Monday, September 17, 2012

Steve Roggenbuck





With a cautious step I consider Steve Roggenbuck. Postured, slim, and thick, a socialite, digital conveyor, a proficient of media and social media conduits. And I'm reluctant, though compelled. I encountered his daisies long back, and continue to find the pandering, audience-poking sinister. Sinister for poetry. 





Poetry has, in its functions, and blessed be it, a built in counter-capitalism, a non-commodication. Because it's constructed by its own language. Seeing Roggenbuck do well is a thing. Seeing his poetry online is a thing. The type of poetry he writes is a thing. If libraries were in airports, or if airports had libraries they would have that language. One has the other, the internet has Steve Roggenbuck. To me, his approach is derivative, Urban Outfitter Apparel cruds the celebratory crapduck whose audience is composed of e-people avatars that click around ( no, no one clicks, they tap ). Exposure ( and the hearty, unmasked pursuit for it ), ain't a part of ( it's usually oppositional to) poetry. The same way that politicking politicians are the least capable humans to form government.


He has a voice, that's certain. Unfortunately, it's not a voice I want to read much of or spend time with ( and that may be the most positive thing I can say about the writing: it's over quick, it reads fast and easy, like that song on the radio, what's its name, by that one bloke, what's his face ). 


Coteries of folk I've found in e-corridors adore him; Maybe because he's untraditional(ly a poet ), off-handed, quirky, modern (in the sense that you survey this coffee house type of modernness at coffee houses ), a hydra-thing that esteems an audience a peer-group from which to receive, first and either, consideration-dismissal, then second, affirmation-rejection. To manufacture the audience ( I've read 'community-building,' which is to say 'audience building,' in place of 'poetic dialogue' ) in a way that considers the 'they' a 'we' is a simplistic, take-back the high-art from the highs (or whatever practice/art/culture-thing from those that traditionally engage in it) maneuver that experiences cyclical resurgence every so often. Bukowski happened there. The pocket is socially birthed and socially sustained. 


All of this is aggressive, excited, anxious, polarized, I know. I think it's a reaction to media's reaction ( & other writers neutral references ) to him ( of which his writing is a portion, sure ). I've heard of this same condition befalling Nashvilleans who witness other musicians reach popularity or a bigger audience or higher ( word of mouth ) circulation than them. I understand that he understands what changes you doesn't require categorization or title. 


But what he's doing with the vicinity of poetry is a thing that is not poetry. Here is the point: he is morphing the social presence/prominence of poetry, by doing a thing that is poetic, a writing that has poetry in it, or around it. Engage in the open skewing of the thing into something/where else, ( but, christ, the thing upon which the tools are working is the thing the tools, in this case, define - and poetry is an annotation, an aside ). A superficiality that is matched by a generation of screens, a terrain that yields what you select.


This and this.




Tuesday, September 4, 2012

"... injury kept to me / attentions / the peripheries ..." / Poem in Dear Sir, & some Leslie Scalapino



Dear Sir, received and enjoyed "Town, of Furs," and might will place the thing in their ( 'edible'-themed ) #12, arriving, um, April-ish, 2013.  We sure do forget the dates this far in the future, but I'm re-minding. You re-mind, too.




August, over and done with but whose energy rolls on into the Septembers ( there should be two of 'em, like Dakotas ). And
a new bookstore ( ? ) in Nashville that you haven't told me about, or maybe you did and I was eating bread.




I prefer listening, that is something, usually commitments from more than one of my senses imbues me with inertia, passive, cerebral inertias. Leslie Scalapino does with my brains with her one front of her face. The more frenetic ones you can feel her face saying words if you put your headphones in:





Saturday, August 25, 2012

Front Porch / PoetrySucks!, So and So #7





Night before last resumed my silent presence at Vanderbilt's Front Porch reading series. Jeff Hardin read to us, he being more southern than us, us being a packed room. Mr. Hardin's swallows, lilac stems, morning dew, grass blade, dusks, ease was some thing: during the reading I had written, "HE IS A SOUTH," followed by, "tender as a tenderer describing a tender night in the tender South." The peach, that Georgian lilt, of his speech matched perfectly to his poetry. "...Ain't laff the swaytess thang..."







The two swimmers in Nashville's ( tepid ) poetry pool are Dino's PoetrySucks! reading series ( which apparently had a reading that very same night as if to illustrate the point ) and Vanderbilt's Front Porch series. 

The two are more than contrary: one coursing in the ruthless, cursing, confessionalist vein. I've seen whoops, shatters, a ( mock? ) break-up because the details of a poem were bonkers. Energetic, alcohol-cigarette-fueled, blaring, zesty, PoetrySucks! is a slick joint to get your poetry on. Vanderbilt's Front Porch is perhaps too easy, too James Taylor. ( This whole thing is about the two of James Taylor. This one and this one. ) The readers are usually extracted from Vanderbilt's faculty list ( which usually means they have health, dental, vision, 401k, security, stasis ). and present a more aged, patient, tucked-in, somber/subtle, reflective/introspective character.


/


Yowzah. 

So and So has their new one, #7, out and about. Thank Chris Tonelli for manhandling the entire affair & take your peek at the last of the "I'm  Sorry ,  About  Baseball" poems from before Nashville.



Wednesday, August 22, 2012

"...I stay noise..."



Marked a finish line with the Desert Poem "( Kiln )" and that is that ( deserted ): 


                          ... series the

 fingertips, evictions, of months  

 of projections / of  

 monthsbent
 everyone chipped scalds 
 off the car, out  
 in this repeating

   mar / I stay noise ...





/



From SF Moma lingering: Leon Golub's "Mercenaries"




David Park's "The Figure":






/



Been into the Oppen.  His certainty, the detailing, Poundian appreciation of the bucolic ( stripped of the Japanese and re-set into the urbans of America ), the omnitemporal ( yet/thus elegiac ) quality of the poet's treatment of objects and processes, a comprehension that is itself poetic, with little assumed or illegitimate prolificacy, things are just this important.



"...The distinction of what one does 
And what is done to him blurrs 

Bodies dream selves
For themselves

From the substance 
Of the cold..."




"...How forget that? How talk
Distantly of 'the People'?

Who are the people? that they are

That force within the walls
Of cities...

Possible
To use
Words provided one treat them
As enemies --Ghosts
Which have run mad
In the subways
And of course the institutions
And the banks...

And not only victims, and they may have come to the end
Of all that, and if they have
They may have come to the end of it..."




"Parallel lines do not meet
And the compass does not spin, this is the interval
In which they do not...

In which things explain each other.
Not themselves..."




"...More in it
Or seem to,
It is our home.
Wolves may hunt

With wolves, but we will lose
Humanity in the cities
And the suburbs, stores

And offices
In simple
Enterprise....

It is a place.
Nothing has entered it.
Nothing has left it.
People are born

From those who are there. How have I forgotten...

How have we forgotten
That which is clear, we
Dwindle, but that I have forgotten
Tortures me..."






Sunday, August 12, 2012

More directions exist in the north



Holy smokes my soul, been in grand states these last weeks, the trip, the return, the weathers, hunterer-gatherer friendzos, meteor gazer grid of good bodies updark, keg, mosquites can have all they please ( they, ah, usurp spiders to belong now to the hard undersides of bridges and me), phone broke and better, diving the
Ed Roberson, Aase Berg, Zach Savich.


Listen to
t h i s  my poney honey money dearies. The heebie-jeebies, creeps, coiny forests, saturation pockets pulled out to your air, and lighter anyhow.



//






Still intrigued by desert. What do you know about them? Werner Herzog, man of men, filmed them ( "Fata Morgana" ), and grafted atop poetries amazingly from the Popul Vuh, and, I think, his own mental brains ( ps. I hope you can read Spanish subtitles, and adore Leonard Cohen )




Are phones not working, write that letter.



Tuesday, August 7, 2012

Returns outdoor language / "To have its functions upon you..."



Arrived 'ol Nashville, unslept weary after a maniac drive push across country, Salt Lake City, Wyoming, Omaha, St. Louis. 


Formed emerge, are a smell in this space, animal thin, like this land was this vast chopped up land, loose mound of dissolving weathers, smell of, startled isolated objects, the convincing echo material, percussive sketch that proves finally now exist, and insists the area, usher a process disland.







The return of a type of heat, Olympics and nation-states, arrays of review enacted about the last month, here is one of materials brought back, most are, bummer, d e a d:


Ed Roberson ( Voices Cast Out )
Djuna Barnes ( Nightwood )
Aime Cesaire ( Notebook Of a Return )
Duncan ( Bow, Ground Work II )
H.D. ( Trilogy )
Gertrude ( Writings and Lectures 1909-1945 )
Ted Pearson ( Songs Aside )
George Oppen ( Selected Poems )
Alexei Kruchenykh ( Suicide Circus )
Heidegger ( Poetry, Language, Thought )
Carl Sandburg ( Harvest Poems, 1910-1960 )
Kandinsky ( Sounds )
Thomas Merton ( Selected Poems )
Stephen Ratcliffe ( Distance )



/


Plus, < killauthor's editor is now a revealed thing where before he did his work behind an emerald green curtain doing the slot machines. August, in the month for Octopus. Grand conversation con grand artist Brett Goodroad at the Marin Headlands Open House art thing whilst in the city. Die Antwoord. A Desert ( Kiln ) under way, rifling through notes.


Saturday, July 28, 2012

"...Lulled away, I am a perfect / cornfield, I am / a perfect cornfield..." / Poems in the upcoming So and So





Santa Fe, Los Angeles, Big Sur, Santa Cruz








Today spent in the ol' city of cities, a majority of which at The SF International Poetry Festival at Civic Center with my lassies.  And, and, and Lawrence Ferlinghetti, 93, read from his new "Time of Useful Consciousness." Then a woman we met at the literary labyrinth earlier ( I mentioned Hart Crane and she insisted I help heave her up onto a chair, where she spat out/recited "The Hive" by memory outward to the toothy city ) yelled that he should read out something from memory, and he did. What a grand ol' man.




Also acquired:


"The Selected Poems of Federico Garcia Lorca"
Melville's "Moby Dick"
Henry Miller's "Tropic of Cancer"
Berryman's "Love & Fame"


Then Chinatown and ( delicious, all-you-can-eat ) mystery foods, SOMA drinks on someone else's expense account.




//




O, and So and So is planning a re-birth, and propping up a few of the "I'm  sorry ,  about  Baseball" poems in their next issue. I feel like the applause that erupts intermittently during this scene of Enter The Dragon: