on the train... receding, receding, receding.... (sniff, sniff)

Yes, sadly, Blake Butler passed away last night. The omnipresent electronic friend-of-everyone expired in an insomnia-induced rage of language and, like the Monty Python parrot in that famous sketch, is now an ex-Blake.

No more, alas, will schoolboy-grinning Blake Butler apocalypse creation in every sentence. No, strike that! In every phrase! No, strike that! In every syllable.

Make room now O Pantheon of young ones ripped from us far too early. Jesus, move over. Joan of Arc, a little to the left. Catullus, get your cock out of JFK’s ass. And give Blake some space. (and Seth, quit gawking).

And, Mr. Chicago pastry-delicacy chef get your ass in gear (so safe on earth) and start on something. Seth was a swan– what will you make of Blake? A peanut butter rabbit? A marshmallow weasel? A treacle beagle? woof-woof!

And just thinking now of Man’s Best-Friend I am bawling. Bawling, bawling, bawling.

What internet void has our great leader Blake Butler left? What cold and massive black hole of rubbish will form around his e-grave?

And, no, Blake Butler is not dead. This is a fake obit.

And I’d like to see more actually. Bring them on.

Greener (and sweeter) pastures now-- bawl, bawl, bawl,.....

Jenni Russell

Click on image to see Didi’s 2009 collection.

and in to the brain

There’s something about hearing a poem. The brain engages differently than when you read it off the page. And today there are great on-line libraries full of writing recorded in the author’s voice. Like PennSound.

PennSound has recordings of hundreds of poets. Dead and alive. Famous and not so famous. Ashberry, Berrigan, Crane, H.D., Jorie Graham, Ezra Pound, W.C. Williams, Charles “The Hammer” Simic, James Tates, etc etc….And these files are all downloadable. So, you can listen to them on your Ipod while going for a walk. Or on the subway. Etc. Etc.

Sometimes when I can’t sleep (usually about 4 or 5 a.m.) I’ll listen to Berrigan’s Sonnets. They make all sorts of tired sense to me when I’m in bed listening to them. But when I try to read them on the page they’re virtually meaningless.

“What Blake was to the 19th century, you’re being to the 21st. Kind of an outsider shaking his fist at capitalism and the ludicrousness of it by examining its smallest unit, which is an individual, or the family.” (Eileen)

Preparing to Strip ???

To follow’s a brief interview with Justin Marks, author of a Million in Prizes

Rauan: what’s right and what’s wrong with the small (indie) press world?

Justin: I think there’s a difference, if only in my mind, between the small press world and the indie press world. I would say places like Greywolf and Coffee House are indie presses, whereas Octopus and Birds, LLC (the new publishing venture I’m working on with Chris Tonelli, Dan Boehl, Matt Rasmussen and Sampson Starkweather) are small presses. Indie presses have offices and staff, some of them paid staff, and a select few among those paid staff are actually making a living on what they get paid. Indie presses tend to be non-profit, or maybe funded in part by a university. In the small presses world, no one is getting paid. At best, small presses are recouping the money they put in to put out a book and sinking that straight back in to the press to publish the next book on their roster.

I don’t mean any sort of judgment in those definitions. They both have their advantages and disadvantages.

This is all just my personal experience, but in the small press world I see a really amazing sense of community. Small presses are often being run by one or two people. When they have the opportunity to get together, they form friendships. They help each other out. Team up for readings. Divvy up the work of organizing somewhat larger events that draw much deserved attention to their poets and their presses. I’m not saying indie presses don’t do this, but, in my experience, there’s a more communal spirit in the small press world. Maybe it comes back to money. Small presses stand no chance of making any money, so there’s nothing to do at the end of the day except hang out, have some drinks and fun with your fellow small press editors and poets. It’s a much more informal crowd. Or maybe I’m full of it.

As far as what’s wrong, I don’t know. Maybe I’m naïve, but I don’t see much that’s “wrong” with the small press world. Maybe the way I split hairs between indie and small presses is wrong. Mainly, I wish there were more small presses. I’ve had to turn away interesting books simply because I don’t the time and resources. If there were more presses, we’d have more books, and that can only be a good thing.

Rauan: Why do you go (or why have you gone) to strip clubs?

Justin: I haven’t been to a strip club in years. They really aren’t my thing. But I first went because I was curious. This was back in my undergrad years. So me and a bunch of friends, a mix of guys and girls, went to a strip club. I remember thinking how surreal it was. I mean, everywhere I looked, naked boobs. It wasn’t particularly arousing, but at the same time, I liked it. It was such a different world. I remember this one girl came out on stage dressed as a devil. VanHalen’s “Running with the Devil” was playing, then it was “Shout at the Devil,” by Mötley Crüe. It was all so cheesey and fascinating. I laughed out loud. Then felt really bad about that.

The last time I was in a strip club was seven or eight years ago. I was out in Portland, OR visiting a good friend of mine from college. That was a strange experience because the clubs there allow full nudity. I mean, it’s one thing to see topless dancers, but something different entirely to see a fully naked woman on stage. And when one girl went off stage, the next coming up would wipe the pole and the floor down with antibacterial wipes. It was so awesomely unromantic. Clinical, really.

Then there was this one other time: I was in Baltimore visiting a friend. Apparently all the porn in the city is kept on this one block. It’s where all the clubs are. It’s called “the block.” That was the nastiest, raunchiest, most debauched place I think I’ve ever been to. The clubs were very thinly veiled fronts for prostitution rings. And everybody seemed like they were on drugs. That was a little too much for me.

to read about this evening and to see video performances click here

and who says poetry is dead!!??

the great blogger?

Today, our plaza’s filling up with Day of the Dead Altars. Flowers, decorations, photos, information about the deceased, cigarettes, and of course, food and drink. And this makes me think about how I’ll be remembered. How any of us will be remembered. As wrestlers, plumbers, lovers, drinkers, writers, bad or beautiful bloggers?

What’s my altar going to look like? And will it be next to Seth Abramson’s? What’s going to adorn Blake Butler’s altar? Justin Taylor’s? Amy McDaniel’s? Adam Robison’s? etc, etc……I’m in a rush to see. But, we’ll be there soon.

So, what’s yours going to look like? What contain? Who will visit it? Who will care? Who will stand in front of your remembered image and paraphernalia and declare “Damn that guy was Amazingly Verbose”??

wrestler or plumber or blogger??

blogging again, woo-hoo!!!

Seth’s blogging again (The Suburan Ecstasies). And this time he’s butting heads with Mr. and Mrs. Lehman…..

That was the last contact of any kind I had with Mr. Lehman or his wife–the last time I spent more than a moment thinking of either him or her. When I wrote my methodology article for the Poets & Writers MFA rankings in 2009, I didn’t (needless to say) mention either of the Lehmans, or single out his employer, as the MFA rankings have absolutely nothing to do with the Lehmans generally or with Mr. Lehman’s employer specifically. So when Mrs. Lehman (Ms. Harwood) decided to pick a fight with me over the rankings I was (though perhaps I should not have been) more than a little surprised–as her blog, the official blog for the Best American Poetry series, normally has absolutely nothing to do with MFA programs, so there was no obvious reason for her to pen a screed about either the rankings or about me

To see it all go here.

I’m just glad to see Seth back in his real blogging shoes. I mean this man was meant to blog. So, love him or hate him, just enjoy. Just stand in the Seth-showers and enjoy !!!

the flag

One of the many things that drives me crazy (and it’s a wonder I’m not completely insane) is when people confuse me for my poetry. Thursday night I read in Houston. It was great. Dark bar. Lots of people. Rain outside. Organizers and audience warm and friendly. Except one person was too friendly. A fellow South African expat who thought that since we’d shared some common experience (so long ago) that we were now naturally and immediately blood brothers. (I also get this sort of thing for being Jewish). And he kept talking in Afrikaans which was cute at first.

“Your poetry made my balls tingle,” he told me, drunk, insistent, strange. But at least in English now. He just wouldn’t go away. Spoke about his mentor/teacher who’d just renounced everything and gone off to Tibet for a year. He’d be following soon. Not soon enough, I thought to myself. How about right now? And then things became more uncomfortable.

“But i didn’t like it when you made yourself a woman. That surprised me. That puzzled me.” And he looked so disappointed. And had also the look of a dangerous and unpredictable drunk who might at any moment start beating me up or even kill me. (I’m not a small person but it was nice at this point to have at my side the tall and solid figure of Gene Morgan).

This is the poem my fellow South African was talking about:

“You’re pushing me back down on the bed now and you’ve got my wrists above my head and you’re eating me out. Licking up between my breasts. It’s dusk. Your grip’s tightening. I’m sinking. Like fish in cool shade. Birds like planets——all ripped up.”

And I am thinking again and again of Catullus who had a similar problem with a couple of Yahoos. He took care of them in verse:

“I’ll fuck the pair of you as you prefer it,

Oral Aurelius, anal Furius

who read my verses but misread their author:

you think that I’m effeminate, since they are!

Purity’s proper in the godly poet,

but it’s unnecessary in his verses,

which really should be saucy and seductive,

even salacious in a girly manner

and capable of generating passion

not just in boys, but in old men who’ve noticed

getting a hard-on has been getting harder!

But you, because my poems beg for kisses,

thousands of kisses, you think I’m a fairy!

I’ll fuck the pair of you as you prefer it.”

I’m still not sure how I should respond to my fellow South African’s sort of criticism, his disappointments and confusions. Perhaps I should beat him up. Perhaps we should play rugby. In the rain. Or box. Go together on a killing spree. Or perhaps I should just take him in my arms and hold him and read Catullus to him.