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A day from the Chicagi* visit and reeling, time with the spearhead of family, maternals, fraternal, being all up on their skin in the same rooms, something chemical, what Frank Lloyd Wright did with mass - compression & release, how 'ol Frankie made his theory masses how I am with family.
Flight, we are panels of a thing afraid of its insides, far from the openness of Wright Brothers, last week they had very difficult times flying for more than a minute, from airport a milky eyed man has trouble defining his city to me, it maybe moves past his experience of it to me.
First night the hotel didn't give access so brother Tom and I poked our heads into the town slightly and by slightly I mean infinitely; hooch was obtained in our five hour walk, southside, then the sky opened like Bowles understands god, and our puny purple hoods were weak, absolute is a word that comes to mind, the absolute of rain's watery range was our context, brother Tom heavily upset but me ( rum ) well enough and already the instance pupped along memory and closeness of compression & release, the combinations of emotion and fury, of direction and efficiency, location and movement.
A day later some nightlong affair of shootings.
Mute rental cars, deep pizza, walking, alcohol, obsessions over the bean, failed drug dialogues, flat -
Myopic bookstore came recommended and was visited, snatched up Aase Berg's Dark Matter.
The sun was never absent or stagnant, in my vision the glare of a moving sun is a word repeated on objects I pass.
Hardcore burgers, walking, Charles Shaw, men fighting men, running across Lakeshore to skit around Michigan Lake, and television, the hollow gems have a filling which is to say when you go looking for one thing you may have a hard time finding it, when you go look for anything you have a much easier time of the entire thing.
Flight, journal re-appraisal, offered whiskey by executive young typewriter pants girlish woman, accepted, small gazey poem jotted on napkin that went 'I am trying percussions against every other person, the planes talk about each other over some clouds, there are only a small amount of moments we are actually in movement' and ended 'how does it always arrowing?"
Airports are never without a tension of pasts, airports cannot produce anything but negative histories, it is itself a place of conduit, for the movements, and they reek of the shallow tube they are, pent.
Walked out of the airport on their lawns into the throat of the freeway side, then penetrated deep head high bush of poison ivy and black lizard rocks and stream spider web held to decipher fence from thick screaching brush then up and lean and into and over these and adventure smile with ripped pants and some small blood, small itching, I am unallergic to that from which I emerge, Nashville then.
*Lew Welch's oft quoted repeated Chicago Poem
Whose lil shoes got bigger during sleep?
'P i d e r II - New, Vague, Omniscient
* Or sure go ahead and go back to its previous, first - 'P i d e r 1
Nashville narrows and expands, width feud depth and contraction. August has the teeth of summer this way. More whom than where.
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'Ol Sam Langer and his Steamer are at #4, and saw fit to stash a bit of mine in there. One can order ( ? ) this zenith booklet ( a set of two ) from him directly ( ? - probably cheap, plus it ain't nowhere online nor even goggle-eyed with at by googling it ) - steamereditor@gmail.com
You will not be unexcited, unembarrassed.
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Have not been sending work anywhere for months now, finishing 'o n e' and configuring 'See, they return' into a chaptered array of facets...
And lo our 'P i d e r II is coming to y'all quiet soonish, with work from some seasoned comrades, and a newborn musico. Keep your eyes open, be looking good ( tambien check 'Pider #1 in case you don't know what's what eh ).
Yah the 'poetry/literature is dead/doesn't mean crud anymore' issue limps on, skewed by people that wanna get things off their chest. The issue is made heavier by some jacked up numbers: the writings of ladies are less presented than the writings of males. On and on and on this thing goes. What is reflected by this, the anger and zeal over a literature that does not reflect anyone anymore, that people don't feel represented by literature, that literature simply cannot represent anything?
Internet, the pervasiveness of literature, via the internet, to literature corrodes/has corroded the question of privilege to some great degree, has it not...
Internet is the equalizer of culture, technology is the alteration of culture into symptom, poetry/literature is the symptom of us now.
Poetry/literature with a pre-understood set of intrinsic, nonequivalent, jacked up facets regarding receipt, audience, readership, affect, riches, respect, recognition is no new skinny for people engaging in it.
For a straight whitesh male to say such inelegant things is bad taste, but taste. Taste, in the arts, the notion of taste in art. America is a kid with no taste buds, and no appetite for nothing neither.
So much attention to who is what, seems a waste. Make the art. What is 'getting access'? Getting access to being read, getting access to being appreciated as a writer, getting what and how. Has it not been that poetry/literature is less dependent upon getting something for its production than its coming into being, its existence...
There is a great decadence to the pessimism that seems necessary to write anything of importance.
An unyielding, inarticulate, obscure sense of inadequacy and anger foreground the art I understand as 'good'.
Doom. We are not the we we talk about when we talk about we. Poetry/literature is in this way always deathing. Because the power and exclusive importance of the straight white male to make himself always so is waned. Those for whom an optimism is a necessary part, those to whom an outward still warmly cares are split then.
Skew that which creates symptom, virus, narcotic is a moment of poetry/literature, connected to the drugs they they they.
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I know who Amanda Bynes is when other people know who Amanda Bynes is and not before.
o brother, egypt, egypt direct, egypt linear
we had here our red chests on the young men hovering on top of the slip n slide, potato salad, beer, rains, firecracker demos, lady dances for the 4th
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Plus the Jonathan Richman show was delightful, humid, unimpeachable, acoustic roars, gypsy americana.
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these are complicated images - a side effect of google earth's massive project
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The radical, insightfull English Language Notes, and Language in Society each tossing me bones of late months, each aiding, each for me to play catch up, to forward, each and neither available easily on line
(where does one acquire out of print books for very cheap? Bunker Archeology - from which these
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Third Man hosts a PoetrySucks! reading on Sunday, 7/7, should be myriad entendres happening, with Paige Taggart reading, also Sampson Starkweather
And and and The Big Beefers, Burg In Your Eyes, Pseudo-Omnivore, Beef Oven is doing up The Stone Fox on Wed, 7/10
Tao, Mingus ( I've bee'd through all of Yo La Tengo, their bests always are the 8-14 min songs, with mantra chant bass lines repeating under/around distortion ), Oppen, Aime Cesaire's Notebook. Don Delillo!
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Namaste houseshow friendparty bday keg-in-the-el-camino went swell - Kin Ship, The Beef-Hags, R. Ghosts, Clear Plastic Masks stirred such a hotfoot party brew that everyone sloshed in the cup, backyard cuba 50's DIY economic setups mingled abuzz atop ourselves, we all split into sounds just pushed through each other unbodied then rebodied in materials leaned out on, I did.
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Missed B&N's Lyrical Brew this last saturday. These things happen.
PoetrySucks! to host an open mic at where else Dino's on the 6th, go sure, sure.
