Many thanks go to Gerald Schwartz for his work at the wheel of Truck
during February. And greetings go to our March editor/driver who
takes over tomorrow--Jukka-Pekka Kervinen.
Have fun, and stay on the road.
Truck :: n. a self-propelled vehicle for carrying goods
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
G. E. Schwartz/ HATMAN
The lake checks its lapping on the shore
to lull late night and then to watch.
The breeze stills its breath in willows
to catch his soft footfall on the beach
as he and his shadow turn, a figure
glowing on its own, where sky and lake
join in the weak light across a beach
parched as bone. The ghosts of
sturgeon lift from the chilled depths
to expand the silent throng: slithering
lamprey, curled alewives, turned shad;
all beneath the surface of these waters.
Gulls halt in the sky, then turn frantic
in convoluted flight--as the night
finds words (All the living left to come,
all the dead long past) under a driven moon
by Point Gratiot's reaching cliffs.
to lull late night and then to watch.
The breeze stills its breath in willows
to catch his soft footfall on the beach
as he and his shadow turn, a figure
glowing on its own, where sky and lake
join in the weak light across a beach
parched as bone. The ghosts of
sturgeon lift from the chilled depths
to expand the silent throng: slithering
lamprey, curled alewives, turned shad;
all beneath the surface of these waters.
Gulls halt in the sky, then turn frantic
in convoluted flight--as the night
finds words (All the living left to come,
all the dead long past) under a driven moon
by Point Gratiot's reaching cliffs.
G. E. Schwartz/ SHADOW PEOPLE
I saw two shadow people standing
by the pond, against an afternoon's light
on rushes, the thin arm of one
reaching from between the small
planets of water-lilies, and saw
that a spider has strung threads
from the other's knees to silver
out over the water adjacent to
the paired black wings of damselflies
& their tiny dance of egg-laying. And
I was strangely at peace with both of them,
each modest eclipse reaching,
and I was at peace that whoever
had cut their forms, painting them black,
set them there as
additions to light.
by the pond, against an afternoon's light
on rushes, the thin arm of one
reaching from between the small
planets of water-lilies, and saw
that a spider has strung threads
from the other's knees to silver
out over the water adjacent to
the paired black wings of damselflies
& their tiny dance of egg-laying. And
I was strangely at peace with both of them,
each modest eclipse reaching,
and I was at peace that whoever
had cut their forms, painting them black,
set them there as
additions to light.
G. E. Schwartz/ENGINE OF LIFE, FRANKLIN INSTITUTE, 1965
I walked through The Engine of Life, the giant
walk-through heart, through its blood-pulsed places,
seeking the path, exploring valves, following the current
of my classmates. Touching walls, cardiac muscle was touched,
as were raised arteries clammier than my palms. My
feet shuffled through two chambers, feeling the fibre-glass
contours unyeilding through my thin soles. In near dark
I moved from venticle to ventricle, near deaf, thrilled
with pounding. All around the enormous heartbeat,
sensed, artificial, larger than all life, relentless. Just
there my heart was as small as a sparrow's, its living
compartments ready to seize in silence. Emerging,
my mouth gaped in wonder, knowing--just then--
where I was in this world, one untold millions have
since passed through.
walk-through heart, through its blood-pulsed places,
seeking the path, exploring valves, following the current
of my classmates. Touching walls, cardiac muscle was touched,
as were raised arteries clammier than my palms. My
feet shuffled through two chambers, feeling the fibre-glass
contours unyeilding through my thin soles. In near dark
I moved from venticle to ventricle, near deaf, thrilled
with pounding. All around the enormous heartbeat,
sensed, artificial, larger than all life, relentless. Just
there my heart was as small as a sparrow's, its living
compartments ready to seize in silence. Emerging,
my mouth gaped in wonder, knowing--just then--
where I was in this world, one untold millions have
since passed through.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Michael Rosenthal/ AT THE ALTAR
We all die in anger
little time to learn
to say the tender words
"I love the rain."
The water that glazes the stone
also wears it away.
little time to learn
to say the tender words
"I love the rain."
The water that glazes the stone
also wears it away.
Andrew Burke/ THE ORPHAN IN MY ROOM
In nineteen sixty three at age nineteen, I crossed
the Nullarbor, the longest straight stretch in the world sitting up on Australian National
railways, Sydney to Perth.
too old to stay with Mother,
I rented a bed in a boarding house
above a city cafe. Living on savings,
I shared a room with a stranger
to stretch the point to its limit.
An LP cost 52/6 back then.
the man in my room was
thick-set, of medium height
with curly close-cropped ginger hair
and cloudy hazel eyes, a fireman
from Perth City Station, a loner
who grew up in an orphanage, taken
from his mother in England and shipped
to Australia 'for his own good'. Try
asking him about that, 'for his own good'.
So much bunkum. As we came and went,
he marveled at the girls I knew and I
believed his dramatic tales. He had
no one, said he wasn't worth it, had
a beer at the end of the bar occasionally,
bet on the ponies with his loose change,
but otherwise, read popular magazines
on his bed, chin thrust forward against
whatever the world served up next.
Sunday's the cathedrals' bells
scattered pigeons, while in our quarter
the streets lay bare. Right by Perth's
central fire station was the Salvo's Citadel.
Sunday mornings their brass band would
set up music stands on a nearby corner
and play. The fireman and i would go
there, not for the message but
the music. talk of God was off limits, we listened in silence. Ten years
between us, curiosity kept us
in each other's company. That's the way
of poets and fireman, curious to a fault,
late night creaking on ghostly beds.
'Turn your light away, will ya?'
'Yeah, sure, sorry.' He huffed.
'And don't apologise every five minutes.'
'Sorry.' we both laughed and turned back
to Pix and Time.
One day I arrived
to find him throwing his possessions
into a duffel bag. 'What's up?' I asked.
He looked up, eyes clearer than ever,
and spat, 'I'm outta here, that's all,'
threw in two magazines and tied up.
I followed him to the stairs, bewildered,
silenced by the hostility coming off him.
The old bat who ran the joint waited
at the door. Sniffing came from the kitchen-
loud, melodramatic sniffing.
I shouted, 'Where're you going?'
from the top of the stairs as he
stopped at the door and turned.
The old bat barred the door with her body,
as he shouted over her shoulder,
'See ya, mate." I stood still as he took off.
She watched him, then shouted,
'Good riddance! and slammed the door.
the Nullarbor, the longest straight stretch in the world sitting up on Australian National
railways, Sydney to Perth.
too old to stay with Mother,
I rented a bed in a boarding house
above a city cafe. Living on savings,
I shared a room with a stranger
to stretch the point to its limit.
An LP cost 52/6 back then.
the man in my room was
thick-set, of medium height
with curly close-cropped ginger hair
and cloudy hazel eyes, a fireman
from Perth City Station, a loner
who grew up in an orphanage, taken
from his mother in England and shipped
to Australia 'for his own good'. Try
asking him about that, 'for his own good'.
So much bunkum. As we came and went,
he marveled at the girls I knew and I
believed his dramatic tales. He had
no one, said he wasn't worth it, had
a beer at the end of the bar occasionally,
bet on the ponies with his loose change,
but otherwise, read popular magazines
on his bed, chin thrust forward against
whatever the world served up next.
Sunday's the cathedrals' bells
scattered pigeons, while in our quarter
the streets lay bare. Right by Perth's
central fire station was the Salvo's Citadel.
Sunday mornings their brass band would
set up music stands on a nearby corner
and play. The fireman and i would go
there, not for the message but
the music. talk of God was off limits, we listened in silence. Ten years
between us, curiosity kept us
in each other's company. That's the way
of poets and fireman, curious to a fault,
late night creaking on ghostly beds.
'Turn your light away, will ya?'
'Yeah, sure, sorry.' He huffed.
'And don't apologise every five minutes.'
'Sorry.' we both laughed and turned back
to Pix and Time.
One day I arrived
to find him throwing his possessions
into a duffel bag. 'What's up?' I asked.
He looked up, eyes clearer than ever,
and spat, 'I'm outta here, that's all,'
threw in two magazines and tied up.
I followed him to the stairs, bewildered,
silenced by the hostility coming off him.
The old bat who ran the joint waited
at the door. Sniffing came from the kitchen-
loud, melodramatic sniffing.
I shouted, 'Where're you going?'
from the top of the stairs as he
stopped at the door and turned.
The old bat barred the door with her body,
as he shouted over her shoulder,
'See ya, mate." I stood still as he took off.
She watched him, then shouted,
'Good riddance! and slammed the door.
Jesse Glass/ poem about Cid Corman
Let the poor mad bad man live for 50 years abroad
& tell us his poems are greater than Dante's
He camps in a burning house
His tiny wife an ember
A knuckle-bone
charred black
Is all that will show up
Come next turn of an orb
That poor mad bad man with taped-together glasses
Whose name means "asshole" in Japanese
Wears a boot with a hole in the toe
When he walks declaiming to
himself
Some wisdom only he will consider
5 syllables at a
time
Come pulverize that special man of stone
Reduce him to his shatter color
Deer horn pressure point strike & flake
Plate chip platform burr
Him song him tell him cry into our mouth
Long weed heads tremble
Drag forth an old bone shank bone
Strike, crack it on a boulder
That old man's voice
A blown-thru reed:
& hectic written levers
Shake his lips shut
& tell us his poems are greater than Dante's
He camps in a burning house
His tiny wife an ember
A knuckle-bone
charred black
Is all that will show up
Come next turn of an orb
That poor mad bad man with taped-together glasses
Whose name means "asshole" in Japanese
Wears a boot with a hole in the toe
When he walks declaiming to
himself
Some wisdom only he will consider
5 syllables at a
time
Come pulverize that special man of stone
Reduce him to his shatter color
Deer horn pressure point strike & flake
Plate chip platform burr
Him song him tell him cry into our mouth
Long weed heads tremble
Drag forth an old bone shank bone
Strike, crack it on a boulder
That old man's voice
A blown-thru reed:
& hectic written levers
Shake his lips shut
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Vanessa Paige/ choreography
Vanessa Paige, who formally was a member of the Maud Baum Dance Company and EBA, curates and directs Soundance at the Stable, which hosts Vanessa Paige Dance. Based in Brooklyn, New York, Vanessa Paige dance has performed group and solo dances throughout New York and abroad. The company also has provided arts education services to New York public school students since its founding in 1984. The company also curates several showcases of independent choreography, including the annual Winterlight and Splendor of Desire programs, as well as an improvisational festival.
Here's an extraordinary clip of Paige in a 9 months pregnant dance solo:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LTVfNBS9Gk8
Here's an extraordinary clip of Paige in a 9 months pregnant dance solo:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LTVfNBS9Gk8
Thursday, February 23, 2012
JESSE GLASS/ Jeffrey Dahmer at Grand Avenue Mall, Milwaukee, 1988
I saw him passing & repassing
Among the young black men laughing
Tough in Bulls Jackets, hats
Raked at a threatening angle--the fixed look
In his eye, the prognathic jaw
& his oddly wooden movements.
I thought "how out of place," this white man
In alligator shirt new jeans almost every lunch hour
The polished floors of Grand Avenue
Food court, long blue windows: scoops
Of Lake Michigan Sky. He was treating
Them all to Kimchi Pork, Teriaki Chicken,
Mexican black beans, high-fiving,
Buying the boys beer & pizza. He'd
Bend near their testosterone sprawl, shaping
His lips as if to say, "Isn't life good,
My friends? Enjoy!" & I recall their laughter,
Their nudging each other in the ribs
An open joke
As he again heaped up their plates.
Among the young black men laughing
Tough in Bulls Jackets, hats
Raked at a threatening angle--the fixed look
In his eye, the prognathic jaw
& his oddly wooden movements.
I thought "how out of place," this white man
In alligator shirt new jeans almost every lunch hour
The polished floors of Grand Avenue
Food court, long blue windows: scoops
Of Lake Michigan Sky. He was treating
Them all to Kimchi Pork, Teriaki Chicken,
Mexican black beans, high-fiving,
Buying the boys beer & pizza. He'd
Bend near their testosterone sprawl, shaping
His lips as if to say, "Isn't life good,
My friends? Enjoy!" & I recall their laughter,
Their nudging each other in the ribs
An open joke
As he again heaped up their plates.
JOHN ROCHE/ Amazing Stories of Literary Rejection, volume 1.
Journal run by hip twenty-somethings
(or so I construe)
rejects poems from ROAD GHOSTS,
including one about freaking out watching
some dude I barely know shooting up
coke and LSD combo
in men's room of Rte. 66 Esso station.
Editors say, there's a question about the reality of someone "shooting up/ coke and LSD combo" in an "Esso station". nobody's heard of LSD being shot up...
So I respond, Happy to look for something else. But if someone on your editorial staff thinks the above trivia impugns the integrity of the book, then fuck 'em.
Of course, the editorial board misses the point, as the poem is a tale told by a
17-year-old tripping fool being told something (maybe) in 40-year recollection
put down on paper, everything a priori indeterminate, except the fear, the black-out hole
in the universe, the blood-splattered needle, and the fact that, miracle of miracles, the
junkie came back to see if I was alive, just like William S. Fucking Burroughs'
immaculate conception Christmas card
and I apparently (at least all else predicated on) survived-
If not I'm living a pretty good facsimile of the previous earth dimension
(though how would I know?), and anyway, that was an analog world
so I'm no longer there, or there's no there there, as Rumsfeld might say
and at least the beer's better now than the Coors we drank back then
and the wine, too, better than Ripple and Boone's Farm
and the coffee a hell of a better than Denny's watery brew
though I miss that old Mexican dirt weed
not hydroponicked or super-sized or genetically modified
just plain ol' weed you could smoke all day and not get lazy.
Then I get to thinking, ah, a simple Google search! To find out what "nobody's heard of":
During the psychedelic era, Dr. Hofmann struck up friendships with such outsize
personalities as Timothy Leary, Allen Ginsberg and Aldous Huxley, who, nearing death
in 1963, asked his wife for an injection of LSD to help him through the final painful throes
of throat cancer.
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/04/30/world/europe/30hofmann.html
Mumbai Shooters were on coke and LSD:
"We found injections containing traces of cocaine and LSD left behind by terrorists and later found drugs in their blood," said one official.
http://forum.prisonplanet.com/index.php?topic=73366.0
Intravenously Injecting LSD:
http://www.shroomery.org/forums/showflat.php/Number/6005985
And there are many more such evidences on the Worldwide Web.
Postscript: So I send this poem to guy I know on the staff (red-mustachioed Hotspur;
actually a most promising poet-scholar) who tells me a) they aren't all that hip, and b) the lead editor is actually a 50-something poet. So I GOOGLE editor. And there, emblazoned on his blogspot, in bold letters, is the motto, "Poets are liars. None of these poems represent actual people or events accurately. Any truths you find are inside of you."
(or so I construe)
rejects poems from ROAD GHOSTS,
including one about freaking out watching
some dude I barely know shooting up
coke and LSD combo
in men's room of Rte. 66 Esso station.
Editors say, there's a question about the reality of someone "shooting up/ coke and LSD combo" in an "Esso station". nobody's heard of LSD being shot up...
So I respond, Happy to look for something else. But if someone on your editorial staff thinks the above trivia impugns the integrity of the book, then fuck 'em.
Of course, the editorial board misses the point, as the poem is a tale told by a
17-year-old tripping fool being told something (maybe) in 40-year recollection
put down on paper, everything a priori indeterminate, except the fear, the black-out hole
in the universe, the blood-splattered needle, and the fact that, miracle of miracles, the
junkie came back to see if I was alive, just like William S. Fucking Burroughs'
immaculate conception Christmas card
and I apparently (at least all else predicated on) survived-
If not I'm living a pretty good facsimile of the previous earth dimension
(though how would I know?), and anyway, that was an analog world
so I'm no longer there, or there's no there there, as Rumsfeld might say
and at least the beer's better now than the Coors we drank back then
and the wine, too, better than Ripple and Boone's Farm
and the coffee a hell of a better than Denny's watery brew
though I miss that old Mexican dirt weed
not hydroponicked or super-sized or genetically modified
just plain ol' weed you could smoke all day and not get lazy.
Then I get to thinking, ah, a simple Google search! To find out what "nobody's heard of":
During the psychedelic era, Dr. Hofmann struck up friendships with such outsize
personalities as Timothy Leary, Allen Ginsberg and Aldous Huxley, who, nearing death
in 1963, asked his wife for an injection of LSD to help him through the final painful throes
of throat cancer.
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/04/30/world/europe/30hofmann.html
Mumbai Shooters were on coke and LSD:
"We found injections containing traces of cocaine and LSD left behind by terrorists and later found drugs in their blood," said one official.
http://forum.prisonplanet.com/index.php?topic=73366.0
Intravenously Injecting LSD:
http://www.shroomery.org/forums/showflat.php/Number/6005985
And there are many more such evidences on the Worldwide Web.
Postscript: So I send this poem to guy I know on the staff (red-mustachioed Hotspur;
actually a most promising poet-scholar) who tells me a) they aren't all that hip, and b) the lead editor is actually a 50-something poet. So I GOOGLE editor. And there, emblazoned on his blogspot, in bold letters, is the motto, "Poets are liars. None of these poems represent actual people or events accurately. Any truths you find are inside of you."
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