VITA NUOVA CUTUP for Jared Hayes

more sticky notes

on top of the refridgerator:

on the edge of the basket of Dusie 2007 chaps:

SWP 08

http://www.naropa.edu/swp/faculty.cfm


um- dodie bellamy rocks!
I best be gettin into her class ;p

hide and seek: unanticipated, prolonged collaborations

The gentleman in the near distance is Ryan. Early in life we dared each other to lick dust off the top of his mother's china cabinet and take shots of cinnamon schnopps. He visited the humble Legnbass abode recently, wherein he sifted through our kitchen drawers while we slept, wherein he discovered a large bag of popsicle sticks intended for a spring birdhouse project. The popsicle sticks are now scattered in random locations about the house, engraved with various musings.

Below, in the order they were discovered, are the locations and respective musings.

the bathroom medicine cabinet: Twist--A winding departure from flatness

hallway utility closet: 2, 4, 8, 16, 32, 64, 128, 256, 502 (reverse side) Extreme Panther Percolator

coffee cup, clean, in cabinet: Clean Ferguson

christmas tree branch: Valid Name

bathroom closet, top of door frame: Mustachioed Magnet

refrigerator crevice: Jack Be Thimble

bathroom shelf, decorative loofa: Twig Sausage

These discoveries have been ongoing since December 29, and the number remaining to be found is unknown.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS

Hello Goons, Friends and All,

Just wanted to extend my best wishes to all of you during this holiday season. You are all sincerely missed you barnyarders and visitors of the farm. i'm here in buffalo wearing beige corduroys and a v-neck sweater drinking gin and reading a little holiday Chinaski. Hope everyone has a fine new year and starts off January 1st tugging the tits of our muse...cheers.

body in the body

this is my son. he'll be born in april. it occurs to me that i may not have spread this news. we've known for a while. this sonogram was taken today, when we learned his gender. right now we're referring to him as Captain Flameboy, but if anyone has any good names in mind, we're all ears.

peace and blessings

Body Sonnet in Italian!

GAMMM

for andy

Ted

DooDoo

Donald Preziosi in Rethinking Art History:

"We have seen something of how the metaphorical apparatus of the modern discipline works to establish and to position artwork and art historian relative to one another as functions within a panoptic, anamorphic machinery. It has been suggested (and I believe this to be correct in its general outlines) that the discipline also serves to project or to validate a certain kind of viewing Subject: ideally, passive consumers, and, in more contemporary contexts, educated and discerning cryptographers--but receivers of messages all the same...In this regard, of course, it shares with other humanistic disciplines (perhaps most closely with literary studies) a highly complex and self-perpetuating analytic theatre of power and knowledge...it is perfectly clear that art history knows what it does. And it frequently knows why it does why it does. What it knows less well, however, is what what it does does. The pursuit of that understanding, which entails a re-membering of the lines of rupture and contradiction papered over by art history as it perpetually misreads its own history, is surely our most pressing task."

This quote (to me) is a reason to read (or re-read) Joseph Cooper's Autobiography of a Stutterer, Bhanu Kapil's Vertical Interrogation of Strangers, Araki Yasusada's Doubled Flowering, Paul Celan's Breathturn, and Susan Howe's The Nonconformist's Memorial. All of these texts (again, to me) seem to beg questions of the reader that put them into a performative participation rather than passivity...all of these texts are in ways interrogations...attempts to "re-member" their own histories...I'm not yet able to fully articulate the specific implications of these texts...but they are texts I believe to exist in opposition to panoptic power....and as a result bring themselves into an important ethical relationship to their readers/performers...they remind me to ask what does poetry do do?

http://reconfigurations.blogspot.com/2007/11/jlyn-chapman-blazevox-and-publishing.html .blogspot.com/2007/11/jlyn-chapman-blazevox-and-publishing.html>

Found Poem

In the unlikely event of the need to cancel the eco-chili challenge,
and the explosion of teenagers

for Jared Hayes

It is a terrific phenomenon of western civilization
that, should someone want to know what
something is the broad umbrella
Think you for your time

It was a rainy day in Kenner, Louisiana when I was born.
Strauss wrote his many of his songs
for his wife, Pauline de Ahna.
She was a soprano.

As I enjoyed the nose and finish of a Llano County chardonnay and watched our Chinese guests' response to ribs and country music classics
I agreed with what Deborah Tannen said in her
essay that American society has become controversial.

Transition: What might have stopped this?

My Dear Baby,
You are such an amazing and delightful little bundle of woman
A combination of dry summers,
and laying the beds to rest for the winter,

A mess of concrete and steel bars
rest upon each other
as the sun sets and baseball
is heard in the distance.

There are times when I would be sleeping and a dream starts to happen.
[refer to the gold
At airports every passenger
“Armies and caravans into the Unknown”

I am a dedicated volunteer
unquestionably new and dizzying
a figurative puppet
coming along

an overall look at the great horned owl,
The role and importance of the horse

Boston Red Sox: 2oo7 World Series Champions

Two Recent Dreams of Anselm Hollo

1 - A Very Hollo Christmas

At parent’s house for Christmas eve dinner in fine suburban grace, we are entertaining at my request, a Mister Anselm Hollo. Though through the house is warm, well lit, decorated in plush antique, we eat in a dungeon-esque basement that has feel of 15th Century hovel in Bergman film. The fire place glows and one begins to feel safe, but also edge of concern over whether or not the host will accept who you have brought to dinner. The evening starts fine with pleasantries, soon one glass of wine becomes three, four, then it is obvious: we are dealing with a very drunk poet. Anselm gets louder, and redder, through his unkempt neck-beard. He staggers to the fine buffet, begins bailing the salad like hay, maniacally laughing at our bourgeois manners as lettuce falls to floor. I secretly cheer his antics, but can’t help but worry what my parents must think, not of him, for he is old, of respected position and rank – tho has obviously lost his temporary mind – but how this will negatively reflect on me. A knock at the cellar door, and before any one answers, appear dozens of hippie punks in dirtied costume and deliberately disjunctive accessory; top hats with ripped jean vests, lion costume with argyle sweaters knotted to shoulders. More pile down into basement, Hollo laughing, showing all the table, the room seems to enlarge as these kids continue to arrive. Our cellar has become a theater, they have erected a stage, a sound system, projector, video screen. Instruments, musicians appear, Anselm whips them into shape, chanting performance poetry dressed in drag as Anne Waldman, the band pounds behind like The White Stripes. The kids are all over, freaking out, goofing, strutting. My parents are horrified and leave. The music ends, a movie begins, the group sit in rapt attention. The film has no discernible plot, poorly shot, amateurish acting, characters move through nonsensical dadaist scenes; the crowd sways in ritual imitation. I notice the crowd as the actors come to life, some still dressed in costume. I voice my disapproval to one, he scoffs and tells me to wait for his scene coming up shortly, about his character Beefcake Jones’ epic quest for the Holy Hamburger of Gold. I plead with Hollo, – who directs the crowd with semaphore at foot of stage – he ignores me. My parents come downstairs, announce they are off to bed, tell everyone to go home. I stand at the foot of stairs as crowd exits past me, each stopping to register disgust at my uncool ways. At the end of the long line, our first guest – he hugs me. Wishes a Merry Christmas. I think of how angry my parents will be tomorrow. And I couldn’t be merrier.



2 - Anselm Hollo Rides His Prop Plane Into the Sun

Anselm at the helm of a small airplane, his wife Jane beside him. I'm in the back with a couple shadowy others - can't recall who, perhaps other Naropa poets, perhaps friends from other walks of life, perhaps you. Hollo takes the plane far up into the dark blue sky among the sharp clouds. He tells me to get out onto the wing to sit, it's really a thrill. There's a seatbelt on the wing for such occasions. I strap myself down. He starts doing all sorts of balletic airplane moves, loop-de-loops and other air show tricks. I can hear them all laughing inside the cockpit. Then something goes wrong, and he loses control of the aircraft, and it's diving around and whirling in downward circles. Somehow he navigates us towards a soft corn field. I faint (and this confuses me, because how can you faint in a dream? Or, how do I know I've fainted?) When I regain consciousness, they're all standing over me circular-like in the movies. The plane sits smoking atop the corn stalks while we're in the rich warm soil. Hollo laughs and says, "See, you did great!"

the price is right

drew carey is going to be the new bob barker

jared - do you have anything to say about this? I saw it as a headline - breaking news - the price is right is coming back and drew is the MC.

I guess this is as noteworthy as Britney losing her kids to her baby daddy.

blah, blah, blah

Life is sad when there are numerous poetry readings going on in yr home city....but yr too busy to attend...damn work to hell!!!


A treacherous sun is nearly raining.

and here's gregory...cause he always makes me smile a little.

Pharmakon #22

sometimes
so
so
sometimes

and this is
this
this is
one of them (right now!
now!)
the poems I read
while blogging

while being a blogger
being a
a
a
blog

i really
fuckin
fuck fuck
fuckin can't stand.

: d u s i e :

this is the isles
i s s u e
6

this is the isles issue... jackalun ivyalvarez davidannwn timatkins tinabass carolinebergvall davidberridge anneblonstein andreabrady rosheenbrennan andybrown maireadbyrne davidcaddy vahnicapildeo emilycritchley jamescummins jamesdavies kevindoran andrewduncan carrieetter garethfarmer allenfisher melissaflores ameliagilmore gilesgoodland markgoodwin alanhalsey roberthampson edmundhardy peterhughes sarahjacobs susanjohanknecht lukekennard christinekennedy davidkennedy iralightman rupertloydell johnmingay geraldinemonk mariannemorris redellolsen peterphilpott ernestopriego tomraworth peterriley sophierobinson gavinselerie jeffreyside zoë skoulding martinstannard robstanton laurasteele sandratappenden barbaraataylor scottthurston annaticehurst georgettoouli simonturner stevenwaling carolwatts thomaswhite

Leonard Baskin's The Hydrogen Man

pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis (9/11/07)

in pursuit of the beautiful

everything

must be forgiven

--Kykosa Kajangu

once we were children

knowing nothing

things were recognized

unable to be understood

bodies

the vibration

words without shape

a door met with hesitation

we know not what we thought then

now known to attempt

to reflect death

look one another over

stroll right out the window

knowing nothing

future/

present

tense

how they left the room

so much rain finally

for cracking ground

in the hospital

after holding hands

and walking backward

into the gray

someone said

dichotomy

she called sobbing

was drawn into a picture

standing with a child

she just met

before a giant flower

no one has ever seen before

he said a woman

looked into his eyes

pouring water over his head

compassion is monochromatic

people closer than gravity

collapsed

and came together

we all saw it

he knew the scent

she reclaimed the air

in a sense

no science

nonsense

we held our breath

today is Tuesday

it was Tuesday

it was tom’s room

she answered the telephone

knowing nothing

they entered a room

remarkably energetic

rain gave quiet warning

we introduced

were introduced

to something beyond

he said everyday

a saint

he said everyday

is the magnitude of

emergency

the ride home

settled rapid

heartbeat

the brain couldn’t

hard to move

a prayer

anywhere but forward

forked paths

to sleep

celebrate birth

or mourn

so small

linger of predatory

too much aggression

the speed of contact

braced for

inevitable

unprepared

stone to dark water

before the moment

knowing nothing

of the outcome

only routine

would the answer change

if Macbeth never encountered

weird sisters

suddenly so cold

apparently a misnomer

sudden

like coincidence

in divinity’s

perceptual sin

void of context

a pattern

not here

in whose eyes

her truth matters

trembling outside

present memory

narcoleptic

interrupted twice document

speechless

the couch

huddled over new life

now confused as ever

topped off lungs

a wall between

chaos and opposition

a waning of belonging

desire of eyelid

repetition anniversary

silence as act of rest

to stand as witness

to say they jumped

and we watched

knowing nothing

six years still not sure

how to deal with

war all the time

a feeling almost passed

settled like dust in lungs

the severity of congestion

visible progression

as a fine red mist

coughed onto a hand

they held

each of us falling

knowing nothing

but the ground

horizon

smoked out

he said to turn on the tv

she never asked why

hours

they turned it off

bitter the absence of solution

the absence of light

wasn’t unbelievable