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Fool

An end to violence is not an end to fear.
This is the most placid day of my life:

The natural light, too, actionless,
A matte substance, milk and chalk

Unatomed and combined; smooth light
And the archaic, beautiful apartments

Standing quiet, in crowds.
Absolutely peace or a form of peace

Has come. Try to raise your arms against it.
Absolutely you possess no maxim

To disrupt such ultimate logic
And the logic is this: misery

And the continuing of misery;
Hopelessness and the arrival,

Always still arriving
Into hopelessness. Try, if you must,

To outwrestle and escape it. Perhaps
You will even succeed. But how

The last crash of the last cymbal
Became a surface, a dead wave

In which no flecks or sparks of foam
Appeared.

Read more

The Ticking is Tonight

Hello and hello to whoever is reading this. If you're in Brooklyn tonight, Nick Flynn will be reading at Zach Pace's stellar new event, Projection, starting at 7PM. Poets Jason Schneiderman, Joseph Fasano, and Diego Baez will also be reading.

Flynn's new book, The Ticking is the Bomb, is due out in January. It's another memoir. Only this time, in addition to writing about his childhood, Flynn has also undertaken the task of writing about torture.

Things got a little hairy last year when PEN gave Flynn an award for Another Bullshit Night and simultaneously gave a related award to author Sam Harris for his book, The End of Faith. The problem? Harris wrote the following:

"Given what many of us believe about the exigencies of our war on terrorism, the practice of torture, in certain circumstances, would seem to be not only permissable, but necessary." Read more

An American Pursuit (first five pages)

This is the first few draft pages of my comic. It's the first part of a miniseries. All of the character and setting descriptions aren't in, so I apologize if there's any confusion.


Page 1


Full width aerial shot of a country road. Middle of the night, cloudless and starry sky. Corn fields spread for acres on both sides of the road with no houses in sight. A lone police cruiser is parked on the road's dusty shoulder beside a telephone pole; its dim lamp and the cruiser's headlights show a silhoetted man dragging another figure by his armpits toward the vehicle.


Caption
Found him there, lyin' in the corn. Tell you, at at the time, thought he was damn lucky my headlights caught him the way they did.


Tighten panel around the cruiser. The silhoetted figure gets the other into the backseat.


Caption
Why didn't you call it in?


The cruiser turns on its red and blue lights and speeds out of the panel. However, our focus remain on lighted area underneath the telephone pole where a third figure begins to emerge from the corn field.


Caption
Thought he was just a drunk, maybe passed out. He wasn't that far from the highway. And his head only has a scratch.


Caption
Damn it, Mead. That's no excuse. Was anyone nearby?


The figure steps directly underneath the telephone pole and begins to walk in the direction of the cruiser.


Caption
Not that I saw.


Suddenly we are looking at a nervous OFFICER DANIEL MEAD leading an angry SGT. JEFFREY YOUNG out of the police station toward us.


Caption
Shit. I guess I should feel lucky you didn't leave the body and head home for dinner.


MEAD and YOUNG are standing before the passenger side of the cruiser. The perspective is from behind both men. MEAD is reaching toward the handle of the back passenger side door.


Caption
Well, let's take a look.


Page 2


The perspective is over both of their shoulders, looking toward the inside of the car. Though we can't see it clearly, YOUNG is holding his belt buckle and squinting. Splayed across the backseat, head and exposed face in the foreground, is the dead body of JON PLUMMER. A brown stetson is visible on the floor of the backseat, barely touching PLUMMER's outstretched hand. There's a slight cut on the side of PLUMMER's head, as well as a bit of blood running from his nose.


Shot of MEAD looking nervously upon the body.


MEAD
Like I said, just a bump on the head. As far as how he got out there, there isn't a car parked either way for two miles.


Shot of YOUNG looking upon the body, his palm over his chin and his thumb and forefinger rubbing the ends of his mustache.


YOUNG
I don't recognize him and he seems a bit old to be from the university. You check his phone? Maybe his friend lives in town.


Shot of MEAD looking away.


MEAD
I didn't check.


Close-up of YOUNG turning to MEAD.


YOUNG
Well shit, Mead. Are you new?! Get in there and give me what's in that man's pockets.


Page 3


The perspective is from inside the vehicle facing outward. The frame is tight around MEAD, who's carefully crawling over PLUMMER. He's barely trying to touch PLUMMER, conscientously reaching inside of his jacket while averting his eyes.


Back to YOUNG, who's growing in trepidation.


YOUNG
Yeah, well, I'm going to have to think of something to put in the report to save your dumb ass.


Still arched over PLUMMER, MEAD turns to YOUNG.


MEAD
Sergeant Young--


The perspective is from behind MEAD, facing toward YOUNG. In the foreground, MEAD is lifting, with this fingertips, a polished 1858 Remington revolver by its barrel. In the background, YOUNG is perturbed, the weapon complicating what would have only been a small lie in his incident report.


Shot of MEAD.


MEAD
I don't think it's going to be that simple.


Page 4


INT.
A large classroom in a university. The town's mayoral debate. A relatively bustling affair for a small town debate, even in such a politically active college town. About thirty people are in the audience. The majority are seated in classroom desks. The local television crew are situated along the local papers' photographers and the university's student journalists. In front of them, standing before the classroom chalkboards—still wet from being wiped clean—are the two candidates. On one side is JUSTIN GOODENOUGH, a man in his late twenties/early thirties. He has dark black hair that's parted on the side and a mustache. Think evil western villain since that's the trope we are going for, after all. He's a wearing a white dress shirt with a blue tie and cream-colored slacks. When he talks he looks around the room, keeping an eye on the cameras and always smiling. He's a real estate agent and his success in these rough economic times has created an aura of confidence around him that exudes even on this stage.


On the other side, GEORGE DANIELSON is slouching over his podium, attentive and strained. He has a confused look over his face, his eyebrow arched toward his opponent. He is in his late forties; a history professor at the university. Though his interests are in the town's favor—both in spirit and historical perspective—he is a lecturer, not an orator, and his attitude toward GOODENOUGH is the same he has toward students inattentive, smartass students: outright scorn (which, as you can imagine, makes him the Nixon instad of the Kennedy in this debate). He is shorter than GOODENOUGH by a good four inches—GOODENOUGH should be around 6'3—has narrow shoulders, a bit of a stoop, graying brown hair in a horse-shoe with an island of ahir as his widow's peak. He's dressed in gray slacks and a brown sweater over a light tie and dress shirt.


A group of three moderators are seated at a table in front of the candidates—an older black woman with gray hair, conservatively dressed in a dress and a sweater with a flowery pendant; a professional-looking female student representative from the university, with her blond hair in a bun, a dyed pink streak showing her youth; situated between the two women, in front of the microphone, is an elderly, bearded man in a white dress shirt, a black tie, and brown slacks. Hounddog face. His mouth is an inch away from the microphone as he talks.


MODERATOR
And now we come to the second to last question of this ninety minute debate.
(link)
I thank everyone once again for coming. It isn't often that these issues get to be addressed out of the town council, our minutes of which are available on our new website kindly put together by--


A MAN FROM THE CROWD:
Get on with it!


MODERATOR (tart face):
Of course. A few ladies are quite impatient for the next exchange, hmm? Let us begin, shall we?


(professional)
Mr. Danielson. We have heard from Mr. Goodenough's view on the recent loss of jobs in the town, what with the closing of shops down Artisan and Clover streets, and what he would do.
(link)
What is your position on the rezoning of town property along Prospect St. for commercial retail purposes?


DANIELSON coughs, sips his water, then leans over the lectern.


DANIELSON
If you own stock in McDonald's, it's a great idea. If, luckier still, you're like Mr. Goodenough and are able to draft the contracts to your businesses' interest, it's a great strategy for financial growth.
(link)
Unfortunately, Otterkill isn't composed entirely of the slovenly or the Goodenough family.


GOODENOUGH
Oh, come on!


DANIELSON
Our town, sir, was founded on corporate interest and for generations it has been corrupted through the fine financial sense of our corporate citizens. So you will excuse me if I don't “come on” and not point out the blatant conflict of interest your real estate business poses in this “rezoning”.
(link)
True, if my opponent's plan for a retail outlet was enacted, it would bring jobs to many of my students, but it would also sacrifice--


GOODENOUGH (smiling)
One moment. Ladies and gentlemen, did you catch that?
(link)
I'd be remiss if I didn't point out that Mr. Danielson just said I was right! My plan would bring in new jobs, jobs this town sorely needs more than some nostalgic park space. If we--


DANIELSON (to GOODENOUGH)
You can lie on your own time, Goodenough.


Page 5


DANIELSON turns to the moderator.


I'd like to reclaim my time, sir.


MODERATOR (off panel)
Go on then.


The perspective shifts to the back of the room where MEAD is standing in full uniform, his role as peacekeeper. He is against the door frame next to the last row of seated audience members. He is situated in the foreground with the debate occurring in the background. He is only slightly paying attention, his thoughts on the night before.


OFF PANEL (a whisper)
Hi Patrick.


MEAD turns; the perspective of the panel shifts with him. A young college girl is behind him. She's white, short, with a ponytail, a graphic tee, and jeans. Perhaps MEAD knows her from frequent party busts; ever shy, MEAD is awkward talking to her, constantly looking over his shoulder or down at his belt buckle.


MEAD
Evening, Jess. You coming in?
(link)
Seating is a bit tight.


JESS
If there aren't any seats, I'll read about it.


MEAD
That's fair.


JESS
Decide who you're voting for?


MEAD
Rather not say in mixed company.
(link)
Professor Danielson is a good man, though.


JESS
Yeah. I have him for 'The American West'.


MEAD
Huh.


JESS
So, I heard there was some excitement last night.


Silent panel of MEAD.


JESS
Heard the sirens coming down Main—was that you, Patrick?


MEAD
Yep. A stranger got stuck down near North Ohioville.
(link)
I just gave him a lift. No big deal.


JESS
Oh.
(link)
What did you need the sirens for, then?


MEAD
We should probably keep it down, Jess.
(link)
For the people nearby, you know? We'll talk later.


MEAD turns away from Jess, who seems a bit put off.


JESS
Uh, sure.


Like before, the perspective shifts with MEAD's attention. Bring us back to where we were with MEAD in the foreground, now standing with his hands on his belt, and the debate in the background.


Close-up of GOODENOUGH at his lectern. He is smiling, his shoulders shrugged.


GOODENOUGH
I mean, perhaps you are right. I know all the people who'll go homeless will really enjoy the park's beauty—to say nothing of its benches!


OFF PANEL (from the crowd)
Laughter.

Read more

Two More Years And We're Dead

One thing the world never needs and which we all love nonetheless is illegitimate exaltation. In other words, lists in which we claim we know what's best. While I don't personally condone this sort of posturing, I'm not going to act like I don't love to see who says what and then argue about it.

Now I wonder. What do you think was the best poem written in the last decade? I exclude, in my question, poems published in the last decade, because well, someone is always publishing something that contains Lycidas, and I can't say I know of a single better poem than that one. This is, of course, also excluding what I would call "works": your Infernos, your Dark Lady sonnets, your Odysseys.

It seems only fair that I also disqualify "works" that appeared in the last ten years. I would say Anne Carson's Autobiography of Red or any of Frank Bidart's "Hour of the Night" poems are peerless in that regard.

What follows are two poems. The first I will call the best poem written in the last ten years, the second I will call my favorite poem written in the last ten years. I encourage you, any and every one of you, to list your best and favorites of the past decade. Nothing is wrong if it made you want to throw a rock.



The Orchard


I saw the dog in a dream. Huge white
Boney creature. Big as a horse. At first
I thought it was a horse. It was feeding
On apples. As a horse might. Though not
With a horse's patience. For it was starving.
Its hipbones were empty bowls. The horse
Wolfed down the apples. Without breathing.
Without looking up. The way a dog wolfs
Down meat. And then it growled. And I saw
That the horse was a dog. But the apples
Were still apples. Windfall from the orchard
Above the lake. Pitiful place. The few trees
There grow black and yellow. And the thin grasses
Stagger down to the abandoned north field,
Which floods in winter and then freezes&mdash
Blue ground, marbled with red and white,
Like a slab of meat &mdash and when the far deer
Cross over it, and the birds cross over it,
It is as if the memories held within
The meat were rising from it. Or it is like
Flies crawling....I saw the dog in a dream.
And then, days later, just before dawn,
I climbed to the orchard. And there he was.
The same dog. Chewing on a dead doe.
And it was troubling. I thought I might
Still be dreaming &mdash as was the case
When for many months I could not sleep
And I lost the power to tell the figures
In my dreams from those we call real.
I thought the scene might have been staged
For me. By my mind. Or by someone
Who could read my mind. Someone
Who was having a good laugh
At my expense. Or testing me
In some way I could not understand.
Beneath the black and yellow trees,
The dog's skin was abnormally white.
And the blood on his broad muzzle shone
Like wet paint. I closed my eyes. Not because
The ghostly creature was now biting
At the neck of the doe, the way
Those dark creatures who drink blood
And live forever do &mdash since the river
Of blood flows forever, the streams
Of an eternal city, forever running,
Forever carrying their musky loads
Of blooming and expiring words
And figures, a thousand thousand
Yellow lights forever flickering off
And on in the black liquid, gold,
Sweet liquid, fallen &mdash I closed my eyes.
Not out of distaste. But to see if the dog
Would disappear, the way the mist
Had thinned and vanished as I climbed
The hill. But the dog was still there
When I opened them. Staring straight at me.
He lifted his large paw. Placed it
On the doe's chest, and started to rip
At her belly. There was the sound
Of cloth tearing. And what did I do?
I picked up an apple. I wanted to see
If the dog &mdash when the apple struck his side
And he fell &mdash would rise in a second form,
And then a third. As dream figures do.
Dog. To horse. To man. Or I wanted to see
If the apple would pass through the dog
As through a ghost. And if the dog
Like the best of ghosts would turn
And instruct me in my confusion.
Or I wanted to bring the scene down
To size. The way the bright lights
That clank on at the end of the play
Show the mad king to be nothing
But a skinny man holding a costume
Of cloth and paste. I wanted the dog
To be just a stray, gnawing on a bone.
Or maybe I wanted none of these things.
Maybe I wanted what the hunter
Wanted when he struck the doe. Maybe
I wanted a piece of the dog's feasting,
The way the hunter wanted a piece
Of the doe's improbable swiftness.
The gun fires. The smell of burnt powder
Sprays up. A knotted string of birds
Unspools across the white sky. And deep
In running blood the hunter thrusts his hands.
I wanted something. But I did not throw
The apple. It was a small fruit. The size
Of a child's hand. Black and yellow. Riddled
With worms and misshapen. I put my teeth
To it. I took a bite. Chill flesh. Rank.
The dog kept feeding. I was not bothered
By the blood. The last of the red leaves
Scudded about me. And a few drops fell
From the dark sky. There is blood
Everywhere. The trees shed it. The sky.
There is no end. And isn't it pretty?
We say. Isn't it pretty? Amn't I?
Isn't the starving dog? Isn't the doe,
Even half-eaten? She gave her body
To the dog. The fallen body looked
So heavy. It looked as if it weighed
Ten thousand pounds. More than the lake
Or the frozen field. The doe dreamed
Of her death and it came to pass.
She courted the hunter and he shot her.
And she fell. And then the man stood
Over her. A white shadow. Laughing.
And then the dog stood over her. A black
shadow. Laughing. And the dog came close.
The way a lover might. Had the doe
Been human. And he put his mouth to her.
As a lover might. Had he been human.
And her chastened flesh was a chalice.
And she was peaceful. And there was bliss
In this. And some horror. Around her
The thorns shone black and yellow.
And the fallen fruit lay black and yellow.
And black and yellow are the colors
Of the orchard's hive when it masses
And the queen in a fiery constellation
Is carried to new quarters. The wind
Stirred in the orchard. The dog bit
Into the doe's chest. And the apple
In my hand, against my lips, small,
Misshapen, the size of a child's fist,
Full of worms, turned suddenly warm
And soft. And it was as if, on that hill,
While the dog fed and the lake lay
Frozen, I was holding in my hand,
Against my lips, not a piece of fruit,
Not a piece of bitter, half-eaten fruit,
But the still warm and almost beating
Heart of some holy being &mdash just lifted
From the dead body. And the heart
Was heavy. And wet. And it smelled
As it would smell forever. Of myrrh.
And burning blood. And gold.

-Brigit Pegeen Kelly




Quarry

This is the time of year the missing ones

come back to us &mdash no longer weighted down

by debris, curled into fetal positions,

rising naked through the murky water&mdash

as if they can hear our yelling shouts

as we dive from the ledges above,

pretending they are not there.

Life piles onto life. "Come," says

the onyx water, "come into my deep,"

and I run across the grass into the fizzy air&mdash

insane, undignified &mdash but even there,

falling through the lavender haze, I extend

my arms to you, my secret comrade,

who made me love you.

-Henri Cole



Five Favorite Readings of the Last Ten Few Years:

1) Frank Bidart at La Poisson Rouge - 2009
2) Anne Carson with Jonah Bokaer at NYU - 2009
3) Charles Bernstein at Bowery Poetry Club - 2009
4) Robert Hass at Dodge Poetry Festival - 2007
5) Brigit Pegeen Kelly at Poet's Forum - 2008

This last year was good.

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"That's about all I can say without actually saying what I want to say."

Without first saying what I think about it, I'd like to throw a particular thought out there for discussion - good auld Yay vs. Nay with whatever requisite corollaries involved in the scrum like dirty shirts. The thought is:

"Today, a poem that is not aware of itself as poetry strikes us, at best, as unevolved and at worst as crude."

Anything? Read more

Excerpted (II)

It is an evil time to be alive.

Tell me that I will assume, in this shape,


In a body composed all through of glass

The blackened atoms, the polluted world.


All I wanted was a white-sided room,

A white reality, involved cleanly


In these spare limbs, this bare, cold-runged chassis,

The transparent and transparented self.


Life as a nude would be this. No charred lungs,

No unsatisfying rest, no failed sleep,


No sweating beneath that high fireball

Set like a tumor in the still mind


Of a dumb god. Life as a cool nude

In a smooth room… Look outside


And tell me that the jaundiced sky is good.

As I say, an evil time


To be alive. Where are the pale tubes

Of my person? With both hands


Find them. Already

I can hardly breathe. Above


A wind like sheaves of music, coffee-stained,

Is coming, roaring, coming loud enough


That all this should be forgotten,

That all this should be forgotten and then some. Read more

From Rain, by Jon Woodward

the water was where my
headache was before it was
passed on to me the
water was a recording of
a voice saying you're welcome

by that time he'd spat
his cigarette out and lit
another and spat that one
out after smoking it this
is Patrick I'm talking about

the water went about sicking
up the water had climbed
down stairs the water purchased
me a seagull I'm a
trained seal I can't laugh


*


the eye a plastic bubble
filled with milk more than
twenty miles of visibility trapped
therein and it's a fine
day to jump out of

an airplane the doors open
and the suits full of
men leap from the gray
belly run and leap out
into and through fields of

temporary black flak marigolds blooming
and dissipating into air you're
always falling even inside the
plane into wide awakeness the
lights the wide aperture into Read more

Duende goes Catullus 85

Catullus (ca. 84 B.C.-ca. 54 B.C.)

Odi et amo. Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris.
Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.

Anachreon (570 B.C-488 B.C.)

I love and yet I do not love,
I am crazy and I am not crazy.

Ezra Pound, date not found (1885-1972)

I hate and love. Why? You may ask but
It beats me. I feel it done to me, and ache.

Peter Whigham, 1966 (1925-1987)

I hate and I love. And if you ask me how,
I do not know: I only feel it, and I'm torn in two.

C.H. Sisson, 1966 (1914-2003)

I hate and I love. You may well ask, why I do so.
I do not know, but I feel it and suffer.

Myers and Ormsby, 1970 (dates not found)

I hate and love. You ask, "How can this be?"
God knows! What wretchedness! What loathsome misery!

Frank Bidart, 1983 (1939- )

I hate and love. Ignorant fish, who even
wants the fly while writhing.

Anne Carson, 1992 (1950- )

Hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate.
Hate hate hate hate hate hate hate love hate.
Love love love love love love love love love.
Love hate love love love love love love love.
Why why why why why why why why why why.
Why why why why why I why why why why why.
I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I
I I I I I I I I I why I I I I I I I I I

Frank Bidart, 1997 (1939- )

I hate and—love. The sleepless body hammering a nail nails
itself, hanging crucified.

Fred Speers, 2009 (a coworker; he's alive)

I hate—love. Barely get it myself. Just 'cause this heart I
Feel g l i m m e r s inside, I break it open—and, broken, feel.

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James Baldwin

The gulf between our dream and the realities that we live with is something that we do not understand and do not wish to admit. It is almost as though we were asking that others look at what we want and turn their eyes, as we do, away from what we are. I am not, as I hope is clear, speaking of civil liberties, social equality, etc., where indeed a strenuous battle is yet carried on; I am speaking instead of a particular shallowness of mind, an intellectual and spiritual laxness...This rigid refusal to look at ourselves may well destroy us; particularly now since if we cannot understand ourselves we will not be able to understand anything.


-from "Lockridge: 'The American Myth'"

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Legacy, Frank Bidart

When to the desert, the dirt
comes water

comes memory

to get off the shitdirt
land and move to the city

whence you

direct the work of those who now
work the land you still own

My grandparents left home for the American

desert to escape
poverty, or the family who said You are the son who shall

become a priest

After Spain became
Franco's, at last

rich enough

to return you
refused to return

The West you made

was never unstoried, never
artless

Excrement of the sky our rage inherits

there was no gift
outright     we were never the land's

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Avro Arrow at Sombre Hill, Diana Thorneycroft

-from Group of Seven Awkward Moments

This struck me as inexplicably kindred with the Clampitt poem below. Grieve on, grievers.

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The Dakota, Amy Clampitt

Grief for a generation—all
the lonely people
gone, the riffraff
out there now mainly pigeons—
steps from its limousine
and lights a taper
inside the brownstone catacomb
of the Dakota. Pick up
the wedding rice, take out
the face left over from
the funeral nobody came to,
bring flowers, leave them woven
with the lugubrious ironwork
of the Dakota. Grief
is original, but it
repeats itself: there's nothing
more original that it can do.


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Mystery of the Noise the Air Makes When Milled by Beth Bachmann

It’s enough to force you over the edge
                        and into the water.
This is one consequence of mining wind
                        to generate light:

killings, the rate of which rises in towns
                        where the white blades
turn, driven by heat. Still, on a calm day,
                        something is always

moving, suggesting a harness.

~

Anyone read any of Conrad's short stories? I was so plumb in the middle of a typhoon off the coast of China that a hand on my back literally made me jump out of my shoes.

Also, happy birthday, Dann. Here's hoping what comes of it makes this year worth living.

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Death, I Think, is an Endless Bus Ride Through Middle America, Cori Kresge

you might pass
my mother, gardening in Ohio
her knife stabbing the ground
like a shaft of light


I try to look at things from above
I think this is a great accomplishment


People who can see into the future,
that must be like being homeless
living in open air
wandering like a forest fire


Time keeps putting me in my place


in the early evening
the sunlight
likes to come into our bedroom
and run its hands over the dresser,
the bookshelf, the unmade bed,
and it leaves everything exactly as it was
leaves without saying a word


I know you are busy right now
trying to be solid inside a cloud of dust
walking through rooms of your past
with a hammer
knowing Death as
the end
of personal space


everything you ever thought was yours
fragmented into golden pollen


When I say I love you
don't take it personally


It is a rich black cloud
traveling somewhere over Nebraska by now

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