So I am reading this Tuesday at one of my favorite places to read (and no, they're not ALL one of my favorite places to read). The place being the Wine-O bar, where readings are hosted and toasted by the ineffable Abbi Dion. If you've never been there, all I can say is come and bring your champagne shoes.
447 Poplar Street, Philadelphia (N 5th and Poplar, bit south of Girard)
Also reading are HaileyHigdon, who you really must see, Stephanie Marum and Mike H. Martin. I'm told the "H" stands for "hurricane." All heavy hitters. Basically this reading is one of those late 80s supergroups where everybody was in another megaband before but now have combined their rock powers so as to rock yet harder.
As for myself, I'm going to read a children's book for ungrownups I wrote last winter called Girlette's Disordered Alphabet. I've been saving it for the right time, and that time is now. Here's three of the poems, gotta come out to hear the other letters.
G
Girlette is not about to try to explain herself.
Please, we beg, please Girlette, we just want to get to know you better!
Absolutely not! she says, that's how it starts and then next thing you know there's tabloid journalism all over everywhere.
So just the facts!
Name: Girlette Age: 9 Hair/Eyes: Yes, both.
Likes: myself, hula hoops, kitties, dresses, etc. Dislikes: dolls, tea parties, Boy, Jr.
But Girlette! we protest, That's not enough! We need more! Girlette! Please! You don't have to tell us everything, just, maybe, how about one thing for every letter in the alphabet?
Girlette twists up her mouth, dubious, thinks it over.
Alright, she says, but listen: I'm doing you a favor so nobody better try to paparazzi me later on.
Deal?
B
Boys are something I generally oppose, says Girlette, and none more so than Boy, Jr.
He is a BEAST! He is BORING! And also very BAD!
He stinks and he has no manners to speak of and if he tries to kiss me again I think I'll slug him.
I
Insects are not, I repeat, NOT proper toys, Girlette insists, though apparently no one told Boy, Jr.
He is so gross. I tried to tell him: Stop playing with bugs they will not fight to the death in that Bell jar no matter how much you shake it!
He didn't listen. He never does. Do you know what he did do? He ate a bug! I mean really ATE it!
Then he chased me around and tried to kiss me, so I slugged him.
Mildred Pierce, a lovely zine edited by John Bylander and former Philadelphian Megan Milks, just posted a brief interview with me as part of their series on starving artists. They also talked to Leeyanne Moore and Sandra Newman, among others. So read those words already.
And, on the topic, here is the recipe for my national dish, Meximess. A big pot of vaguely Mexican food that's delicious, cheap, and lasts for days. I had to invent this in Chicago when I discovered that the only grocery stores in my neighborhood were Mexican ones. It has gradually been perfected over the years.
1. Some kind of meat, such as chorizo or chicken or carne enchilada or cecina. Or no meat, if you prefer.
2. Onion/garlic
3. Cumin and some kind of dried chili peppers, salt and pepper
4. Beans, I like black, you do whatever
5. Rice.
Put the rice on. Obviously in a separate pan, brown the meat then toss in the onions and garlic, then the various spices. Sweat the onions then toss in the beans. When they're hot add the rice and stir like mad.
You can serve this either on small tortillas, like tacos OR in a big tortilla, burrito-style, or even in a bowl with some tortilla chips if you're feeling informal. I always always top mine with fresh pico de gallo, sour cream and Yucateca hot sauce. You have my permission to do whatever you like.
I made this earlier tonight and the total cost was $24. It'll last 3 or four days.
A collaborative poem by myself, Ryan Eckes and Kelly Whiskey.
Sweet Calcutta Rain
When I come I come blood and glitter and plasterdirt thru my hair, which is made of a baseball cap I bought at Q mart, the sweet dirt mall offering stolen power tools and miniature animals. (Like goats and ponies <3!) Draining day after day through the glory hole, peek-a-boo! I threw shoes through your mom's open mic. She said, I'ma give you a buckfifty if you don't clean your room and make me a vodka and OJ (aka screwdriver.) Aka nine-liveser, I want to fuck the entire Danish curling team. Seriously. Throw the cat off the balcony already. You know it will land on its feet it's a cat we're on the 15th floor. Take the stairs down to check cause I'm skurred of the time we got stuck in the elevator at Disney World! Danish girls! You must whip it! Whip it good! Last time I was whipped was in Girl Scout camp. I'd like a smoothie, please. THANK YOU!
This will probably be the post that gets me kidnapped by some record label's ninjas and shipped off to Copyright Guantanamo, but fuck it. Here we go. Renato, my friend, you cannot tell me that you do not like hip-hop and then mention the name Warren G. You must take the following introductory course and then, if you tell me again that you really didn't like any of these songs, then fine, you don't like hip-hop, and I feel very sorry for you.
I myself cannot understand how any poet could be anything other than completely obsessed with hip-hop. Most, if not all, of the best American poets of the last 25 years have been rappers. While poety-poets became more and more grammatically asinine, rappers maintained the importance of statement. As poety-poets abandoned basic things like rhythm and rhyme as impossibly corny, rappers continually found new ways to use them well. As poety-poets got all fake-Marxist-ivory-tower, rappers kept their feet on the street, usually in very expensive sneakers. The result is, or at least was, a responsive, populist, cool form based mostly on the artful use of words. Here, in no order of any kind, are some classic examples of how awesome it is, and I defy you, Renato, to dislike them all.
1. Nas, "NY State of Mind"
When I first moved to New York, I took the train out to Queens and as it came up from under the river I looked over at the Queensbridge Projects and I was so thrilled to be looking at the place where Nas grew up. It mattered more than the Empire State Building or whatever other nonsense. The intricacy of the verses in this song continues to stun me, and I've listened to it almost every week for more than ten years. Crime narrative, gangster shit, basically, but aestheticized by that DJ Premier beat until it winds up cooler than a Jean-Pierre Melville movie. I saw Nas live once and I felt like I went to Rap College.
2. Gang Starr, "You Know My Steez"
The summer this record came out I heard this song 4 or 5 times in a row at every single party I went to. Nobody could believe how great this song was. Another DJ Premier beat, the always-reliable Guru, a really weird THX-1138 video, and "the illest warlock tactics," which are so necessary. The problem with Gang Starr is that it's hard to pick a single song. The album this is from, "Moment of Truth," was the last in a string of 4 consecutive records that were simply incredible, so fuck it, here's "Soliloquy of Chaos" too.
3. Wu-Tang Clan, "Da Mystery of Chessboxin"
This record came out the summer I started smoking pot, two facts that would go a long way towards determining the unfortunate direction of my misspent youth. I would come home, eat everything in the house, think no one could tell I was high, and watch this. Every day. There's going to be a whole graduate seminar on the Wu, obviously, but this remains the best general introduction. Everyone's verse is good, beat's good, and in general this video makes them all seem like the most dangerous, grimy bunch of rap assassin motherfuckers in the history of murder. All of which is good.
4. Ghostface Killah, "Daytona 500"
Thanks to the RZA beats, the first four or five solo albums by Wu-Tang members were all really great, but over time this one by Ghostface, "Ironman," has really stood up. This song's so good even Cappadonna sounds like he speaks English. There are all these skits on this album about how Ghostface is the true and living God who creates all reality with his mind, which sounds about right to me. The man used to have a gigantic gold eagle bracelet, but then he melted it down and had other things made from it. He's also the king of dying sneakers different colors. Blue and cream.
You'll have to click the link above to see the video, but it's totally worth it to see how young they were back then. This was also in heavy rotation on Rap City when I was a young pothead, and Outkast was really, outside of the Geto Boys, the first of what would be a huge wave of Southern hip-hop. The concept here is pretty basic: everyone's a pimp and it's awesome and they love it, etc. Play on, players, play on.
Again, click the link. More Southern stuff, this time from New Orleans. I went there for the first time shortly after this video came out, and we promptly took a wrong turn off the highway and wound up in the neighborhood where this video was shot. Everyone had their doghouses chained to trees and fences. I was amazed at the idea that doghouse theft could be such a problem that a whole community would move against it so aggressively, but New Orleans is like that: full of civic spirit. I was at several parties where this kind of bounce, as they call it down there, was the only music played, and they were the best parties ever. Every time I saw a convertible full of girls standing up ass dancing their way down the street, this was the song they were dancing to. Again, tremendous civic spirit.
And so concludes part one. Coming up in part two, we visit the West Coast then jet back to Brooklyn to pose the question: Gangster intellectual or intellectual gangster?
I spend a fair amount of time here talking about things in Spanish that haven't been translated, and that's fine and everything, but there's a bunch of shit that has translated (or even, imagine it, written in English that are totally worth the trouble.
I am, however, feeling really fucking lazy right now, so just imagine you see images, pictures of book covers and things, weird author photos, and everything's linked and I don't expect you to just open another tab and cut/paste whatever name your curious about into a search engine.
Also, it's after 4 a.m. and I just got off work two hours ago, my mental state is about what you'd expect, so this is a totally random list.
1. Joe Ceravalo I bought a selected poems of his the other day and it kicked my ass. Joe was from Astoria (Queens get the money) and seems to get kind of written off as a "second generation New York School poet" which is your fucking loss if you care about shit like that. Most of his work was originally published on Ted Berrigan's C Press, and he took workshops with Koch and O'Hara. Much more abstract than any of those poets. Very light touch.
2. Steve Carey Another New York poet, his Selected Poems came out recently and came highly recommended. Totally awesome weird wry poems that kick up a considerable atmosphere.
3. Luis Cernuda One of my favorite poets ever. Steve Dolph brought me back a Complete Poetry of his from Spain and I'll probably have that book until I die. Cernuda was Spanish, part of "Generation of 27" with Lorca and Vicente Alexandre (who I think won a Nobel) and a bunch of other really good poets. But Luis has it over all of them, as far as I'm concerned, Lorca included. He left Spain after the Civil War there, lived is Massachusetts for a while, hated it, then went to Mexico on vacation once and then immediately moved there. That's when the poems get really good, for whatever reason. There's a lot of terribly corny poetry written about sex and related topics in the Spanish language. Cernuda's one of the only poets I can think of who writes about it well, especially totally hopeless lust. White Pine Press recently put out a collection of Cernuda's poems translated by Stephen Kessler. We had some of these in Calque, and Stephen is a good friend of mine, so I can't really claim to have no horse in this race, but I think the translations are exceptionally good.
4. Hopscotch by Julio Cortázar, translated by Gregory Rabassa I have compared this translation to the original at great length, and read both versions more times than I can count, and I am convinced this is the greatest translation ever published.
5. This goddamn Geto Boys song, which is basically just Scarface going off about how to behave when you're under indictment.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
I'm doing a reading on Saturday, in Brooklyn: 298 Eckford, Apt. 1R off the Greenpoint G train, 8PM being the time. The bill looks as such:
ART: Emily Zuch Hanna Jayanti Austin English Katya Tepper Jake Brower Maria Doubrovskaya ...and many more....
Literature: The Magnificents Laura Jaramillo Brandon Holmquest Pavel Lembersky
Alcohol: Henny Cristal BYO
There's this facebook invite, if you like that sort of thing.
I've made a fair number of copies of a book. It looks like something I would have made when I was 17. I can't stop laughing everytime I look at it. It's called Electric Blimp. Four poems and one story. Here is a piece of that story:
No hay una pena más grande que una casa sucia
He swung the hammer down and porcelain shattered. Again. Again. Again. The hammer fell and shards of glass leapt up then fell in arcs onto the counter, the floor, and the hammer rose. Again. Samuel swung from his heels. Came off his feet on contact. Hand thrown across his face to shield his eyes.
When it was done the kitchen lay littered with small sharp glass. Every dish in the house smashed except: 1 plate 1 bowl 1 glass 1 mug 1 fork 1 knife 1 spoon 1 pot 1 pan. These were dripping dry, freshly washed.
Samuel stepped back. Let the hammer fall to the floor. The sink: full of broken glass, bent and twisted silverware and knives. How would he get it out of there? He began to question his decision.
It had taken time to find the hammer. From thought to deed, no mere instant. He had searched, drawers and closet, before finding it. There had been a moment: on his knees rummaging violently under the sink, he had thought perhaps this is not the best idea. He had ignored it. But now he was certain: this had not been the best idea.
But it had been necessary to do something. The dish situation, a long standing irritation, demanded to be solved. He would wash them. Then dirty them. Then put them in the sink. And they would gather there birthing a strange grey sludge that filled all small gaps, those between fork tines for example, and clogged the drain. All dishes would need to be removed, the drain cleared, before washing could rightly commence. This would disturb the insect’s nests. The air would grow thick with them. Some sort of gnat or fruit fly in mass exodus toward the sky, their homes destroyed. Clear the drain. Clean the sink. Wash the dishes. Then make dinner. After dinner: dishes in the sink and Samuel would think: he didn’t want to wash them today, he had already chored today, and anyway he had just eaten, wanted to relax, read a book, smoke a few cigarettes, etc. In a matter of days the insects were again laying eggs.
This had often bothered him. He had often felt powerless against it. But today a simple question asked itself: why did he own so many dishes in the first place? There was no answer, and the way forward was thereby glimpsed.
First thought: Donate them to a thrift store. Problems: The dishes would have to be cleaned. They would have to be boxed up and carried. There were no thrift stores nearby. There was no one to borrow a wagon from. This meant taking the subway. Taking up two seats or the entire aisle. Disrupting the already harrowing commute. For this becoming an object of scorn universally loathed.
Second thought: Put them out on the curb. Problems: The dishes would have to be cleaned. They would have to be boxed up. A sign would have to be made. Free dishes. This would attract the scroungers. They constantly combed the city in search of just such a windfall. He had seen them. Sad and lonely men, on bicycles with unnatural payload capabilities, in haggard pick up trucks, pushing jalopied shopping carts. They would swarm and return every day, believing the best place to find something free was a place where they’d already found it. If they were out there, milling about, Samuel might feel guilty. He might begin to give away things he needed.
Third thought: Throw them away. Benefits: The dishes would not have to cleaned. Problems: In the dumpster, anyone might see them. Garbage pickers, yet more sad than scroungers, or anyone else. They would see perfectly good dishes in the trash and wonder: what kind of a jerk just throws dishes away, why not donate them to a thrift store, or put them out on the curb, why throw out perfectly serviceable dishes? Unbroken dishes?
