Hey! Look at This!

http://www.foumagazine.net/numberone.htm

That is a totally kickass new magazine called Fou. Their first issue is a virtual who's who of contemporary poetry: Dorothea Lasky, Matthew Zapruder, Matthew Roher, Zach Schomburg, Bob Hicok, Julie Doxsee...very impressive. Plus, their poems are even good too. It's not one of those journals you look at because you see a name you're really like and then are disappointed by the poems they have inside...not so here, my friends.

I want to be in this journal, and not in a dirty way.

In other news, I will be announcing Further Adventures Chapbooks & Pamphlets year-one lineup very soon...are you excited? I know I am.

Also, come out this Thursday for this reading:
Who: Joyelle McSweeney & Johannes Goransson
Where: Loyola University, Lake Shore Campus (Rogers Park), Damen Hall 340
When: This coming Thursday, April 3, 7:30pm
What: A reading of fiction, & poetry, & translations

It should be good. I've seen them both before and they are adorable.

Well, tomorrow's April so let's take this opportunity to say goodbye to March. "Goodbye March!"

Sometimes it's best to leave at the half...

Last night I made the journey downtown to the Chicago Small Press Showcase. And when I say journey, I mean, epic pain in the ass. First I missed the bus I was trying to make and waited an extra 10 min. out in the windy cold. The bus came around again and I jumped on, only to have it break down 2 blocks later, which was fortunately right next to the 47th street depot, or was it? The manager of the depot told the bus driver, "Try and make it back to 79th street, and we'll take care of it there." Ummm...what? So she kept on going and the bus broke down 5 more times on Lake Shore and finally reached its penultimate stop at the corner of Michigan and Roosevelt. So, I waited for another bus to come and pick me up, got on that bus, got off waaay too early and had to walk to walk four more blocks. All the while apologizing to my wife, who wasn't exactly thrilled about going to a poetry reading anyway. I felt like Charlie Brown, "Why is everything I do destined to be doomed?"

Anyway, we got to the SAIC, grabbed a couple of seats and prepared ourselves for three hours of poetry from 8 different small presses. I'd heard a few of the readers before, and had remembered liking them well enough, so I was kind of excited. Laura Sims and Larry Sawyer read somewhere in the first act and I've always enjoyed their irreverent, give-a-fuck attitude during readings, which more than not comes off as endearing and seems to say, "I really don't know why I'm up here and you're not." There was another poet that I like real well named Daniela Olszewska. Her poems can look like this:

Out of the Frying Pan

Four fires, some eggplants, a vague tile floor. And in this corner, they
are spicing the Slavic broth. A bubble-bell voice calls out from above,
“Don’t forget to cut off her tags!” A flash from the sharp shade of gun grey.
The stomach cut up into unequal pieces. They wrap it in rice paper
or cheesecloth. The girl patches get bathed in inorganic oils. A doctor
in a bird mask pushes mirror parts under the fingernails that are not quite
crisp yet. Look sweetheart! They made you a card in the shape of a brain.

Zombie: 24 Hours In The Life Of

Green glow, eel glow. I wake up.
Obliterate all traces of breadcrumbs.
Dig my way out up using an amethyst-
handled spoon. Don a dress made
of disco ball parts. Commit crimes
against nature; love myself tender.
Drink brain straight from the carton.
Exhibit self-diagnosing prowess.
Get hooked on phonics, the furtive
stroking of glossy covers.
Covet my neighbor's will.
Run for national office. Toothy brite.
Institute a tax on public displays
of precociousness. Institute a tax
on loaves and fishes. Spinning doctrine.
Place a crink in the public think tank.
Catalyze myself out of loop mode.
Perform telepathic abortions.
Raise snakes and hell for fun and profit.
Fall out of love with everyone taller than me.
Legally change name to animal/mineral/plant.
Denounce the ever expanding waistlines
of scientific inquiry. Denounce the backs
of eyeballs. Green glow, eel glow fade.

I was going to buy her book from dancing girl press, but saw a book by Kristy Odelius, and bought that one instead. I don't know why for sure, I suppose its because I think of her as this mythological creature...The Mysterious and Magical Odelius. It sounds believably greek. Anyway, I bought her book, "Bee Spit." It looks good, so I'm pretty stoked.

At this point in the evening their was a break, and when Laura Sims split, I should have taken that as a sign. The second half of the reading was full of old white people reading their blues/slam bullshit, and really being into it. One fucker even had a drum he beat on while he read his poem about drug habits. As much as I love Beat poetry, I hate that this is what it has become. It's a cartoon, it's fodder for satire, and these poets all bought into it. Besides the drum, there were no less than 3 mentions of Miles Davis, exactly 4 poems about Charles Bukowski, and each of them read an "anit-war" poem that had yelling in it.

I'm not one to dog on things I dislike, but the second half of the reading was miserable, and only added to my need to apologize to my wife for making her go with me. Long story short, check out dancing girl press, switchback books, and the Cracked Slab Anthology of Chicago Poetry for the New Century, "The City Visible."

Also, two weeks from today (April 12th, 2008) Matthew Zapruder and Forrest Gander will be reading translations for the Chicago Poetry Project at the Harold Washington Library. Cool.

It's not poetry, but it kicks ass

Ian Dury is my hero. I have good dreams only after I consider the possibility of being Ian Dury reincarnate. Ian Dury had a band called the Blockheads. Lucy was always calling Charlie Brown a blockhead. Charlie Brown and Ian Dury were about the same height. Ian Dury like being hit with sticks, here's proof.



I always love stumbling across things I forgot I loved. Anselm Berrigan and Marianne Moore are two of those things. If you don't already love them you should give it a shot. Berrigan is Ted Berrigan's son, and a great post-modern poet. Marianne Moore is John Milton Moore's daughter, and my favorite of all the modernists. Their books look like this:

Karate Chop of Love

Bredle vs. Tynes 2: Electric Boogaloo

Because I'm a big loser without much else to do, I can tell you that I've just finished both books that I received in the mail on Monday. The good news? I liked them both. The bad news? I've got more notes...

Tynes' book is awesome, her poems are these compact expanses of wilderness. Like a botanical garden or a woods out a corn field. Not that they necessarily have much to do with wilderness, but you should get my point. Her poems function like signs pointing us to a place we'd always wanted to go, but can never think of when we're planning trips. Like the House on the Rock, or the Biggest Frying Pan in the World. Tynes creates curiosities in her poems that draw you in, while also leaving you enough room to figure out the best way to get there.

Bredle's calling card, on the other hand, is as a planner. Though his poems are always surprising, when you are finished reading them, you can't help but feel the outcome was inevitable. Where Tynes' would surprise you with a bird and asks you consider it, Bredle throws Micheal Jordan at you and tells you to deal with it...there are bigger fish to fry. Fish like lost love, personal inadequacies, class, etc. In short, Bredle's book is a big beautiful list of shit to worry about, shit we should be worrying about, shit we don't usually worry about, and astroturf.

Tonight's also's:

The new Magic Numbers EP is awesome. There have been a lot of bands whose first records I've bought on hype alone and really liked (Kieser Chiefs, Umbrellas), but then felt relatively impartial to what they did after that. Not so with The Magic Numbers, my friends, they keep staying good, like Twinkies, or pickles.

There is a big reading at the SAIC this Friday, it should be cool. Here's some info:
SMALL PRESS SHOWCASE

Sponsored by The Poetry Center of Chicago
Friday, March 28, 2008, 7-10 pm
SAIC Ballroom, 112 S. Michigan Avenue, Chicago
Admission is free, though donations are welcome.

Participating Presses:

Answer Tag Home Press
Cracked Slab Books
Dancing Girl Press
Featherproof Books
Fractal Edge Press
March Abrazo Press
Puddin' Head Press
Switchback Books

Finally, I read today that marital spats can be good for your health. So, just to even myself out, I ate a shit ton of junk food and with greasy fingers grabbed onto my lover and trespassed where no man had trespassed before...the ear canal. (Any one else miss Will Ferrell on a weekly basis?)

Monday Night Slapdown: Bredle vs. Tynes

I was poking around Bredlemania last week and discovered that there was more Bredle to mania over. "Pain Fantasy" is available at Red Morning Press, and if one book just isn't enough, than I have good news...you can buy two for twenty dollars. I did, and boy was it great. There really is nothing quite like convincing yourself that spending more money is just like saving money. That said, I also bought Jen Tynes' "The End of Rude Handles."

Though I'm not overly familiar with Tynes' work, I did really enjoy her collaborative chapbook from Octopus with Erika Howsare, and I also think quite highly of their press, horseless. At first glance, Tynes' poems seem to capture the feeling of being lost, well, not lost, but...like walking into your parent's house in the dark. You know where everything is, you just have to stop and think about it a bit. This same comfortable obtuseness is what makes these poems so enjoyable to read. Needless to say, I'm looking forward to reading the whole book.

In other news, I got an acceptance from The Concher over the weekend. It's a neat little journal from Ryan Flaherty and his partner Katie (whose last name escapes me at this moment) and their Two Poet Truffles outfit. I'll let you know when it comes out, and give you a full list of reasons to buy it that will both begin and end with, "because I'm in it."

Also, I've begun writing poems based in the world of Oregon Trail...watch out!

Check the post below this one to hear my dog snoring...it's like sleeping in a hotel room with my dad. I recorded it just to prove to her that she does snore (she never believed it before!), and then just to add an extra dash of embarrassment, I threw it up here.

Roxie Asleep on My Lap

I've liked this song 53 times so far.

I haven't heard a song that I could listen to over and over like this since the Bon Savants "Between the Moon and the Ocean." I'm ridiculously crazy about it. There was one night where I had on repeat for a good two hours and the next morning I played three more times on my way to work.

I basically played this song while I wrote my entire "Puddle Men" series...which is now in revisions and looking pretty good.

In case you're curious here's the Bon Savants song:



I also gained a dog last night. Her name is Bella and she has been pestered non-stop by my dog, Roxie. I think they are beginning to grow on each other, but all I've heard for the last 14 hours is snorting, heavy breathing, growling and the occasional bark, but enough about my neighbors having sex...OH!

Bad jokes aside, listen to both these songs and wish me luck with these fucking dogs.

Oh, and go to read Dorothea Lasky's poems on Octopus, they are too amazing...and while you're there do yourself the favor by reading Adam Clay's too, I've respected his work for awhile now, but I'm really beginning to fall in love with it...soon, we may push the beds together.

MY Lament

So now you will all find out that my interest in George Kalamaras wasn't totally without prompting. Some time ago the good editor of lament informed me that the poem he took of mine would be appearing opposite a respected American Surrealist and it was then I took interest...sorry, George, but I must say I love what you do and know plenty of others that do too.

So without further ado, click here to see George's poem first and then mine on page two:

http://lamentmag.blogspot.com/

Though I was worried at first, I think my poem stands up next to George's and that we manage to compliment each other well, but that's less me and George than it is fantastic editing on the part of Aaron McNally.

For Insurance Purposes

When I was a kid I used to take pictures of all my toys. Mostly of them fighting each other: G.I. Joe v. Cobra, He-Man v. Skeletor, my Cabbage Patch v. my brother's Cabbage Patch. My parents would get real angry and threaten to make me pay for film development. They never followed through and I never learned my lesson and so now I present to you the books I read last week v. the books I'm reading right now.

Aaron McNally's "Out of the Blue" eating Jason Bredle's "Standing in Line for the Beast."

Ted Berrigan's "Collected" collecting on George Kalamaras' "Borders My Bent Towards'" ass.
George Kalamaras' author photo pooping on Jason Bredle's author photo (though I really did like Bredle's book more).
What they looked like before I left them alone.

What Green did for Me

It was cold and the porta-potties were steamy...gross.

We walked down to the Bean to say hi and take pictures of ourselves taking pictures of ourselves. Can you find us?

Mythical Chicago Unicorns

They probably became unicorns because they drank the green water...this is gross too.

We went home and celebrated in traditional Irish fashion, we got pissed and then challenged each other to fist fights, but only casually.

This seems pretty tight

Thanks again to Facebook for allowing me to spend hours on the internet doing nothing. A positive side effect? I found this: tightjournal.blogspot.com. Normally when finding a journal I know nothing about I quick flip through the contributors and carry on: Tight 3 Featuring: Nora Almeida, Aaron Belz, David Berman, Sommer Browning, Michael Carr, Shanna Compton, Buck Downs, Jill Alexander Essbaum, Gabriel Gudding, Matt Hart, Mike Hauser, Katy Henriksen, Mark Horosky, David Huddle, Lisa Jarnot, Robert Kelly, Evan Kennedy, John Koethe, Maurice Manning, Chris Martin, Joseph Massey, James Meetze, Andrew Mister, Ryan Murphy, Jess Mynes, Daniel Nester, Cate Peebles, Arlo Quint, Morgan Lucas Schuldt, Sandra Simonds, Ed Skoog, Kathleen Winter, and Charles Wright

Did you catch it? Did you see what I saw? David (fucking) Berman! Is he finally writing poems again? Does anybody know for sure? 5 years ago, "Actual Air" practically made me shit my pants, and my one great regret in life is that I had a chance to see him read at that same time and I passed because I was too big of a pussy to take the train to a rock club. There are 3 pillars to my literary life, and they are: Howl, Actual Air, and The To Sound. To read new Berman poems would totally make my year...

So here is what I lay before you: if anyone knows for sure that new Berman poems are circulating through the small press world, let me know pronto, because this news is like fucking Christmas and I won't sleep much until 1) I read the poems myself, or 2) someone tells me that they are the same old poems, or hot new shit.

I'm waiting.

Kalamaras--because it's fun to spell!

That was George Kalamaras. He is a poet from Indiana. He looks like a hippie in pictures & thanks yogis in his books. For me to claim that I knew him 3 months ago would be a lie. I knew him 3 months ago. I found his book at Powell's. I bought it there too. My mother once told me that all George Kalamaras books deserve to have a home. I think David Duchovny mentioned it once too.

Other things to think about:

*Ezra Furman and the Harpoons is like Daniel Johnston if he was only uni-polar. Click, drag, left-click, google search. You'll be relieved you did.

*The new issue of 6X6 is splendid and at $3 a pop, you're stupid to not have it. Do you hear me? Stupid.

*Further Adventures Chapbooks and Pamphlets is running out of space for this year's run, so if you were thinking about submitting, do so soon, and do it here: furtheradventurespress@gmail.com

Presidential Busts with Jesus

I've been reading Jason Bredle's In Line for the Beast over the last few days, and the last few days have been pretty good. His poems are like rolling down a hill: you know that an end to the rolling will soon exist, but you have no idea when it will come, and in the mean time you've got nothing to do but roll, man, roll. Each of this poems delivers an entirely fulfilling ending that only afterwards seems inevitable. For you sports enthusiasts out there, imagine the bottom falling out of sinker just as you get all your momentum behind the bat. You know you're swinging at air, you know why you're swinging at air, but you still can't believe you're swinging at air.

Jason Bredle is the poet I've often imagined myself being...one who operates in the most colloquial of languages, but still managing to create an immediate and genuine response with the reader. His poems are so rapid fire its often easy to imagine yourself being talked at by two people simultaneously. Two people that happened upon you in a dead sprint, whom you are constantly reminding to breathe. It seems lame to call what Bredle does "stream of conscience," because that isn't really what he does, especially in the modern sense in which it was developed, but he does have a conversationally rambling tone to his voice that I really admire, and that seems authentic to me. In fact Mathias Svalina has a really good post on his blog regarding this exact phenomenon here: http://mathiassvalina.blogspot.com/2008/03/
i-was-talking-to-my-friend-dave-carillo.html#links

You should also check out his videos from the clean part reading series, heck, I'll even make it easy for you...

Long story short, go and look at Jason Bredle, but don't stare, it makes him nervous. As a matter of fact, maybe you should just go to his website, it can be found here: http://www.knifemachine.com/

He's also giving a reading here in Chicago, the info proper looks like this:
WEDNESDAY, 4.2.08, 8:00 PM
Reconstruction Room Series
at Black Rock Bar
3614 N. Damen Ave., Chicago, IL.

And for something only a little different

Here's a few poems from Zach Schomburg:

Gabcast! New Lakes Radio #35 - Love is When You Build a Boat from All the Eyelashes in the Ocean • Zachary Schomburg

read by Zachary Schomburg

Gabcast! New Lakes Radio #34 - I Know a Dead Wolf We Can Climb Inside and Beat • Zachary Schomburg

read by Zachary Schomburg






You should go here and check out everything else...it's pretty cool: http://newlakesaudioradio.blogspot.com/

I'm really into this whole recording of poems with your phone into gabcast. I think I might try it soon.

Here's a list of songs I really liked during the month of February

1. Out of Time by Jason Collett
2. Skinny Love by Bon Iver
3. No Coins by Cryptacize
4. Far Far by Yael Naim
5. Little 18 by Eric Matthews
6. See These Bones by Nada Surf
7. The Sweetest Tooth by Camphor
8. Flood Pt. 1 by The Acorn
9. I Saw the Light by State Bird
10. What Makes the Cherry Red by Christine Fellows
11. Brackish Water by The Lisps
12. Jet-Set Fleshtones by The Fleshtones
13. Private Life of a Cat by LK
14. In This City by Iglu & Hartly
15. Dreaming of the Plum Trees by White Hinterland

8.1

Diagram 8.1 is here! I've only gotten the chance to briefly peruse, but it looks like a good one, and Ander always has his head in a good place. I hope one day that my head can be in that place too.

Go. Read. Scheme. http://www.thediagram.com/

Promise me that someday you will allow me a big, "I told you so."

Poet of the week: Anthony McCann

First off, let me say that Anthony McCann could take a shit between two pieces of card stock and I'd still pay $14.95 for the goddamn thing as well as write a glowing review of it here. Secondly, and just in case that first statement didn't sell it quite enough, McCann is about as awesome as they come.

Though McCann's poetry can be beautiful, and often is, what is most alluring about it is its' ability to make you want to be around it. His poems are like the kid at the party who knows more than a little magic. The guy everybody wants to hear stories from, even if they've already heard them. There is a pure magnetism to his work that evolves into a hunger.

His language is simple. He's not wanting to wow you with poetic technique, though that's not to say that it isn't there, but his focus, it seems, is more on getting you to see a more whole world by twisting things that exist in it. His poems are constantly reminding me of that painting by Hans Hobein, where the two guys are standing in front of shit, but there is this weird flattened skull floating on the ground, here it is:

With out getting all lit-crit on that ass, this is best I can do to describe McCann's poetry. The only other thing I can do is show you a poem...and here that is:

Miami International Airport Hotel

1.

The alarm goes off---I'm still in the airport. Is it impossible to imagine my physical shape? I was dreaming of jobs again and of t-shirts that scream “Chicago!” And then I am absent, suddenly, accepting the fact: it remains impossible to imagine this hotel.

Are we inside the airport or are we clinging to its ribs?

At the elevator bank the walls are locked. The air piped in on rods of dust.

The doors open onto a square of grass.

To my right and to my left: two bright and empty hours.


There, that was pretty sweet, eh? You can this and other poems over at H_NGM_N, books at Wave and FENCE and of course the Machine Project.