws of that from which it proceeds." He also goes on to say that "Every man in the infancy of art observes an order which approximates more or less closely to that from which this highest delight results: but the diversity is not sufficiently marked, as that its gradations should be sensible, except in those instances where the predominance of this faculty of approximation to the beautiful...is very great. Those in whom it exists in excess are poets, in the most universal sense of the word..."

When I re-read these passages, I thought about the word "order." At first it seemed like Shelley believed there is almost a divine order in art, and if you find out the correct order of things you would have a powerful tool. But then he goes on to say that this may lead to an "approximation of the beautiful." A divine order doesn't seem like it would only lead to an "approximation" of beauty.

If the romantics were so delighted with the order they found in things, why does it delight me to find disorder and discord in things? Is disorder just another kind of "order?"

As humans we categorize (i.e. name) everything we see, and Shelley's notion of "order" isn't so much order as it is categorization. And his idea of base desires seems to have less to do with corn dogs, sex, NASCAR, or carnivals than it does with a sort of "universal" categorization. I think people who discover these universal categories and break them apart are poets.

It is late. I might revise this in the morning.

Sunday, April 8, 2007

poem 6/30 for napowrimo


as the sweeper sweeps the streets with stale names

so sweet
the curl of my own cursive when johan chugs
fiddle faddle like a mack truck does high octane.
so sweet
is dagwood, leaning on his snooze button in a world of preening sergeants.
so sweet
the pad thai loitering under dimming heat lamps.
so sweet
the fleshlight. with his bass, up, up.
so sweet
the slippery tanning bed, so dank the peanut butter pretzels.
so sweet
the way the shower curtain doesn't make a sound. it's the rings.
so sweet
the dark hearted hamster when it foals.
so sweet
the nickel cadmium and the lithium ion.
so sweet
the neighbor's lexus. watch it self-park.
so sweet
the muffled plumbing.
so sweet
the errant tie dye.
so sweet
the ringing pay phone.
so sweet
the loner dabbling in 'ludes.
so sweet
the settled with their posturepedics.
so sweet
late night paid programming
touting sitting.