If you're in Oakland (California: non-California Oaklanders need not apply) next Tuesday, October 19, there is a reading celebrating issue 5 of Swill and issue 9 of Monday Night. The reading will be at Cafe Van Kleef, 1621 Telegraph, Oakland, near 19th Street BART, at 7 p.m.
I will be there. I will read. The other Swill readers will be Allison Landa and Warren Lutz. The Monday Night readers will be Marissa Bell Toffoli (nothing against marriage, but I think her name was shorter the last time I had to type it. Although that explanation is a helluva longer than her additional name.), Amber DiPietra, and Della Watson.
I hate to be the one to break the news, but this so-called "cafe" actually has a full liquor license, and while attending the reading, listeners and ignorers alike may imbibe as much alcohol as their server allows. To add further to this sadness, I think it was unanimous among the editors of both magazines that the reading should take place somewhere that serves alcohol. Because, you know, otherwise I'll drink at home.
Another note: I will represent both magazines at the reading. I started Swill because I wanted specific things from a magazine, but I was one of the editors of Monday Night for nine years. I left Monday Night during the editing of the latest issue because I don't have time to read the number of submissions we receive at the two magazines combined. I didn't leave until after we'd decided what to accept for the current issue. I've been a part of Monday Night for nine years and I'm proud of what we've accomplished. I'm also damned glad to be friends with Jessie, who has been one of the editors from the start, and Nana, who joined more recently but feels like she could have been there all along.
So, if you are able to join us, we have a half dozen readers and a full bar. What more could you want? I mean, considering that you could conceivably meet your what more at a full bar.
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Friday, October 15, 2010
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Music Review
Michael has a post up about the Art Pepper album, Smack Up. I mentioned a song from this album in a piece published in the first issue of Monday Night; the prose poem or whatever you want to call it is reprinted here.
MUSIC REVIEW
During the Coltrane I fantasized wild out of control glorious spasms. During Art Pepper it was something thinner; a quiver, a shiver, a sitting alone. It was a blues song, Las Cuevas De Mario; I didn’t know it was a blues until it blew into me. I’d heard it before but the time hadn’t been right.
The trumpet is rounder than the sax; it makes one’s head revolve. Saxophone, a straighter sound: when it curves, the turns are tighter, the head moves vertically, within itself.
Shaken by everything; reading Burroughs, listening to Coltrane and Pepper, drinking: I’m just frail, and that’s how I’m supposed to be, and that’s how these artists make me. I realize I don’t associate Burroughs with music, his writing seems more to do with painting and film: it lacks the fluidity of most music. But there is music, good music, that lacks fluidity; the world often lacks fluidity, is as fluid as chaos. And there is music that reflects that, and some of it is what I’ve been listening to while reading Burroughs tonight.
Making love to a stranger/the possibility of sudden death/the chance to see what has not been seen.
There is in Burroughs a bizarre, sinister hope, a wish for love that cannot be possible, and that when imminent is sure to be destroyed, interrupted, or corrupted. Yet the hope remains.
A man whose life is centered on one great tragedy—in this case, the shooting death of his wife—must, of course, be veiled. That Burroughs has in his writing unveiled an imagination of vast horror is certainly no more amazing than that some critics have somehow seen these horrors as impersonal.
In his work Burroughs has succeeded in creating a world solely his own, replete with fantasies clearly personal—homosexual fantasies far from polite revealed to a world that to a large degree thought such acts subhuman, fantasies that often combined orgasm and death, as written by a man who shot to death his wife and afterward openly loved men, fantasies that blatantly preferred the outcasts to the society.
And the hedonistic pleasures, well yes, they are there to see us through; and the visions of madness and terror, we know versions of these to be true; and the travels through time, and dreams, these test our pallid visions of reality, our insufficient and inaccurate definitions of what is.
Burroughs, of course, also does not know. But he is willing to fill the page with possibility, to intelligently, emotionally and physically challenge life: those who see his work as distant are missing the sadness that rains down from its clouds. Fold up those umbrellas and be soaked.
MUSIC REVIEW
During the Coltrane I fantasized wild out of control glorious spasms. During Art Pepper it was something thinner; a quiver, a shiver, a sitting alone. It was a blues song, Las Cuevas De Mario; I didn’t know it was a blues until it blew into me. I’d heard it before but the time hadn’t been right.
The trumpet is rounder than the sax; it makes one’s head revolve. Saxophone, a straighter sound: when it curves, the turns are tighter, the head moves vertically, within itself.
Shaken by everything; reading Burroughs, listening to Coltrane and Pepper, drinking: I’m just frail, and that’s how I’m supposed to be, and that’s how these artists make me. I realize I don’t associate Burroughs with music, his writing seems more to do with painting and film: it lacks the fluidity of most music. But there is music, good music, that lacks fluidity; the world often lacks fluidity, is as fluid as chaos. And there is music that reflects that, and some of it is what I’ve been listening to while reading Burroughs tonight.
Making love to a stranger/the possibility of sudden death/the chance to see what has not been seen.
There is in Burroughs a bizarre, sinister hope, a wish for love that cannot be possible, and that when imminent is sure to be destroyed, interrupted, or corrupted. Yet the hope remains.
A man whose life is centered on one great tragedy—in this case, the shooting death of his wife—must, of course, be veiled. That Burroughs has in his writing unveiled an imagination of vast horror is certainly no more amazing than that some critics have somehow seen these horrors as impersonal.
In his work Burroughs has succeeded in creating a world solely his own, replete with fantasies clearly personal—homosexual fantasies far from polite revealed to a world that to a large degree thought such acts subhuman, fantasies that often combined orgasm and death, as written by a man who shot to death his wife and afterward openly loved men, fantasies that blatantly preferred the outcasts to the society.
And the hedonistic pleasures, well yes, they are there to see us through; and the visions of madness and terror, we know versions of these to be true; and the travels through time, and dreams, these test our pallid visions of reality, our insufficient and inaccurate definitions of what is.
Burroughs, of course, also does not know. But he is willing to fill the page with possibility, to intelligently, emotionally and physically challenge life: those who see his work as distant are missing the sadness that rains down from its clouds. Fold up those umbrellas and be soaked.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
I was invited to a party by J.D. Salinger
I was invited to a party by J.D. Salinger
The house was hard to find
It was a surprise party for Thomas Pynchon
B. Traven was there
Sam Beckett monopolized conversation, with his
gestures
Borges wrote down the whole thing
But ascribed the transcription to someone else
A man perhaps fiction
Whose pen and paper themselves
Would have required invention
If I had not been there to witness
The guest of honor revealing
Less than everyone knew.
In a room like this
We suppose the desk exists
Because we put things on it
And the drinks do not spill
That is, we do not see them spill
We still think we drink them
As we do not hear Salinger or Pynchon or Traven or Beckett
Or myriad others who have not spoken
Yet they cover their ears
Because what we sense as silence
They hear as screams
And even if they are wrong
Their interpretations of hallucinations
Are far more lucid
Than yours or mine of reality.
The question becomes
Why do they call it a party?
The house was hard to find
It was a surprise party for Thomas Pynchon
B. Traven was there
Sam Beckett monopolized conversation, with his
gestures
Borges wrote down the whole thing
But ascribed the transcription to someone else
A man perhaps fiction
Whose pen and paper themselves
Would have required invention
If I had not been there to witness
The guest of honor revealing
Less than everyone knew.
In a room like this
We suppose the desk exists
Because we put things on it
And the drinks do not spill
That is, we do not see them spill
We still think we drink them
As we do not hear Salinger or Pynchon or Traven or Beckett
Or myriad others who have not spoken
Yet they cover their ears
Because what we sense as silence
They hear as screams
And even if they are wrong
Their interpretations of hallucinations
Are far more lucid
Than yours or mine of reality.
The question becomes
Why do they call it a party?
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Easy Targets
The Nazis
Did not leave
Did not die
The Nazis
Were normal
And what is normal
Never dies
They were only doing
What everyone else did
As you and I
Only do
What everyone else does
Their economy was bad
Their hate was not hidden
There was never a question
Of them not killing
The question was
Which of their own
Would they disown?
The Jews
Were easy targets
The Germans were
A hateful people
As we are
A hateful people
They had built
Their own violent culture
As we have built
Ours
They could not solve their problems
So they renamed them
Called humans animals
We cage ours
In ghettos
And hope they kill
Each other
But in case they don’t
We’ve made our homes
Into cages
And we’ve bought machines
To entertain us
So we rarely have to go outside
And for those
Times when we do
We teach our children
Not to talk to strangers
We teach them to be safe
We teach them to be frightened
Or frightening
It’s necessary
In our society
And we can’t do anything about it
We may not like it but
This is as normal
As our lives
get.
Did not leave
Did not die
The Nazis
Were normal
And what is normal
Never dies
They were only doing
What everyone else did
As you and I
Only do
What everyone else does
Their economy was bad
Their hate was not hidden
There was never a question
Of them not killing
The question was
Which of their own
Would they disown?
The Jews
Were easy targets
The Germans were
A hateful people
As we are
A hateful people
They had built
Their own violent culture
As we have built
Ours
They could not solve their problems
So they renamed them
Called humans animals
We cage ours
In ghettos
And hope they kill
Each other
But in case they don’t
We’ve made our homes
Into cages
And we’ve bought machines
To entertain us
So we rarely have to go outside
And for those
Times when we do
We teach our children
Not to talk to strangers
We teach them to be safe
We teach them to be frightened
Or frightening
It’s necessary
In our society
And we can’t do anything about it
We may not like it but
This is as normal
As our lives
get.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
the word comes down
something other than caffeine and alcohol and guilt
and panic should enter my system
but i don’t feel the need
for anything but an end to this
and i know only
how to continue it
with the general idea
that at some point comes sudden death
but only after sufficient
fear panic guilt alcohol and caffeine
and panic should enter my system
but i don’t feel the need
for anything but an end to this
and i know only
how to continue it
with the general idea
that at some point comes sudden death
but only after sufficient
fear panic guilt alcohol and caffeine
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Ode To Captain B
The last post reminded me of this, which appeared in Monday Night # 2, and is probably more a rant than a poem but what the hell.
ODE TO CAPTAIN B
But I like writing that’s difficult. I like music that’s difficult. Cuz it isn’t difficult for me. Captain Beefheart is my Britney Spears, one catchy dance tune after another. But better dressed, and more attractive. And intelligent, something to aspire to. Songs about Merc Montclairs and human being totem poles, hallucinogenic knowledge of reality. Life as a desert, life as seen by life, not by some visitor. To be the world and hate those who defile it, an ecological religious zeal. It makes so much sense it’s incredible how rare these beliefs are. How selfish other beliefs are, and how self-destructive most of that selfishness is. Destroying where you live to live better, a stunningly grisly illogic. It does need a tune, the truth hurts in just words, Dachau blues those poor Jews. Yeah, and it stuns, pain we can’t fathom but it’s been subjected intentionally from human to human, and I think I will drink now, I think I will drink far too much. Because I’m a part of this planet and don’t know how to stop what it does to itself, if there is a God we are a failed experiment, why didn’t the motherfucker give us some heart. Yay, Mary, where is your boy. Now when we need him, always we need him. If we can’t spare each other we should at least spare the planet but we seem incapable even of that. Those with heart have no strength, those with strength have no heart. Of course everyone wants to kill everyone, with every country run by cocksucking bastards. Who wouldn’t want to kill that, what sort of heathen wouldn’t be a terrorist. Where imperialism is considered relatively peaceful, where political necessity requires immorality. To get what we want we must support torture. How important is what we want. What the fuck do we want. Jesus I just want a beer and a place to stay and occasional sex, a washed body and an unwashed brain. And a place where my children can stand to live. Not just an isolated street but a world. So forgive me if I just don’t get your popular tunes with their lilting little simple melodies. And I understand shrieks and whispers and jokes that aren’t funny. And I am confused all the time, and need words that don’t mock that. And need songs that can be sung by people who don’t look good.
ODE TO CAPTAIN B
But I like writing that’s difficult. I like music that’s difficult. Cuz it isn’t difficult for me. Captain Beefheart is my Britney Spears, one catchy dance tune after another. But better dressed, and more attractive. And intelligent, something to aspire to. Songs about Merc Montclairs and human being totem poles, hallucinogenic knowledge of reality. Life as a desert, life as seen by life, not by some visitor. To be the world and hate those who defile it, an ecological religious zeal. It makes so much sense it’s incredible how rare these beliefs are. How selfish other beliefs are, and how self-destructive most of that selfishness is. Destroying where you live to live better, a stunningly grisly illogic. It does need a tune, the truth hurts in just words, Dachau blues those poor Jews. Yeah, and it stuns, pain we can’t fathom but it’s been subjected intentionally from human to human, and I think I will drink now, I think I will drink far too much. Because I’m a part of this planet and don’t know how to stop what it does to itself, if there is a God we are a failed experiment, why didn’t the motherfucker give us some heart. Yay, Mary, where is your boy. Now when we need him, always we need him. If we can’t spare each other we should at least spare the planet but we seem incapable even of that. Those with heart have no strength, those with strength have no heart. Of course everyone wants to kill everyone, with every country run by cocksucking bastards. Who wouldn’t want to kill that, what sort of heathen wouldn’t be a terrorist. Where imperialism is considered relatively peaceful, where political necessity requires immorality. To get what we want we must support torture. How important is what we want. What the fuck do we want. Jesus I just want a beer and a place to stay and occasional sex, a washed body and an unwashed brain. And a place where my children can stand to live. Not just an isolated street but a world. So forgive me if I just don’t get your popular tunes with their lilting little simple melodies. And I understand shrieks and whispers and jokes that aren’t funny. And I am confused all the time, and need words that don’t mock that. And need songs that can be sung by people who don’t look good.
Ghosts (for Albert Ayler)
I've been stumbling across Albert Ayler's name a lot lately. Here's a poem I wrote about him (sort of) a few years back; it was in the first issue of Monday Night.
Ghosts (for Albert Ayler)
They found Albert Ayler
dead in the East River
his feet tied together
So, who the fuck
puts a hit on a saxman?
He must’ve had bad habits,
because genius is not
a thing men get killed for,
or we’d have heard by now
how Einstein ducked assassins’ bullets.
Then again
maybe he was a threat
only to other scientists
And maybe they killed him
Secretly, slowly,
Taking so long that no one suspected;
And maybe Ayler was murdered
by another saxophonist
jealous of the honking squawks
the anguished wails
the misery embodied in solos
that cried out
for an afterlife now
Or maybe it was suicide
and he wove the ropes around himself
with the same dark magic that forced
taut yowls from the depths
where his breath searched for a soul
Maybe Ayler couldn’t stand
to play another haunted
note.
Ghosts (for Albert Ayler)
They found Albert Ayler
dead in the East River
his feet tied together
So, who the fuck
puts a hit on a saxman?
He must’ve had bad habits,
because genius is not
a thing men get killed for,
or we’d have heard by now
how Einstein ducked assassins’ bullets.
Then again
maybe he was a threat
only to other scientists
And maybe they killed him
Secretly, slowly,
Taking so long that no one suspected;
And maybe Ayler was murdered
by another saxophonist
jealous of the honking squawks
the anguished wails
the misery embodied in solos
that cried out
for an afterlife now
Or maybe it was suicide
and he wove the ropes around himself
with the same dark magic that forced
taut yowls from the depths
where his breath searched for a soul
Maybe Ayler couldn’t stand
to play another haunted
note.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
