napowrimo

Monday, 31 March 2008

(They won't be all the same. But there will be reoccurring projects. This is the first one. Consider these NaPoWriMo I and II. Even though they're stories. Remember: can't stop a playa, bitches.)


THE MOST INTERESTING THINGS ALWAYS HAPPEN IN RACHEL AND MIKE'S PLATONIC FRIENDSHIP

I

URGENT CARE

Rachel and Mike sat in the Urgent Care. Sabertooth tigers had invaded Mike's upper left gut. Left is good: not appendicitis. "But what about atypical appendicitis?" said the internet. So Rachel drove Mike to the University. "Infirmary way," said Mike. "One time, my mom," said Rachel, "thought she had a heart attack, but it was just she'd never drank root beer before." Inside of Urgent Care, a television played gameshows about fear, including snakes. Mike wore a blue parka. Rachel worked on an essay about Jesus, fellatio, and Kylie Minogue. A girl screamed. She put a binder over her face. "I have a phobia about snakes," she said believably. The TV! Mike didn't know her but thought she was cute in a "Rule 1: Don't Sleep With Girls Who Look Like Your Students" kind of way, or "Ugg boots." "There are still a lot of snakes," said Rachel helpfully. "Don't look." Mike didn't either. It was a kind of flirting. "You have anxiety of the stomach," said Urgent Care. "Oh," said Mike. "What can I eat?" "Anything you want," said Urgent Care philosophically. Then Urgent Care said "I wouldn't eat a pizza." Mike and Rachel left. "You have nervous fuck-up disease," said Urgent Care, who then copy and pasted the medical history of the entire University community onto a SETI@Home message board.

II

CVS

Rachel and Mike stood in line at CVS. Rachel was buying condoms and a Whiffle Bat. "Stephen Malkmus is playing at Mass Mocha," said Rachel. "Really?" said Mike. "He's playing at a coffeeshop?" He was confused because Stephen Malkmus was famous and had even appeared recently on FOX News making bad jokes about security at art museums. "Mass MOCA," said Rachel cleverly. "It does sound like a coffeeshop," said the teller girl. "Excuse me," said the tired Russian. "Can I leave my bag here?" It was a large piece of brown luggage with wheels. "No!" said the teller girl happily. "You can shop with it. I don't care." "Oh. Are you sure?" said the tired Russian. "Sure!" said the teller girl. "Wow," said the tired Russian tiredly. He began to wheel his bag into the aisles. "Um," said Mike. In 10th grade, he'd been the only one who understood how much the Brazilian exchange student hated everyone. "You can leave your bag there," said Mike. "He doesn't have to!" said the teller girl. "He's just tired," said Mike. "Oh!" said the teller girl. "Then you can leave it there. It's not hurting anyone." The tired Russian smiled and said "Yes yes yes. I appreciate this." Outside, Rachel said "Kaboom!" "What?" "We're lucky to be alive!" "What?" "What if he had a bomb." "Oh. You're just saying that because you're Jewish," said Mike helpfully. Rachel's face surged. "Your people," said Mike. "They get bombed a lot." "That's true," said Rachel, with a normal face now, but a voice that was like a very small paper crane made out of tinfoil instead.

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went into the greenhouse put a bullet in his brain

This essay by Dr. Alan Kirby is blowing my mind: psuedo-modernism. It's all sort of obvious, but summarized and labeled in a way to feel super-obvious. Which is what the best philosophy does. Turns what you were "already sort of feeling" into a "theory." Or: I feel like I could give this essay to someone seventy years later, the same way you can give a European wanting to know about "the American desert" a copy of that Baudrillard book.

Thanks, Dr. Kirby. This infantile psuedo-modernist gives you a user-generated content thumbs up.

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****

Friday, 28 March 2008

My friend Alex Burford has what I think is its first publication up in listenlight, along with cool folks like Letitia Trent. Check it out or die.

Just kidding.

Also, OCHO #19 from Didi Menendez is out. I have a poem in there, saddled up next to folks like Blake Butler, William Stobb, Miguel Murphy, Ivy Alveraz. It's a free PDF. Here is the cover:

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public service grapefruit spoon

Tuesday, 25 March 2008

I am so over teaching comp.

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i messed up the handshake

Wednesday, 19 March 2008

I've a poem in Night Train 8.1. It's from the summer before last when I was really depressed and shit. I am a fan of explication: this poem is about innocence. And toothpaste. $$$.

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he didn't talk about peak oil

Tuesday, 18 March 2008

Silly guy. You can't make a thorough, nuanced speech that people have to, like, read. You can't deconstruct the petty rhetoric of this political climate. Or call yourself "imperfect" and generally tell the truth when everybody knows that politicians don't do such things. You can't make a concerted investment in the intelligence of the American political audience, nope. Not based on the CNN.com blog comments I've read, which--duh!--represent everyone in America. You can't concisely explain why poor white Americans believe in terms like "reverse racism" and why those beliefs stem from modern class inequalities. Did you forget that you're only out to help "black America," "the blacks," or some equally meaningless variant thereof?

You can't say: "... The most segregated hour in American life occurs on Sunday morning. That anger is not always productive; indeed, all too often it distracts attention from solving real problems; it keeps us from squarely facing our own complicity in our condition, and prevents the African-American community from forging the alliances it needs to bring about real change. But the anger is real; it is powerful; and to simply wish it away, to condemn it without understanding its roots, only serves to widen the chasm of misunderstanding that exists between the races." How are we supposed to condense that, yo?

You can't say: "This is the reality in which Reverend Wright and other African-Americans of his generation grew up. They came of age in the late fifties and early sixties, a time when segregation was still the law of the land and opportunity was systematically constricted. What’s remarkable is not how many failed in the face of discrimination, but rather how many men and women overcame the odds; how many were able to make a way out of no way for those like me who would come after them.

But for all those who scratched and clawed their way to get a piece of the American Dream, there were many who didn’t make it – those who were ultimately defeated, in one way or another, by discrimination. That legacy of defeat was passed on to future generations – those young men and increasingly young women who we see standing on street corners or languishing in our prisons, without hope or prospects for the future. Even for those blacks who did make it, questions of race, and racism, continue to define their worldview in fundamental ways. For the men and women of Reverend Wright’s generation, the memories of humiliation and doubt and fear have not gone away; nor has the anger and the bitterness of those years. That anger may not get expressed in public, in front of white co-workers or white friends. But it does find voice in the barbershop or around the kitchen table. At times, that anger is exploited by politicia ns, to gin up votes along racial lines, or to make up for a politician’s own failings."

You can't say: "Like the anger within the black community, these resentments aren’t always expressed in polite company. But they have helped shape the political landscape for at least a generation. Anger over welfare and affirmative action helped forge the Reagan Coalition. Politicians routinely exploited fears of crime for their own electoral ends. Talk show hosts and conservative commentators built entire careers unmasking bogus claims of racism while dismissing legitimate discussions of racial injustice and inequality as mere political correctness or reverse racism."

You can't say: "We can pounce on some gaffe by a Hillary supporter as evidence that she’s playing the race card, or we can speculate on whether white men will all flock to John McCain in the general election regardless of his policies.

We can do that.

But if we do, I can tell you that in the next election, we’ll be talking about some other distraction. And then another one. And then another one. And nothing will change."

No, you can't say any of that. All of it is too thoughtful, too outside the lexicon of the political horse race. Shows too much self-awareness, too much sensitivity to historical contexts. No, you need to spend more time acting like every other politician. You need to spend more time saying anything people want to hear. That's what you do, right? You need to spend more time being another comfortably arrogant and easily dismissed politician. Be scarier. Be stupider. Allow us to retreat--as always--into cynicism and disregard, so we can peddle our own self-interests, or our perpetually nascent and conveniently useless notions of change ("yeah he didn't talk about ___, screw voting, screw these big words, i'm an expert, screw this shit") that allow idleness and civic disinvestment.

If you keep talking like this, Barack, other people are going to stop feeling naive and actually start talking. Maybe even speak toward something tangible. We can't have that. No, sir.

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belly knife

Monday, 17 March 2008

I have a poem out in Pinch Pinch Press #1: Barnaby Jones, a new Ashland poetry journal edited by Bryan, Jess, and Alex. Plenty of good folks in there. You should pre-order. $5. Whadaya gonna spend it on, machine guns?

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the song is the single and the single sucks -- barr

Wednesday, 12 March 2008

Poems from Don't Wake Up It's Just Me are live at realpoetik. Check them out, yo.

Thanks, Ana! I like realpoetik a lot. They've been around since 1996 and have published people like Bill Knott, Clay Matthews, Aram Saroyan, and a lot of my friends. Cred. Mmm, cred.

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of course, there are other things that kevin isn't too

Sunday, 9 March 2008

New MC Oroville piece up at Pequin, a fine home for all the errancy you can fry.

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ask for a stomachache get a strip mall

Friday, 7 March 2008

DEDICATED TO BRADLEY SANDS NUMBER ONE

This is my theory of poetry: no,
really. I don't know in what
order or whatever. Line breaks:
you open a packet of cloves but
oops: a tiny Alice Notley's in--
six tiny Alice Notleys, sorry,
gift economy and sundry shit--
there instead. I meant theory of
my poetry, or this stadium of it.
Where I'm all giggle raped by
1) weird line breaks, 2) slight
rhyme, 3) a churning Levinas
concern i.e the i and the eek:
you. 4) "Sundry" up there was
"all that" a few seconds ago.
Sure, I scoot away from clarity.
Clear people are boring, good to
help evacuate a barn on fire. That's
it. Would tennis be fun if it made
sense? "Please explain that net."
I want people to meet "sundry"
again for the first time. Corn
Flakes said that first, I think.
A wonky word gift mission. Words:
sundry, giggle, blowfish, shit-
house, abeyance, dizzy and yolk
excite me like yes and should be in
Joshua Clover's poetry, and mine.
This poetry rehearses "feelings"
but leaves most in the tea bag.
Wait, Kenneth Koch said everything
crownable and then some other,
slightly funnier shit. Okay.
When I say "said everything
crownable," I don't have a hidden
MEANING. "Everything crownable" on
insurance billboards--dude, what a
shitkick! "Everything crownable" is
just something I'd find funny in
real life, if I saw it on a sticker.
When I read James Schuyler, I learn
hymns to life in an arbitrary fashion.
I am pretty much not ready for
peak oil, which is why I read
poetry, Bradley. About fadeouts and
schmucks, cuttlefish and paddocks.
I have no desire to save you. Or:
I'm not really into that right now.
Even if you don't know Alice Notely,
Alice Notley is still a cool thing to
say. Al hiss. Not Lee. Entertainment =
intertwine. The more I make what is
fun to me a little fun or sort of
fun to you, the less I want to
kill you. That is basically
Levinas, but you should read him
yourself and don't let anyone tell --

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