Thursday, September 05, 2013
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Monday, June 27, 2011
BAD DATE AMERICA - September 24, 2011
Larry Sawyer, myself, and Jen Karmin are hosting a Chicago-based event on September 24, 2011 called Bad Date America as part of an international event titled 100 Thousand Poets for Change.
Poets will be sharing their "bad date" stories and use the metaphor to describe the "relationship" they've been having lately with our lovely country.
See the above link for details.
Poets will be sharing their "bad date" stories and use the metaphor to describe the "relationship" they've been having lately with our lovely country.
See the above link for details.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
One Hundred Thousand Poets for Change
Do you want to join other poets around the USA and across the planet in a demonstration/celebration of poetry to promote serious social and political change? 100 THOUSAND POETS FOR CHANGE is organizing a global event for September 24, 2011. If you think you would like to participate or organize your own event, please sign up on Facebook or contact 100 Thousand Poets for Change at walterblue@bigbridge.org.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Published on "No Tell Motel" (2008)
--for Huidobro
I was born at the age of eight on the cut of no Christ,
gin and tonic met the equator of my hairless pines.
Under the geraniums of my Lugan piano, a cuddy
beneath bergs, I had the blank stare of a victim,
a relentless bicycle. I breathed in my next blind
father, upon a trapeze bar. I loved the daylight,
the veil of my grandmother's hat. My mother spoke
with larks coming from her mouth, she embroidered
buttons to my breast. On the first day, I asked the larks
to unbeak these buttons to show the nudes of the gallery
that I could collect the broken shells of rational hearts.
Then I created my tongue and braided my grave.
A poem is something that never is, but ought to be.
A poem is something that never has been, that never can be.
I constructed my development from my grandmother's
slips, the Russian tombs, and the retinal failures.
Speeding gold chessboards of sight: perhaps they
preferred disconnection so as not to see the disconnected;
perhaps when disengaged, the last sigh of vision delivers
untangled tropes. One should write in a language
that is not the mother tongue. If I didn't do something crazy
at least once a year I'd go crazy. I looked at my fists, angled
as accordions, a horse upon each girl, extracted from the stain
of sleep, the illusion of savagery. Where my tongue slipped
across my father's glass and burned me; where phone cords
and moons each end the summer, a blister of stone, I,
a soldier of children. All of my throats the planets, money wired
to each snowy renewal of skin, more skin, all the skin I could grow.
I drank the hunters, the waterfalls of bile, each hammer of my selves
a bitter astronomy. There is a secret to my vertigo, my only fish scales
in a sea of hankerchiefs. I was born at the age of eight on the cut
of no Christ, gin and tonic met the equator of my hairless pines.
True poems are fires; its conquests lit with shivers of pleasure or pain.
I was born at the age of eight on the cut of no Christ,
gin and tonic met the equator of my hairless pines.
Under the geraniums of my Lugan piano, a cuddy
beneath bergs, I had the blank stare of a victim,
a relentless bicycle. I breathed in my next blind
father, upon a trapeze bar. I loved the daylight,
the veil of my grandmother's hat. My mother spoke
with larks coming from her mouth, she embroidered
buttons to my breast. On the first day, I asked the larks
to unbeak these buttons to show the nudes of the gallery
that I could collect the broken shells of rational hearts.
Then I created my tongue and braided my grave.
A poem is something that never is, but ought to be.
A poem is something that never has been, that never can be.
I constructed my development from my grandmother's
slips, the Russian tombs, and the retinal failures.
Speeding gold chessboards of sight: perhaps they
preferred disconnection so as not to see the disconnected;
perhaps when disengaged, the last sigh of vision delivers
untangled tropes. One should write in a language
that is not the mother tongue. If I didn't do something crazy
at least once a year I'd go crazy. I looked at my fists, angled
as accordions, a horse upon each girl, extracted from the stain
of sleep, the illusion of savagery. Where my tongue slipped
across my father's glass and burned me; where phone cords
and moons each end the summer, a blister of stone, I,
a soldier of children. All of my throats the planets, money wired
to each snowy renewal of skin, more skin, all the skin I could grow.
I drank the hunters, the waterfalls of bile, each hammer of my selves
a bitter astronomy. There is a secret to my vertigo, my only fish scales
in a sea of hankerchiefs. I was born at the age of eight on the cut
of no Christ, gin and tonic met the equator of my hairless pines.
True poems are fires; its conquests lit with shivers of pleasure or pain.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Ozploitation
So I saw this phenomenal documentary about Aussie exploitation films, Not Quite Hollywood. It featured of a variety of nudie, gross-out, horror, and sci-fi/apocalyptic films, one of which was the classic, Mad Dog Morgan, starring the much-missed Dennis Hopper (above).
Horror was never my bag, but I have to say, the films highlighted in this doc made "gory and freaky" seem absurd and humorous, a statement on the need for creating pure entertainment. It introduced me, perhaps, to why folks dig slasher films. I realize there is social commentary in everything if you dig deep enough (or not), but the world of 70's Ozploitation was just plain fun to "walk about" in.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Monday, May 18, 2009
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
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