Friday, September 03, 2004

 

Dance the dance of Frequency!

The Frequency Series Fall season kicks off on Sunday at 2:30 p.m.
with Gina Myers, Edmund Berrigan, and special friends.

As always, everything happens at the Four-Faced Liar: 165 W. 4th and 6th Ave.

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Thursday, September 02, 2004

 

The Green Arrow's Journal makes me to laugh and to laugh.

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Went to DEMO last night; it was better than I had expected, honestly. Political poetry kind of gives me the heebie-jeebies; I have the feeling everyone is going to show up with the impassioned verse they wrote on a napkin at four a.m. and it's all going to be somewhat adolescent and ill-advised. War and politics is hard to write about well. Many people seemed to realize that, though, and rather than reading their own poetry, read that of others, and those who did read their own poetry didn't generally appear to have written the poem in the last two hours.

Anyway, St. Mark's was packed to the gills. I ended up sitting on the floor way in the back, which didn't matter too much because they had a sound system set up. Extra vibrant/great performances by Anne Waldman (as accompanied on mandolin by Bethany of the Feverfew), the Living Theater people, the stranger known only as Zero Boy, and a surprise appearance by a talking nazi Republican mime (I kid you not). I stayed almost to the end, but drifted out around 10:15.

Best lines of the evening:

"Matriot Act!"

and

"The revolution isn't a movie that was shown in 1968."

But, then I went home and found this sitting in my room. Three inches long! Ugh! He died a shoe-y death.

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Dan

Beachy-

Quick

!!

Wow!

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Tuesday, August 31, 2004

 

Finish the analogy:

George W. Bush is to Winston Churchill as cheese is to ____.

(a) wine
(b) more cheese
(c) those little cracker thingies, whaddaycall 'em . . . Triscuits.
(d) the Necronomicon

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Not all that inspired lately. But I'm trying. Here's a thingy-thing.


I'm Not Imagining You Naked


You can't go to town in a bathtub,
But oh yes you can, and this car
Is the greatest thing since the erector
Set. Say no more, the quiet streets

Cast a pall over midwives pasting
Cauls on newborns to give their sideline
Work in fortune-telling some needed
Authenticity. And in this city, when

You hang fruit from the elm branches
In the pebbled air preceding dawn,
you'll breathe the chorus of the spiders:
a little sea-chanty, a little sideways

chant. You might as well lie down
right then, dream of bathtubs, dream
of tin lizzies and pony cars rolling
down the dream highways, passing

checkered flags and deserts, passing
fruit trees with the reflexiveness
of memory, trailing the definitive scent
of motor oil, of repetitively written desire.

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I'm having trouble reading this poem without hammering each final syllable like a gong. EEEEE!

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Monday, August 30, 2004

 

Reason #593b why Mark hates the Midwest. If those creepy-crawlies start migrating east, Mark might need to, you know, saw the East Coast off North America and create the new and funner continent of Eastcoastia.

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Back! No Olympic poem, but I did get to enjoy splendid views of New York while stuck in a holding pattern over LaGuardia last night. There was apparently a disabled aircraft on the runway. Fun! Anyway, going to work on getting the finishing touches put on some job applications this week, so that I can spend the weekend getting submissions for journals together. Next Tuesday, I shall bring the post office all manner of missive-y joy.

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