BPM

Digital arm of the eponymous poetry zine

Edited by Andrew Hughes And Whit Griffin
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

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
Cody-Rose Clevidence :  Beast Feast
A review by Stephen Burt in Publisher’s Weekly

“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

Cody-Rose Clevidence :  Beast Feast

A review by Stephen Burt in Publisher’s Weekly

The Table of Contents to American Poetry Since 1970: Up Late, edited by Andrei Codrescu.  I found a copy of this in New Paltz, NY earlier this week. It’s a good companion to the Don Allen anthology and has a lot of poets that fall outside the canon.  I’ve never come across this book before, but it seems there are lots of affordable used copies available out there.  

Sunday Brunch at The Druid

*Mark Lamoureux & Chris Rizzo  *Gerrit Lansing & Anna Kreienberg  *Chris Rizzo & Jim Dunn  *Gerrit holding court  *Whit & Gerrit pondering the menu *Cheers  

More snaps from the 2014 Boston Poetry Marathon (Sunday)

*Joe Torra, Gerrit Lansing, Mitch Manning  *Chris Rizzo  *Chuck Stebelton (note Douglas Rothschild’s Slurpee)  *John Mulrooney  *Joe Torra  *Gerrit Lansing  *Carol Weston

Here are some of my bad snapshots from last night (Saturday) at the Boston Poetry Marathon:

*Ben Mazer  *Brendan Lorber & Jim Behrle  *Jess Mynes & Jim  *Jim & Mitch Highfill  *Mark Lamoureux  *John Mulrooney & Douglas Rothschild

bostonpoetryworldcup:

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

break    

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

break

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

break

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

break

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

break

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

break

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

break

5:34 Lloyd Schwartz

5:46 Tanya Larkin

5:54 Anthony Cueller

6:02 Brenda Iijima

6:10 Chad Parenteau

6:18 Jessica Melendy

DINNER BREAK   


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

break    

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

break

9:10 Mitch Highfill

9:18 Jed Shahar

9:26 Ryan DiPetta

9:34 Michael Gottlieb

9:42 Douglas Piccinnini

9:50 Joe Elliot

break

10:14 Filip Marinovich

10:22 Ronny McDonny

10:30 Joe Elliot

10:38 Douglas Rothschild

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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

break    

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

break

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

break

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.

(via mmebottomline)

Bill Knott’s America (Yeah Fucking Right)

joseph-bradshaw:

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.

I wrote:

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.

Too cantankerous

Which is what made him

Like a painting.

A painting that when you look at it you see

Unobtainable dollars

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

Useful, valuable,

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

Etc.

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.

I wonder:

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.

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,

Bill Knott,

This is our happiest moment.

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