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"A note to Pound in heaven: Only one mistake, Ezra! You should have talked to women"
--George Oppen, _Twenty Six Fragments_
Archives:
xoxo Hey, E-Mail Me! xoxo
ManY PoETiKaL HaTs LisT:
Holly's Pirate-girl Hat,
chrismurray in a straw hat,
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Duchamp's Rrose Selavy's flirting hat.
Max Ernst's Hats of The Hat Makes the Man.
Jordan Davis' The Hat!
poetry. hks' smelly head baseball cap.
Samuel Beckett's Lucky's
Black bowler hat,
giving his oration
on what's questionable in mankind,
in *Waiting for 'God-ot'*.
my friend John Phillips's 1969
dove gray fedora w/ wild feather.
Bob Dylan's mystery lover's Panama Hat.
Bob Creeley's Black Mountain Felt Boater Hat.
Duke Ellington's Satin
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Freud's 1950 City Fedora.
Joseph Brodsky's Sailor Cap.
Harry K Stammer's Copper Hat
Hell. Lewis LaCook's bowler hat(s).
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Furry Pimp Hat. Daughter Holly's black beret.
harry k stammer's fez. Cat
in the Hat's Hat & best
hat, Googling Texfiles:
crocheted hat with flames.
Harry K Stammer's tinseled berets.
Tex's 10 gallon Gary Cooper felt Stetson cowboy hat.
Jordan Davis's fedora.
Dali's High-heel Shoe Hat. Harry K Stammer's en-blog LAPD Hat
& aluminum baseball cap. cap'n caps. NY-Yankees caps. the HKS-in-person-caps
are blue or green no logos nor captions.
Ma Skanky Possum 10's nighttime cap.
moose antler hat. propeller beenie hat.
doo rag. knit face mask hat. Bob Dylan's & photographer Laziz
Hamani's panama hats. Mark Weiss's Publisher's Hat.
Rebecca Loudon's Seattle-TX-Hats'n'boots.
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Unidentified
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Dan Waber: ars poetica anthology
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louder
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a New Word Placements
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ultimate: Stephanie Young's First Well Nourished Moon
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UTA's Lit Mag: ZNine
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Cori Copp's Littleshirleybean
Jordan Davis: Million Poems
Eileen Tabios: Corpsepoetics [see Chatelaine above]
YaY! Liz's Thirdwish
Ultra Linking
Henry Gould's HG Poetics
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Sunday, May 07, 2006
from Martin Buber's I and Thou * :
THE LIFE OF HUMAN BEINGS is not passed in the sphere of transitive verbs alone. It does not exist in virtue of activities alone which have some thing for their object.
I perceive something. I am sensible of something. I imagine something. I will something. I feel something. I think something. The life of human beings does not consist of all this and the like alone.
This and the like together establish the realm of It.
But the realm of Thou has a different basis.
When Thou is spoken, the speaker has no thing for his object. For where there is a thing there is another thing. Every It is bounded by others; It exists only through being bounded by others. But when Thou is spoken, there is no thing. Thou has no bounds.
When Thou is spoken, the speaker has no thing; he has indeed nothing. But he takes his stand in relation.
* * *
IT IS SAID THAT MAN EXPERIENCES HIS WORLD. What does that mean?
Man travels over the surface of things and experiences them.
. . . He experiences what belongs to the things.
But the world is not presented to man by experiences alone. These present him only with a world composed of It and He and She and It again.
. . .
I experience something.---If we add "secret" to "open" experiences, nothing in the situation is changed. How self-confident is that wisdom which perceives a closed compartment in things, reserved for the initiate and manipulated only with the key. O secrecy with a secret! O accumulation of information! It, always It!
(4-5)
* Martin Buber (1878-1965), I and Thou [Ich und du], trans. Ronald Gregor Smith (New York: Scribner & Sons/Macmillan Publishing Co., 1958, 1986 [originally published in German, 1928, revised by the author, 1958]).
chris at
11:50 AM
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Saturday, May 06, 2006
Free Door Poem
Brown cardboard sign saying Free! door!
all parts here! taped to an old white door
outside a brick house i love
a gesture of good will
leaning against the curb in the bible-belt rain
green worm-chewed leaves rushing by
toward the newly re-sculpted fawn
gray concrete sewers, fine-combed
markings a rosetta stone of the maker's
pride of strip-mall craft in the huge geometric
maw where i was given to wonder
do they also provide huge sieves down there in hell
for all this chaos of detritus, the brambles
& tangles of leaves decaying (& hey there goes a single
tiny pink sock flowing into the hole)
so that it won't all back-up or come vomiting
forth again like undigested baby formula
onto the fresh rain-shine street
scented every Saturday evening with *Tide* *Downey* *motor oil*
*cigarette butts* *limp cellophane* & *pine needles*
the all of all rolled into one glorious
fluidity behind this Free! door!
with only a few exclamation marks or a diaper
standing straight up flowing in the apocalypse
its gravity driving the all of all through
the flood i meant to take its picture
but it was gone by the next
epoch so i just stood there for a while gaping
until a three-dimensional double sadness came outside
of the house saying Sorry!
No more free door! Go away now!
~~~~~~~~~~~poem by chris murray~~~~~~~~~~~~ o~o/
chris at
1:26 PM
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Friday, May 05, 2006
Check it out: per the comment from Shanna, I just added a note and a link to the post below on LIT 11.
& hah! I must be slippin'! I did miss the point of the feet-as-forming-an-11. duh, chris, wake up! : )
chris at
1:22 PM
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Thursday, May 04, 2006
Still mulling over the problem of the lax or (ex-lax) corporate media? You should be. It's very cool this week. And you should be able to revel in the privilege of simultaneously laughing and crying: apparently, yet again, all the world's (only) a stage. Check out Daily Kos, faithfully recording the very clever episode of Stephen Colbert's now-famous speech.
But hey, why should anyone expect anything more or less of rhetoric, of mere language? I mean, why bother to walk-the-talk of the talk-you-talk, eh?
Just my 3 cents, Y'all . . .
chris at
11:05 PM
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Woo Hoo! Brand New LIT (# 11) arrived this week, looking snap-crackle-pop-snazzy as ever, chock full of fine writing, and with a cover design by the creatively effervescent Shanna Compton (hi Shanna!--great stuff here!), with main editor Justin Marks. It's a coolish purple background, and at center, an image of a pair of footprints containing a fluidly colorful flock of surrealistic things, from an oil painting by Jane Hammond, "Sore Models #2. See comments below: Shanna kindly sent in this link about Hammond's work, which just came out in a book and is a collaboration with John Ashbery.
Congrats to all at the mag--it's a great read.
* * *
Here's my favorite for today--since I can't ever have just one nor an all-time favorite which would imply some kind of hierarchy, ya kno?:
by Marc McKee:
Fan Letter
I thought you said The angel of incidents
spectacular but you said The angle
of indecent spectacles and so I again learned
that making the mistake breaks
a single path into more. Like so,
we are lead to the other worlds
our worlds every second become. Cell
division was an important discovery
and lead to the idea that we're never
who we were: vital to the advances
in queries seeking the essential,
not as helpful in perfecting the sandwich.
It is a gift, knowing this, and that in 1976
on July 14th the first version of me is born
though I still haven't reconciled
the independence suggested by a prison
nor the independence suggested by rockets.
Or that I will die. Surely, mistakes
have been made--even the air confesses.
There is a narrative in a garbage can
full of exhausted containers. If you recite
the names with enough speed and love
and get the names wrong in the right way
it is likely you will nearly hear
the bent arrangement of the air
bouncing off a lyre, dear sir or madam.
Dear sir or madam: I am enthralled.
I am your biggest supporter.
Continue on your relentless amazements,
your faces changing before my changing face.
This is not the last time that I must say this.
I beg your patience while I achingly
sing out in this shower, raking my old body
from my new one.
(132-133)
* * *
More words forthcoming on this issue, Y'all (in the meanwhile, go get a copy!-- check out Kate Greenstreet's great, witty poem, "People who are Mike, people who know Mike, people who just met Mike") wow. . .
* in LIT 11, Volume 6. Number One [check out the blog!] (New York: New School University, 2006)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~poem copyright of Marc McKee~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
o~o/
chris at
7:40 PM
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Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Check out Francois Luong's writing on the recent protest movement (scroll down to it, but not til you've also looked into the video and music of his friends at "Echostream,"--lovely stuff.
chris at
11:52 AM
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from Rimbaud * :
. . . I loved the desert, dried orchards, faded shops and tepid drinks. I dragged myself through stinking alleys and, eyes closed, I gave myself to the sun. God of fire.
"General, if on your ruined ramparts an old cannon remains, bombard us with lumps of dried mud.--On the mirrors of magnificent shops! In drawing rooms! Make the city eat its dust. Oxidize the water-spouts. Fill boudoirs with the burning powder of rubies . . ."
Oh! the drunken fly in the inn's privy, enamoured of borage, dissolved by a sunbeam!
HUNGER
If I've a taste, its not alone
For the earth and stones,
Rocks, coal, iron, air,
That's my daily fare.
Turn my hungers, hungers browse
On the field of sound,
Suck up bindweed's gay venom
Along the ground.
Eat the pebbles that one breaks,
Churches' old stones;
Gravel of ancient deluge taste,
And loaves scattered in grey brakes.
* * *
Howling underneath the leaves
The wolf spits out the lovely plumes
Of his feast of fowls:
Like him I am consumed.
Salads and fruits
Await but the picking;
But violets are the food
Of spiders in the thicket.
Let me sleep! Let me seethe
At the altars of Solomon.
Broth run over the rust
And mix with the Cedron.
At last, O happiness, O reason, I brushed from the sky the azure that is darkness, and I lived--gold spark of pure light. Out of joy I took an expression as clownish and blank as possible . . .
(58-61)
* Arthur Rimbaud, A Season in Hell and The Drunken Boat, trans. Louise Varese (New Directions, 1961)
chris at
11:18 AM
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I see where good emmigrating, hard working folks have gone and voiced a big smack on the butt of the way economic and political things are going right now.
And I see where the media, our (apparently strategic?) dumbass news streams have already played it down.
Whoa.
Who can beg, buy, bet, juggle or control political voice in this so-called democracy, Y'all?
Why have we not heard more about the huge, amazing protest of immigrant voices this week?
Why have we not heard more about the voice of the people who really do the labor that supports the economy of this US?
Why?
and Why? and Why?
xo,
c
chris at
12:54 AM
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Have I told you lately that I love
folks who also care about animals! in the worst contradictory spaces, such as, ghetto apartment complexes in Arlington, Texas? Yeah.
chris at
12:01 AM
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Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Tornado watches happening here tonight. Always makes for extra adrenaline-inspired. energy. frenetic. hopping back & forth between radar screens on weatherunderground dot com. cool site. check it out, Y'all.
In between times: someone next door is being evicted. The backdrop for a pic of it all is the modest selling point of this ghetto complex (in this area, all of them have a pool). Hey, Ya Kno: Getting Evicted From The Man's Pool, the WOO! eh? The evictees are very young, a mixed couple. They have 4 dogs of some particular show-breed I don't know much about that they walk every night. They are so cool. Now, tho, Bye Bye! Whatcha All Gonna Do? Duh's!!!!!!!!-Cop-Show-Shit. That's how I'm feelin' right now.
& then sorta, yeah: Tornado-Y-as-in, well:
bring the storm on if it's gonna be.
chris at
11:52 PM
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Monday, May 01, 2006
from Michael Scofield * :
What His Professor Said
That's the wrong motif. The right motif
is birds. Canaries in a ship's hold, peregrines when
soaring. Birds drop
blessings as gamblers drop
cash. If I can grab one I can feel it
throbbing. It's not the berries
that do the shaking. It's my heart wishing it were
anything else: a sea cucumber. Give it
padded silk and cedar slats. Bury it or dry it
until the wind makes it a kite. High-performance
writing gets in the way. Under-the-influence
roadblock, red blur,
officer's tooth silver as her
shadeds. Taps
on her boot heels -- heart, be
a submachine gun. Is love
a code word here? My love is a
cassowary who this morning
rolled over
to whisper she's leaving for a man with a bad
heart loving hunting even more
than she does. Your work is
bathyspheric. I can't picture why you're washing
ball bearings. Flossing's a better metaphor.
(75)
* in Diner: Journal of Poetry, Fall/Winter 2002, eds. Abby Millager and Eve Rifkah (Wooster, MA: Poetry Oasis Press, 2002)
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