Testing the < pre > tag!

“He exploits western understandings of metaphor.”



asymptote:		fantastic glass

what’s visible:		ghost dance,  junior prom

the bastards have a sandwich plan:

upheaval 		& all available citrus



a nation in the process 

muliticultural 		breadbox 	kicked

in 			the 		stomach

what renaissance?         whose moon on the face

of the dappled green lake?



put it in your mouth:	try not to choke

last available moment rushing toward

a 		watery 			hyperbola

Spanish

My brother insists that although the official language of Brazil is Portuguese, the majority of Brazilians speak Spanish. I think he's full of shit. I don't know any Brazilians. Can someone help me out?

*

Just returned from a lecture by Dr. David Vazquez on Gloria Anzaldua. David didn't talk much about Anzaldua, though. Instead he ironed out the meaning(s) of the following terms: Latino/a, Chicano/a, Mexican-American, Hispanic, etc. I found all of this very useful. In my home, growing up, the preferred term was "Mexican," which signified not a national identity (we're Americans, after all) but an ethnic/racial one. Now, I suppose, (based on Vazquez's definitions) I should call myself a Mexican-American. But I'm not really into hyphens.

It occurred to me that my relationship with Spanish is troubled, as well. On one hand, hearing Spanish spoken makes me feel safe. On the other, it alienates me. In my boyhood home, it was the language of my mother, my grandmother, many of my aunts--it made me feel loved, and that love was particularly feminine. I don't associate Spanish with men. On the other hand, it was always the language of exclusion. My mother and her sisters and my grandmother spoke exclusively in Spanish to each other only when they didn't want the children to understand. We were never spoken directly to in Spanish (except in cases of anger--I know what all the bad words mean)--Spanish was a "secret code" by which I was denied access to the grown-up women's conversations. Still, I managed to listen a lot, and pick up enough of it on my own. Later, in high school, then in college, I took Spanish courses. I still can't speak much. My brother--raised in the same household--can't speak or understand a single word of Spanish, save what he learned from the film "Blood In, Blood Out," which is East L.A. street dialect, cholo Spanish.

*

While attempting to procrastinate/do research on the Brazil thing, I ran across an article about a new dialect gaining popularity in Brazil that's a mixture of Portuguese and Spanish, roughly analogous, I guess, to the "Spanglish" of the American Southwest.

*

My Hebrew is better than my Spanish and I'm not even Jewish

What's the HTML tag

that will render a chunk of text "as-is"--preserving odd spacing and such?

What's Goin' On

Listening to Marvin Gaye today, which seems appropriate, given recent flim-flam and floof (to use Julie Dill's word) in the WORLD. World. Word.

Speaking of Ms. Dill, an interesting post over at Vowel Movements today regarding Kent Johnson and Abu Ghraib. I personally like KJ's "Goodnight, Baghdad" poem better, but I am not offended by the new one. Kent Johnson is a provocateur AND a shameless self-promoter, and I see nothing wrong with either. I try to publish my poems too. Part of Geoffrey Gatza's project over at VOX is to present poetry w/visuals. We've all seen the photos--ignoring them won't make the problem go away.

Poetry is/can/must be concerned with violence. Avant-garde poetry even more. I use the term because of its martial connotations. Many practitioners of po-mo/experimental/innovative/post-avant seem to use these terms to distance themselves from the historical avant-garde, from a stance that proposes, a la Marinetti, that war is the only hygiene of the world. The rhetoric of avant-garde poetry has always been a rhetoric of violence, though, a rhetoric of opposition--all romantic poetry, in fact, stems from revolutionary ideas, and everyone knows we can't have a revolution without coffins. This needn't mean that the avant-garde artist be engaged in actual violence, but it's part of his or her job to confront it, to expose it, to question it, and to, yes, use it.

* * *

"History is a lie made up by those in love." Michael G. Johnson, Reclinerland.

* * *

Also speaking of J. Dill, I'm currently at the top of her blog roll. Which means she frequents my blog most frequently. Yay. I still hate baseball.

So long sonnet

Dear gooseflower, dear smiling wolf, dear
gone-so-long, dear naked girl wandering.

Smote up, smashed-through, smeared with inky blue,
impaled on your small voice, kind & sharp.

A kind of sharp noise: two years of voicemail,
messages stuffed with fish—our stand-in, for, you know.

The bachelor’s buttons twist in the wind.
Frantic Frenchmen whistle at scissoring legs.

Cut out this shape. Then this one. Trim again.
Repeat & fill, repeat & fill. I am emptied.

*

Dear never-there, dear thin brown container,
Dear sitting on Brenda’s knee & laughing at Laurel.

How much life have I taken from you. How are you not
but a fragile veneer, how can you still say je t’adore?

Slight Reworking of the Belz Poem

Is it better? Worse? The same? Check one.
Do you like me? (Yes, No, Maybe.) Check one.

* * *

HASH ANTHEM
           for Aaron Belz

Come closer, Mr. Belz; your sentence
is commuted. Faulkner believed God
was dead, our pursuit of him no
more than "a steeplechase toward nothing,"
a credo hard to follow if you've seen
the Arch all yellowed & pinked, snow
falling carelessly on lonely,
dirty St. Louis (a Coke town, not Pepsi),
no drugs in sight, the haze not hash
smoke but December fog & half a dozen beers.
Hard to believe that God doesn't want
us to listen to Surfer Rosa, or to bounce,
screaming, however briefly, into Eisenhower
America. Aaron, you prefer Budweiser
to microbrew & Frost to Stevens but I say
it hasn't a thing to do with your children—
it's drizzly in Missouri, the Mississippi
is risen & you: beautiful man bloodshot
& high as one can get, short of paying
the eight bucks to ride to the top.

'nother pome

"If You're A Girl, Don't Buy 40 Pairs of Cheap Shoes--Buy 5 pairs of Good Shoes."
for Julie Dill

I overheard
these words
on my walk
to a talk
on Flan O'Connor.
I'm a goner (I thought)
if I don't write
(however slight)
a poem for Julie Dill.
Okay. I will.
I've always loved shoes,
sodomy, & booze.
Jules--thanks for the posse!
(But I'd have settled for kohlrabi.)

Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

Come closer, Mr. Belz; your sentence
is commuted. Faulkner believed God
was dead, our pursuit of him no
more than "a steeplechase toward nothing,"
a credo hard to follow if you've seen
the Arch all yellowed & pinked, snow
falling carelessly on lonely,
dirty St. Louis (a Coke town, not Pepsi),
no drugs in sight, the haze not hash
smoke but December fog and seven beers.
Hard to believe that God doesn't want
us to listen to Surfer Rosa, or to bounce,
screaming, however briefly into Eisenhower
America. Belz, you prefer Budweiser
to microbrew & Frost to Stevens but I say
it hasn't a thing to do with your children--
it's drizzly in Missouri, the Mississippi
is high & you are beautiful, bloodshot
& high as one can get, short of paying
the eight bucks to ride to the top.

As Promised (the others are coming):

Just Me and the Cats
for Reb Livingston

Chipotle every day for dinner, soft!
Your wicked excellence (sans Mom) will serve
You well in the hop-house, hussy.
The house is safe as kittens, soft your
Smile is safe as houses—if you worry
About being sentimental, put on
A fear grin and drop a handsome dollar
In the curse jar. Braised kale every
Day with Lou Reed, and in the midnight
Hour, she cried more more more.
Moe Tucker in my breadbasket, a jackal
On the lawn. Someone is always
Listening—the little pitter-pat
Of the murderous childish late-May rain.

I look like:

Antonio Banderas, Orlando Bloom, and Denzel Washington, according to Analogia.

Huh??

(Okay, now...seriously...when I was younger and thinner, and had longer hair, I would get the Antonio Banderas thing pretty frequently.)

POEMS & WHATNOT

On this day of May 22, the Year of Our Lord 2004, I have made a fine inventory of all things poetickal sprung from my pen in the recent months. I've discovered this:

Since January, I've written only 11 poems. The titles of these poems (lucky error 2?) are: "Twelve for Joshua," "Songs for Sanity," "Sheepfighting," "Each Other's Arms," "Cardboard Tubes," "Something for After," "Focus on Sainty," "Boxcar Waiting," "Cautionary Tale," and two unnamed "gothickish sonnets."

If these eleven poems are the germ/kernel/yeast of a new post-lucky error collection, I'll be very happy. So far, the subjects of these poems are: mundane-but-functional household items, Nick Twemlow and Josh Edwards, lines stolen from pop songs, being stood up in St. Louis, and rhymin' & stealin'. A concept is slowly forming. Anyway, all these poems are up for grabs (actually, I wrote another couple this year, but those are taken...these eleven represent my unpublished output this annum). Who wants them?

*

Form rejection today from BWR. More to come, I'm sure.

*

I feel like writing occasional poems to friends, cyber and otherwise. The first three people to place something witty in the comment box will get specially-crafted, fat-free, hig-carb poems of their own. Do something good for yourself.

*

I might write a song about listening to the Mountain Goats and smoking hash with Aaron Belz. Except I never really smoked hash with Belz, but would if the chance presented itself. When Belz picked me up at the airport he was listening to Surfer Rosa in his cute little car. I also had the pleasure of seeing Carmine Appice of Vanilla Fudge at the baggage claim. His mustache was huge.

Goodish News

There's a new Jay Bennett record out. That's good news. I shall purchase it.

*

My department is giving away old computers to folks working on dissertations. I get a free office computer--my choice of Mac or PC. Oldish, but still free. How cool is that?

*

Just received a letter from the Humanophone herself, Janet Holmes, telling me that my book, "lucky error" was a semifinalist for the Sawtooth Prize! Made my day. Mad props are also due to Josh Corey and Aaron McCollough, both of whom were finalists! And of course to Noah Eli Gordon, who won. As Tony Tost mentions in a recent post at The Unquiet Grave, it seems as if the blogosphere is the new Iowa.

A triumvirate of not really related things

I just returned from Martha Silano's reading at the Eugene Public Library. It was pleasant. She read a lot of food poems. She plugged The Canary. I'll post a full review here in the next day or two. I need time away from blog for a bit. I will say this: Martha Silano reminds me of a non-squeaky voiced Brenda Hillman. But her poems are nothing like Brenda's.

*

A whoppping ONE person has invited me to visit his/her town. I really AM chopped liver, it seems. And that person responded anonymously (tho' I'm guessing it's the JewishyIrishy one, since the invitation was to Iowa City or Atlanta).

*

Made a fab potato salad tonight. Ate it with an egg and leftover pork loin. Tomorrow: experiments with asparagus and citrus.

Happy Mt. St. Helens Day!!!

Another Old Poem

I'm not sure why I'm suddenly obsessed with what I was doing/saying/writing/eating/sleeping with X years ago, but here's a poem I've recovered from 1999.


October 28
—Operating Instructions

The beginning is back there,
past the paper scraps, the greenish orbs
and the men moving through

a sea of yellow leaves littered with
limbs that look like longish fingerbones,
curved in invitation: Dearie, step inside.

And these are the things to fear:
white on yellow, the tattered edge, boys
too pretty to want to crawl inside,

girls without mouths, and another
night without drink. It has something to do
with necessity and the spiral: machines.

Begin: we talked over Chinese food
and coffee. The soup was merely “okay”
and the service somewhat average,

and I said and she said, and the view
was fresh from up there. I could see the bus
stop. People were going away.

And another scene: Tiffany complaining
students are all bums. And the bums, well, some
of them are rather wise. For bums.

Click. It goes on.

Thirteen Years Ago This Week:

I was listening to the following albums in May 1991. Why this matters, I don't know. Why do I keep records of this sort of thing? Good question. Here 'tis.

fIREHOSE, "Flyin' the Flannel"
Breeders, "Pod"
Jane's Addiction, "XXX"
R.E.M., "Out of Time"
Neil Young, "Live Rust"
The Cure, "Disintegration"
Lou Reed, "Rock and Roll Animal"

I was certainly listening to other stuff at the time--(Peter Tosh, "Legalize It," for example.)--these all had more or less heavy rotation though.

Recently Acquired

Listening:

The Martinis, "Smitten": I wanted to like Joey Santiago's post-Pixies project more than I did. The guitar is smokin', the vocals are okay, the lyrics are mostly shite, and the songs are, well, adequate pop, but nothing amazing.

Loretta Lynn, "Van Lear Rose": Okay, this one I like. The duet with Jack White, "Portland, Oregon," which I expected to be gimmicky as all get out is actually quite lovely. And it gives props to one of my favorite towns.

Masta Killa, "No Said Date" sampler: "The long awaited solo debut from Wu-tang member Masta Killa!" Featuring all the usual Wu members. Just listened to it once, but it's serviceable hip-hop in the Wu Tang mold, which, for me, has grown a bit old over the past decade or so. But worth a listen, esp. for die-hards.

TV on the Radio, "Young Liars EP": This is weird, loopy, sensually vocal, mechanical...what is it? I'm not sure, but it's growing on me with every listen. Reminds me of some old-school trip-hop stuff, e.g., Tricky, etc. but not really. The Portland Mercury described them as "The Commodores on Frank Black's chain gaing," which is a nifty phrase, but I'm not sure if that fits, though they do cover "Mr. Grieves."

Recently Rediscovered: Breeders, "Safari EP." Just four songs, one of them a cover (I think). All of them perfect.

Eating:

"Simple to Spectacular" by Mark Bittman and Jean-Georges Vongerichten. This book is amazing, and incredibly useful for the home cook. Make fancy French-ish food in your own poor kitchen (as long as you don't attempt the recipes with truffles, foie gras, or caviar, of which there are, admittedly, a lot). I learned how to make spaetzle from this book.

Tony's Summer Tour 2004

That's right, kids. I'm going on a summer tour. The only confirmed dates so far are the following:

September 4, Bend, OR, Les Schwab Amphitheatre: The Pixies
September 6, Seattle, WA, Bumbershoot Festiveal: The Pixies

The third week of June is wide open. Invite me to your city. If there are poetry events happening, awesome. If not, we can go to a nice restaurant or a foodcart. We'll, I'll probably want to do that anyway, poetry or no.

Also, August 15 thru the third week of September are also open. I'm planning on making two or three trips, at least. I'll bring me, and maybe some poems.

I might make T-shirts. This is your official invitation to invite me to where you are.

Postcard

I just wrote all over the beautiful postcard Matt Shindell sent me. Then I realized I was supposed to write on a different postcard and send it back. I screwed it up. So I guess I'll slip the original in an envelope AND write a new one.

Working Class?

Hannah discusses "working class" poetry, elitism, and other interesting things over at her couch. I read this and said "of course." I was "brought up," as it were, by working class poets and have spent the past few years trying to shake this "past," of mine. The teachers I had early on were of the Levine-Olds school, which is fine. What isn't fine is that they tried very hard to make sure that their students had very little exposure to any poetry that didn't fit the narrow stylistic range that they endorsed. One could tell they felt threatened, but WHY? And of course, as Hannah mentions, the "working class" poets of note are usually well-paid, tenured academics who haven't worked for years. I don't write about growing up in a tiny hicktown full of lumber mills and blue collars because I lived it and it's boring and I don't feel the need to romanticize it. On the other hand, if you want to do that, fine--but when these poets begin to polemicize against "the difficult" or the "non-narrative" or whatever it is, I can't help but feel that there's something really ugly and small-minded at work.

This looks interesting:

Shakespeare's Kitchen

Geneva Convention

When I started this blog, I planned on calling it 'lucky error' for reasons that should be obvious to those who know me. At the last minute, for reasons less obvious, I changed the title to 'geneva convention.' I'd like to say I wasn't thinking. I am, as many folks know (and I'm sure that many, especially in the po-world, do not) a veteran of the U.S. Navy, and the Geneva Convention card was one of those things that I carried, but never really thought about. Of course, we all knew what it SAID, and that it had to do with humane treatment of prisoners of war, and most of us never saw war, and never had to think about it. It occurs to me that it's like the smoke alarm in my kitchen--I always remove the batteries when I cook a steak, or something else likely to produce a lot of smoke. I usually forget to replace the batteries. I never think about it otherwise. When I named the blog, I was thinking of my poem, "Geneva Convention" which I wrote a few years back (pre-9/11) in response to Gabe Gudding's call for advice on teaching in prisons. He was embarking on his first stint as a teacher of poetry to incarcerated felons. Anyway, I had no idea what sort of advice to give someone dealing with prisoners, so I wrote the poem. I now feel like I should say something profound given the recent crimes in Iraq. Abu Ghraib and Nick Berg, and so forth. I'm deeply disturbed and wonder why my reaction doesn't extend beyond dumb shock and then sadness and resignation.

Anyway, here's the poem (which, now, seems trivial):

Geneva Convention
for Gabe Gudding

The enemy is all around you. If you
get caught they’ll make you cry.
If you try to escape, they’ll
throw water on your shoes. If you leave
well enough alone, they’ll poison
your gumbo. If you smell
like an elephant, they’ll squash
your mice. If you eat zucchini, they’ll
over-turmeric the cooking oil,
resulting in jaundice. If you act
like a Frenchman, they’ll give you
dollars instead of francs. If you covet
your own wife, they’ll smile and bring
you bread. If you come in the sourdough,
they’ll kill fifty birds. If you deny
being speckled, they’ll refuse
the right to rummage through the rubbish.
If you turn left, they’ll take a pair of trees
and bury GM Hopkins between them. If you
die in a poetic way, they’ll hire fifty
Greeks to rape you. If you resist, they’ll
convert your cries into dactylic hexameters.
If you stay put, they’ll send ants
to your sandwich stash. If you eat and gamble
at the same time, they’ll put some meat
between two slices of toast. They’ll bring you wine.

Hey Blogger!

Um, like these, er, new templates are rilly purty and all, but they's too damn skinny.

Too damn skinny.

My BIG photos can't hang in these little skinny templates.

By the way, who's read "As I Lay Dying"? I'm teaching it next week AND reading it for the first time...

I figured it out. Sorta.


Why are all these new templates so damned skinny?

Troubles in blogland

Still trying to make this new blogger stuff work. Having troubles. Stay tuned.

Okay...so I can't change my template without redoing my "customized material"? Is that it?

Bleah. Grr.

Oops

The post about Kent Johnson has been removed due to the premature nature of the announcement. Watch this space for more official news later.

What Kind of Poet Are You Anyway?

Friday afternoon, while watching/listening to a T.S. Eliot lecture for undergrads, one of my fellow grad students leaned over to me (while the lecturer was covering "Tradition and the Individual Talent") and whispered "Are you a poet with a hero complex?" I was taken aback, as I don't advertise my poetness around the halls, but then I replied "No, I think I'm the opposite." She then asked "Are you a self-deprecating poet?" I think I nodded my head. Then she said, "I'll bet you're a 'please love me' poet."

Which is as depressing as it is probably true.

Siete de Mayo Poem

CAUTIONARY TALE

Tonight I shall eat fake Mexican
Food with my real brother, who is half-
Mexican—some would call him a fake
Mexican—at a fake Mexican restaurant
Which is really a Salvadorean restaurant
That serves really hot salsa with their
Fake Mexican delicacies and delicious
Curtido with their (as far as I know) authentic
And excellent pupusas. I too was once
Accused of being a fake Mexican,
(never authentic or excellent),
To which I replied, I’ve only been to Mexico
twice and I’ve never felt your pain,
You asshole. That was the same semester
I got my first “F” in graduate school.

Asparagus, where have you been all my life?

Another good asparagus experience today! After toiling for several hours and producing four pages of dissertation, I treated myself to lunch at Marche.

Ragout of beef tenderloin w/asparagus & fava beans, on a bed of very creamy polenta. Desert was a scoop each of strawberry-rhubarb sorbet and ginger ice cream, with two lemon shortbread cookies on the side.

Yum.

NP: Pixies live in Eugene 4/28/04. (It's Educational!!! It's Educational!!! It's Educational!!)

I Know I Don't Have A Crush List, But

If I did, who would be on it? See, I don't have any current crushes, real or imaginary, but I'm game for a few. So, here's the deal--email me or respond publicly below if you'd like to volunteer as a crushee.

(I'm not yet taking applications for wives. Yet. Or husbands, though we've got that thang out here in Oregon-land.)

A fine spring day, today.

During this morning's walk along the north bank of the Willamette river, I encountered a largish black bird (crow? raven?) struggling with a small, shiny, black snake. Bird snaps at snake, snake rears back and tries to look big, bird nips snake, snake shimmies, and finally, bird bites snake squarely and flies off, snake dangling from birdy beak.

Is this a sign? Of something?

Recently:

Received: The New Mid-American Review arrived the other day with one of my poems inside. It's very shiny. Really glossy. It's on the shelf right next to Court Green #1, which is not green, but orange and white, and very non-glossy. It also has better poems in it than the Mid-American. I'm not sure what to make of this.

Borrowed: Warcraft III. Lots of fun with Orcs. Haven't played it much...I have little patience for learning new games.

Eaten: leftover pizza.

Talked to: my Mom. And my Dad. He turned 60 on Friday. Happy Birthday Pop.

I must be getting soft

I gave out more A's on this last assignment than ever before. Either these students are writing better, or my critical eye is sleepy.

When You're Old and Grey and Full of Crap

Teaching Yeats tomorrow. Yay. Stack of 16 take-home midterm essays to grade today. Bleah.

SAVE AMERICA!

Beat Me With A Sockful of Marbles,

Michael Schiavo.

There are two kinds of people in the world--Led Zeppelin fans, and well...

Kent told me

that the current photo is scaring the poet girls away.

Original English

It keeps happening to me again and again, and you wonder what “it” is and I can only offer synonyms: heart or spleen, kidney or rough trade. And we are assembling each other word by word…each time you open your mouth, I try to classify our relationship, or cast it in terms of Victorian lovers—are you Jane Eyre or Catherine Earnshaw? Are you a Linton yet. I could be Rochester, blind as a bat and abusive to crazy women, I could be burned in a fire, I could be as hateful as Heathcliff and be burning for you. Which is what happens when you live with a cartoon cat. The whole world falls apart, the sky tries to hold you, tries to contain what you called “lust-with-heart” which might simply mean you adore me but don’t want to sleep with me. And friend-cum-lass I feel the same way, but only more so, but only I want to paint you naked, and I want us to cry over dead friends and attend the same weddings not ours…and this is the tragedy of pronouns. Our can mean mine and mine only, or ours collectively but not us together. And we smolder, and the yellow paper flickers. If we are fireflies, we are archaic and monogamous we have a smile of each. And have I told you how shocked I was to see you in a photograph, or rather many photographs? Have you found the frame? No…good, I’ll tell you. Your teeth were many and your nose larger than I recall and your wiry frame more wiry and you were still pretty but I didn’t feel lust. I felt sadness and shame and I went to the church and I kneeled at the fountain and I washed my face again and again.

Food

Arepas with Romesco Sauce

6 ears fresh corn, cut off the cob
1/2 small yellow onion, chopped
1 red bell pepper, diced
3 tablespoons butter
3 eggs
1 cup milk
3/4 cup medium stone ground cornmeal
1 1/2 cups all purpose flour
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

Sift together dry ingredients. Puree corn and onion in a food
processor until combined, but still lumpy. Add milk and eggs and
mix. Saute red pepper in butter and add to corn mixture. Add corn
mixture to dry ingredients.

In a buttered skillet over medium heat cook batter into
silver-dollar-sized arepas. Transfer to a warm plate and hold until
ready to serve with Romesco sauce and optionally fried Marguez
sausages and a salad made from sliced green apples, parsley and
pickled onions dressed with red wine vinegar and extra virgin olive
oil.


Romesco Sauce

2 large, thick slices of county bread, crusts removed and cut into cubes
1/3 cup red wine vinegar
1 1/2 red peppers, roasted and peeled
1/3 cup blanched almonds, toasted to golden
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
6 cloves garlic, peeled
1 tomato, cored, seeded and chopped
1/3 cup olive oil

Soak bread with red wine vinegar for 10 minutes and transfer to a
food processor. Add almonds, red pepper, garlic, tomato, salt and
pepper and puree until smooth. With the motor running, add the
olive oil in a thin stream, until mixture is the consistency of a
thick creamy sauce. Add the warm water as needed to thin, as
necessary. Serve at room temperature.

Cardboard Tubes

For toilet paper & small unopened buds attached to the ends of granny stems;

For paper towels & spiny mice or other rodents with their man-like little hands;

For the twin miracles of corrugation & cylindricality;

For countless arts & crafts in the manner of the ancient Phoenicians;

For this woman & that one who never replaced the roll & slept in even on Monday;

For a New Wave band of the 80s I can barely remember, for Billy Idol, for Billy Pilgrim;

For my mother on Father’s Day & my Father on his birthday April 30th, 1944;

For waterslides, Kim Deal, & Juicy Fruit;

For the subtle but convincing manner of the red-headed one, soaked with wine & menthol;

For the reminder: these tubes continually dropt on the ground, embroidered with the monogram of a different daily deity;

For the rejoinder that someone loves us all even in a dirty bathroom with a floor big enough for dancing;

For the dancing partner whom I, awkward, never managed to dip;

For Julia (in her silks), Kristin (in her silks), Kristin (in her combat boots & dirty pants), Josh (in his good will), Nick (in his carefully managed anger), & all the lot of you;

For the small man who never leaves his house & the aesthetic pleasure their perfect shapes bring him;

For the coffee that comes in cups of cardboard which are really flared tubes with a closed end;

For their sight-giving properties, best in evidence atop promontories from which we see & see & see then bury our faces in our sister’s best white dress;

For three thousand miles, a million hours & whatever else between us.

I know I'm late on this,

but bigtime kudos to Josh Corey. Astoundingly good news.

Speaking of astoundingly good, I could use some grilled asparagus right now.

Some More Fake Criticism

Hey Mr. Tangerine Man: Zimmermanian Typology in Robinson’s “Fruit Sonnets”

       Critics have long noted that A. Robinson’s “Fruit Sonnets,” particularly the citrus subsequence, owe a debt to the mid-twentieth century poetry of Robert Zimmerman. While the thematic concerns of each poet seem quite distinct from one another, the careful reader of Robinson’s “Fruit Sonnets” can’t help but note an abundance of Zimmermanian features, particularly the use of parataxis and ellipsis—equalizing and economizing devices that enable an evasive poetic rhetoric that tends to enrich the poems with a multitude of possible meanings and in doing so defies definitive readings. Although it would be a misstep to attempt to explain away these ambiguities, the sonnets may be understood more fully by examining them not only formally, but through the interpretive lens of Zimmerman’s thematics.
       In this paper, I’d like to examine a key figure in Zimmerman’s poetry that is reworked in Robinson’s sequence. The rootless wanderer character appearing in so many of Zimmerman’s poems (such as “Hey Mr. Tambourine Man” and “Boots of Spanish Leather,” to name two) prefigures Robinson’s Grouchy Greengrocer, the presumed speaker of sonnets 265 through 297. Not only does each speaker possess a mumbling drawl, and several other distinctive “speech” patterns (omitting final g’s from certain verb and gerund forms, for instance), but some of his actual utterances appear to have been closely influenced by Zimmerman. Compare, for example, these lines from Robinson’s sonnet 269:

I drank that fruit’s forbidden juice now runnin’
Down my leg. Sweet paradise that nectar
was—so cold and oh so sweet. I’m gunnin’
now for my produce man—the dude they call Hector. (9-12)

with these lines from Zimmerman’s “Where Are You Tonight?”: “I bit into the root of forbidden fruit / with the juice running down my leg” (65-66), and “If you don't believe there's a price / for this sweet paradise, / remind me to show you the scars” (71-73).
       My study will attempt to place Robinson in the Zimmermanian tradition by drawing parallels between the most significant poems of Zimmerman and those of Robinson’s citrus subsequence, and arguing that Robinson’s Greengrocer is the fulfillment and completion of the nameless wanderer in Zimmerman’s poem. I’ll also refute critics who have read this citrus subsequence as a post-Pixies (and, by extension, Marxist) response to the chaotic conditions of the modern farmer’s market, and in doing so have incorrectly placed Robinson’s poetry in the Cobainian tradition, drawing attention away from his obvious Zimmermanian affiliation.

The Thom Fletcher Files, Part 1

Thom Fletcher is not a poet, but is married to one. He's more interesting than many (most?) poets I know, however. He is the half-elf of St. Louis.

Today's Fletcherism is his "Passive-Aggressive Drunk Manifesto": No matter how low your armor class is, I'll always have more hit points.

Kent told me

that when I put my photo up on the blog, hot poet girls would start flirting with me.

Where y'all at?

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.