I found a John Wayne paper doll book at my in-laws house. I'm not allowed to cut them out and play with them, which is a real bummer, because playing with John Wayne paper dolls is a life long dream of mine.
John Wayne wore cowboy boots all the time...apparently, and long underwear. All the John Wayne's in the book are wearing that exact same outfit. The strangest thing, though, is that if John Wayne had facial hair in the movie, the paper outfit is an entire John Wayne minus the eyes. I was going to put that here for you, but it was just too scary.
You'll thank me later, I promise you.

There is a secret about Iowans.

The secret isn't bad teeth, but kinda is.

The secret isn't holes in your socks,
but it does remind you of them.

The secret is Iowans love Iowa.

Especially Iowans living
in non-Iowan states.

But when they come home
to Iowa, they love everything.

To be in love with everything
is to be in love with Iowa (Logic
will bother you with that for months).

That time you walked into the ballpark
you were walking into Iowa.

That time you wrote about the moon
and how it smells, you were writing
about Iowa.

That time you were talking about sleeping bags
you were talking about Iowa.

And there are tons more.

It's fun telling secrets...

Cheap visual joke disguised as e-mail inbox

1. My 5 second thought continuum
2. The order in which I wash in the shower
3. It turns out I've only got two real friends
4. "I am not just thinking about myself"
5. Plot points on the narrative arc of my next short story

Rabbit Light Live

If I could be a musician, I would be a Roy Orbison impersonator. I would wear big black prescription sunglasses. I would wear them all the time, only, not to bed. Big black prescription sunglasses break in bed, silly. I would become a master impersonator. There are those that would consider me a ghost. There are others that would forget Roy Orbison is dead. After some time on the road I would take my Roy money and commission myself a time machine (I would have done this myself, but mastering Roy's mannerisms was a real eater of hours). I would then take this time machine (after the proper tests had been done to ensure its safety) and travel back to the 50's. I would do this for two reasons. One, it's what one does with a time machine, apparently, and two, I would become Roy Orbison. I would "write" and sing all his songs. I would become a hero to both country AND rock singers. I would have a brief period of obscurity. After that brief period of obscurity I would sing in a band with Bob Dylan and George Harrison and a couple of other guys who really wanted to be in a band with Roy Orbison. I would play a show with Elvis Costello and Tom Waits that would become the #1 money raiser in PBS history. I would win a Grammy and then drink Diet Coke from it. I would make my friends watch me drink Diet Coke from it. I would then say, "would anyone else like to drink Diet Coke from Roy Orbison's Grammy?" Then I would die without abusing the fact that I still owned a time machine, thus giving up the opportunity to live as Roy Orbison forever. I would do this because one lifetime as Roy Orbison should be just the right amount of time to be anything, but especially to be Roy Orbison.

But then again, I might do this:

Rabbit Light Live

Sara Veglahn / Arda Collins \ Hoa Nguyen / Srikanth Reddy \ Noah Eli Gordon / Sarah Gridley \ Lily Brown \ Christopher Stackhouse / Lisa Fishman \ Abraham Smith / Richard Meier \

Rabbit Light Live

Saturday February 14th. 9pm.

New Wave Coffee.

2557 N. Milwaukee Ave.

Chicago

Free.

There are two things I want you to remember. Well, two things I want you to remember right now. One, Mathias Svalina has some more game objectives and directions poems up here: http://www.laminationcolony.com/. Read other poems there too. They are like bows on presents. Second, go and read Ryo Yamaguchi poems at Word For/ Word: http://www.wordforword.info/vol14/Yamaguchi.htm. Then when you're done with that tell your friends that you just read some poems by this totally awesome poet. Maybe you've heard of him, you'll say. His name's Ryo Yamaguchi. Oh, you haven't heard, you'll say. He's the next big thing, you'll say.

I dare you...

Me and my numb fingers are going to bed. I will tell them I love them, but they won't saying anything in return. They are unfeeling fingers.

Tonight, the biggest full moon of the year reared its' ugly head. I took a walk to see if I could find it. For awhile, I had no luck. I walked to the park...no moon. I walked to the church...no moon. Finally, when I got home, I found it. My mom was right, you don't need to roam very far to find what you're looking for. Lesson learned: the moon will always come to you...

Top 5 Books of 2008

1. "My Vocabulary did this to Me" the Collected Poetry of Jack Spicer
2. "Inland Sea" by Brandon Shimoda
3. Wave Books' "State of the Union" Anthology
4. "The Battlefield Where the Moon Says I Love You" - 2nd ed., 2008 printing with note by Forrest Gander, which is how this book is a legal addition to this list...
5. After "Battlefield" and Spicer, who the fuck has the time for a fifth book

This list was really hard to make as this year I fell off the "new" book wagon and started going back and filling in the holes in my personal canon. A few authors whose non-2008 books I read this year were: Abraham Smith, Graham Foust, Mathias Svalina, Frank O'Hara, Daniel Borzutzky, Jason Bredle.

These people are all responsible for poems that made me feel stupid, awed and inspired...

Today, Anne and I were eating lunch with a friend. Anne's phone rang and, as to not be rude, she quickly turned off the ringer and went back to her story. But then her phone rang again...and again she silenced the ringer. 2 seconds later my phone started ringing. All 3 calls had been from her sister, so, now assuming emergency I answered my phone.

Emergency?

No.

Just Anne's sister really wanting to tell us that she has a class with Tom Selleck's body double from Magnum PI.

I don't know about you, but I was totally glad she called, and I only had to harbor the idea of a dead loved one for a few seconds...

Eric Baus Reading at Pete's Candy Store: 12/05/08 from Octopus Books on Vimeo.

This is Eric Baus. He has a few new books coming out soon. It makes me giggle to say that I'm doing one of them. Spring 2009. Watch this and then watch for that...

I like Eric Baus. This is why I like Eric Baus. When the world populace is handed a connect-the-dots page, we push our pencils from dot one to dot two to dot three and so on. When Eric Baus is given a connect-the-dot page he doesn't worry so much about the order as he does the possibility. In other words, Baus is constantly challenging us to see the beauty of the unconnected dots. To wonder at the absence of the whole, the complete, to marvel in that lack of knowledge...

I celebrate Christmas. Hard. These are pictures of Christmas. They were taken recently. I think that means it's Christmas time. My apartment is steam heated. The colder it is outside, the warmer it is in our apartment. By the time I get bundled up to take the dog out, I'm sweaty. By the time I get unbundled, I'm sweaty. Outside, I wear a fleece jacket, a scarf, mittens, winter coat, hat and snow boots. Inside, I wear gym shorts and t-shirts. I took our apartment's temperature the other day. It was 84 degrees. I'm not old and so 84 degrees is really warm. When it's 84 degrees outside, I turn on the air conditioner. I sweat in my sleep. It's like summer camp. I think birds are trying to migrate to our apartment. My grandparents are wintering in here. It's hot...

I'm reading Graham Foust's Necessary Strangers. Has it ever occurred to anyone else that Mr. Foust is a much cooler Steven Wright? It has to me. I don't mean that dismissively either. Steven Wright is often boring, Foust never is. They also have similar delivery styles/speaking patterns. I think the world needs more Graham Fousts, but not so many that it gets boring. Than he'd just BE Steven Wright, and as I mentioned, Steven Wright is already boring (sometimes).

It's a glitterpony

You probably gotta see this: http://glitterponymag.com/poetry/Mathias-Svalina/Hide-Go-Seek

This poem took all of three lines to become one of my favorites this year. Svalina has a knack for capturing the simultaneous wonder, terror and violence of childhood. And this poem might be the exemplar. I think I'm going to name my battle steed Exemplar. I will say, "Exemplar, come to me!" And he will. And I will mount him. And I will grab a weapon stuck in the ground, maybe mine, maybe not. And I will ride. Just ride. Until my thighs get all hivey and swollen because of an acute allergy to horse hair (did I mention that I would ride bare back?). I will then dismount and look awkwardly around because I've got a bad rash and this weapon that I really don't know what to do with. And then I will think of this poem and fall asleep next to my steed Exemplar, but at a safe allergen distance. And it will be a good, deep sleep.

It's in cases...

Abraham Smith from joshuamarie on Vimeo.

Dear friends,

The Eighth Episode of Rabbit Light Movies is up here

http://www.rabbitlightmovies.com

Featuring: Nathalie Stephens, Ben & Sandra Doller,

Ed Roberson, Abraham Smith, Lisa Fishman,

Laura Goldstein, Nicole Wilson, Dan Beachy-Quick,

John Keene, Lily Brown, Patrick Culliton, Philip Jenks,

Eleni Sikelianos, Tim Yu, Rick Meier, and Susan Scarlata

yrs,
jmw

I feel a bit more explanation is due...I was actually on my way to check it out one last time before I graduated when I bumped into a friend and absentmindedly walked out of the library. As we all know, in most cases an alarm would have gone off, only this day it didn't. I was in my car before I even realized I still had it in my hands. And, as I was the only person to have checked the book out since it began circulating in 1976...I just kept it.

Am I bad person? I kind of feel like I am...

Microwavable Review: Brandon Shimoda's "The Inland Sea"

The Inland Sea is 450 km (280 mi) long from east to west. The width from south to north varies from 15 to 55 km (9.3 to 34 mi). In most places, the water is relatively shallow. The average depth is 37.3 m (122 ft); the greatest depth is 105 m (344 ft). It is also the kick-ass new chapbook by Brandon Shimoda.

Beautifully written, the book basically comes down to this: Shimoda's poems fill in the steps left between our history and our present. Well, specifically his history and his present, but the desire to do so is quite universal. Shimoda's book begins with the recognition that we often know nothing of ourselves/our fore-bearers, and what we do know is usually the Sparknotes version, and that this is unacceptable: "makes no difference in times like these/ without bothering to unfold the map/ or take it from its sleeve..." From this point, Shimoda is writing a history worthy of the circumstances.

The nuts and bolts of the book are just as equally admirable. These poems, like the stories they tell, are reconstructions, much like that second set of instructions that come with LEGO sets. The pieces are all still there, and what they make is something new, but acutely familiar. There are little rhythmic runs in the poems that remind us of Coleridge. There are bits that read like haiku. There is even some flash fiction thrown in for good measure. What's significant about this though, is the emphasis it puts, purposefully or not, on how we express narratives, and perhaps more so, the weight we put on one type over another: What makes a credible narrative?

Shimoda's book is full of very beautiful things, even the tragedy of atomic warfare is made beautiful, as can be seen in the poem, IRRADIANT, "In one week from now/ you will be seen anew/ though the light will catch/ you incorrectly." Many poets color violence in pretty shades of pink and yellow in order to talk about it, but Shimoda ups the game not by simply making it prettier, no, he goes out and makes it more interesting. The result? We stop and consider these events all the more. We make them ours. Their effects becoming a part of our consciousnesses, our lives.

Well played, Brandon Shimoda, well played...

Sometimes I take pictures when I walk my dog. Some guy talking to himself threw me a strange look last night when I was taking these. I have shaky hands (all the amphetamines) and have to set the camera down so I can get non blurry pictures. I bet that does look weird. Especially since I have my dog with me, and she doesn't like taking pictures.

I hope no one minds me throwing up my sad and worried pictures here. If I can get into the habit, I might start a separate blog for them, but in the time being...your welcome.

Flurry. Blurry. Slurry.

It's snowing right now. It's also November, so it still seems quaint. Come March this story will have a completely different ending...

I drank, and am currently still drinking, too much coffee this morning. You know how I know? My stomach is making sleepy cow noises...or horny cow noises, maybe. I don't know much about cows. But I did draw this picture of a cow. I know a lot about cow meat. When I was younger, and my parents made the grand claim as to having bought half a cow, I started wondering about halving cows. I came to the conclusion that the only fair way to halve a cow is to go right down the middle. I found out later that the halving of cows is not that exact of a science; it's not like splitting a soda. It turns out it's more like splitting a Popsicle...

So, I live in Chicago...proper. I've been downtown only once in the last 6 weeks. Is this weird? I mean, I can see downtown from my house, but then, I guess you can see downtown from Indiana, so I guess that doesn't hold water... Anyway, I think the combination of being both poor and lazy has made downtown a bit of a hassle. Do you live in Chicago? Do you go downtown much?

I watched Jodi Foster's "Home for the Holidays" last night. I think that might be the greatest holiday movie ever. It represents, perfectly, that mix of dread and excitement we all have about going home... It's like when you screw up at work and then spend the next few days praying nobody notices; it's only good when it isn't bad.

I've been reading, rereading in some cases, the poetics anthology, "20th Century American Poetics." It was the last book I "previewed" when I was still teaching. If I ever teach again I think I'm going to use this book. It's range is broad, covering the Modernists, Post-Modernists, and people in between and after, but it's focus is direct. Here's a secret: I love modernists. My favorites in this collection are Williams, Pound and Moore. Stevens, I think, comes across as a little dry. Too dry. Jack Spicer's bit on performance is great, and I would have loved to have seen him screaming his poetry in a bar.

Speaking of Spicer. Have I ever told you about the letters to James Alexander of his in jubilat 5? They are amazing. I'm on my 3rd copy of that magazine. I keep giving it away. Well, lending it out and never getting it back. I wonder if these letters will be in his collected. Do you know? Will they? I hope so... These letters taught me the importance (for me and my poetry) of content over form, and how to write love poems in a non-Romantic world.

My new bio: B.J. Love makes spreadsheets. He also manipulates them. He shares this relationship with many other things as well; facts, sandwiches and poems. His poems are often good, though more frequently, not good enough. As a child he stole candy. As an adult he pleads the 5th.

The Science of Museums

Okay, so I've said this before, but I think Johannes Gorranson is going to change the way poetry functions in academia.

As of today there are two truths to contemporary poetry: One, it is an active, practiced art form relegated to the academic pursuit of literary study, or English Departments, meaning that poets write in the same places they study, which, by proxy alone, stunts creative possibilities/desires. Two, it burdens the "teaching" of poetry with teaching, a mandated curriculum that must be approved by heads of departments, that is often too instructional and controlled and often times functions more as an apprenticeship rather than a space to grow a distinct voice. Donald Hall has written about this many times over the years, as have others, but Gorranson is one of the first to offer remedies, or in the very least, the beginnings of remedies.

He says:
One way to move beyond this impasse is to pose student-centered, problem-based challenges, in which student have to read up on poets and writers in order to solve a problem in their own ways, based on their own views and interests. For example, you give them a bunch of ideas about performance and some performances and you leave it to them to figure out what a performance should do and how to do that. The teacher is according to this model more of a guide and less of an authority who imparts knowledge. But you have to abandon the set idea of what good poetry (or craft, form) is.

The problem he poses in that last sentence is a formidable one and the question that arises from it is kung-fu master in nature: How does one teach without teaching? I think in many cases the answer can be found in the workshop.

In workshops we are encouraged to get the "bottom" of things, and then we are told what that bottom is, what effective criticism is, therefore, and as Gorranson mentions in his post, a single set of issues is continually brought up and the author then trains him/herself to write around those issues. Nobody likes harsh criticism, or criticism at all come to think of it, and whenever confronted with it, we do whatever we can do to avoid it, becoming creatures of a pattern, all cut from the same cloth.

I really like Gorranson's decision to throw a bunch of successful examples out in front your students (whether you like them or not), and let them decide for themselves. I appreciate what my writerly education gave me, but all I read was Marilyn Hacker and I hated Marilyn Hacker from day one, but was constantly given her to read as an example of what poetry should strive to be. I didn't want to be that and most of the criticisms I received throughout that time were regarding control. I learned control, but hated my poems...

Anyway, talk about rambling...

Influences...Books...and more

Here's the "final" list of schools I'm applying to:

1. Iowa
2. UMass Amherst
3. Arkansas
4. Illinois
5. Minnesota
6. Brown

It's been a long, not so awesome week...bits & pieces

The morning following the election was kick-ass. Everything else pretty much sucked, like a drafty window sucks, or your freezer as it tries to re-compress itself.

Here a few things that don't suck:

• Justin Marks' interview here. Though his aesthetics make me feel derivative, they are everything I want my press to be.
• Speaking of my press, I've thrown a bit of coal onto the fire and am now working on layout and design. It's all very primordial, but I'm hoping have something ready to ship for the holidays.

• I've started reading Ted Berrigan's Collected Poems. A smattering of my favorite lines thus far: "Her rule was grand it twists like a boulevard." "This man hates his aunt so he licks her feet/Laughing at her brilliant comas of goo..." "Tear down your undies let me see some lunch..." The best thing about Berrigan that I've realized is his preference to use words as an artistic medium...thoroughly. He will often place words in his poems in a very atmospheric manner, their function and existence not based solely on the advancement of a textual meaning; like a splash of read on an otherwise dark canvas, they are there to cause separation from the text, or to realign your focus, or both (think flying over the city you live in).

All for now...

Context, Content, Puptent, Blatent

I read this today in The Smithsonian and it reminded me, not so much of the outcome of Frank Stanford's Estate, but of the circumstances surrounding it:

Much Ado About Dickinson
Amherst, Massachusetts—For decades after Emily Dickinson's death in 1886 at age 55, her family battled over her literary legacy. "My Verse Is Alive," an exhibition at the Emily Dickinson Museum through 2009, brings the feud to life.

Dickinson, who never married, left behind nearly 1,800 unpublished poems. The family entrusted them to her brother Austin's wife, Susan, but she was slow to edit them. It was Austin's mistress, a young neighbor named Mabel Loomis Todd, who first arranged to publish some of the poems, in 1890. The ensuing family dispute, fueled by the scandalous affair, created bitterness for generations. By the 1960s, Todd's heirs had transferred about half of the works to Amherst College and Dickinson's had given the rest to Harvard. Even "ordinary town residents seemed to take sides" in the flap, says museum director Jane Wald. "Strong loyalties persisted into the 1990s."

Founded in 2003, the museum includes the 1813 Federal-style residence where the poet lived and Austin's house next-door. At Emily's, pore over photographs, scrapbooks and replicas of manuscripts and letters. Here, too, is the typewriter Todd used to transcribe and edit the poems. It's haunting to visit where the poet worked—a corner bedroom as spare as her verse, reflecting perhaps the "solitude of space....that polar privacy" she wrote about in an 1855 poem....

I don't know the details of the C.D.Wright/Ginny Stanford relationship, but it occurs to me that this might be a reference in which to begin speaking about it, i.e., the complexities of intellectual estates and how ownership of these properties can sometimes overshadow the work itself and how the executors of said estates can develop extremely personal relationships with the work, perhaps even more so than what they had with the actual person.

I think it also speaks to the real life blurriness of the lines between creative control and profiteering (think 2pac), and creative control and hording. Though it's easy to dig up plenty of these examples, one that seems to be working quite well is Ronald Johnson/Peter O'Leary; Johnson's work is readily available and the reasoning behind that seems, at least to me, to be simply to keep Johnson's work readily available (great forward to Johnson's "Knitting Poems" in jubilat 12).

Granted, being a literary executor can become a life's pursuit all on its own, and granted, it means being able to overcome the emotional connection with the art in order to become a student of it, and granted, you would thereby lose a good portion of your personal connection to the artist, but it seems to me that there is no shortage of interest in Stanford's work (nor has there been in some time). So, one must ask why, and I think this story regarding Dickinson helps to shine some light on the subject.

Election Day Pt. 3

Walking the dog as almost President-Elect Obama's neighbor

Election Day Pt. 2

Election Day Pt.1

I was uploading these pictures as the Obama's motorcade went by. I voted after Louis Farrakhan and before Obama. This is a weird neighborhood. These helicopters watched me vote. Now I must go to work...

Post Halloween/Pre Election Hangover

In case you missed it, Halloween was this weekend. My wife painstakingly created a spot-on Veruca Salt costume. She asked me to go as Mike TV. I instead went as our nation's next president, Baracktimus Prime...he seems to have the electorate convinced that what we need, in times like these, is a tranformer.

I also finally got around to reading Daniel Borzutzky's "The Ecstasy of Capitulation." There is something to be said about the use of the non-vital line as a space-maker in poems. That's not to say that the poems in this collection are riddled with wasted lines, but much like the asides we use in conversation to buy us a bit of time, there are lines in his poems that seem to give you a bit of breathing room, a chance to collect your thoughts. The main praise I can heap on this book though, is that its funny. And unlike many satires this day and age, Borzutzky's satire is cutting, but only to make pieces bite sized and a little easier to swallow.

There are new issues of DIAGRAM and FOU up.

Tomorrow, I'll be voting at the same polling place as the Obama's. I think I might just hang around until they show up. I'll probably chat it up with the homeless guys that sit in front of that church, they think I'm funny, but not because I try. Anyway, I'll be glad when this whole thing is over. Real glad. I woke up this morning to a helicopter hovering above my building and it wasn't one of those silent ones from "Conspiracy Theory."

Series A is this week. So is Dr. Joshua Marie Wilkinson's Chicago Poetry Convocation. You should probably make plans for at least one, and if I might try to persuade you, the CPC has a free lunch.

Just saw this on Johannes Göransson's blog- "The pervasive monoglossic notion of language and poetry: poetry is both "high" (you need a good education to write well) and strangely natural (native, unalieanted, unforeign etc). This misconception defines an anti-sensibility as strangely both raw (pure spontaneity, hurling feces, wild stuff) and un-natural/artificial."

This reminds me of the needless debate between evolution and intelligent design. Ultimately, each person's resolution has nothing to do with right and wrong, facts and fallacies, but with preference. Some people prefer to marvel at constructors, those with visions and plans, while others like simply to "see where this is going." Where the true conflict lies, and what Goransson seems to be alluding to, is when truth is confused with preference and when that new truth births its only possible counterweight, i.e., nature/artifice, order/chaos, high art/low art.

Either way, Goransson is one of the smartest guys operating right now and you should totally read his blog...

I read so hard my feet got numb

So I finally got the chance to read Matthew Rohrer's "They All Seemed Asleep" all the way through in a single sitting, which is how, it seems, adventure poems should be read. The poem's narrative is standard adventure fair...reluctant hero finds himself in a world with real, unavoidable problems that he is ironically suited for. But that's not the point to this book, no, it's the way the story is told.
The verse appears fast and loose, but is actually quite controlled. Hard consonants shoot out from everywhere like spun-out gravel and Rohrer uses punctuation heavily, though more as a trait of his characters and less as method of separating ideas and phrases. It's these things, in fact, that lead to the lilting, conversational rhythm of the poem, a rhythm that simultaneously creates and eases tension. What really got me though, were the moments in the poem where the "other world" breaks open and reveals very plain and very authentic experiences, "the days all started like this/for a month I walked around/ and ended up in the bar/ the idea is not to think/ about your life passing/ and it seems not to..."
Roher's work has grown increasingly narrative over the years and this book, I feel, is the pinnacle of that growth. The poetry isn't lost in the narrative and the narrative doesn't suffer at the expense of the poetry, meaning, the poem doesn't feel at all prosy, and at the same time, you don't get lost in the poem: each part contributes equally to the whole. I really wouldn't mind seeing Rohrer work in this mode a time or two more; it's entertaining, pretty and a little thought-provoking. In short, with the help of Octopus Books, Rohrer has crafted the perfect chapbook.

If you like, but it here.

Is it possible to express lament & beg at the same time?

I bought this last night...you should too. Odds are, if you are reading this, that you are a member of the so-called "poetry community," as such, you should also know that we are entirely self-propagated and self-funded. What this means is, if you don't buy poetry, there will be no poetry. Publishing has become a labor of love. Festivals have become a labor of love. Readings have become a labor of love... Nobody turns a profit on this shit, all they (we) can hope for is sell enough shit to make more shit...

Which reminds me:

This gripe is coin-like. I have been to a shit-ton of readings since moving to Chicago. I have read at a big fat goose egg in that same time. I love listening to others read, but I miss reading. There was a time when I read three, four times a year. I hosted a series of readings. I read in other towns. I even gave a "senior recital" in a large theatre...that I almost filled up. Performance is one of the cogs of poetry, a necessary part of the whole. My poetry feels less whole lately. But I also must admit to the desire of stand of front of people. So its one part for my poems, one part just for me. Well, maybe two parts for me and smaller part for my poems. Plus, it only seems fair that I either put up or shut up. I've bagged on enough readings that others deserve the opportunity to bag on me...

I went to a reading a few months ago where the author spoke of his desire to write under the influence of he who was being translated...allow his voice to be melded to another. Ultimately, his decision was to let it go, to work with this amalgamated voice and within that new hybrid consciousness. The work he read from this exercise was terrifying, but like Sam Raimi and his quest for perfect blood spray, like playing with a fresh gash, or in the way that animal remains are terrifying...you simultaneously want to take pictures and never speak of it ever again. In short, the poems often made you wince with pleasure.
So...I've been considering this idea ever since, of letting another voice or sentience, not take over, but guide my poems. Allow its influence to do just that...be an influencer. Just over a month ago I began writing everyday, a poem everyday, regardless of quality, so that this process may take place. The poems started off rough; poems about badgers (more than I care to admit), poems about dead birds, poems about bums and hookers and spiders. Then, a few weeks ago, the effort began to bear fruit. I started writing poems concerning a foil named Charlie. Here's the issue though; I'm concerned that these poems might be more homages, or even worse, just derivatives of the voice I was working with, and that, though they are really fun to read (even for me, and I never seem to take the critical eye off my poems) do they carry any creative merit? Normally, this wouldn't be a deal at all, but I'm about 20 poems in and starting to consider the idea of a larger manuscript...speaking of terrifying.
I'll tell you what...tonight I will record one and post it here and maybe you can tell me...

Mathias Svalina has a GREAT write-up of the festival here. I'm glad there is beginning to be statements made regarding the import of Stanford's work, and claims staked on it's place in history and within the literary canon. Also, I think it's cute how Svalina is a little torn up over the building wave of Stanford enthusiasts...it reminds me of when your favorite band becomes everybody's favorite band, or perhaps more fitting to the situation, when your parents give birth to more kids after you. Many writers credit Stanford as a major influence, and as more and more people do so, the influence feels less and less extraordinary, and more and more safe, which is the last thing anyone wants to feel about the artists who affect their art.

The one thing I'm most glad about, though, is that Frank Stanford realized the importance of self-created mythology, and that his actual life seems willing to let that mythology dominate what we "know" about him. A few years ago I wrote a paper on bluesman Robert Johnson. The point of which was to emphasize that American mythology isn't set in stone like Greek or Roman mythology, but that it fluctuates: is liquid, but still tangible. American mythology is always open enough in structure to allow, not only the storyteller's place within the text, but also the audiences', thereby, each telling becomes uniquely ours. When I tell somebody the story of Robert Johnson I'm also telling my own story, letting the listener in on the things that are important to me.

I think the same can be said of Frank Stanford...and maybe Mathias Svalina, who is always crafting new mythologies.

NEW GLASSES

INSPIRATION FOR NEW GLASSES

I'm also growing a beard. If I don't wear my glasses, I can't see my beard.

I've read that a reading of "Battlefield" took 16 hrs. and 20 min. It only took me a month. Details of this past weekend Stanford festival are slowly leaking out. The whole thing looks pretty casual, which is fitting, considering the subject matter...lot's of people in plaid and hoodies.

I just saw a commercial for the new AC/DC album. One of my biggest pet peeves are the guys who only acknowledge AC/DC's Bon Scott years. Those were good years, but Scott was missing teeth. Let's be serious, how can you heap that much praise on a guy with no teeth. At least Brian Johnson has all his teeth and he co-wrote "Rock 'n' Roll Ain't Noise Pollution."

The Frank Stanford Literary Festival is this weekend. I can't go. It turns out I'm really bad at the whole working class thing. Example: I've worked the same temp job for a year now...not good enough to be hired on full-time, and too lazy to complain about it. Point is, I've got no money. The good news is though, one of the big reasons I wanted to go to the festival (outside of the BIG one), Abraham Smith is coming to Chicago. That's right, Friday, November 7th, Smith is, sort of, headlining JMW's Poetry & Chicago Convocation at Loyola (12 to 3). There will be others there too: Lisa Fishman, John Keene, Robyn Schiff, Quraysh Ali Lansana and Jennifer Karmin. If poetry isn't your thing, then there will also be a free lunch. So, come and hang out with the poetry bums AND the regular bums AND Abraham Smith.

I'm putting together a writing sample for my MFA apps, so, friends who have read my poems, if you remember any of them at all, or remember them being any good, let me know. I have my favorites, but that doesn't mean much, because I have way more than 10 favorites.

Also, I just figured out this weekend how my camera works...and I've had it for 4 years.

You're invited to a parody!

So, I'm a little late to all of this, but I realized just this morning that I too have been lucky enough to be one of the "randomly" selected 3,000+ poets parodied (though not directly) in the For Godot Anthology. Simple algorithms can do awesome things, or really boring things, as the case is for the poem that wound up above my name.
This is a really interesting project though, and it shines a really bright light on something that I've been noticing in my blog: I get way more daily hits if I mention a few poets names than if I talk about poetry in general. For the most part, writers are ego-maniacal, that's just a fact. Not only do we love ourselves, but we love when others love us too...maybe even more. Shit, I Google my name weekly (I tried google alerts, but you can imagine what bj love does to ones inbox).
This fact is even present in the first book I released on my press. I really wanted to be the editor of a press, and unfortunately, I think that shows in the first book, though the second is going to be focused primarily on the poets inside the cover (wink).
Anyway, this whole thing got me thinking, and I'll probably have more to say about it later, but for now, check out the lineup to the first issue of The Corduroy Mtn. I think you can see me from up there & I love seeing me; SHANE JONES, BROOKLYN COPELAND, PETER BERGHOEF, FORREST ROTH, BLAKE BUTLER, MANDY BILLINGS, ADAM MAYNARD, BRANDON SHIMODA + SOMMER BROWNING, JOSHUA WARE, DREW KALBACH, B.J. LOVE, KEVIN WILSON, & KENDRA MALONE.

This is a new Zach Schomburg poem that I just read. I think I love it. I want to intertwine my toes with its' toes. I want it to be moderately surprised at how agile my toes are, and hairy, but not disgusted.
There is another poem over there too. It's by Jason Bredle. His poems are like being lost on a detoured highway. You have to be careful and attentive, but when you pop back out on the highway, you are glad to know an alternative route. Also, seeing a trampoline full of kids was nice.

I was in MN over the weekend. When I got home Evil Dead 1 & 2 were waiting. They brought along there new friend from Octopus Books, "They All Seemed Asleep." We've only idly chatted, but things are heading in the right direction.

Frank Stanford lives again this weekend. See why that matters here. Matthew Henriksen, thank you...

Mnpls

Salt

Leaves change fast...

Chops!

Backyard

Cheap Gas...

Why wouldn't you want to move there?