One Hundred and Fourth Entry

Today's the day of the Dick Pig, so if you don't already know I assume you don't care. Here's some other things that happened today:

Jesus Christ rose from the dead.
Grindhouse opened and I thought it was lame (sight unseen!)


Anyway, Nathan and I are debating poetic process and inspiration and he brought up an interesting point: the elitism of poetry. Though he was using it to describe inspired poems over procedure poems, I think both forms are equally presumptuous, as I think all art is. An artistic statement is, at it's most simple a "look at this!" statement, and believing you the artist have something worth looking at is presumptuous. That is, unless you believe everyone does, which I'm afraid I can't really go along with. Even if I were to believe everyone on this Earth creates art worth looking at, it doesn't mean they do. Also, if I were to be honest with myself, I wouldn't want to see a lot of people's contributions. My personal taste would then dictate what was worth looking at. Wow! The audience member is elitist too!

Even if you work with found art, your perspective, your "hey, look what I found" instinct is what makes it art. And that statement is an elitist one, especially since you believe that your art has value to you, but more than that, that it will be valuable to others. It could be argued (actually it should be argued) that art has worth to the community at large, as the 'antenna' as Pound sort of put it, a force inexplicably tied to the pulse of humanity and thereby a way to come to terms with that which we don't understand: namely, the future. Anything that could really be considered art looks to the future and thereby addresses the foibles of the present. But maybe it's the self-evaluation as an artist that's elitist over the actual art? What do you think?

Everybody come out tonight and party it up.

Here's my poem:

SKATE

My water has a name, and it has a past;
we can walk up the incline and find our car,
cheap wine dribbling from our stupids,
empty car, now it's amazing, we hung around
in the snowbank, I am given scissors
and told to prepare the statue for its destruction.

I kick it off of the mantle. Let's use caps lock here.
Let's find new places to drink that stuff, let's enjoy
the mall, it's our space, clean architecture and fountains,
oh my god you left your diary out now I can read about
the ice, how it hurt the inside of your mouth how
you spit it out. Every single day walking
train tracks, don't lay down for the ants, swing
at the gnats but they don't go away. This summer's
so wintery. Let's do this now. I own
this town, I can't get enough of this coffee.

One Hundred and Third Entry

I'm doing that day before, what-am-I-gonna-read game today. Also, today's poem is kind of out there. Nathan and I have been politely arguing about a number of subjects and it's starting to show up on our blogs and it's a good thing, so says I. See you tomorrow, 8 o clock at Galapagos.

Here's my poem:

CALCULATOR

We're all doing really well at this rave,
my sequins rustle in the dark, melting
like wolf-faces, it's time to dance, wolves
smelling my genitals as I wait in line.
The ferris wheel contained gum wrappers,
beasts and vampires live together
with heavy coats, the vampires don't fear
death. The vampires cash in their chips
when they leave Trambulin's Castle,
which is a place I just made up.

Empty your plate before you kick out
your shoes, no swimming now. I guess
I'm pretty good looking to you, won't
you accept this gift? Your honor,
I never accepted gifts before but the lady
was covered in rain and my shirt
was all wet, this is who I am, your honor,
a machine climbing from the tomb
ready to claim my bloody-eyed children
and enjoy your products.

One Hundred and Second Entry

So I'm not opposed to process poetry by any means. I write in a process, although a rather strange process by which I will alight temporarily on things on my desk or things in movies and books. That's a process, just as any poets is, from Keats to O'Hara and on. But it worries me that "process" is taking over the process. By that I mean that the poet is becoming lost in what he uses. This happens from time to time in all art, the medium over-taking the message. As much as Lichtenstein and Warhol were great in the Pop form, there were plenty of painters who got overwhelmed by the style. In fact, how often have we seen a poet get overwhelmed by formalism? Sonnets and sestinas often sound forced and stiff because the writer isn't up to the challenge of overcoming the challenge of form, and it is a challenge: Here's a form of a poem, let's see you make it your own.

Those poets who are fascinated with the randomness of internet "poetry" or "spam poetry," and I've seen from time to time poems fashioned from pre-randomized words found in an email. This, to me, often is less interesting than other forms of 'found' poetry, and it gets on my nerves. Those poets who choose to use this stuff as ammo for poems should be wary, I think, of the submissiveness such a move implies. Anyone can randomize words; these programs you see in your spam mail prove that computers can do it just as easily as you can. This is a rant and the first of its kind on my blog. It is not directed (honestly!) at anyone, but rather at memories of past such horrible poems and imaginary poets I like to believe are gobbling it up. Anyway, wasting time.

Here's my poem:


OATMEAL

Frozen inside a form of currency.
This is where I step away from yon teacup,
motivating a walk outside and a talk
of our "arrangement." Let's carry bottles
of window cleaner, we'll climb the sides
of buildings and pretend to be busy.
I dropped a key into the drawer of scrolls.
It's not mine to get back, and now I'm in trouble.

They were gathering in the library,
wearing masks, I enjoyed it but I didn't enjoy
seeing it, just the sounds of the fanfare
filled me with the ebullience of the tyrant;
now I'm important and others aren't. Why
don't I tower over you with my fancy rings,
laughing like a Colossus on Google Maps?
The wind outside is driving me bananas.

One Hundred and First Entry

If it's late in the day, it still counts a today's poem. Just because I'm not early to bed, early to rise, I don't want to hear any belly aching.

Here's my poem:

CHALK

Air whistling through skylight.
Today is nominal, restaurants remain
closed. I painted the sign to represent
the direction your car should go. My taxes
represent a year of holes filled with sand,
beaches dug up and replaced with cheaper
beaches. My house lives there on the coast,
not the one I own but the one that should
be mine. I read a book about someone doing well.

One Hundredth Entry

WOW! I've written a hundred poems since I started this blog in (insert correct date here.) And not only that, I've written who knows how many very dreadful poems? I usually put up incomplete or imperfect first drafts, but some things are too bad to even be shown to people. Also, I got a fair distance into a novel which I have shelved for the time being. Okay, okay, only fifty pages. Still, I'm writing a lot, huh? I'm gonna celebrate by drinking. At Danielle Ilyana Ben-Veniste's birthday party. Anyway, it makes me feel like I'm starting out strong this month, and since I'm attempting to put most of what you'll be seeing this month into a manuscript, I'm glad to see the poems a'piling up.

Don't forget the DICK PIG REVIEW at Galapagos this Sunday.

And then I'll be reading at the 440 Gallery on the 15th.

Here's my poem:

PILLOW

It takes time for appliances to come on, first
you press the button and then they hum. While I'm
sleeping in the basement, why don't you let that record
play? I nuzzled with warm coils, reading my submarine
books, why can't I be the leader of a certain adventure?
I'm constantly deferring to things and to people.
This is my first day of school. Everybody's leaving
my records out in the sun, or dripping the remnants
of their meals onto my clothes while I'm outside,
arguing on the phone with one of my mothers.

Everybody's leaving. I was dressed to impress
but it didn't impress and I couldn't talk
to any of the party-goers. I opened myself
to you with a fork from the kitchen, we looked
and we looked but there was no sign of life
and the case was eventually left unsolved.
What a funny kid I turned out to know, the kind
who balls his fists at the chess table and smiles
at the bar fight. I'm the sheriff of this town now,
and I'll be with you in a minute.

Ninety-Ninth Entry

The excitement is high as I reach the one hundred poems mark, I'm sure.

Actually it took a hell of a lot longer than it should to get to one hundred poems. But what am I saying? I might die tonight! Boy would that look foolish.

I'm unhappy to tell you that today I had my first difficulties in completing my poem. Hopefully I'll shrug this off and keep up my pace. I think I will.

Preparing things for the mother of all poetry readings, AN EVENING WITH THE DICK PIG REVIEW. It is going to be a hell of a lot of fun.

Here's my poem:

UMBRELLA

Can't tell what animal is wearing human clothes.
Got your note. I'm going to sleep in the attic
which we constructed inside a box in the cellar.
The windows shimmer with weather,
and I cling to my little sweater.

I held the phone to my ear, anticipating the tone,
knowing the loneliness of the late-night operator.
I could see the single light on in her office,
the massive switchboard, muttering low with
clandestine behavior. I need you to sit
on the edge of the bed in your underwear
while I dial.

I tripped in the park, a deep puddle,
suddenly I was drowning, my bubble mouth
emptied, there was a green light underneath
the rocks, but I decided to swim to the bottom
and hold my breath.

My parents finally gave me what I wanted.
Now it is morning, and rain snuck in
through the window, blessing all the sheets
with cold, it didn't leave my body the way
the arrow did, and I stayed prone as an animal
until someone cleaned me off.

Ninety-Eighth Entry

I can't believe I overslept and was late starting this year's NaPoWriMo!!!!???!!!!

No use crying over it, I'll just be adding a day onto the end.

My friend, co-worker, and poet extraordinaire Nathan Austin, and his co-conspirator, the lovely and talented and funny Gabriella Horn are both writing for this month too. And of course Maureen, Shanna, and a murder of other more popular bloggers than I (not that I mind, mind you, it's the work that matters, damnit) will also be participating in this grand poetic feat of arms. Golly!

Here's my poem:

SUITCASE

Textbook re-written through bull-dozer
song stuck in head, five hours in bus,
here's where I am in the universe: the middle.
Thrown pail of paint on red wall does no harm.
Always spreading the waves of the questions
throughout garden parties enlivened with writhing queens.
I've left harbor by now, tear-wet letters addressed
to every lover, now asleep on the pale spanish lilt
of wooden guitar. Asleep at security post,
enjoy striped tie. Triangle at noon, square at noon,
circle at noon. People buried all over the place,
somebody ought to gather that stuff together.