Poet or Fiction? (standard MFA-Mixer question): Chilango Drowns

Chilango drowns. "Chilango" means a guy from Mexico City. Kind of a derogatory term.

But, never mind all that.

I'm playing a new game now. Each time I see one of these dead-body pictures I'm going to ask myself the question "Poet or Fiction?"

Here I think it's quite simple.

You can't tell by looking. Or can you?

Okay, let's get serious now.

The fact that he drowned (couldn't swim) and that he had a seizure all point to Poet-Poet-Poet-Poet-Poet

BUT, he is a Chilango... Mexico City...and since Mexico City is the largest city in the world, and it is indeed a big deal, means something, has importance, currency, etc, then this guy was obviously Fiction....

My Favorite Moments from E's Live from the Red Carpet: Academy Awards

(no, it's not Miley Cyrus' outfit, but I do like the following comment:

"You can take the girl out of the corral, but you can't take the corral out of the girl. No matter how fancy you dress her up, this horse-faced-no-talent-Gussie-Mae still belongs on the farm!!"--(on the comments feed at Yahoo where I've linked her pic))

seriously, my favorite moments are

Flipping to the live bullfighting from Mexico City during commercial breaks. The other red carpet...with its own mickey-mouse personalities, flowers, and sequins, and cameras flashing...

Brian Johnson's "Torch Lake"--- Good Writing, but Not Exciting (a mixed review)

I've read Brian Johnson's "Torch Lake (& other poems)" three times now and I have very mixed feelings about it.

In a nutshell: it's good writing (sometimes very good) but not exciting (not all the time, but most, or a lot of it anyways). See, even my nutshell is qualified and complicated.

In the book's third poem "Postcard: Patio in Nice" Johnson writes "I am doomed" and then a bit later "It is a heavy curtain." In the 2nd poem (Mexico) of Section II, "He Lived in Exile for Many Years..."-- we encounter "stray dogs and laughing kids (that) make you think that your moment has gone, and it has."

In a generally bleak book this 2nd section, the middle section, is the bleakest. And the problem with the bleakness (generally) is that it's not like Kafka's bleakness which is filled with humor and often great and surging sexual tensions. ( in fairness, i must note that Johnson does give us a bit of the sexual tension... just a "bit" though...)

And the bleakness isn't Weldon Kees' knife-in-the-smile bleakness either.

I found wanting, more and more, to break out of the muted bleakness.

"Twentieth Century Music" (one of the last poem's of the middle section) ends with
"One eats the acid fruit.
One likes the exploded view."

This is what I was wanting, hoping for, expecting. The kinds of hits of acid Kees or Kafka give you. They don't come often enough though.

The book, especially in the middle section, also reminds me of a Faulkner character. I'm thinking of the old soldier in Light in August (i think) who sits in the twilight and into the night. A bleak sad figure. But Faulkner's character is lit up and disfigured by memory's horses, gunshots, etc.... In Torch Lake "I search vainly for an episode of war, a moment of awe, a visitation at dusk..."

In all fairness, some of the poems are exciting. Some at the beginning and quite a few toward the end. Poetry that tries to break out of the sadness and depression-writing that, unfortunately, hangs over and suffuses the entire collection.

Standout poems (for me):
"Olive Drab"
"Steer"
"Synopsis of Nights"
"Self-Portrait in Jar"
"Bread and Circus"

I'm guessing that some of the best work in this collection was made when the author was distracted from himself.

I think many people will really like this collection. I've just now emailed an old friend in Dallas suggesting he try it.

Seven Pounds-- a review (?)

I think Jorie Graham described Stephen Berg's prose poems as "beautiful, beautiful poetry" or something like that.

Well, I think (I'm a sucker for a well-made tearjerker) Seven Pounds is a beautiful, beautiful movie and I'd like to buy it so I can just enjoy it rather than spend so much of the time trying to figure things out. And without some of the skepticism I am naturally inclined to and for which the seeds herein (Seven Pounds) were sown.

But I'm cool with all that for the first time round. I think I watched the movie pretty much as its makers wanted me to.

Again, it's beautifully made. Especially the last ten or so minutes when you know exactly what's going on. The music and the visuals are wonderful and manipulative, wonderfully manipulative (break out the violins, boys, break them out!) and I was fighting back, without complete success, tears.

In the car on the way home I remembered how afraid my brother was before his bone marrow transfusions (except for the first one) and that made me cry some, quietly, leaning towards the window.

And then I thought of the guy on Goodreads who asked me "why bleak? what does bleak do for you?" (or something like that) in response to a note a posted about Weldon Kees.

I think I explained about Kees. Whatever.
Fuck it. Just fuck it.

When I Moved to Nevada (James Iredell)

One of the books I snagged at AWP is Jamie (James) Iridell's "When I Moved to Nevada." (Chapbook from Greying Ghost)

I thought it would be a while before I'd get to it (I have a tall stack of books behind my bed, some for interviews, some to help me sleep, narcotics, etc...) but today I pulled it out and I am glad I did.

I read some of it in bed, some of it in my recliner, and some of it in the bath,---and it's really wonderful. Like really good Denis Johnson. Like Jesus'-Son Dennis Johnson.

Here's an excerpt (one of many passages that really struck me):

"..we stepped over a thin dark trickle in the gutter. The stream ran up a short driveway and into the alley. It ran into the side of the man who'd been stabbed. He lay on his side, his breathing like a puppy's. People stood around passing cigarettes, but no one seemed to notice the guy. Jess and me agreed: get the hell out of there. But instead we knelt, our palms against the man's shoulder. 'Don't worry,' we said. 'You're going to be just fine.' "

(the section quoted above has kind of a Gabriel Garcia Marquez feel to it...at least the first three sentences do...)


"When I Moved to Nevada" is filled with snow, drugs, stars, bars and music.

It made me think (though it's very different) of Jon Leon's "Hit Wave" but, really, this book is very and wonderfully Denis Johnson. Good Denis Johnson. If you're a fan of Jesus' Son then Jamie's chapbook is definitely for you.

AWP Chicago 2009: My Last Post-- 5 Drawings

I think I am done with AWP now. I have written. I have slept. I have taken my medication. And I have apologized. I am done. (O, whatever).

AWP: Visions I Saw and Did Not See

1) A train full of drunk genius poets spouting their shit (Sam Pink, Blake Butler, etc)

Drunk or not-drunk they were drunk!

2) Our waitress at the Tapas bar. Imagine Terry Hatcher squished down to about 2/3 her normal size. And her voice twisted up a bit.
Damn, she was sexy!

3) At Myopic, the sensitive and rugged figure of Larry Sawyer.

4) the Empty Bottle's crouched-over and sing-song watermelon-and-grapefruit poet. (Bravo!)

5) Joshua Harmon, ample-eyebrowed, making friends with the world one ant at a time.

6) The piece of Art over our table at the Tapas restaurant. In primary colors only, a bear standing behind a dolphin. A sexual position. But he's just taken a huge chunk out of the dolphin's back and red's pouring down.

7) Grey-haired Steve, musicologist, slamming his fist down on the table, as he proclaims The Smiths the band of the 80's (the Beatles the 60's, the Stones the 70's).

8) John, I think, darting in and out of people's legs (clutching a camera) like a wary rabbit.

9) A former teacher of mine hobbling around like Quasimodo. And I tried to feel bad for him. I did. I truly did.

10) A well-dressed bum (through a long, sad window) swearing at a lamppost for an hour and a half as the snow came down slowly.

11) The "suburban" and "ecstatic" Seth Abramson

Crow or Eagle

This may or may not be the cover of a Chapbook that Paula Cisewski and I wrote together on one or two Megabus drives last Spring (between Chicago and Cincinnati and back I think.)

We let the poems sit for a long time and returned to them only recently. Just before AWP.

And we were both like Hey these are pretty good.....

So, we'll be looking to get this published soon (self-published even....)

with this or a more beautiful cover,.....

AWP: Things I was Tempted to Do

1) Execute a rat.

2) Rub Goransson's head till theory, like sable-colored bees, came pouring forth.

3) Throttle that strange Omnidawn guy. Yeah that strange guy with the strange face trying to entrance and entrap you with his eyes and strange offers of "Gourmet Chocolate." Creepy.

4) Buy a bunch of Shane Jones' Light Boxes, take all the pages out, carefully, and then stitch them into a giant balloon and float away.

5) Say "are you going to buy it or what?" to that lost, sensitive soul who stood reading "The Man Suit" at the B.O. booth for 20 minutes. In fact, I said nothing. In fact (2), he bought it. In fact (3), it was probably only a minute or two (that was one of the many times I was tripping on my own juice).

6) xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

7) Lock myself in my hotel room and watch Poem Videos all day long. Especially CD Wright's profound little piece about the bottle of green liquid and Paul Muldoon's wise Hedgehog. Yawn.

I did actually enjoy some of these.

But I think I enjoyed the fluttering little bird in the "O" most.

8) Use the word "prick" more often.
O, hell, I probably said it 50 times.

9) Start a book contest where the finalists have to fight to the death in a Coliseum filled with drunk bloodthirsty writers and me, of course, with my thumb ready.

10) Browse the bookfair's tables for poems to submit to the various categories of SPD's bad poem contest. I'm convinced that all the real winners of this contest have already been published. That no one could deliberately come up with shit as bad/good.

11) Go up to my room and watch porn.

Seth Abramson--Nice guy, but confused,...

Over on HTMLGIANT today (the beginning of their Mean Week 2) Blake Butler makes the connection between Sex Ableton (House-Mouse Cock) and Seth Abramson and asks if I've gone too far. Have I? (added December 2010)



---(old post)----


Seth Abramson seems like a very nice guy. Now and then I've looked at his blog,
The Suburban Ecstasies, and though I think he's a bit wordy and a bit anal (a former lawyer) I do think he has a good heart.

His obsession and ideas about how many people come to his blog is a bit strange though. I'm also interested in how many people come to my blog, but I think I'm a bit more realistic than Seth in understanding what a traffic monitor's numbers mean.

Seth has just posted the following on his blog:

"3179: Number of unique visitors to this site today. 14,929 in the last week.

Fact: Less than 1% of those who use TSE services donate to the site.

Needless to say, I offer my heartfelt appreciation to that less than 1%."

to follow is the comment I just posted to that post:

"these numbers are very impressive... but, Seth, how many of these people are coming to yr site and leaving right away ?

A lot of people come to my site because one of my posts from a while back is titled "St. Peter's and the big cock contest." Someone in the United Arab Emirates, for example, (there seem to be a lot of Arabs interested in cock contests) enters "cock contest" or some such into a search engine and they end up at my blog.

Perhaps, like this, a lot of yr traffic is incidental.

I believe people are indeed following and reading your blog.

But, c'mon do you really think that 14,000 plus people this week alone have come to yr blog for its poetry ideas and resources ??"

If you're interested in Seth's ideas and the resources and services of the Suburban Ecstasies check it out. And consider donating.