Clark Coolidge. From The So, 1971. Read or Download at Eclipse Archive.
Robert Creely with Allen Ginsberg at the Vancouver Conference (July 1963) issued as Audit Vol. V No. 1 in the Spring of 1968. Download PDF Here
“Hegel asserts that the animal voice signals but does not signify. Wrong again, bitch. Through a process of re-wilding, Beast Feastreturns us to the lingual theater of the Real Animal while nevertheless articulating “human” concerns. The beast itself, unnamed and unspecified (and ALIVE), retains its vital essence, devouring Hegel and anything else dumb enough to enter its zone. Which is everywhere. Here nature surpasses itself by its own means: death, annihilation, eating, subsuming, excreting. An ode to excess that masticates the inscribed and the liminal (gender, race, capital, the idealized environment); a feral politics indeed. The new cosmophagist anthem.” —C. Violet Eaton
FRIDAY Lilly Pad
7:00 Jim Dunn
7:08 January O’Neil
7:16 Jonathan Papas
7:24 Stefania Heim
7:32 Dan Bouchard
7:40 Jordan Davis
7:58 Andrew K. Peterson
8:06 Janaka Stucky
8:14 Christina Davis
8:22 Whit Griffin
8:30 Patrick Herron
8:38 Chloe Garcia Roberts
8:54 Michael Peters
9:02 J D Scrimgeour
9:10 Nat Raha
9:18 Joshua Savory
9:26 Walt Whitman
9:34 Shaunalynn Duffy
SATURDAY Outpost 186
12:00 “Do-Not-Call List” A One Act Play featuring Jim Behrle and Laryssa Wirstiuk
12:08 Kevin McClellan
12:16 Suzannah Gardner
12:24 Suzanne Mercury
12:32 Bridget Madden
12:46 Laryssa Wirstiuk
12:54 Chris Rziglaniski
1:10 Mel Elberg
1:18 E. R. Kennedy
1:26 Fred Marchant
1:32 Jessica Bozek
1:40 Tom Daley
1:48 Karen Locascio
1:56 Alyssa Mazzerella
2:12 Betsy Gomez
2:20 Kythe Heller
2:28 Ewa Chrusciel
2:36 Christine Hamm
2:48 Matt Wedlock
2:56 Thera Webb
3:02 Lewis Feuer
3:18 Steve Subrizi
3:26 Allen Bramhall
3:34 Amy Lawless
3:42 Molly McGuire
3:50 G.L. Ford
3:58 Boyd Nielson
4:06 Krysten Hill
4:22 Mick Carr
4:30 Dan Pritchard
4:38 Nicole Callahan
4:46 Sam Cha
4:54 Mitch Manning
5:10 Dan Wuenshel
5:18 Elizabeth Tobin
5:34 Lloyd Schwartz
5:46 Tanya Larkin
5:54 Anthony Cueller
6:02 Brenda Iijima
6:10 Chad Parenteau
6:18 Jessica Melendy
7:00 Kimberly Lyons
7:08 Audrey Mardavich
7:16 Ben Mazer
7:24 Paige Taggart
7:32 Mairead Byrne
7:40 Mark Lamorueux
7:48 Lori Lubeski
8:06 Brendan Lorber
8:14 Maria Damon
8:22 Princess Chan
8:30 Cheryl Clark Vermuelen
8:38 Jess Mynes
8:46 Hassan Sakar
8:54 Drew Boston
9:10 Mitch Highfill
9:18 Jed Shahar
9:26 Ryan DiPetta
9:34 Michael Gottlieb
9:42 Douglas Piccinnini
9:50 Joe Elliot
10:14 Filip Marinovich
10:22 Ronny McDonny
10:30 Joe Elliot
10:38 Douglas Rothschild
SUNDAY Outpost 186
1:00 Christopher Rizzo
1:08 Margo Lockwood
1:16 Chris Siteman
1:24 Don Wellman
1:32 Amish Trivedi
1:40 Kate Wisel
1:48 Martha McCullough
2:06 Gilmore Tamny
2:14 Patrick Doud
2:22 Chuck Stebelton
2:30 Nathaniel Hunt
2:38 Leopoldine Core
2:46 Chris Lindstrom
2:54 John Mulrooney
3:10 Joe Torra
3:18 Gerrit Lansing
3:26 Carol Weston
3:34 Michael Franco
3:46 Joel Sloman
3:50 Ryan Gallagher
3:58 Trace Peterson
4:14 Prageeta Sharma
4:26 Christopher Sawyer-Laucanno
4:34 Ruth Lepson
4:42 Chris Schlegel
4:50 Kevin Bowen
When people ask me what I do for work, I answer “I’m a librarian.” For most, that’s enough. A few will make a half-hearted joke about Dewey Decimal Classification. The rest move on to talking about the weather or excusing themselves for another drink.
What I want to tell them is that it took me 30 years to understand how and why I’m wired for puzzles, that I’m not myself if I don’t spend a significant amount of time alone and thinking, that everything library-related I do is—in one way or another—my way of saying, “Look at this: I want you to have this. This means something.”
I wrote an essay about being a librarian-poet. It’s up now at The Volta, along with great writing from librarian-poets Sommer Browning, Trevor Calvert, Lisa A. Forrest, Janice N. Harrington, Jocelyn Saidenberg, Jessica Smith, Dolsy Smith, Stephanie Strickland & Ian Hatcher.
I hope you’ll give it a read, hope you enjoy it.
If writing this is a bad idea
Then I’ll have no ideas, I’ll keep
No hope in this world:
I will write another broken poem
Filled with the broken themes
Of the brokenest men, misses and xirs
Who populate my dead dreams
Of a happy goopy Joseph, I dedicate
My happy shame, I dedicate
My sticky genital brain, I dedicate
This map of graceful messes
As permanent as my eyelids.
John Berryman is dead.
Russell Edson is dead.
Sylvia Plath is dead.
New England is haunted with a
Creeping spirit and I praise myself
For writing this poem
Because making lists is boring,
Listing names is boring,
The names of the living
Are more boring than the dead.
Allen Ginsberg is dead.
John Wieners is dead.
Re-reading this poem I had the thought
That I want to bury my body
In a barge of trash off the Hudson
After I St. Geraud myself (wine and pills)
Having suffered enough earthly ills.
I will praise New York
Its creeping leakage of used soup money,
Its slapping sound of slurp slurping:
Gurgle gargle I heart queef noodle,
Splish splash I heart my creamy ass.
Re-reading this poem I had the thought
That my butt may be growing too fast
While the rest of my body slowly shrinks.
I will praise Macaulay Culkin
When he dies, I will bless
The mouths that wet themselves around
And chew their way through
The dead, I will tell them
Where to find my
Joseph Bradshaw corn hole stuffer,
My Joseph Bradshaw signal flarer,
My unending light in the grimy tunnel hoser.
I will bless the ungrateful mouths
Of anyone ungracefully listening:
I can show you where to find my
Joseph Bradshaw without borders.
Paul Thek is dead.
Jean Dubuffet is dead.
Bill Knott is dead.
I wrote a poem for Bill Knott
A year before he died.
I called it “Bill Knott Your Obituary
Will Be Published in the New York Times.”
I was wrong. They ran no remembrance
And now the poem is useless,
A useless artifact among useless moments
Of conviction, I wrote:
I am calm, Bill Knott.
I’m a calm sandwich, Bill Knott.
I am careful when I’m asleep.
I wrote: Sometimes I sneak a midnight squirt.
I wrote: Bill Knott vagina crevice squad.
Please stop suffering in America, Bill Knott.
Your cuntry needs you, Bill Knott.
But the New York Times
Didn’t think so, apparently
“Bill Knott Your Obituary Will Be Published
In the New York Times” was meant to be
Read by the living Bill Knott.
He never read it.
It never left my notebook.
I didn’t know that Bill Knott
Was to die so soon
Though it’s not surprising:
He was too cantankerous to stay alive.
Which is what made him
Like a painting.
A painting that when you look at it you see
Mocking you in your shabbiness.
That’s Bill Knott mocking you
As he pukes Slim Fast all over
Your Guggenheim-going shoes. At least
That’s what the living Bill Knott hoped
The dead Bill Knott would achieve.
Francis Bacon’s Three Studies of Lucien Freud
Sold for $142 million
Six months before Bill Knott died,
Two years after Lucien Freud died,
And 21 years after Francis Bacon died,
But Bill Knott will never be
A dead painting because
Bill Knott is a dead poet.
He’s the antique couch
At grandma’s cold house
With its weird uncomfortable smells.
He’s the antique couch
You were never allowed to sit in,
The antique couch you inherit
When grandma finally dies—
What do you do with this fucking couch?
Sell it on Craigslist?
Do you move it into your living room
And tell your kids
That they can never sit on it?
“It’s an antique,” you’ll say
With abundant self-contempt,
And with abundant self-congratulation I want
All of us dead poets
To smear our dirty asses
All over that antique couch.
I’m sure the couch will like it.
I’m sure the weight of our asses
Will make the couch feel
Like a poem.
A poem written only for the dead.
A poem that’s worth reading.
I called the first draft of this poem “Chill List.”
I hadn’t seen
Sophia le Fraga’s poem of the same name.
I wrote basically the same thing
As Sophia le Fraga:
A list of poet’s names
Rated by their chillness, like:
Stephanie Young is chill
Dodie Bellamy is sort of chill
Trisha Low is chill
I also included the names of places
I’ve lived and been,
Along with little entr’actes
To keep the reader entertained.
I started over
When I saw in almost the same instant
That Sophia le Fraga already
Wrote a “Chill List” and that
Bill Knott is dead.
It was good to start over.
I was bored with my “Chill List”
Anyway, I wrote:
Who do I want to relish in calling chill?
Then I wrote: I’m chill.
Then I wrote: Yeah fucking right:
I’m about as chill as Mike Kelley is dead.
New Orleans is chill.
Whit Griffin is chill.
Cody Rose-Clevidence is chill.
Before I started writing this poem,
Before I even called it “Chill List,”
I thought to call it “Pee Pants List”
And list all the poets who like to pee their pants
When they’re all by themselves
And no one is looking.
I got bored with that idea too fast
So I moved on to “Chill List,”
And even that
Didn’t work out so well, so instead I decided
I will praise St. Geraud, Chicago’s best suicide, who wrote:
We bite back a voice that might have emerged
To tame these dead bodies
Like Steve Abbott
And Jack Spicer
And all the dead of San Francisco.
If I google San Francisco in San Francisco
While I have less than $500 in my checking account
Will Google tell me
Where the nearest common grave is,
Or how to get to Kevin Killian’s apartment?
Or will Google just tell me
To go back to Idaho
And become one of the invisible?
In “Chill List” I wrote: Idaho is chill.
Then I wrote: Yeah fucking right.
Then I wrote:
Videos of dogs having sex with people are chill.
Videos of people having sex with fish are chill.
Videos of fish swimming in the bathtub etc.
I was (and still am) bored, so I rewrote a poem.
I’ve been working on it for years.
It’s called “Burning.” It goes:
One time I pooped in the bathtub in Idaho
And my grandma got in the bathtub
After I pooped
She pinched my toddler-sized turd in her fingers
And walked out of the bathroom naked
Her pubic hairs were matted, wet
They glistened and her whole body dripped
She was shaking
She kept on shouting WHOSE POOP?
Yeah fucking right.
I probably just made it all up
—I’m on line 201 now
Which indicates another matter altogether:
My penis is distending
And my butt, it continues to balloon
As the rest of my body shrinks down
To the size of an empty grocery basket,
A hand-held one,
You know, not the big push carts
Like you find in Walmart.
Look at my elephantine cock and ass:
How they dangle over the edges
Of the grocery basket as you carry me
Through the supermarket of your choice.
I’m knocking all the boxes of cereal
And all the cans of fruit and beans
Off the shelves as you walk me
Down the aisle,
This is our happiest moment.