/ O, the Beef played Dino's again bassless though, an almost status on the EP as of now. / It was:
Now it's ( ? ):
/ And the poetry readings of late, Lynn Emanuel. The meta bursting all like woodmines. A question was asked about the prolonged and frequent presence of the writer in the writing, to which she replied "it's an ethical decision," to be judged alongside the poem, as inside of it. It's a good response to a practice of census that is not often pleasant. Names dropped - Frankie O, Gertrude, Ted B. "Chain," "ball," "page," "poet," "hovering," "now." "My Life" starts her newest book, Noose and Hook ( which thrusts the jowly ferocity of an open bear mouth out of the cover). One reviewer says that the book has "an advanced career quality." I don't think my opinions are relevant in the face of that. Lyrical Brew had another month's worth of reading. Chance Chambers was the one that read well enough, "advanced career quality" material, though the advancement was in a certainty of where parts are, how they behave with other parts, how speed or the index of a situation is necessary or blurred, a physiological imperative with psychological tentacles ( all things the fictions hold for a helm ). Plus his effbook image is 308's five buck drink menu, plus he uses emoticons.
Strewn of days immersed in the poetries that are to be had here at the Southern Festival of Books, its 25th.
Rooms - What a rampart are these police that are not able to be seen. Government shutdown. Judgement rooms, court volume. People fill them making volume, getting into it. Most of the readings were regarding The Southern Poetry Anthology, volume VI of a state by state shakeup of known, teaching voices. A regional satellite, the beginnings of the shapes in any place are the range, pool, weight, is the limit in their being seen. /
Animals - Two stories with large cats a day apart. "What I was would not work for them all..." is how James Dickey's "Encounter In the Cage Country" starts. His son, Christopher ( though the son of a writer maybe develops a terrible coat from the almost necessary mention of the exact person previous to him ), read his father's poetry, that intimate filial curious sheet between time, and do them amazingly. If to draw from the events a priority thing, this one. Jeff Hardin makes a Mitch Hedberg joke. He grew on me, made me want to vote, think about the specific things under my control that I can improve. / Effects - Deborah Bernhardt read to still crowds, spearing, avenued, content in burst ( her hemistitches pulse the creature content, stretch of that which volume is close to ), tonality with indeterminate range, "...direction of our faces..." / she read from Echolaliaand from Driftology. Jan LaPerlereads, and her fear, stated and kept, propels her work, trajectory like testimony, testimony, the good poetries have something testimonial. And, I think, she has four hearts or one four times the size or forty or inside her poems. More in than what they surround. Tyler Millsread, more challenge is with her work, delightful, and graceful, serene, too, though like a Ken Burns movie. Lyn Hejinianan. Somewhere in her reading I obsess the word 'random: randomly randoming randomed, randoms...' / I text a friend: 'make yr poem the awe pod'. 'Kiss-poems.' 'How'd you hurt your arm?' Got an earbud caught in a bench, a man has a metal tool, he spreads the wood to free it. I was thinking about the entrance of the earbud and less its exit at the moment, but now I think of the last part. I think he was a poet, Keith Flynn. I wanted to think about Rimbaud and Verlaine, wrists.
Two unmissed readings this past weekendish - Kevin Young, winner of a 2013 PENaward, finalist for a National Book Critics Circle Award, read his writing to a full hall at Vanderbilt's maddened campus the other night. I made it slightly late, plopped down in the grey carpet wing with grapes and sippycup with wine and consumed almost an entire claw of grapes. 'Rhythmic spaces for breathy still / tonality cleared against, and blues, and puns, lightly pedagogical / some pausal end with no end / I guess antagonistic to mere forms / safety / money, odes / a poetry sometimes teaches against itself,' then a drawing that looks like spaghetti mopped over some old seaman's jaws.
Then Ciona Rouse's lovely event - Lyrical Brew - brought together three readers to present their work in expanding volumes per round, versatility, volume, relation. The format, as always, entices, fosters. Stephanie Pruitt Gaines, Tiana Clark, and fervent Bill Brown read to a packed sector at West End's Barnes & Noble. Bill Brown stands out as a leaning, warry, experiential voice, at one point hollering "Bomb - Womb - Tomb" repeatedly peering out with a Creeley smear. Though a small number of reading series have appeared in the slumber of PoetrySucks!, I think Lyrical Brew may be the most accessible ( though intimate ), unpretentious ( and surprising ), sociable ( but varied ) milieu. Every month at the end of the month at the B&N across from Centennial Park at 7pm.
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Been spending most of the times over at Rhino ( check out their back issues, plus Founders' Prize ) and revolution and/or poetry, & listening my hair out to Echo Comets, and Haunted Horses.
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And the Beefies, Beefering Beef Ovenhad music at divest Nashville Springwater missing bassnotes and a bassman but are recording their EP exactly now, so that's grand, and are set to play a fistfull of shows in October - like their effbook for updates and schtuff.
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.
Nashville narrows and expands, width feud depth and contraction. August has the teeth of summer this way. More whom than where. / '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. / 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 ).
