Obligatory five minute sonnet on unrequited something.

I’m a free will candyheart luck machine,
Playing fast and final, Mr. Earthquake
‘swhat they call me—that, and pansy fruitcake,
incorrigible courgette, aubergine.
Jean Genie, Bowie-humper, whose cuisine
Reigns supreme? Fukui-san! Go, Ota! Hake
And Pike, sea urchin roe, Kobe beef steak.
I’ve hung my sack too close to the latrine.
This girl I know keeps having the same dream,
The one I have but without all the sex.
She puts fish in her poems, and blue and green.
In grade school I was picked last for the team.
I tried to write my heart but gave her spleen.
We’re just like lovers but without the sex.

Hey!

Been tryin' to meet you...

Last night's Pixies show was excellent. Packed house, good performance. Didn't play anything from the last two albums except for "Velouria." A good time was had by all. And thanks to DiscLive, I'm listening to the show right now.

Round Two tonight.

Jonathan Mayhew Sends Along This Joseph Ceravolo Poem:

THE WOMEN

They have the corner
half seated on their thighs,
and long braids tied like drainpipes.
Their hair is a drainpipe
closed from rain.
In the corner of their eyes
is a building of grass.
Their smile cracks
plaster of paris streets.
When they look down
their eyes are orange slices.
They sell little peaches
with brown small rotten dots.

+ + +

Not much to say on this other than, I really love Ceravolo. I'm not familiar with this poem, but it seems like it must be a later one. His language usage really becomes much more conventional in the later work. I like his use of repetition of both sounds and words here, and while his "vamped" usage is played down a bit, it's still a lovely poem--the opening two lines are marvelous. Ah, hell, the whole poem is really something. How's that for a completely uncritical appreciation?

Call Me

Especially if you want to publish my book or give me some flowers. Or just to shoot the shit.

(541) 338-0574

or you could leave messages on my office phone--(541) 346-0050

Poem Game R.I.P.

I guess I should clarify--I was planning on commenting on poems based on however I feel at the moment. I didn't have a set scheme, and I certainly didn't decide to do this to bash other people's poems. I apologize if that's how it's come off. In any case, I'll leave Tieger's poem/commentary here for a bit, but after that I think I'll put a halt on the game. It's not working out quite as I had hoped.

Stereo light and dark wine

Rain begins as weekend ends

and this song of wondering fades

into a new song

                                 of wondering.

--Aaron Tieger

* * *

"'cos I've been wondering where you get all your balls from"

--Michael George Johnson/Reclinerland, from "Orange County Revisited."

* * *

Aaron's little poemlet above. What to say? A haiku? Imagist experiment? Maybe the frequency of my recent weekend blogging has pointed to my lack of real life and the readers of this blog are picking up on this. This poem works as a description of my communicative practices--blogging, listserving, telephoning, teaching, listening. In the first four cases, I'm simply wondering aloud, sometimes into rain, other times into sun and slightly damp, thickish April air (right now...summer creeps in). In the final practice--listening--I'm simply wondering to myself.

It takes balls to write a simple, unadorned little poem like this. And balls to offer it up for consumption in our post-post-ironic-but-still-relentlessly-hip little poetry scene world. Taste it.

* * *

John Cale does a pretty good version of "Heartbreak Hotel." Feeling so lonely, baby, I could die.
Tieger's little poem captures a bit of that loneliness, though without the tinkly piano of Mssr. Cale.

Speaking of Poems,

LAUREL's poem is effing brilliant. It manages to include both Britney Spears and Guided by Voices, and, of course, nudity.

Go Read It.

Fish Taco

Pictures!

As you can see, I figured out how to add images to the blog. That's me over there on the right. I know, I'm no sight for sore eyes (and in fact, may cause sore eyes), but I had to put something up. I'll take it down soon so as to spare y'all.

In any case, as soon as Twemlow gives me the photos from the Canary reading I'll post 'em here.

Poem Reviews

Chris asks a good question over at tex files. My 'poem reviews' may very well mention yummy things. I did hatch the plan over goat cheese salad, after all.

That said, it might be a couple days before I post my first impromptu poem essay/review, as I've got a full plate until at least Wednesday afternoon. But you never know.

I've received about a half-dozen poems, but I can take a few more.

Finally, dinner last night was mediocre takeout Thai. Nothing to write home, or blog about, really.

Grammar

Pet Peeve: people who use the word "gerund" to refer to verbs ending in in "ing."

In the sentence, "I am walking to the store," "walking" is NOT a gerund.

In the sentence, "Tony needs a good ass-whuppin'," "ass-whuppin'" IS a gerund. More or less. Without a G.

A gerund is a NOUN formed from a verb and an "ing."

Otherwise smart people misuse this word all the time.

More Lyrics

You know what else I love? When Van Morrison sings "Ballerina." This part is my favorite:

"And if somebody, not just anybody
Wanted to get close to you

For instance, me, babe..."

You know that f'rinstance is coming, but he manages to make it surprising, and so casual. Van is the man. I saw him live once, with Bob Dylan and Lucinda Williams. Lucinda was good, Bob and Van were really rather sub-par. Van looked pissed off the whole time, and then during the song "Real Real Gone" he dropped the microphone, and walked off stage in mid-lyric, leaving the band to finish up. What an asshole. But when he sings...

Let Me Come Over

Aaron Tieger posted the lyrics to the Sundays' "Hideous Towns" the other day--the very very odd thing is that I was listening to that very song when I happened upon the lyrics on his blog. Good song. Good band.

Anyway, another good band I never think about is Buffalo Tom. I just listened to a live acoustic version of "Tangerine," the lyrics of which I've posted below. The song always reminds me of the summer of 1996. I was young(er), out of work, a vegetarian, in excellent physical condition (ah! nostalgia. O, age! You approach.) and crazily in love with Beatrice, my upstairs neighbor. A thin pale redhead, with a huge brain and an easy to love innocence. I, at the old age of 23, was already jaded. The 19 year old Beatrice, already a mother, maintained a strange brand of sad optimism, fueled in part by cheap jugged wine and menthol cigarettes--addictions I encouraged. Anyway, she was a tangerine, from California (whence I had just returned from a four year stint), and I was in love, and we never managed to find each other at the right time. After I loved her chastely for a year from downstairs, she moved back to Cali at the end of 1996, New Year's Day, 1997, I believe. As soon as she left, she broke up with her high-school sweetheart and father of her son. We saw each other intermittently throughout the years, but never quite fell together like we should. She always had someone else. I pined, wrote poems, etc. Boring stuff. Then one Thanksgiving (2002), we came close, but in the end, it wasn't to be. We broke off contact sometime in the spring of last year. Last I heard she was getting married to a guy she barely knew.

Jeez. When I started this blog, I swore I wouldn't self-obsess. Excuse me.

Here's the song. I guess I've already done my first "poem" essay. Except that it was a pop song instead of a poem, and I said very little about the song. Those of you who have sent poems, beware. My method has been disclosed.

Tangerine (Buffalo Tom)

Breathless from the coffee I drop my newspaper down
And left my eyeballs to read about some other town
Your blueberry flu and message at breakfast was nice
But when you shoot your mouth off expect to pay the price

She's a tangerine
Made in California
She's a soul fillet
Just a little haiku
To say how much I like you
And sap your sex away

Your tarpaper skin and visible beating heart
Your words on the paper sure gave me a start
Your huckleberry flu and one plus one is you
So if I can't be me, well I might as well be with you

She's a tangerine
Made in California
Need a soul fillet
Baby cry your eyes out
Baby dry your eyes out
Burn your life away

When the day came to an end you bounced right back again
Watch an evening news show the L.A. blues again
Your California sunshine sure gives me a sweat
And your tangerine nectar's a taste I won't forget

She's a tangerine
Made in California
She's a soul fillet
??? cry your eyes out
Sister dry your eyes out
Burn your life away

It's just a little Haiku
To say how much I like you
It's just a little Haiku
To say how much I like you
It's just a little Haiku

Hold On Hope

So, Tony Tost alerted me to the breakup of the legendary Guided By Voices. Very sad. But with Black Francis and gang reunited, something had to give. There's a limited quantity of great rock band *energy* or something (excuse the lame word, but I'm not feeling very inventive here--I guess I could say "rocketsauce"--yeah, there's a limited amount of rocketsauce)--and GBV, by breaking up, allows the Pixies to continue. That's it.

I dreamed I saw the Pixies in a highschool auditorium last night. Frank Black sang "Evil Hearted You" while the rest of the band lounged around on couches drinking beers.

*

Several folks have sent poems for me to comment on. I'll be getting to that very soon. Perhaps even today.

New Game: Send Me Poems

I've been thinking I'd like to write a series of short response/essay/loose thoughts on a series of poems on a more or less daily basis. When the idea originally planted itself in my head (over a salad of mixed greens, goat cheese, toasted hazelnuts, green apple, and cranberries in a a saba vinegar dressing) I imagined that I would just pick a book or journal or anthology from one of my bookshelves, at random, and flip to a poem, read the poem, and then spend a few minutes writing about it. Then it occurred to me that randomizing by such a method would be difficult. After all, I know where my poetry books are, on what shelf, in what room, etc. I still may do this. (Like...I could write on the poem on the 34th page of the first book of poetry I happen to touch on a particular day.) However, for now, and with your cooperation, I'd like to send out a call for poems. They may be your poems, your lover's poems, Shakespeare, Shelley, Stein, Sappho, your plumber's poems, your personal chef's poems, poems about your dog, poems by your dog, poems by your million monkeys, new poems, old poems, poems in French (which I won't really understand), poems in Hebrew (which I will only partially understand), poems in Spanish (which I will kinda understand, but not enough), poems on death or sex. Whatever. In fact, that reminds me--I told my students the other day that all poems were about death or sex, and they seemed surprised, as if they'd never heard this before. So, anyway, send me a poem. One poem. I will read it, and, provided I don't get deluged, post a mini-essay on this very blog soon after. And I will, of course, mention whether it is a sex or death poem. Remember, you can send any poem you'd like. If you send your own work, you'll get a chance to see my editorial process in action. Then you can decide whether or not you'll submit to The Canary, based on my either a) good or b) bad analysis/comments on your poem. If you send someone else's work, you'll see your opinions of it confirmed or contradicted. Do it now. It's your duty as an American, or as a citizen of whatever country you're from.

Bobby Flay

I used to dislike him, but now I like him. I think it's because he reminds me of Michael Rapaport. I've always been a fan of the dimguy persona.

I need to get me some Silpat.

Diagnosis: "Experimental" Poetry in 2004

I'm reposting this, as I'm interested in responses.

"Most young poets these days write either like early Simpsons (first three seasons) or late Simpsons (last six seasons). What we need is more poets writing like Futurama. This may not save American poetry, but it may offer a corrective to poetry that, while reasonably witty (in both senses of the word) seems to be trying to ironize itself out of feeling."

Mandatory Saturday Blog Entry

Yesterday I thought of several really interesting poetry-related things to blog. But of course I didn't do it, as I was away from the computer most of the day. One of them had to do with Tennyson, specifically "The Lotos Eaters." Too bad I don't remember what it was.

*

Had the upscale fried mozzarella last night at the Dive. Bar food, y'know. I was expecting some sticks. Instead, they gave me a BIG slab of mozz, about 4 by 5 inches, and about a 3/4 inch thick, nestled in a pool of very good marinara, and drizzled (squeeze-bottle style) with pesto. It was good. And the bartender gave me a free shot of top-dollar tequila because my brother was being demanding and a tad rude.

Earlier that day, at the same joint, I had the "Big Easy" chicken sandwich, which is a standard piece of fried chicken on a bun with some remoulade-type sauce. Also pretty good. And the house-made espresso stout I washed it down with was divine. Winner, 2003 GABF.

*

Last night was the first in a week of Big Events. Iron Chef America premiered. The Fukui-san and Hattori roles have been merged into one continuous commentary by Alton Brown, who occasionally trades comments with the man on the floor (the Ota role) who is actually the guy who did the "Thirsty Traveler" series a few years back. Bobby Flay flayed Hiroyuki Sakai in a trout battle, handing him his first fish loss. Of course, you can't count shellfish, as Sakai has lost at least three lobster battles in the past. Flay's dishes looked a lot better, I think. Sakai made trout ice cream, which didn't go over well with the tasters. Very exciting. I'm looking forward to watching Morimoto battle Batali tonight. The fun continues through Sunday, culminating in a very special battle at 10 pm Sunday night, which means I'll have to make a difficult decision--watch ICA, or James Spader on "The Practice." Sometimes I wish I had a TiVO. Or a VCR even...

*

The other big event is so big it spans two nights--The Pixies, here in Eugene, at the McDonald Theatre. Two nights in a row. And I have tickets to BOTH SHOWS. I could crap myself I'm so excited.

Eww.

Just Received

Court Green (pretty! and featuring swell poems by Jordan, Twemlow, Shane Seely, Maggie Anderson, Daniel Nester, Lori Shine, Bill Kushner, and many many more.)

Iron & Wine. Some CD that Josh recommended. Edwards, not Corey. I've heard a lot of good things about this guy, but it comes across to these ears as pleasant, melodic, not particularly interesting guitar & voice singer-songwritering. That said, I haven't listened to it closely. Someone change my mind...

Gourmet. May Issue. Gourmet cooks around the world, or some such thing. Just thumbed-through. Also not terribly exciting.

Mastercard Bill and Phone Bill. Yeah.

Rachael Ray

Is it just me or is she the most annoying food personality on the planet?

Feel The Love

IN response to my whining yesterday, Laurel sent this along:


Love letter for Tony on a rainy day, when he has been too much with Emily

Dear Tony. It might be your own fault,
the weather. You chose your own piece
of ground and could have expected rain.

Thee are desserts too, you know.

And Emily. You chose Emily. Poetry.
Knowing full well what she'd do to you.
Women are generally going to weep.

Or they're going to make you weep.
Or they're going to make you want
to weep. But you won't in the end.

You love it, the weeping weather.

And that's why I love you. I do,
Tony, never having met you. Because
of all the lime and cilantro. The words

you use for food. I get hungry too.

And music, you like music, as much as Emily.
It goes with the weather, Tony. Love,
food, and music. But for God's sake, man--

If it's going to rain, put on some Otis Redding.

* * *

Thanks, Laurel. It's sunny today.

"A Romantic Friendship But Not A Sexual One"

This sounds familiar. All too familiar. (April 19 and 20 posts).

Today's Bit of Christopher Smart

"For God has given us a language of monosyllables to prevent our clipping.

For a toad enjoys a finer prospect than another creature to compensate his lack."

Laurel and Lou

First of all, my Lou Reed picture is still missing. My piece of George Bush singerie is still missing. I want my stuff back. My office door is sadly deficient.

*

Laurel Snyder, god bless her, mentions the Canary reading on her blog, AND provides a picture of the beautiful magazine. Altho' it's Canary #2 she shows, when it should be #3.

Laurel also mentions the possibility of being the only poet in a town of Braves and Outkast....that's not true. Outkast and Braves, the case could be made, are poets. I don't know if I'd want to move there though.

*

When Twemlow sends the photos along, I'll post pics from the Canary reading here.

*

Somebody send me a love letter. I'm feeling lonely here. It's raining outside. I bored my students to death this morning with my overzealous comments about Emily Dickinson and bad editing.

Weekend Update

Spent the weekend in Portland. Didn't get much done. I tried to write lecture notes for a talk on Whitman, Dickinson, and Hopkins, but drank beer instead. I also didn't get much grading done.

I did, however, eat the following foods: chicken wings, lamb meatballs, shrimp wontons with citrus-cilantro dipping sauce, Cuban vaca frita (with beet salad), fried plantains, a Vietnamese banh mi sandwich, two fish tacos (the white sauce was more pink than white, however), and a bunch of drinks.

I'm saving for last my life-changing asparagus experience. I've spent the past 30 years thinking that I did not like asparagus. Then, Friday night, one of my dining companions ordered the special appetizer of the day at a hipster/yuppie hangout called "Imbibe!" Anyway, the asparagus was very young, very tender, and it was grilled. It tasted lightly of smoke and char and green. It was delicious. Served with a very good romesco sauce, it was perfect.

*

I was also thinking that the Purple Heart is a bullshit medal. All you have to do to get one is to get hurt. In combat, that is. When I was in the Navy, I worked in an office. I often stapled a finger or smashed my thumb between heavy books, but I was never awarded a medal. But that's because I wasn't in combat. But those who are in combat--isn't getting a Purple Heart for taking shrapnel akin to getting a Navy Achievement Medal for stapling one's finger, i.e. doing your job? Oh wait, I knew plenty of people who got medals for simply doing their jobs. Nevermind.

*
Saturday morning I moseyed on over to Powell's Books for Cooks and peeped the new Gastronomica with Shanna's lovely Jacques Pepin poem. It was a delight. Then I sampled some ravioli and contemplated buying a pound of slab bacon.

Sputter. Sputter.

Listening to "Hold On Hope" by GBV. Bob Pollard is a God.

*

Somebody stole the anti-Bush material and my picture of Lou Reed from my office door. I think it's the pair of conservative Medievalists down the hall. I hope they don't read my blog. Wait. I hope they do. Hey, I want my stuff back.

*

Everyone in my department is either a medievalist or an eco-critic. Then there's me.

*

Yesterday, ruckus ensued during class when a bunch of students spotted movie-star-pretty-boy-lapdog-to-Al Pacino-and-Batman, Chris O'Donnel outside. Apparently, he's filming a movie here.

Tweet!

Miss Meghan reports on The Canary reading.

We Can Do It!

Poetry as War. Avant Garde and Feminist Poetics. Some notes, composed in ten minutes upon a broken office chair while awaiting the Pixies reunion.

Part I

“Avant Garde” is a military metaphor. It means “advance guard.” Poetry is war. New poetry, experimental poetry is on the front lines. It is the advance guard. Problem is, the rest of the troops always catch up. The avant-garde then must constantly renew itself. The new quickly becomes the old. Marinetti talked of ripping up manuscripts of the men over thirty. I'm 31 and quickly becoming irrelevant.

Rhetoricians commonly oppose “speech” with “force.” Walter Benjamin on violence, Gewalt, force. This is a binary opposition that is easily undone, however. That’s what rhetoricians do. They undo things. Or redo things. Depends on one’s goal. Violence is not the opposite of negotiation, it’s the other side of the coin. The coin’s edges are thin. Thus in the world of “experimental” poetry, “speech” is not an alternative to violence, but also a form of violence.

In “Trilogy” H.D. re-examines the old adage, “the pen is mightier than the sword” which is a reworking of this idea. H.D. does constructive violence to language. She dismantles and rebuilds the word, The Word, myth, magic, gender roles, and war. Poetry is war and poetry is against war. Remember Sam Hamill?

Avant Garde groups are formed around an idea. This idea is usually contempt, digust, dissatisfaction with the status quo or with another Avant Garde group. Avant Garde art is always AGAINST something. Does it have to be this way? Perhaps not. But it always is. Poetry bloggers are against “mainstream poetry” and the “SOQ.” Sometimes they’re not.

Where then are the female Avant Garde groups? What are they reacting against? Alicia Ostriker, in her book, “Stealing the Language,” attempts to argue that “Women’s Writing” is a unique category, that women poets form a collective, a group, bound together by more than their sex, but by their poetic concerns, by their program, by their reaction against the male-dominated writing establishment. Part of me wants to believe this. I also don’t quite believe it. The danger in Ostriker’s thinking is that it reinforces the most basic binary opposition: men vs. women. All binary pairs are little hierarchies. It also essentializes femininity and womanhood. I think it’s more complicated than that. My answer, though, also risks essentialism. What’s my answer? What’s the question again?

Arielle’s “Gurlesque” interests me because it is a poetry "movement" created not by a group of poets, but by a single poet-critic in an attempt to describe a set of tendencies common to young poets. It’s a group that defies the rule of the Avant Garde that I postulated above. These poets are grouped together not because they are women (tho’ most are—AG told me right after I read to a less-than-packed house in St. Louis that I, an ugly fat man, was a Gurlesque poet), and not because they are collectively against something, but because they share common characteristics, concerns, among them a love for pop-culture. I’m going to add another: a distrust of “Great Art.” And yet, they're making great art.

More later. Comments welcome.

I guess I played "the game" wrong. I didn't post the instructions. I am bad.

By now, though, everyone's seen them.

The Game

"Keats could not have seen his trees as we see them in reading Hyperion before he thought of the senators."

from The Personal Heresy: a controversy by C.M.W. Tillyard and C.S. Lewis

NP: Beatles, "Yellow Submarine"

Pixies Live

Right now, as we speak (well, as somebody speaks, as I'm not speaking on account of I'm alone), in Minneapolis, MN, the Pixies are playing live together for the first time in over 12 years.

So far, they've played:

Bone Machine, Wave of Mutilation, UMass, Levitate Me, Monkey Gone to Heaven, La La Love You, Nimrod's Son, Winterlong, Ed is Dead, Holiday Song, Vamos, Debaser, Dead, No. 13 Baby...

I'm feeling faint.

Other Aarons

First, Aaron McCollough has a poem in the new Canary. He is also just plain sweeeeet. Now I must confess something. On the back cover of The Canary #3, his name is misspelled. For this I am completely embarrassed. We managed to spell it correctly on the page on which his poem appears, but on the back cover, the first "o" became a "u." I know how frustrating this sort of thing is and I want to profusely apologize in public. So there.

Next, Aarón Sanchez, a Food Network pretty boy and the son of Zarela Martinez, writes in his cookbook, La Comida Del Barrio, the following description of good taco-stand tacos:

"The preparation is very strict: two tortillas--small, white-corn ones (not big ones, not yellow-corn, not flour)--are moistened with lard and heated on a lard-brushed griddle; the tortillas are doubled up and wrapped around the filling of your choice, topped with chopped white onion, cilantro, and a pureed red or green salsa if the filling is a roasted meat; and served with lime wedges on the side. No cheese, no sour cream, no rice, no beans."

So far, so good. I can't, in good conscience, vouch for that final semicolon, but otherwise, I agree and heartily endorse this taco.

BUT, two pages later appears the following recipe:

"TACOS DE CAZÓN

Fish tacos are eaten primarily in Baja California....[and are] usually made with a firm, meaty fish, such as shark or mahimahi, which is battered and fried, then rolled in a tortilla. Personally, I think this cooking method makes the taco greasy and soggy, and masks the true essence of the fish. This lighter version of marinating the fish and then grilling brings out more flavors."

It goes on. Okay. Fine. I'll bet your fucking fish taco tastes good, but it just ain't right. Of course, he omits all mention of the mysterious white sauce and the cabbage.

Aarons

Aaron Tieger mentions an article on Aaron McGruder.

Aaron Belz has written a new poem. Last December, Belz and I had a discussion over beer and whiskey in a hotel lobby about Frost and Stevens. Belz has entered his Frost phase. Or so I think. I cling to Stevens, if only because Frost makes me uncomfortable in ways I can't fully explain. I'll take WCW.

Why

does Robin Williams talk that way?

An MFA Experience Almost As Disappointing as Mine:

Daniel Nester's story.

Easter Morning

I have a life that did not become...

Suggested Manuscript Titles

Impermeable Wife
Sheepfighting
Formerly Known as Rocket: A Paean to Arugula
Future Dominator
Fish Taco Days
Seals I have Known
Malkin
Roomful of Jews
Mart
Put the chairs back where you found them
The accident I had
Licking the spoon in secret
Inedible Spouse
My Schooner is Better Than Your Sloop
Twenty-Seven Ladles
Wash Your Feet

Twenty-Seven Ladles

The Saturday Market was nearly impossible to navigate my way through. True, it’s always pretty crowded, but today it was insane. Needless to say, I couldn’t penetrate the flesh-barricade to make it to the inner Afghan food sanctum; I settled for food at the Dive Bar, the former site of a barbecue joint (which, though pretty good, wasn’t a real barbecue joint at all, but a Northwest White Boy’s idea of what barbecue might be—sanitized and so forth) and now a bar that seems mostly like a restaurant despite the fact that they only have a bar menu. They are also a brewery. Fresh beer is nice. I had two fresh beers. Honey-Orange Wheat Ale is not my usual style, but this was good. Light, fresh. There are a lot of windows in the Dive Bar, making it very non-dive-barrish. You can see. It was a pleasant time. I had barbecued chicken and a smashed potato salad. From my perch on the bar stool, I counted 27 ladles hanging from a fixture in the kitchen. I thought, “Gee, that’s a lot of ladles of varying sizes.” The sound system looked sophisticated. They played a 70s funk/disco mix as I ate my chicken and drank my beer. On the way out I stopped at the bookstore next door and thought about nepotism whilst thumbing through the latest issue of “Lyric.”

Twenty-seven ladles is a lot of ladles.

Some Food Carts

These are amazing; each
Jostling a stranger, as if lunch
Were a still performance.
Arranging, in pants

To eat palow this morning
Amongst hippies with patchouli.
This food, to you and I,
Is worth the smell and the five bucks.

+ + +

I'm off to the Saturday Market to brave hippies and college students in search of Afghan food. Or something else. Probably Afghan. Unless the barbecue guy is there. Then it's barbecue.

Taxonomy

It occurred to me last night (or, rather, early this morning) in an alley, near a dumpster, that we need yet another way of classifying poems.

I'm limiting my system to poems written by approximately "young" poets in the past, oh, 10 years. This is not an exhaustive study. I claim no real knowledge about classifying anything. I am not Linnaeus (sp?) and I most certainly am not Bob Grumman, though I keep meaning to write a mathemaku one of these days.

In any case, the whole system can be summed up thusly: Most young poets these days write either like early Simpsons (first three seasons) or late Simpsons (last six seasons). What we need is more poets writing like Futurama. This may not save American poetry, but it may offer a corrective to poetry that, while reasonably witty (in both senses of the word) seems to be trying to ironize itself out of feeling.

What about the Simpsons middle years (seasons four through seven)? I'm not sure which, if any, poets belong here.

More later. If I think about it.

Now...

It's stuck on John Cale.

Rogers. Nelson? Symbolman.

My Real One player, set on "shuffle play" has played about forty-seven Prince songs in a row. Something is wrong here.

*

A lot of fuss is being made over Foetry the past couple of days. Interesting enough. I'm not entirely sure how I feel about it, but I'm compelled to say a couple of things:

1) If you send poems to Canary, you run a great risk of having them rejected, even if we like you.
2) If we don't like you but we like your poems, we still may publish them.
3) We probably won't publish poems that take place in kitchens, despite my obvious fixation on all things gustatory and culinary.
4) If Canary River Press ever starts publishing books, the editors are simply going to publish each other and write our own blurbs, all the while accepting donations and "entry fees," of course.

I'm sorta kidding. Maybe. I promise, though, that Jorie Graham will not judge any of the contests. I think I'll judge them all, except when I've entered the contest. Then I'll have Nick or Josh judge.

*

I'm accepting names for my as-yet-mostly-unwritten manuscript. If you send one and I like it, I'll use it and send you something: probably a bath product.

Lunch

One very big slice of lime chicken pizza, which tastes better than it may sound. Standard mozzarella pie w/lime-marinated chicken, diced green onions and bell peppers, and topped with a tangy tomatillo sauce.

To drink: one bottle of Izze, my new favorite non-alcohol beverage. Sparkling Grapefruit flavor.

Poem

2.
The standard Frankenstein wedged approx.
Against a big white mountain. Dizzy, my ass.
Outer extremities frozen up whilst Emily bleeds.
Look into thy book and fall asleep. Only half-
Kidding, he removes the sheath and sallies.
Victor, think of the babies. (I’ve been here before.)
Your penalty is still your wobbly gait.
Culpability will not be assessed until the ghost
-ed pulldown menu rematerializes.
Can I be any clearer: marry me.
This is not a love poem, nor a note, nary
a trace. Shelley is exploding all over me.
Someone hand a tissue. Powerful feelings,
&c. Everyone at the table was struck silent.

Poem

1.
I found your sadness rather sexy. We
Were writing sonnets and could not stop for
(          ) anything, really. I’m receiving
an impression.       Your distance rather
making me squirm, but in a way. Fancy
for     the redness chamber. Fancy found
in books on birds. Fancy up your water pole.
Each word, limpid, falls. Equivocal. My word.

Your skinny bones breaking like the leaves;
Animated shells are leering. Smiley: where?
Australia, Los Angeles, Spain, Jamaica. I found
Your distance sexy and off-putting. Put to sleep.
Found a wooden table in the shaker style.
Adorned with empty envelopes. You, silly.

Pixies

Aaron notes that the Pixies are not stopping in Boston during their upcoming Mega-Tour. That's very sad. However, they ARE playing not one, but two dates in Eugene, my wretched little hometown.

Hey...I've got Ric Ocasek on the phone. He wants to do a west coast-only Cars reunion...

Loving Marcella

When I was about 12 or 13 years old I stumbled upon Marcella Hazan's Classic Italian Cooking. I spent my early teens working through nearly every recipe for which I could obtain the requisite ingredients--which was probably about half of them. Marcella is very particular about what should and shouldn't end up in one's sauce or roast chicken, or fricassee, or whatever. Eager to learn the secrets of True Italian Cooking, I followed her recipes slavishly.

Then I discovered Barbara Tropp and Martin Yan, and thought Chinese was the way to go. Then it was Thai and Afghan. I still make a batch of Afghan green sauce ("gashneetch" or something close) every couple of weeks, as it truly is an all purpose condiment. It makes everything taste of cilantro and vinegar, which is good if your larder is stocked with a lot of plain food.

I've come full circle, though, and temporarily shelved my Mexican cookbooks and my Asian Fusion stuff, and my Indian books (Julie Sahni's book I also worked my way through, but much later in life), to return to Marcella.

Sunday night I cooked a bolognese meat sauce ("ragu") and this time I did take liberties. I added a bay leaf, which I'm sure would win a disapproving head shake from Marcella. I used half pork and half beef. Marcella's original recipe calls for beef only, but in a later version of the recipe, published in another cookbook, she concedes that many cooks in Emilia-Romagna make their ragu with pork added. So I added pork. I simmered the meat in milk and then in wine (a California Pinot Grigio), I diced onion, carrot, and celery into uniform, tiny cubes. I salted and peppered liberally. After three hours of simmering, the sauce didn't taste the way I remembered it. I added more tomatoes. That did the trick. Marcella makes it very clear that the final sauce should have very little acidity. Adding more tomatoes surely tipped the balance, but without them, it simply tasted too mellow, too bland, lacking a certain savoriness. We ate it over penne with the Sopranos.

Tuesday: Overcast

SHORT POEM ON TWEMLOW

My favorite contemporary
hotshot poet, the Spader-like
Nick Twemlow is writing
three books: Self Defense,
Sheepfighting, and Future
Dominator. I named one
of these books and wrote
all the poems in it. Twemlow
does not yet know this,
as he’s busy walking around
New Zealand. Meanwhile,
this isn’t Canada. If it were
Canada, things would be different.
We’d publish poems about cross
-stitching. We’d say precious
things like: “I am nailed
to my wife.” We’d get drunk
and defoliate things. But mostly,
we’d punch sheep. In New Zealand,
that is. Not Canada.

The Behrle-Johnson Brouhaha

Interesting commentary here, and here.

I like Kent Johnson. He's a good guy. And sure he is a self-promoter, but Behrle isn't? Come on, guys. Kiss and make up. Or don't. I'll still buy KJ fish tacos.

Just returned from an interview with the local Youth Arts organization. I applied for a grant to teach a writing workshop to teens. They were impressed with my resume. They invited me in for an interview. I got to the interview and they said: "We don't fund these sorts of projects."

Hm. So why'd you call?

Now I'm off to read Frankenstein, which I haven't touched in years.

Lettuce in a Burrito?


Stephanie Young is correct. Lettuce does not belong in a burrito. In most cases, rice also does not belong on a burrito. Beans are okay as long as they don't overtake the burrito with their beanness. A local chain-type place here in Eugene--they used to be a chain called "Burrito Boy" but now they all (five or six) have slightly different names, like "Burrito Bros." or "Burrito Amigo" and so forth--serves their burritos with a tiny bit of meat and a whole lot of lettuce, rice, and beans. I don't like them. No sir.

Best burrito ever: Adalberto's on Rosecranz in San Diego (across from the old Naval Training Center and almost next door to Von's) makes an incredible carne asada burrito. What's on it? Meat. Lots of meat. And some guacamole if you want it. That's it. Cost? About 3.50, tax included. When I first discovered them in 1991, they went for 2.60.

Also, tacos don't take cheese, unless it's a tiny tiny bit of dry crumbly Mexican cheese, but even that's a little iffy. Tacos take chopped onions and cilantro. That's it.

* * *

I just got the new Canary. It's gorgeously yellow. It contains good poems by good people. Buy one.

I Think This Is A Found Poem

I LOVE YOU!!

Having said that, how are you?
Heard your Dad had surgery; is he OK?
Did you know that the recipe you have on your blog,
the cookies, is a link not only to my childhood but to
my deepest subconscious desires for comfort coupled
with crisp/tender butteriness? In my Mom's old Betty
Crocker cookbook (I would say '60s or '70s as my early
80s version doesn't have it)that recipe appears with a
picture (light green background, pastel-centered fork
dimpled little cookie rounds stacked high on a plate).
My Mom made those cookies when I was very, very
little and I remember looking at the picture and then
eating the real thing and thinking that my mother was
a genius, an artist, to make something that tasted
better than anything I'd ever eaten, and so dainty
(not a porkchop or spaghetti-os, are they?) And to
this day, they reign as the supreme cookies of
cookiedom for me, altho' I couldn't find a recipe
again--and look! There they are on your website.
So all this is just to say that I love you.

Bird in Flight

Canary #3 is back from the press and headed to a hip bookshop near you. If you are a contributor, copies are on the way. Everyone else---buy one. Or two.

It's yellow. My fashion-savvy friend tells me that yellow is the new goldenrod.

Friday's Spicer (probably improperly quoted)

The birds are still in flight. Believe the birds.