Monday Night Miscellany

Willow Springs accepted a poem today, "History." Interesting because they'd asked for revisions that were very small, two adjectives, really. I just took them out rather than find better ones. In this case, less, if only by a little, is more.

***

Saturday night, at the party, a student came up to me. He asked, "Were you aware two of your poems mentioned cryogenic freezing?" I had to laugh. I had realized it, after the fact. I'm not sure what's up with that.

Funnier still, I nearly read another poem which mentioned cephalopods, so I'd have read two cephalopod poems.

And then I have a few poems that mention the Pope.

So, I'm obsessed with cryogenically preserved cephalo-popes.

For those keeping score.

***

Starting, again, on the albatross-like memoir. I will pay you to do one of two things:

A. Write it for me.
B. Shoot me.

***

Listening to John Lennon, "Woman."

***

Happy Halloween. What are you dressing up as?

More Meacham

Each Meacham has its own vibe, some better than others. Safe to say this was one of the better ones in recent memory. Maybe it was the line-up of poets: Gerald Stern, James Tate, Dara Weir, Sebastian Matthews, Anne Marie Macari, Evie Shockley, and, uh, this pretender in a wheelchair. Him excepted, the murderer's row of poets was plenty exciting. But nicer still was the presence of an old friend from my days in Carbondale. Betsy Taylor and I entered SIU's MFA program at the same time. She was from Memphis, me from Chattanooga, and as such we bonded over shared geography. She shared an office with my best friend at the time so we hung out a lot in the crappy, narrow office overlooking the campus woods. She did a masterful rendition of The Robot, once atop the radiator by the window, which tickled me to no end. I requested it too often, though, and she began refusing. I was heartbroken. Fast forward some six years, stops in New York and Alabama between us, Betsy emailed, having found my blog, and we began to plan her coming over for Meacham. So she and her friend Sheri left Memphis and husbands behind and drove the five hours east. And it was really a wonderful time. Good weather, with the Blue Angels looping through the autumn sky for the weekend's air show, good readings and parties, and just plain fun hanging out with both of them made for a special time.

As for my reading, I mentioned I was ambivalent, and I was. When I finished, I thought to myself, well, that was so-so, even though people seemed to be responding. But afterwards Rick came up to me, said, "That was fuckin' fantastic, the best reading you've ever given, I mean it." I say that not to toot my own horn, if you will, but to illustrate what an unreal experience reading can be. I'm never nervous before one but I do tend to blank out, become unaware of surroundings, in a kind of tunnel vision.

As far as I'm concerned, the reading was on par with whatever I usually do, but it did seem to connect with others. So, good, I'm glad.

James Tate's reading was hysterical. He sat down, as he appeared to be recuperating from some ailment. I've met him once or twice before and I always wonder where all the funny comes from. He seems painfully quiet yet writes these nutty poems. Fun. Gerald Stern is a great old lion, loud and boisterous and direct, filled with wry asides. He broke into song, though I didn't recognize it. He has a way of closing his rangy poems that I admire.

After each evening reading there's a party. I rarely go. They're always in some spacious old Chattanooga home, with thirty-seven steps up to the door. I hate being the focus that way so I usually just avoid it by not going. But with Betsy and Sheri there and the house being a block down the street from me, I felt I had to go.

It took four or five guys to lift me and this tank of a chair up the four stairs but I made it without injury. They might not be so lucky. Once inside I was glad I went. Betsy and Sheri teased me about having a harem. Fun.

We were late for the Saturday noon reading as the deli lost our orders somehow while everyone else was served and soon finished. Afterwards, Betsy and Sheri had conferences with Sebastian Matthews and I went back to my apartment. Soon they were through, and took naps before the final party. At that party, scads of pasta was served, and the wine flowed in earnest. A lot of fun here. More harem teasing. Drunken songs on the porch. Jazz. Carbondale stories (my God, the things I'd forgotten). A late night call to Rodney Jones, who was passed around from Katey to Rick to me; the connection was breaking up when I had him, but he was ruminating on Libby's indictments of all things. By the time we left, most of the guys were drunk so getting down the steps was more than a bit dicey but I survived.

And Gerald Stern kissed me on the forehead.

Setlist

I was feeling ambivalent about the reading, for various readings. The last reading I did back in the spring was kind of awkward and so I was still carrying around that vibe. In picking out poems, I'm usually instinctive, though I focus on new work. True again this time.

I was up first. Beforehand I'd printed out several poems, walking to the reading, only sure of one I wanted to read. At five minutes till, I'd settled on two. I made up my mind:

The Numbers Are Not In
Praise
Ptolemaic Sunset
These Arms of Mine

I read short, as I was reading with two others. How did it go?

Find out next time....

Sow eye reed

So I read tomorrow at noon and I haven't given a thought to what I'll read. I should, um, do that. Tonight.

Suggestions? Requests?

Cool

Just heard from Zachary Schomburg, editor at Octopus: they want "Apologia" for issue 7.

And they can have it.

I'm a terrible person

Yesterday was the grand occasion of my award luncheon. I arrived at the civic center where it was being held, only to find roving hoardes of young teenagers running around. Inside, adults milled about. I could hear a piano tinkling away on "I Believe I Can Fly."

It was right about then my fight or flight instinct began keening, with the emphasis on flight. If I were Spider-Man, the little squiggly lines of my spider-sense, denoting impending danger, would have been going off.

But I didn't retreat. I signed in at the table and was given a raffle ticket then escorted to a table. Several people were already seated.

They smiled then began gesturing to each other with their hands.

They were signing. They were deaf.

In case you haven't yet followed the implications of this scenario all the way, allow me. They seated me, the guy who can't use his hands, with the crowd that use their hands more than anybody. There was a certain irony. So I just smiled and nodded a lot.

A few feet from me the keyboardist continued to be totally into the inspirational song of hope vibe. "The Wind Beneath My Wings" was not long in its debut.

A big crowd was gathering. I knew I wasn't the only person being honored. There were two other people receiving my award, and several high school students being honored as well. Which is great for them, but for me, I don't really feel like an "inspiration."

And, oh God, the door prizes. They were endless. Flower arrangements, gift cards from restaurants, t-shirts, radios, hats, dozens of hats from a car dealership. Door prizes easily added an hour to everything.

My congressman was there, pressing the flesh, shaking everyone's hand. His little green namebadge was cute.

Lunch was a kind of pasta dish. Not bad, not great. More signing. More me smiling.

And then came the special performance. A signing choir from a local school for the deaf marched an American flag across the stage until the one carrying the flag appeared to stumble but was steadied by the others. I thought he had stumbled until the gunshots rang out and realized they were soldiers. Ahh. Just showbiz. I'm with it now. Then began playing the single most bombastic version of The Star Spangled Banner I have ever heard. So loud that I'm fairly certain that this was a well-disguised attempt to make us all deaf as well, in a very X-Men, Magneto-like plot to remake the world. Very crafty, very crafty indeed, I say.

Later I received my plaque that was inscribed:

You are awesome for being disabled and not a total drag on society.

Well, no, not really, but that's the gist.

Really, it was a nice affair. I'm just a bad person, that's all.

Shuffle

Last 10 songs on my Dell DJ:

1. Rudie Can't Fail, The Clash
2. Living in the City, Stevie Wonder
3. Girl, You Have No Faith in Medicine, The White Stripes
4. Secret of the Sea, Billy Bragg & Wilco
5. Nothing Can Stop My Love, Buddy Miller
6. Homeward Bound, Simon & Garfunkel
7. So Cruel, U2
8. Photograph, Weezer
9. Everything Little Thing She Does Is Magic, The Police
10. Wildflowers, Tom Petty

***

What's your playlist?

Danke redux

PRAISE

Your whole life might pass without thinking

of the debt of gratitude you owe, say,

Walt Disney. Thank you, Walt, for Goofy,

the man-dog hybrid, wherever you are

cryogenically contained, cheating death

in that bunker beneath one ride

or the other. In thinking of this, I’m invaded

by happiness. I can’t even sigh

as the autumn sky deepens like your breath,

anonymous former lover, to whom

these poems are always piping

up, in what no one has ever called the armpit

of the night. That means I think

of you when it is unbearably dark

and the world has drawn so close

my face no longer dreams of secret proximities

but of dull air. Thank you, lungs,

for abiding even still, for never leaving

your obscure posts within the pink

shell of my only, my aerobic, my life humming

like heat. And thank you, Godard,

for saying the only things

a good movie needs are a girl and a gun.

In agreement I admit I am

tingling. In the silver fury of the light,

I’m dreaming of the red haired

girl and the murderous gun, like a cannon.

Thank you immense Escalade, thank you German Tuareg,

for not running me over each day

I’m speaking to the dogs who hate me

beyond even an animal’s reason,

thank you in spite of your blessed velocity

and your thirst for oil. I am

thirsty, too, but this is no surprise

to the ones I loved, the ones who helped define

for me the idea of direct address,

for it is your hair that fans out in the waters

of each sad poem and it is your heart

that is amazingly cruel

and thank you, living world,

that you do not cease, that you go on and on and on.

Solid gold

Let's revisit what was, in my own worthless opinion, the single greatest poetry blog thread ever:

Guilty Pleasures

Sad

Poet and editor David Citino passed away today.

Half

MAGIC

When I spoke to you and you alone,

when I did not pretend

I knew nothing,

or almost nothing,

as they must amount to the same thing,

it was easy to spend time

in the invention of kingdoms,

it was easy to name

the horse dying of fenced-in boredom

and for which

I could never remember a single sweet apple.

It was easy to walk

through the street

with my eyes closed

humming some sad song

I’d never reveal

to you now.

It was easy.

Easier than breath,

but that must be a lie—

if breath were easy, no one would choose to die.

Some days all I can do

is lift my name

from the unscented sheets

of the bed,

littered with the body’s colorless soil.

I think of your hand

and all the splinters

it has suffered

and with a word extract them.

It’s easy.

Poof.

I think of the many times

I’ve strayed

into the blown strands

of a spider’s web.

Nineteen years

have left me no stronger.

My face laced with invisible, intolerable silk,

your hurtless hands

I wish would appear.

Chrome

LONG MAY YOU RUN

It is so common, the mind singing to itself,

its weirdly silent voice you imagine

to be your own or the singer’s, looping

again and again upon the indelible,

the inescapable. It’s here you’ve come

to buy water or something dark and sweet

and alive, and above you, like odd

weather, piped music plays. Old and sad,

maybe, a song by Neil Young,

the one you never knew was about a first car,

a wreck of a hearse, impossible

to be anything but romance.

You can’t decide, you can’t decide,

if you’re happy now

that you do know what he’s singing about.

If love for the lifeless is enough

now to sing along, to shape your breath

into each word. Chilled air

spills around you like a fog

and you remember that it’s here you came

with her, after forgettable Chinese

and the false phonemes you sang to please her,

it’s here you came to buy condoms

you’d never use. In white

she would return to the rented bed

and what you loved

now you say you cannot quite remember,

though the song never ends.

eBuffy

For you Buffy fans, I'm selling off two season sets on eBay:

Season 4

Season 5

I'll be selling others in the coming weeks.

Props

The universe, she is a funny place.

I received an award today. But you, constant readers, need brief background first. From my days as an undergrad, through grad school and up to my taking the job at UTC, I received varying degrees of assistance from the Dept. of Vocational Rehabilitation, or more commonly known as the Dept. of Rehabilitational Services. What they provided varied, sometimes from year to year, but it usually was along the lines of room and board, my housing at school. My books, too, but I almost never used that because, taking a lot of poetry workshops, you need books of poetry, and you know how us poets are: we like to support the independent bookstore that operates out of a matchbox, in which I have to knock over nine racks of books squeezing through while the auditory anesthetic voices of NPR calmly fret over something or other, and, of course, this bookstore isn't a vendor with Voc. Rehab. So I always bought my own books and that was fine. Well, this agency's goal, in part, is to provide the disabled that can work the means to education or training so that they aren't dependent upon government aid their entire lives. Usually, this means a two year associate's degree or a bachelor's or some sort of training. All of which is great.

But then there's me.

They figured out fairly soon they had no real idea what in the hell I was up to. Poetry? What? People still write poetry?

So they pretty much left me alone, content I knew what I was doing, hopeful that someday, somehow, I might approach employability.

So last year, when UTC hired me, I think they could hardly believe it.

Today Voc. Rehab called to tell me I've won the regional Employee of the Year award, to be presented at a luncheon on October 24th.

I didn't have the heart to tell them.

Viggoliscious

I saw A History of Violence today. Good flick. I think it's being slightly overhyped by critics eager to embrace a more mainstream turn by Cronenberg that's also filled with top-notch work by Viggo Mortenson, Maria Bello, and Ed Harris. In that it's somewhat overrated, I don't really see that it's somehow a commentary on violence and America; I don't think that subtext is really there. It's a very affecting piece on violence, on the pressure it places upon the present and the past. It plays honest and true; you see it in their eyes. Excellent movie.

***

Of course, you might gather from this blog I'm seeing a lot of movies. And you'd be right. I get in for free so I see everything I'm interested in. I think I'll list, towards the end of the year, everything I saw.

It will likely surprise even me.

***

I'm beginning to think of not going to AWP in Austin. I fretted last year over the cost when I had the money and university support. Now I have neither and I'm thinking it may not happen. I just had to cancel a reading in Denver this month because I couldn't afford it.

I don't know. I may have to go if any job interview comes through. Which is always a huge if.

***

Feeling hale and hearty again. And the sun's been back. Thank God.

***

I got the time wrong for the movie today, off by 45 minutes, so I had time to kill. I was hungry, no lunch, so I walked next door to get a sandwich. Before I could pay, this young kid behind me, a teenaged guy, hands his debit card to the cashier, tells her he'll get it.

I protested, of course, but in that moment both people become conspirators of a kind. One is performing a generous act and the other is touched by the act and all too willing to swipe that card, or whatever is needed. I can't complain, really. This has happened fairly often in the last nineteen years, or some variation on it.

Once, me and two friends were waiting on elevator after seeing a movie. A man, without saying a word, sidled up to me and slipped something in my shirt, and walked off. When I looked, there was either a fifty dollar bill or a hundred. I can't remember which. The man was gone.

In Tuscaloosa, I was waiting to be seated in, of all places, an Applebee's. A man walked by, we nodded to one another on his way out, and I was taken to my table. Shortly, the waitress came back to tell me that my meal, anything I wanted, was already taken care of. That man had come back, taken care of the tab somehow.

And what do you do? It's a little embarassing, though not because it makes me feel, I don't know, like a charity case. It's not that. I understand that people do this sort of thing out of a very pure place in them, and I honor that. It really isn't about me and that's what makes it ok. That night, at dinner, in bed, the men tell their wives, maybe, about buying some kid in a wheelchair his lunch.

And it's not really me but a symbol. And that's ok.

***

God bless you, Aimee Nez. You know why.

If you

I'm dueling with a cold. Or something. But for the last few couple of days I've been feeling lethargic, headachey, cold. Most of yesterday I spent feeling crappy. This morning seems a little better. It may be just the change of seasons, my body not pleased with this damp, cool weather. Where's the sun? Where's the blue sky? Not until March? What? Crap.

***

Enjoying the baseball, though. And the NHL is back. Who knew?

***

I wrote three poems this past week, even one lingerie poem like we were talking about in the comments.

***

A pretty cool line-up of poets for Meacham:

Gerald Stern
James Tate
Dara Weir
Sebastian Matthews
Anne Marie Macari
Evie Shockley

***

Hi.

Serenity

You can't stop the signal, according to the lore of Joss Whedon's Firefly, but can his Serenity, the feature film reprise of the abruptly cancelled show, start the signal? Sporadically, it can. I should admit I've never seen an episode of the show, so maybe it's possible some of the problems I felt the film has are due to lack of familiarity. But, I don't think that's the case. Serenity does a pretty good job of introducing the world and its characters, so you keep up. But there are stretches in the first third to half of the flick where it sputters, where the story-line isn't quite working. Happily, the movie becomes more absorbing as it goes; it has one of the better bad guys of recent movies: his motivations are clear, understandable, even sensible, yet always monstrous in execution. He has a job and that job is bloody. So points for that. Otherwise, things are a mixed bag. An early action scene has laughably bad special effects at times, almost Playstation level; I'd be willing to bet it was added in late, in reshoots, to punch up the first act, hence the rush job on the effects work. Later shots are better but you somtimes still get the feel of TV movie. That's the chief challenge here: how to translate this to widescreen. Mostly, it kinda works, though if you saw it on TV you wouldn't inevitably think you were watching anything made for the theater. All in all, I quite liked Serenity, but I can't help but think Whedon's particular, peculiar genius is best suited for television. Which isn't a knock. His shows have a novelistic breadth and depth that a two hour movie just can't hope to contain.

Underwhere

So I got in the mail yesterday a postcard/coupon for a free panty. No, it was for a "free panty!" The exclamation point should not be excluded. Excitement over underwear is a good thing in my book, in my country, in the United States of Me. I think I stole that from Tony Hoagland. Oh well. We'll live. But, anyway, a panty, a free one. Panty is such a weird word. Eliot used to say that it was impossible to publish a poem with the word panty it; I'm sure it's been done, but I think his point was it's an awkward word. And by Eliot I don't mean Thomas Stearns; I mean, my old pal Eliot. And I'm using 'and' a lot today. I'm in a random mood.

But, back to the panty. You buy your girlfriend some shimmery, secret thing (obviously, I'm talking about aluminum foil) and you're guaranteed a lifetime of free panties. Curiouser and curiouser.

So I've used 'bra' in a couple of poems and felt they worked fine. But not panty. Have any of you? Let me know. If not, I challenge you to write a panty poem.

And post it here, or on your blog, and I'll link to it.

I'm waiting....