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All tips welcome.
The poet I like most but understand least:
Laura (Riding) (Jackson)
Safety first
(Last week at Mezcal's in Park Slope.)
We found a safety vest hanging near the bathroom and
D convinced me to wear it while swilling margaritas.
When we left it at the table three hours later, the busboy came running out waving it: "WAIT. WAIT. You forgot your VEST!"
The Return of the Concho Belt
[Expired.]
Just saying.
I prefer to think of my interest as overlapping.
Welcome to my bibliomania.
Trying to slim-down the bookshelves--just a little. Thinking I could stand to get rid of a few things. Yet. Yet the book-I'll-never-read-and-didn't-even-pay-money-for-and-don't-like-regardless hovers uncertainly over the box. Don't even get me started on books by Important Poet of the Past Whom I Might Just Have to Reference Quickly at Some Point in the Future but Whose Entire Collected Is Already on the Internet.
I have lovingly covered books in acetate (all hardcovers receive this treatment chez Compton-Hollyfield) that I do not believe are worth the paper they are printed on.
And how did I come to own three copies of Dylan Thomas's Collected Poems. They have different covers, that's how.
Must...drop it...in...box.
Isn't it funny?
How sentences aimed not at you hit you anyway? A magical indictment coming down from someone who doesn't even know you're alive!
Buck that shit, my friends.
I'm alive tho.
How're you?
Today is Friday and sitting by the open window is no-better-word-for-it nice.
Poetry as insurance
The summer fiction issue of
The New Yorker contains an advertising insert by AIG (American International Group, Inc., an insurance company) called
Well Versed: Poems for the Road Ahead: Inspiration for Young People of All Ages.Yes, Robert Frost is in there. Guess which poem?
And Rudyard Kipling's "If."
And "First Fig" by Edna St. Vincent Millay [which I find perversely humorous].
And Rilke's "The Future."
And "Ernest Hyde" from
Spoon River Anthology.Then there are three contemporary poems (the only ones with copyright attributions) to round things out.
The only copy inside the little booklet is the poetry. Each poem is accompanied by a colorful painting. It's 5.5" square and saddle-stapled.
The copy on the back--one would think--should serve to tie together the message about just what poetry has to do with insurance. But it doesn't. "In life, there is no substitute for experience. The same goes for your money. 85 years of helping families...." Etc.
Somebody pitched what amounts to a chapbook poetry anthology to an insurance agency as a way to market their services to "young people of all ages" who read the
New Yorker...and it flew.
Stunning.
There. I said it.
I like my own poems.
Uh oh
Someone in Italy is searching my blog for "School of Quietude."
You won't find that term here! (Oh, well, I guess you will.)
A view re: reviews
I tend to just ignore or quickly dismiss the zing zing reviews, the antirecommendations, the trashings. What use? There's enough in the world to
prevent me from reading already.
What I like and find useful is the piece that makes me excited about a book or author or idea or genre. Doesn't have to be all praise; don't misquote me.
What I love is when they make me change my mind. They say "don't dismiss this" in a way that makes me go "OK!"
Viral marketing
Provoking the blogosphere's annoyance by writing that blogs are annoying...in a print journal.
Yawn.
Just started
Just finished
If you like New York City history, art, architecture, cursing, Irish gangsters, blue-collar tough guys, misty-eyed tales of the Old Country, Tamanny Hall, cursing, guns and gun-running for the IRA, crooked cops, gun molls, the Empire State Building, cursing, shootouts, car chases, money laundering, and mayor's girlfriend's nieces named after me, you'll LOVE
Empire Rising.Seriously, TK has written a damn excellent novel.
Another friend when asked for her opinion said simply, "I can't think of anything I like better." Right on.
Your summer reading is waiting for you. (Sorry, no paperback yet.)
Ack! Pyschobilly freakout!
It was one thing to witness the Ramones lease a song to a Budweiser commercial. At least it's an unpretentious beer, and cheap at all-ages shows.
But...
Reverend Horton Heat as the soundtrack for the lastest Boston Market ad?!
Too much!
Did develop sudden craving for steak, true. But not from that blechstaurant.
Dear
David: Please take care!
Jordan: Happy birthday (and feel better)
Everybody: Whatcha up to? Slow weekend here. Not much accomplished except planning stages. Feeling flat about that, or rather alternately low and high. Enjoying the faux breeze alternating with hot sunshine. Even flip-flops will give you blisters!
Coming (really) soon...
By the way...
I apologize to any of you who read the backsass that briefly appeared in this space yesterday. I was attempting to rib but maybe poked a little too hard. I'd had a couple of Mezcal's margaritas with Nester.
What was I saying, for those of you who missed it? Oh, just what
the robot always sez better.
Pardon my drool
If you are a New Yorker and you eat meat, you have the opportunity to taste
my favorite barbecue this weekend in
Madison Square Park. Skip the sausage. Skip the poultry. Go for the beef brisket. Trust me. The Salt Lick rocks.
IF you have room for seconds, get some of
Ken Callaghan's Blue Smoke 'Cue. He let me tour his kitchen once and passed a quadruple-Texan taste test! His brisket is smokylicious.
(Thanks to Reen for the heads up!)
NOW AVAILABLE: Half Empty/Half Full Broadsides
Half Empty/Half Full created a series of limited-edition poetry broadsides featuring the work of Soft Skull poets for
BEA 2005. Each is 13 x 19 on archival-quality matte watercolor paper printed with acid-free ink.
The broadsides are $6.00 each + $4.00 for Priority Shipping (for up to 4 broadsides). Please click PayPal separately for shipping charge. Thanks!Please note: these are not letterpress broadsides. They are printed on a high-resolution ink-jet printer on heavyweight matte art stock. They most closely resemble watercolor paintings.1. Jen Benka's "Order," from A Box of Longing with Fifty Drawers
6 copies remaining, signed & numbered. SOLD OUT!
2. CAConrad's "Poets Refine Money," from Deviant Propulsion
6 copies remaining, signed & numbered. SOLD OUT!
3. Jennifer L. Knox's "Spring and Still Some Short" from A Gringo Like Me
20 copies remaining, signed & numbered. 5 overruns (not signed). 1 defective (minor error could be trimmed or covered w/ a frame). 
4. David Lehman's "Jim & Dave Defeat the Masked Man" from Jim & Dave Defeat the Masked Man
20 copies remaining, numbered (not signed).
Shipping for 1-4 broadsides via Priority Mail. (Sorry US only. Click ONCE for up to 4 broadsides.)
Puzzled
How in the world can "sad culvers" be taken to mean "erect [male] nipples"?
The thought of erect nipples as pigeons (their beaks perhaps?) is some image. Perhaps raising associations of pigeon's (or dove's) milk? Though bird milk is not milk, per se. Pigeon's milk is tied to a traditional April fool's joke. Is this a joke?
"Culvert" would make another kind of sense, being a drainage or other kind of ditch or tunnel (like the kind cows pass through under a road from one pasture to another--we call those culverts). But I suspect no mistake.
Calvers? As in that which calves. More bovines. 'Nother pasture.
Hugenormous dictionary & internet no help. Puzzling them pigeons. Move on.
Bookish abandon
Received a bouncy bounty of ordered books in the mails recently in anticipation of ACTUALLY HAVING SOME TIME THIS SUMMER TO DO SOME NONREQUIRED* READING, including
Josh's new one which is my my my just astounding coming out of the envelope. There's no picture on the Spineless Books website and only minimal descriptive copy, so all my expectations were focused on what would be
inside the book. But the book itself is a poetic experience. Very beautiful. Stunning even. It has a hot bod. Perhaps I will photograph it for you. Looking forward to that one very much.
Also packages of reissues and some classic (if I may) avanty theory and some MUST READS from my evergrowing new & old MUST READ LIST, which has a category for "Blogosphere General" that is a catchall for all the books that ripple through your virtual pages. I love how the books wash up to me from you. Thanks.
And still anticipating that lovely little pile from Effing. It's almost like being in love with someone who doesn't requite--pining for these books I don't yet get to read. An achy almost broken feeling but with just enough juicy bright hope.
If only summer would look my way. We are meant to be.Maybe I should retitle my list UNREQUITED READING, hmm? This is a bodice-ripping post.
Oh, soon. Perhaps when I have more time to read I will also have more to TELL YOU. Kiss kiss.
* Not in the sense of being inessential, no way; rather in the simple sense of not for work, pay, research, or other obligation. Best kind.
Weekendy
1.
BEA is really really boring and even annoying. Except when somebody comes to the booth and gets all excited about
one or
more of the
books. Or when yr poets are signing their broadsides. Or when a
sloth goes by in a diaper.
2. The
inventor of the Magnetic Poetry Kit is, by his own admission, "not really into poetry." Sean McNally suggests "Maybe he's just really into magnets."
3. Shafer Hall & Matthew Thorburn are still plenty poetical, even if you walk in moments after they've concluded their
reading. As is Maureen Thorson, hours before her
reading. Poetical is an enduring state. And it comes with chipped ice & soda!
4.
Glengarry Glen Ross is [still] fantastic [again].
5. Oh, and in case you
missed it Saturday:
Quotable-icious
"...[T]here is no failing in writing, which is, after all, not really a test to be graded by others; which is, after all, a vocation/avocation of, and vacation from, externally defined Life." --Steve Tills (who's back at the Black Spring blog)
It's official: I'm an author
Spooky mojo
I will be sure to let you know (Dan) when books arrive, but I have just heard a wild tale of Texas weather that more than excuses the slight delay.
A riproaring gullywasher with a lightning whip, thunderous spurs and um hoof-sized hail galloped through Austin this week, zapping computers (via the cable connection, despite the surge protectors!), throwing trees at cars and spitting flames from household outlets for a distance of 2 ft.!
When Texas has weather, it has
weather. The same storm is responsible for the lightning that set the Oasis restaurant ablaze, ripped the roof off an apartment complex in my hometown, and made a godawful mess of the purdy little city of Fredericksburg.
Property damage aside, the good folks are fine...and the spookies resting innocently in their boxes are not letting on that they'd anything to do with the storm.
So light a candle for the UPS man and have a slicker handy, because they're supposed to be shipped this way today.
BEA kick-off party TONIGHT!
You don't have to be involved with the retail or industry sides of the bookworld to enjoy a good show...so here's the scoop on the Soft Skull/Broken Pencil BEA Kickoff Party:
Free stuff! Andy Friedman! Tennessee Jones! Derek McCormack! More!
Hope to see you
there.
I am printing the first of the broadsides now...
& they are totally HOT!
Facing it
I don't know if this [what? feeling? complex? neurosis?] has anything to do with what Josh was saying yesterday, but Sunday was the first time I had been to "Ground Zero" since before September 11, 2001. And it was on accident, on my way to a wedding in Jersey, transferring to the Path train at the completely rebuilt WTC station (which I purposely avoided last time I went to Newark "Liberty" Airport even though it meant taking the very long way around).
From the station you can see the...well...the hole in the ground where the buildings once stood, through open meshwork panels with NYCentric slogans printed on them. You are
in the fucking hole. The station is beautiful and clean and it is even sunny, airy, fresh feeling. People are snapping photos, taking video.
It hadn't occurred to me that I would be there. I stopped moving. I moved when I found the escalator beneath me. I cried. I couldn't help it. I sniffled up quickly and stood on the platform joking till the train came. I boarded the train and sat with my back to the hole. We pulled out of the station. I breathed.
On September 11, 2001 we were living in Long Island City, Queens, near the East River, with a stunning view from our kitchen of the Empire State Building and half-way down the length of Manhattan. From the waterfront park a couple of blocks away we could see all of the island. We'd been in the neighborhood a little more than a week. That's where I was standing, on Pier 4, when the towers fell and for a long time before that watching them smoulder. Crumple. First one. Then the other. No TV screen between me and it. I heard it. Smelled it. Got it in my eyes. A woman fell to her knees next to me and nobody moved to help her. We moved back to Brooklyn a few months later. I didn't want to look anymore.
I just wasn't ready to see it. I don't know if I'll ever be ready.
Can't write it either. Can hardly read it.
Ooh ooh...Oulipo!
People, you MUST have this book. Finally, the revised and updated edition of the
Oulipo Compendium, edited by Harry Mathews & Alastair Brotchie is being released by Atlas Press. Click
here for the details and preorder your very own for a discount!
I have the earlier out-of-print edition of this book and have photocopied it and loaned it to death. I may just order 5 right now for gifts.
What else can I say? You have no choice. Obey the Oulipo.
Gamers: Writers, Artists & Programmers on the Pleasures of Pixels
LIT 10
Down Spooky: Poems
