Distribution Automatique

Friday, October 10

I'm very pleased to announce that
I am the featured poet in the current
issue of *sidereality*
edited by
Clayton A. Couch.
My section includes my article "Confessions
of a Blog Artist" published
this past summer in *The Poetry Project Newletter*,
edited by Gary Sullivan and Nada Gordon
an interview by Lewis La Cook plus
Bill Marsh's blog report on -fait accompli-
originally published by
San Diego Poetry Guild.
The issue also includes some
of my collages and selections from
this blog. Plus writing and art by
over 50 other contributors!
I am eternally grateful
to all who assisted in each of these
projects, and especially to Clayton and Lewis.
"Hand me that thorazine/I want to read something
That has me in it/ As I am establishing/
I am even as I read/By glomming onto someone/
You offered (the tape's erased))/
Hello are you there/Hello is that you you/
Poetry the theory of heartbreak/
Precisely why one cannot/
Exactly what one wants/"

David Bromige
*T as in Tether*
"Defeat's Defears (2)"
Chax, 2002
The Jim Side "strikes back"
The Blue Kangeroo
follows through on
list of movie montages inaugurated by
Porthole Redux.

Mike Snider
takes a stroll through
Blogland Park.


Am I really the last person
in the world to know that
Malcolm Davidson

lives in Gdansk, Poland?


There's more to the UK than
Tony Blair and Britney Spears-
check out william watkin's blog


Speaking of jolly olde England,
The Skeptic
weighs in on linebreaks and Raworth.

Two's Company

Crag Hill's Poetry Scorecard
eavesdrops while
Sheila Murphy and Tom Beckett
discuss poetic collaborations.


One Poetato

Alli Warren
knows The Ingredient
for a tasty poemm frite.
"Americans want to escape reality..."
This just in from Mexperimental...Heriberto Yepez
Yesterday Venepoetics discussed
the death of Satchidananda and life and death today under
Chavez in Venezuela. Like so many others, I was a denizen
of the Integral Yoga Institute in the 60's and 70's
and an admirer of Satchidananda,
whose gentle kindness
will be very much missed.

Thursday, October 9

Yesterday, Gary Sullivan
made a convincing argument that Bruce Andrews' poetry is sadistic.
As an open admirer of Bruce's early writing, works such
as his classic "Wobbling" (Roof), and being well aware of his knowledgeable
and enlightened political viewpoints (we've walked together on peace marches,
read together at many readings, he was one of the editors of L=A==N=G=U=A=G=E,
a visible supporter of my own work, etc, etc), while not particularly relishing his work
in recent years, I've been reluctant to openly criticize it. I'm not particularly fond of
publicly criticizing anyone's poetry, because my hunch is that it is so hard to get
an audience for innovative poetry on the whole, and that it is better for contemporary
poets to avoid so much open conflict. Divide and conquer, as they say. As it is,
innovative poetry as yet does not find it easy to get much of a serious hearing,
and it is not that helpful for anyone to scare away scarce readers. And while
controversy does win attention, it often loses it quickly and
permanently after the fight is over.

When Bruce's writing first turned harsh, during the Reagan years,
it came across as extremely apropos. Yet I instantly disliked
the title "Give 'Em Enough Rope." Compare it to: "Stupid White Men."
It is vague and indirect. Who is being addressed? While I knew
what was meant, it also could be misread as just a harsh thing to say.
But at the time it was infuriating and very scary to see the
United States become a fascist state. But that was a long time ago,
and while it is more enraging and discouraging than ever to see cruel
Nazi types rise to power, it is no longer surprising. It is obvious to
everyone that the left (this anachronistic metaphor itself seems to be
coming into question) in this era needs strategy, clear and shrewd
thinking and less invective. To continue shouting and yelling
angry words has long become a banal and
unintelligent exercise serving only to increase despair and
hopelessness, and sometimes divide rather than unite otherwise
allied people in the long run. It just
isn't inspiring anymore to witness a brilliant poet
play the Terminator:-
unless he is planning to run for governor.
And Gary Sullivan's point, as painful
as it may be to accept for the aging
L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E group
(I can't help but smile and think of a recent
installation at the Whitney that
featured all the comic superheroes
quietly hanging out and dying in a nursing home)
that Bruce Andrews work may no longer
serve to awaken political outrage,
but instead may unconsciously be supplying covert
erotic pleasure, a release from
frustration, seems apt and well timed.
If Gary is correct, the work may then be diverting focus away
from objectives that might more
effectively lead to political conceptualization
and action. Bruce Andrews as dominatrix?
Bruce Andrews as sex spam?
I am quite sure the writer of the
*Sonnets (Memento Mori)* (This, 1980)
has more engaging things to offer.
On Wednesday, October 8 Catherine Meng
issued a call for favorite movie montages. I felt a slight bristle of annoyance,
because this idea tempted me, and at the same time
I remembered a silent promise I made to myself
a long time ago that I would avoid mentioning
movies on my blog. Why? Because most social
conversations get around to this topic -and stay there
- for some very good reasons. I have loved the fact that
poetics blogs stick mainly to poetry, poetics, politics and books-
something you don't hear a lot about when you chat with people-
even at readings! (Maybe because one doesn't have the books
at hand to consult!). So I thought: great idea, but I am not going to give in.
But just now I read Michaela Cooper's
engrossing list, which, by the way, is like taking a mini-course in film.
(Would love to hear more about her screenplay). As it happens,
tonight Toni and I watched parts of the moving and beautiful
*On The Waterfront* as we switched back and forth to see
Jon Stewart interview Hillary Rodham Clinton
on *The Daily Show*. I plan to study Ms Cooper's list carefully
and try to put one of my own together. I will probably have to cheat
though and consult my copies of:
*Future Noir: The Making of Blade Runner* (Paul M. Sammon),
*Film Noir* (edited by Alain Silver and Elizabeth Ward),
*House of Games* (the complete screenplay by David Mamet),
*Alphaville* by Jean-Luc Godard, *Weekend* by Jean-Luc Godard,
*L'Aventura* by Michaelangelo Antonioni and
*Antonioni* by Ian Cameron and Robin Wood.

You don't have to take the Fung Wah bus ($20)
to read "Other Jobs For Poets" on
The Jim Side


Wednesday, October 8



we found that not to be violent
was to be violent by moving the margins
that the assumption of an assumption
is an assumption pipedream of construction
pardon monsieur if I take your ticket
this way to the library of assurances
this way to letters things absence of
wonder at trees the configuration gets
cloudy the t achieves thought by shapes
rising from flesh for instance relax you must
remain unafraid of a negative image you will
take it & again song will assert itself you will
be lying awake aware of thinking gentle abstract
thoughts it will disturb you tumble your coffee
exactly as it was supposed to & take you over

night after night have i lain awake thinking
impossible impossilbe the t chart may be a
catalogue of negativities & my translator is
asleep i nudge him carefully and say teeth
teeth casually as if i don't mean it i always thought
i use to think i used to pretend to pretend yet all
that time i was imagining pretending
i got along that way for awhile imagining pretending
when it tapped me & said no images i really wasn't
afraid of that nor was i afraid of imagining imagining
same old abstractions i thought i think same old
consciousness ame old lined paper
this is the difference between a diary & dreams
it wishes to make friends but pretending imagining
pretending i was much too careful i was sure
it could rip me off so i rambled into a terrific boring
dance a heroic time long ago here in which i am
visited by the great spirit of opening my mouth
without words i can't refuse to say it so i crumble
it into a ball & heave it through a hole in the world
of my mouth same impersonal problems of the
personal same refractions magic & disapproval
ahead of memory it resembles the future & causes
a slip to be made in the cause of modern indifference


From the very first notes in a minor key
You could sense, follow and anticipate the eventual final chords.
And this is why the joy is always mixed with sadness.
And isn't part of the pleasure that these intense feelings
Shake us from our otherwise uncomprehending, hypocritical calm?
There was something in your letters that brought all of this
To mind, as I, optimistic as ever, read them here
On this sunny hilltop in Italy. And I am reminded
As I read them that they were not written to me, and
That when words well up first from the heart
And then from the throat and only out of fear form in the mouth
There is a hunger in the receiving of them that can be easily
Overlooked. Then comes the thought that too often
We want things to end, wanted them to begin in their endings,
Final out of the earliest of their subjugated necessities,
Torn from the foundations of houses, wedded to the oceans
Of origin, blued and oranged in the frightful neglect
Of future geometries.

Tuesday, October 7


Few have alluded to that delicious
Feeling of anticipation that continues long after
The act. Entire lilfetimes may have passed
In which ambiguous figures conducting vague activities
Habitually, repetitively, avoided recognizing
The the present is composed of so little that could
Properly be called current. Perhaps Freud,
In his effort to establish the primacy of memories
Best realized this frequent absence of texture to time
In the acknowledgement of so much repetition an absence
Of spontaneity. These edifying concepts have suppled an essential need
Though they have not settled this lingering issue of vacancy,
This annoying series of reminders that our postures
Of self-satisfaction have soothed, even supplanted
This urgent question of experience, this itch
Of dissatisfaction in so frequently finding ourselves
At the commencement of a scream that is, as yet,
Wordless. We prefer, of course, to regard
This neighboring cluster of anomalies, these chuckles
Of relief, that at times we can gather into a foam
What seems like a torrent of fizz, which just as quickly
Settled down to an even level of the liquid
We were just sipping as we turned the pages
Of a book that perhaps, in retrospect, we were reading
A bit too avidly, only noticed when we tried to explain
To a friend what was so wonderful, and could not find
A simple concrete example, but again pointed to the flow
Of the thing, to its variety of effects which produced certain
Particular sensations. But what, in fact, were these sensations
(Though, again, it is really too soon to be
Asking this question, when rushing has again replaced
An imaginably calmer, more sure footed excitement which, precisely,
Expected an actual future)? We can
Only conclude, alas, that the kind of time
We have so frequently imagined is probably not forthcoming,
And the best we can hope for is to better examine
What we've unconsciously dismissed as a poor replacement- yet
This, in fact, *is* experience, a reasonably
Typical concoction of anxiety, ecstacy, distraction, relief & despair,
All held together by wishes and hairpins,
Already falling apart at the moment that it started,
Zooming, booming , bursting, flaccid & odd,
Lying, standing, turning, stretching & bent,
Embarassed, victorious, diseased, cured, unifed & alone.


If you were flying a kite
You'd depend on the vagueries of breeze
Without charting, plans or technical advice.
You raise it to the skies with a little exuberance
And hope for the best. It would be great if it were possible
To say this is not the condition of poetry
(And nearly everything else, along the way).
Only the the power to wait, to restrain one's feeling of irritation,
However it can be done, is worth anything.
Then everything else will take care of itself.


Now it it is time to go down to the river
To feel the cool breeze against your face,
To watch the boats. There is a small garden,
There is a place to get something to drink.
Soon, it gets towards sunset. Together,
The cool air combined with the bright sun, feels great.
The trees against a blue sky look good too.

Monday, October 6


even if my poems belong here only by dint of being dead leaves in my own imagination
dint dead leaves imagination
trois images
in my white rainbow
coat my poem
possibly reads here

(some things
depend on how
much strength)

I am being born of some poetry
to have hunted in the antique cave
of the mind for certain metal objects

"poems are dead
if nothing else

(1) state the situation clearly
(2) change everything immediately

mind feeding the mind
against action

there is no self-protecting device
*if it can't be done in five minutes
sometimes I won't want to do it*

Be patient

even if my poem belongs here by being dead leaves
even if
belongs here
dint of

Seeing what has already been seen, the
"story" proceeds by twists and turns which,
on close inspection, do not connect. So much
so that an interval, when measured
closely, consists of varied units of time, different
types of time which can only be quantified in
comparatively gross terms.

There is an aspect of experience
which transcends what we know to be our
own identities. Identity is a construct which
we build as a topmost layer to fend off
the destructive potential of the
actuality. If the
identity is capable of mediating between
the exterior reality and the innermost
sensors of experience then this inmost
sensor is all the more enabled to function
smoothly despite the corrosive potential of the

In this sense, the social construct of
time itself is dependent on the deepest
and longest lasting collaborative venture.
[this paragraph deleted in the notebook]

Time is a human construct. To grasp
its deepest meaning experientially is one
of the highest challenges of being. Einstein's...
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