the fifth circle

so

2007-02-07T12:46:00.000-06:00

yeah, february 3rd I had a poem on Verse Daily. thanks to Chet G. for telling me, otherwise I'm sure I would have had no idea.

A Parting Shot (Dedication)

2006-12-05T16:21:00.000-06:00

to all my little climbers out there, and the people who grease the wheels for them.

find your own tree,

cola

Dear Twin Falls (& Co.)—

Now do you hear the thunder? It softens me into a milkshake
& so many straws are in my back. Drink up! When you’re all done,
we’ll walk out opposite doors: you to the awards show, me to the
funnel cloud. Was any of this ever in doubt? From the start I’ve
been all dressed up, nowhere to go. Dressed for success & does
success ever come? Missed congeniality, but I learned the golden
rule & guess I’ve nothing good to say. Now it’s my way, blue eyes—
at least that’ll be more than any speech can accept. My crowd
going wild is the tornado waiting outside & it's hungry.

I’d like to thank the academy,

Quad Cities

The Fix Is In

2006-06-19T14:58:00.000-05:00

Between questionable red cards, bullshit suspensions and manufactured publication credits, it's been a strange few days, indeed. Fellow Shark, Ben Fong, tried to buy two Radiohead tickets last night & thought he had, in fact, purchased them. Then today, TicketsNow.com called him to say that the tickets, which the night before he had paid an absurd amount to have, did not exist. Not only did they not have the tickets he bought, but they were sold out of all tickets for both shows, even ones they had listed last night a $900 a piece (face value: $42.50). He got a refund, sure, and a $25 gift certificate for their website (thanks), but what the fuck?!! So no one out there use TicketsNow.com. In fact, if you know anyone who works for them or any other ticket brokerage, beat their ass. Set them on fire. Whatever. It's like Bill Hicks said about people who work in advertising: "You have no soul, there is no excuse for what you do, you are Satan's little helper. Kill yourself, kill yourself, kill yourself now."

& don't you think it's highly amusing that when a magazine you worked on, for which you and one other person did all the bitch work (solicitations, submission log, editorial meetings, rejections, acceptance letters, etc) that when the magazine is released, not only are you not notified, but that there are several other names on the same line as yours, some of whom did little or nothing at all, and that there's a "managing editor" credit for someone who, until you saw the magazine, you had no idea they had anything to do with the production of the magazine last summer. I guess you shouldn't be surprised to have been screwed out of financial compensation then, should you? All another day in the Land of Careerism. Hopefully, our bold & beloved Machinist is receiving better CORK than I, you or various sporting interests have been lately. I will, however, being seeing Radiohead tomorrow night, and that lifts my soul just a touch, despite the fact the theater is caddy-corner from CCC. How long, O Lord, how long?

ALERT: If anyone out there knows of poets we should be talking to for an interview or publishing a couple of their poems, PLEASE let us know. We want what you want & hopefully that is high-end writing. We want the new voices, people. Help us find them, and if you think you are one, help us find you. This site has gone collaborative & it's getting goddamned lonely around here. But I suppose there are plenty among us who know exactly how lonely hell can be. You know who you are, don't you?

A quote to end on. Something for referees on the take, scalping scum and careerist poets to take to heart: "We are all the custodians of our innocence, and we let it die at our peril." Consider yourself reminded. & warned.

Make That Change, RC

Report Cork

2006-06-13T09:03:00.000-05:00

Wondering what it means that the song your boyfriend gave you is also the song your roommate's boyfriend played her?

How you & a friend, after months of silence, write each other at the same time?

Have you & your mother recently gotten library cards on the same day?

It's CORK, friends, & check it out.

O Who May Abide

2006-06-11T13:54:00.000-05:00

From what have you fallen, what might you best have been?

Were you taught by strangers
to become a stranger, even as a child?

What can you not be told apart from, what is it you match,
as the creatures match
the mud, the snow, the sky, the grass?

Why do you say dear god,
as if you were writing to him?

If you strayed far, would the dog recognize you,
would your name no longer be famous
as it was in the mother's mouth? Is this what you mean

by human that you keep on
being born, till there is no house

for where you are headed?

--Christina Davis, from Forth a Raven

beautiful poems, beautiful book

Are We There Yet?

2006-06-05T02:20:00.000-05:00

I thought I was already there. Are they going to screen the remake of THE OMEN, too? Grab me some merch.

Hope everyone has a great Day of the Beast, or whatever you want to call it. Not sure how I'm celebrating yet.

Sharks playing soon. Details coming. Also there are new demos @ www.thesharx.com. Check them out.

Hey true believers-- let us know where & how you're going to celebrate Satan Day, assuming you're not going to the big bash in Hell, Mich. Thanks to Woody for the find.

(end transmission)

Who's Coming With Me?

2006-06-04T13:00:00.000-05:00

Live entertainment and a costume contest are planned. The Gates of Hell should be installed at a children’s play area in time for the festivities.

Semiotics

2006-06-02T22:09:00.000-05:00

We see the glories of the earth
But not the hand that wrought them all:
Night to a myriad worlds gives birth,
Yet like a lighted empty hall
Where stands no host at door or hearth
Vacant creation’s lamps appal.

We guess; we clothe Thee, unseen King,
With attributes we deem are meet;
Each in his own imagining
Sets up a shadow in Thy seat;
Yet know not how our gifts to bring,
Where seek Thee with unsandalled feet.
--Father Hop, from 'Nondum'

The signs still come crashing--some ignore them, I receive them with parleyed tongue. Though the sign-maker & I are on better terms these months. I think.

7 on Monday at 11th St. Bar, Richard invades NYC. Jay Hopler, Peter Streckfus, & Louise Glück read, as well. I'll be there, so will others. You should be too. Last installment around, Joshua Clover read his index. All of it. Maybe Richard could give us his table of contents.

Little to say right now. Projects major & minor lie in various planning & pre-planning states. Projects poetic &, thankfully, non-.

Us Kids Know

2006-05-29T23:18:00.000-05:00

Couraging through Lowell’s letters & the better off for it. The danger lies in finding myself in his dark spots: the selfishness, dependence, the frustrations. Some days, I get lost in the minutiae & grandness of his words; other times, they bore me into another book. In talking of the poets before him, Lowell says Words swelled in them. They weren’t like us. Sit him, JB, Frank down in front of me & I’d thank them the same.

The best new albums I’ve heard in the past months?
Broken Boy Soldiers --The Raconteurs
St. Elsewhere –Gnarls Barkley (thanks to AJ for the mention)

Different sounds. One rock, one with a bit more hop in it. One makes a great karaoke vice, one is city walking music.

***

I understand people are saved in different ways. That, at times, the world is too much with us & so forces us to retreat or advance accordingly. In my life, I’ve been saved, at various times, by a song, a woman, a U-Haul trailer. Today, I’m not sure what it will be. I know it will come, but I have a headless heart & tire of bravery. Faith scratches tracks into the dirt & still people die & die. Or if not die, leave.

The night before I moved to New York, I stood in a parking lot in Indianapolis, crying, hugging Z—. Diesel poured from the busses & it was not yet midnight. He said I’ll miss you. He said I love you. I said I love you still & so. What I’m meaning to tell myself is sometimes I am the one who leaves.

I guess we’ll just have to adjust.

Things to Do in New York City
for Peter Schjeldahl

  Wake up high up    
                        frame bent & turned on
  Moving slowly
   & by the numbers
  light cigarette
  Dress in basic black
   & reading a lovely old man’s book:
         BY  THE  WATERS OF  MANHATTAN
       change

    flashback

 play cribbage on the Williamsburg Bridge
 watching the boats sail by
 the sun, like a monument,
 move slowly up the sky
 above the bloody rush:

break yr legs & break yr heart
kiss the girls & make them cry
loving the gods & seeing them die

      celebrate your own
    & everyone else’s birth:
    Make friends forever
    & go away 


                                            --Ted Berrigan

I Cast for Comfort

2006-05-27T00:19:00.000-05:00

Men go by me whom either beauty bright
 In mould or mind or what not else makes rare:
 They rain against our much-thick and marsh air
Rich beams, till death or distance buys them quite.

 --Father Hopkins

Find myself reading dear Hop & Kierkegaard afternoons. Nothing at night but South Park, maybe some Battlestar. Few things work. My joints creak—not used to waking up without a body folded over them. The doorknob, thankfully, is fixed, but the windows won’t lock. The shower curtain rips more every day.

Soren tells me ‘it is the task of the single individual to strip himself of the qualification of interiority & to express this in something external.’ The last word I first read as ‘eternal.’ Freud’d love that one. And so the letters trickle to all corners. No floods, but water nonetheless. A.J. writes his own postcards, and & I wondered & nodding & demand more.

‘No more dying,’ to our loss, meets with swift renunciation in Illinois. Messages are sent up requesting safe passage. That is all we can do, but I send them swift & often.

Still, friends are true, & with a shake of luck, they’ll be two more, furry ones, wiling away the hours here in the apartment. Judgment sets in, but poets should not read their index during a reading. If nothing else, trust me on this. A reading series is in the works in the crawling future. The bar must pour its first pint first. Then, not red carpets & spotlights, but poetic assignments for our readers & certain other trials & rewards. That & beer.

Contemplating new tattoos. Frank or the Father. My tattoos are reminders: fleur-de-lis, brushstroke, & soon some words. The where & what are fuzzy but quickly coming to focus.

Contingencies abound & I am a true crab at heart, scuttling to corners. Stay tuned.

Show Me That Smile

2006-05-24T18:06:00.000-05:00

Apologies for the delay, but as usual, technical difficulties plague me. All writing's been analog for your humble narrator, which is fine by me. Anyway...

apparently we are all witnesses. Holy playoffs! & apparently the Cubs (otherwise known as the Chicago Cancer) produce better prize-fighters than ball players. But i digress...

I shouldn't discuss sports on my blog I know. It's all about careerism here! "publicity is everything!" Or so I heard. Gee, I thought it was about imagination, ability & execution. But apparently I was wrong; it's all about putting your face forward, putting your mouth where your eyes should be.

Anyway, the letters persist. Letters letters letters. How May evaporates schoolless & underfunded. I know i should go corporate, but I'm waiting for corporate to come to me, so I can just say No! just like ol' Nancy learned me.

I had so much to say but sadly going to have to keep it brief, as I write you courtesy of B Love from the new Shark reef. Yes, the new practice digs are up to both snuff & fire code, which is an improvement of sorts. First, to our Machinist, who has been holding down nobly, yes?! & the rest of our dis-possessed friends everywhere:

it is wise, I think, to mourn what might have been, in our own ways, but then we must display faith in proving that the stories of our past, mourned loves & fortunes can be understood, made our own & realized. "No more dying."

Second, Kate found this little tidbit in Anime Insider & I thought I would, as I do, forward it on to you true believers for consideration & comment:

"Of the 50,000-plus kanji in use in Japan, there are only around 3,000 approved for use as personal names! Japan's Family Registration Law states that parents can only name their children from a government-maintained list of kanji. Applications that use kanji not on the list will be rejected."

Lastly, in response to reports of a press surfacing out of this ring of hell, yes. There shall be publication(s) afoot, eventually. To gain traction for larger future projects & to proliferate the circle, I proudly announce Fifth Circle's first running feature, FRIENDS OF V, referring to many things, specifically the Roman numeral for five. Ha! What is this beast, you ask? Well, details will follow shortly, after conference with your humble Machinist. Safe to say regular poems, interviews, ditties. New faces for sure. More later, as always.

from the hunting grounds, rc

Reliquaries

2006-05-21T12:14:00.000-05:00

We all have our ur-texts. Those pieces of art that more than moved us, that changed us on some visceral level. For me, these all came within a 3 year period in college.

Long quotations, sure, but damnit, it's worth it, & you may win a prize.

Fear & Trembling --Soren Kierkegaard

I cannot make the movement of faith. I cannot shut my yes and plunge confidently into the absurd; it is for me an impossibility, but I do not praise myself for that. I am convinced God is love; for me this thought has a primal lyrical validity . . . but I do not have faith; this courage I lack. To me God's love, in both the direct and the converse sense, is in commensurable with the whole of actuality. Knowing that, I am not so cowardly that I whimper and complain, but neither am I so perfidious as to deny that faith is something far higher. I can bear to live in my own fashion, I am happy and satisfied, but my joy is not the joy of faith, and by comparison with that, it is unhappy. I do not trouble God with my little troubles, details do not concern me . . . Faith is convinced that God is concerned about the smallest things. I am satisfied with a left-handed marriage in this life; faith is humble enough to insist on the right hand, for I do not deny that this is humulity and will never deny it.

Uncertain Grace --Rebecca Wee

You want to know why I hold you off? You all want to know this--
what happened in the shut rooms, on the brown or blue sofa

Certain things. The holly. The ache to sleep in a wooden room
in a place where no one waits for me. A place to slip into and be noticed
then forgotten

The Collected Poems of Frank O'Hara

To the Harbormaster

I wanted to be sure to reach you;
though my ship was on the way it got caught
in some moorings. I am always tying up
and then deciding to depart. In storms and
at sunset, with the metallic coils of the tide
around my fathomless arms, I am unable
to understand the forms of my vanity
or I am hard alee with my Polish rudder
in my hand and the sun sinking. To
you I offer my hull and the tattered cordage
of my will. The terrible channels where
the wind drives me against the brown lips
of the reeds are not all behind me. Yet
I trust the sanity of my vessel; and
if it sinks it may well be in answer
to the reasoning of the eternal voices,
the waves which have kept me from reaching you.

Lost in the Cosmos --Walker Percy

(3) How do you explain these odd little everyday phenomena with which everyone is familiar:
You have seen yourself a thousand times in the mirror, face to face. No sight is more familiar. yet why is it that the first time you see yourself in a clothier's triple mirror--from the side, so to speak--it comes as a shock? Or the first time you saw yourself in a home movie: were you embarrassed? What about the first time you heard your recorded voice--did you recognize it? Clearly, you should, since you've been hearing it all your life.

Why is it that, when you are shown a group photograph in which you are present, you always (and probably covertly) seek yourself out? To see what you look like? Don't you know what you look like?

Has this ever happened to you? You are walking along a street of of stores. There are other people walking. You catch a glimpse of a reflection of a person. For a second or so you do not recognize the person. He, she, seems a total stranger. Then you realize it is your own reflection. Then in a kind of transformation, the reflection does in fact become your familiar self.

One of the peculiar ironies of being a human self in the Cosmos: A stranger approaching you in the street will in a second's glance see you whole, size you up, place you in a way in which you cannot and never will, even though you have spent a lifetime with yourself, live in the Cosmos of the Self, and therefore ought to know yourself best of all.

The question is: Why is it that in your entire lifetime you will never be able to size yourself up as you can size up somebody else--or size up Saturn--in a ten second look?

Why is it that the look of another person looking at you is different from everything else in the Cosmos? That is to say, looking at lions or tigers or Saturn or the Ring Nebula or at an owl or at another person from the side is one thing, but finding yourself looking into the eyes of another person looking at you is something else. And why is it that one can lok at a lion or an planet or an owl or at someone's finger as long as one pleases, but looking into the eyes of another person is, if prolonged past a second, a perilous affair?

You'll Never Walk Alone --Rodgers & Hammerstein

When you walk through a storm
Hold your head up high
And don't be afraid of the dark.
At the end of a storm
There's a golden sky
And the sweet, silver song of a lark.

Walk on, through the wind,
Walk on, through the rain,
Though your dreams be tossed and blown.
Walk on, walk on with hope in your heart,
And you'll never walk alone,
You'll never walk alone.

Oddest about this list is that I had no idea at the time on all but one of those. They snuck up sudden-like in the past year & it's only in working on my thesis & accompanying thoughts on past & future I've been able to trace much back to these. I fought out a lot of the Percy book, but that was more because of the professor than the text. And Rebecca's was the first book of contemporary poetry I bought. The Kierkegaard counsels me, Never Walk consoles. And the harbormaster guides me safe.

And what are your own sacred texts? the ones that pushed.

p.s. I lied about the prize.

Ground Control

2006-05-17T22:47:00.000-05:00

We have our silly & sinful reasons for what we do. Faiths we carry in our pockets to work. Or ferry across the river. Or lug down to the L train. We differ each to each. The job is to differentiate between coincidence & fate.

Example: After three months without word, Rebecca & I write each other at the same minute of the same hour of the same day.

Example: Woody. Forrest.

Example: Making bargains with god he may take.

So he believes after all. Weeks of discovery these months.

Earlier, there was talk of heroes. When we speak of heroes we mean our mothers.

So:

here there was a poem & then like that . . . he's gone

Too late for Mother’s Day? Never. They wouldn’t be Mothers if there was such a thing as too late.

Nail Meet Head

2006-05-16T14:25:00.000-05:00

I am now out of answers . . . I feel suddenly like a tiny, doomed figure in an enormous world, slaving on an unpublishable novel (it is, in fact, an interior monolog, and yes, it does involve one three-hundred-page-long sentence) while everyone else just enjoys the sunshine and the waves. Like so many young men, I don’t feel young at all. At the age of twenty-three I am precociously jaded. I am wracked by self-consciousness, and painfully aware of the odds arrayed against me. I believe that the absence of delusions is my only claim to virtue.

--Michael Cunningham

We Are All Of Us Stuffed With Fear

2006-05-14T23:12:00.000-05:00

The hero is the man who stuffs it by the handfuls in & aches for more. The hero is silent except for teeth knocking teeth. I was a hero early in the morning. I want none of this heroism tonight.

He realizes he has not yet
spoken, he has put the silent burden of his feelings
on your throat. He does not speak and cannot.
--Frank

The post brings missives of near-misses & yes’s from rivers near & far.

Congratulations to Richard for his Publishing Triangle Award. Our spies were in attendance (carefully blending in with the New School décor) & sighted no Siken. Charles Flowers assured the audience, however, that Richard would be in New York in June. We’re monitoring the situation.

And yes, our own missives are being exchanged with Quad Cities. Manhattan, Arlington Heights, & Raleigh await notice. It hasn’t been like this for a while. Feels good. It should.

Signs:
it rained for a 1.5 minutes today
my improving yo-yo abilities

there’s the moon, there is something faithful & mad.
-E.E.

Two nights ago was a full moon. Crazy me played skeeball in Times Square & was in bed by 1. Werewolves out there?

True Believers,

2006-05-11T21:23:00.000-05:00

‘We are whirling through endless space with an inconceivable speed, all around us everything is spinning, everything is moving, everywhere is energy. There must be some way of availing ourselves of this energy more directly.’
--Nicola Tesla

The time has come to expect damage. Yesterday afternoon, I ran around Murray Hill looking for a church. Two were locked. Jumped on the 6, & down in the Village found a pew. I knelt & cried in gratitude. That was a new one.

I see signs everywhere & I am not alone. Ask your friends. Tune your radar a bit higher—you’ll be found. Wonder at god & god wonders back. We have a curious relationship, but it seemingly satisfies us both. All warning & thanks.

On the horizon lies a return to Gettysburg, uncertain days, friends near & across states, financial strains, many discoveries.

Still, the days pass lackless & caffeinated. My thesis is signsealeddelivered & a couple of unlucky readers have their own copies stuffed in drawers. Though they both have been indicted within its pages. Love to us all.

Myself writes curriculum by day & notpoems by night. Myself has a pile of notpoems. Good thing, too--myself was told he is loved for his words. These notpoems have many words.

In the coming weeks, friends scatter to the heart of our country & places west. But we hold parts of their hearts for safekeeping in our freezers. They will return.

There are people who hold parts of our hearts in their freezers. For good or ill. Again: we expect damage. But our foundations are reeling.

We believe things happen for certain reasons. That the world is neither Right nor Fair, but that one thing follows another. This may be true, may be something greater, but it tugs inside our skulls. So much cannot be because we lack.

Through the winter months, we mutter many things will change but find inaction ceases to comfort. Send word. We are ill-content & bursting.

Infernoland!

2006-05-10T12:23:00.000-05:00

that's right. i'm a minor demon running an amusement park in the fifth circle of hell. shit, at times this semester it has certainly seemed like that is the case. but alas, after tonight's workshop, I am officially one class (plus) away from my MFA. anti-climatic? sure, but don't we all need something to look forward to these days?

anyway, here's something to look forward to: i just passed my username & password for this ol' nook of hell to your friend & mine, a pillar of Midwestern virtue, Woody Loverude (of Glamour Arrives fame). as i mentioned a couple days ago, he has, for the moment, abandoned his blog due to lack of available time. point is, now he has access to this blog (if he chooses to use it) & i am certain things will get severe & vastly more interesting the minute he shows up. i hope you're all still chanting his name-- WOOD-Y! WOOD-Y!

i'm also chanting his name 'cause he sent me a copy of his MFA thesis manuscript (speaking of being done) & i must say i am pretty moved. hopefully most of the poems will get out into the world via journals or, satan willing, in book form. he is my brother & my hero & one of the reasons i always feel compelled to write. so thank you woody. & speaking of done, tonight is (most unfortunately) Ed Roberson's last class at CCC. while i am always compelled to write, what usually has come out is rarely worth a damn. but thanks to Ed, i have learned to write. again. the way i want to write. so let me take a moment to publicly thank Ed Roberson for helping me to be more articulate, being incredibly generous with his poetic eye & ears, & his deep wisdom, and for raising the bar for me & i think everyone he comes in contact with, both as a craftsman & as a human being. my greatest hope for the summer is that he will be around the city awhile longer & hopefully we can keep in touch. he is easily the most significant influence on my work & in my opinion, one of the best poets alive in this country. probably anywhere, in any language. even in Infernoland.

sadly, though, i am sure his ticket's not been punched for this ride. hell has no place for that man. & he will be missed. woody & i will be here for the duration, so stayed tuned, true believers! things are about to get a whole lot more interesting in hell. who are the people in your neighborhood? bring 'em down for discount thursdays!!

oh yeah, we need a catchy nickname for woody if he's gonna be working here, like "the foundling" or "rc cola" or as Sharks call me, "the truth." suggestions welcome!

end transmission.

Correspondence

2006-05-09T11:08:00.000-05:00

Greetings, all! So what are we learning so far this spring? The NBA is back, the Cubs are a disgrace & the White Sox will most likely repeat. The White House "shake-up" goes on & will soon be catching on with all the kids & replacing "grinding" as a popular form of dancing. The Red Line is completely fucked. Radiohead tickets are going to be ridiculously expensive, thanks to all you Nazi fucking ticket brokers out there. But don't anyone go jumping in front of a train just yet (unless if you are a ticket broker; then, be my guest). "Keep hope alive...

I've been keeping my hope alive in the form of these little "letters" I've been writing that are passing for poems. So far, two of them from the original addressee, Twin Falls, have been picked up for publication & have prompted responses from at least two other towns/cities/etc--Columbus & New Lennox. I've taken a shine to this lil' epistolary form & written to other bergs throughout the land & thought I'd take some space in my nook o' Hell to post the only one to be addressed to more than one person. I am always very interested to know what you good folks out there think about my ditties (& even those of you of ill repute!). So PLEASE, fire back any comments; have no fear, let me have it 'cause I'm dying to know what you all think. Of course, any kind of reply is always most welcome here in Infernoland. Thanks.

xoxoxo, your friendly neighborhood foundling

Dear Columbus, New Lennox, Twin Falls--

Hope everyone's Cinco de Mayo was on par w/
National Prayer & May Days. May oh my! So many anniver-
saries to keep & track. But doesn't everyone love a scoundrel?
Just a name, like forks n' knives, Guy Faux, a string section.
Midwives. We remember & birthday even for those we lose.
& lost. Just years, depending on ancestry & astrology. Except
for angels, for whom nothing earthly applies. Isn't it time we
develop better shoulders to carry______? Alas! I must tarry
off for tix to the hot ticket of the summer: feel good the getting
is not. But 5 years ago on the first of August (& hottest day of
summer, Aught One) I slept & tarried not. Suffered the sun's
duration, the recycled water. & after Radiohead walked off, I
stood in the middle of Michigan Ave, traffic blocked for miles
north & south, and despite all dis-, a victory. Achieved & able.
One night no one was a saint or a street or a thief. Just angels.
It was as it is: no holiday. But that victory's still out there, o'er
the ramparts, over the Lake. Just a song past the farthest pier.

Early to rise,

Quad Cities

Don't Call it a Comeback...

2006-05-04T12:46:00.000-05:00

word is born.

yes, it's been that long true believers. Hope all in cyberland are well. Columbia Poetry Review #19 is out & the launch reading is today. At long last glory. Looking forward very much to seeing Bertram & hearing her read, welcoming B. Love back to CCC for the reading. Should be good times. Mi madre is even coming to the city for this little shindig. All's I know is I get to introduce Ed Roberson to kick off the reading. What's Wayne & Garth say? Oh, that's right: "We're not worthy!" My sentiments exactly.

But nothing sentimental today. Brief updates:

1. For anyone who doesn't know, I am no longer playing shakes suburban rock with Lifelike (& my apologies if you still get email from them. Write them & tell them to remove you from the list. Unless you don't want to). I am now a member (with B. Love) of Sharks. You can visit us here. Hopefully soon we'll have a couple tracks from a live recording we did uploaded, but for now it is what it 'tis.

2. I landed my first national print publication. I'm hesitant to say too much now, but suffice to say it's on the level & more details will be posted as they arrive.

3. No, I am not dead, nor was I ever dead. As Riley said on The Boondocks, "first of all, I'm a live forever." Not really, but I am, as far as I can tell, very much alive.

4. Woody is finishing his MFA at NYU, at let me be the first to extend to him public congratulations. We will miss him at the launch reading today, but shall toast him repeatedly once it's finished. & will also be the first to declare the Save Woody's Blog! Campaign; he's too busy to do it all himself, but we miss him so, don't we? With any luck, true believers, perhaps we can persuade him to occasionally visit my little nook of the Inferno & grace us with his verbiage. WOOD-Y! WOOD-Y!

5. Game 6 tonite in Chicago. Gotta have it. GO BULLS!!!!!!

6. Chloe turned 7 years old this past Sunday & we had a beautiful party down in Carbondale. The rain broke just long enough for her. & yes, she is getting big.

Anyway, time to run, but I promise to not be so neglectful in my duties this summer. Oh yeah, if anyone out there can help with getting Radiohead tix for June 19 & 20 in Chicago, PLEASE let me know. To close, here's a bit of interesting wire service. All love & best, my dearies...

R Collins

ALEXANDRIA, Va. (AP) Â U.S. Judge Leonie Brinkema sent Zacarias Moussaoui to prison for life Thursday, to "die with a whimper," for his role in the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorist attacks. The convicted terrorist declared: "God save Osama bin Laden Â you will never get him."

Brinkema and the unrepentant Moussaoui capped the two-month trial with an intense exchange that will mark the defendant's last public words before his incarceration in a maximum security prison in Colorado.

A day earlier, a jury rejected the government's case to have Moussaoui executed, deciding instead to should spend life in prison with no chance of parole. Not all jurors were convinced that Moussaoui, who was in jail on immigration charges Sept. 11, had a significant part in the attacks, despite his boastful claims that he did.

Brinkema firmly refused to be interrupted by the 37-year-old defendant as she disputed his declaration from a day earlier: "America, you lost. ... I won."

"Mr. Moussaoui, when this proceeding is over, everyone else in this room will leave to see the sun ... hear the birds ... and they can associate with whomever they want," she said.

She went on: "You will spend the rest of your life in a supermax prison. It's absolutely clear who won."

And she said it was proper he will be kept away from outsiders, unable to speak publicly again.
"Mr. Moussaoui, you came here to be a martyr in a great big bang of glory," she said, "but to paraphrase the poet T.S. Eliot, instead you will die with a whimper."

At that point, Moussaoui tried again to interrupt her, but she raised her voice and spoke over him.

"You will never get a chance to speak again and that's an appropriate ending."

At Long Last

2005-12-17T03:21:00.000-06:00

the semester ends. the magazine beat goes on. for anyone interested in a story of an awkward ending to an weak poetry workshop, check out this post. something like that.

may x-mas not be killing you all. at least not as much as the pink-freeze that has been this December so far in Chicago. just a bit unseasonable.

in honor of closure & hope in poetry:

Taught. As a wire which reaches. A silver wire which
reaches from the end of the beautiful as if elsewhere. A
metaphor. Metaphors are not for humans.

The wires dance in the wind of the noise our poems make.
The noise without an audience. Because the poems were written
for ghosts.

The ghosts the poems were written for are the ghosts of the
poems. We have it second-hand. They cannot hear the noise
they have been making.

Yet it is not a simple process like a mirror or a radio. They
try to give us circuits to see them, to hear them. Teaching an
audience.

The wires in the rose are beautiful.

--- Jack Spicer, "4" from "A Textbook of Poetry"

Wolves at the Door

2005-12-10T00:55:00.000-06:00

Has it been a month?! Apologies to anyone who’s been here recently expecting some fresh verbiage. So where to begin? Mi madre sometimes sends me newspaper clippings she thinks I might find interesting (which rarely is the case). You can imagine, then what I thought when I saw “Dear Abby” atop her latest selection. In any case, it was more note-worthy than usual & thought I might share—

Dear Abby:

Please warn your readers that their Web pages & blogs could stand in the way of securing a job! Just as employers have learned to read e-mail & blogs, they have learned to screen candidates through their sites.
Many people in their 20s & 30s wrongly believe their creations are entertaining & informative. Employers are not seeking political activists, evangelizers, whiners or tattletales. They do not want to find themselves facing a lawsuit or on the front page of a newspaper because a client, patient or parent of a student discovered a comment written by an employee.
The job market is tight & job seekers must remember their computer skills can either help them land a position or destroy a job prospect.— Chicago Employer

I suppose such things are to be no surprise in our Patriot Act age. I do like the part about “evangelizers” though. What did Ben Franklin say about those willing to sacrifice freedom for safety? Anyway, I welcome all readers, come what may. If what I have to say didn’t put me at risk, it wouldn’t be worth saying. Just keep in mind, true believers, that when you come here to visit me, you are in fact in the Inferno. Just a head’s up.

With that, I’ll desist with a parting question: what do people think about the idea of poetry in crisis? There’s been so much said for & against the idea the poetry, or any art, is best created when the poet is in some form of crisis, be it personal or global in scope. Berryman advocated this frequently & much of Milosz deals with conflicts both he as an individual & human beings were facing throughout his life. So, how about you? Do you need tragedy to assist in creating art? What do you want &/or need to propel your creativity? I’m dying to know, but I won’t die to find out, if you follow.

O yeah, here are a couple of those “(Your Name) needs” Google search ditties, one for me & one for Kate. Thanks, as usual, to Woody, for being alert. Be well & warm…

Best, r collins

Kate so needs to get burned.
Kate needs to have her wings clipped.
Kate needs a shave.
Kate needs to be hooked up!
Kate needs our help.
Kate needs crew & projectors.
Kate needs to talk about the colour of paint.
Kate needs to go to rehab.
Kate needs to leave this homestay by herself.

Ryan needs special care.
Ryan needs a bra. Fast.*
Ryan needs a room.
Ryan needs your advice.
Ryan needs backers to go forward.
Ryan is cool.
Ryan needs a history lesson.
Ryan needs a caretaker.
Ryan needs to go sleep on some train tracks.

* in reference to Meg Ryan, the so-called actress.

So Much Lettuce

2005-11-10T11:42:00.000-06:00

I want to know what all you cats out there think about metaphor. Is it the highest achievement of figurative language? Is it old hat? Have we not incorporated more interesting things into our American English? Please help. Some of us in Chicago are drowning in metaphor...

I couldn't agree more with Woody about goddamned poetry workshops. They can good conversations & they're not completely useless, especially when they're full of good people & quality work (i was in a workshop with Stephanie Strickland last spring & it was amazing, mostly because she's amazing!). But a workshop led by someone who only wants to talk metaphor & logical connection & reads everything literally is a serious fucking bore. I'm in such a workshop now & it's murder. I can't believe i have to miss the Bulls for such bullshit.

So please, someone, tell me there's more to word life than metaphor. Or break my heart.

Who's in a Bunker?

2005-11-09T01:26:00.000-06:00

You know what sucks? Suburban yuppie rock. Fuck fake rock stars. Free at last, free at last

Yesterday I bought The Collected Poems of Ted Berrigan & so far it's too gloriously over-whelming for me to really dig into. His book of "lectures" On the Level Everyday was really a life changing read for me & how i thought about writing & going about all the accompanying madness & living. Highly recommended for anyone engaged in creative thinking.

Speaking of life changing experiences, the first time I saw Radiohead in 2001 at Grant Park was more a holy pilgrimage than a concert, for many reasons which i'll omit here for momentum. saw a re-broadcast of a show in France Sunday afternoon & was reminded of their full glory & innovation. i stay away sometimes (perhaps we all do) from the things i love most, so that i might stave off falling out of love with them. Radiohead has been one such case for me. Kid A is one of my fav autumnal albums ever. check it out & tell me what you think.

Question: post-modernist or North American haberdasher?

peaches, cola

"If I Had to Commit Suicide...

2005-11-06T05:04:00.000-06:00

Basketball finally returned. Already the Bulls are playing heart-attack games, which cost them tonight. Still playing hungry, which speaks volumes this early in the season.

Had a dream about committing sepuku (sp?) with a lightsaber the other night. If i had to kill myself, i'd definitely do it with a lightsaber. Hold it to my heart & turn it on. Quick & clean. "Do.
Or do not. There is no try."

I've heard from reliable sources that blogspot is the blog of "professional poets." Is this painfully true & i've just been fortunate enough to stay genuinely oblivious to this fact? Please tell me...

Poem suggestion: write some verse in response to the following quote from Bertolt Brecht--

You have little time
you have time enough
for that which is right is easy.

Or don't. It's entirely up to you. Just suggesting some ideas for future dictation. Stay hungry--

Yours in oblivion,

the foundling

Knives Out

2005-11-02T01:58:00.000-06:00

One year since last election day, and were are we now? Treason?

Where are the patriots now?? Where are the battle lines?

Barack Obama should be celebrating a righteous anniversary. Some day, some day
but have things gotten any easier yet? Let's give him some help next year & not wait around for a gray ghost in 2008. Or are we truly an amputee nation? We don't have to be.

When we will listen again to the ghosts & not just go on holiday? What can be said after the moment of silence?

Some people say they want a fight. Well, I've heard that to fight one guided by a righteous cause is a dangerous undertaking.

What will it take for you to find a cause? Why not poetry? Why not now?

Tougher than anything.
No one listens to poetry.

Under black helicopters,

the foundling

P.S.A.

2005-10-30T17:27:00.000-06:00

Hello to the Ghosts--

So this school year i'm doing some work for the Columbia Poetry Review, which is distributed nationally and is a great, no-frills poetry annual from the poetry folks at CCC.

We want submissions, really goddamn good submissions. Our reading period has a month left, and i know there is amazing work out there we want to showcase. The reading period ends November 30, so i'll spare us all the snail mail stuff. The link from the title of this post has sample poems from previous issues.

Please send 3-5 poems of quality poetic work to columbiapoetryreview@colum.edu by Nov. 30, 2005. We respond no later than mid-March and pay two copies. but as i said, CPR is more widely circulated than many journals, as CPR can be found a couple major bookstore chains, who here remain nameless. If you want any more information, see the link or just shoot us an email, but i know amazing poems are circulating the scene, and we want to give them a home.

We already have a stack of excellent material, so let's see some more!!! Thanks to all out there in poetry la-la land; everyone at CPR looks forward to reading your work!!!! Be well in luck...

all best,
rc cola

Glory Shall Be Revealed

2005-10-28T03:35:00.000-05:00

Let it be known that I called the White Sox victory at least at the outset of the playoffs & provably on this blog before the series began. Tomorrow I'll witness my 1st tickertape parade through the Loop. I was in Bridgeport last night for the game & have never seen so much joy, love and high-fives in all my days.

So i came home emotionally charged & for the first time in a week launched back into my serial poem, which already has lots of baseball buried in it. Thie next section is dedicated to my friend Sean Flynn, who graciously invited me to the South Side to share in the triumphant night. Sorry for the length but the poems are chronological in their composition, which began last night about 1am. Comments have never been more welcome. All love & respect toward the South Side of Chicago, the pride of the City of Wind. Thanks & ten thousand congrats. Here goes:

Tonight, a single bridge,

an infinite zero
& no binary code

to explain the traffic & rain

of scarred throats raving
toward a child's dignity,

soaked, up past bedtime, awake

to scream with firecrackers
in flag-waving traffic, night
taken back for good & all.

Patient shaves clear the triumphant

path for pink twilight & jet-black
banners striping across the sky-

line, where victory awaits a parade,
paper haloes descending
by the thousands--

no barricades shall meet the wind.

************

Rivers halt in the flow of victory,

sad moustaches left over microphones
that have heard enough.
It's time for a vacation, time

not to throw a chair in disgrace
when myth finds you in ill favor.

************

Riots started no fire & the smoke
fills with cheers.

The wind needs more barricades.

Holy holy holy shall the tickertape
parade pass, baptized, through

miles of windows, a million voices

welcome home two dozen slim heroes
& violence crosses no Division.

No turf violated as tonight rains on one

diamond. The city needs more barricades,
but no fires take back the night.

Pinstripes anything but monochrome,
machines washing away the white
spray loosed into the bridge

lights, building a way, a triumphant path.

************

The finest laughter & scar tissue line
sleepless throats.

Heroes waved back to earth after
a complete game shut-out,

a sweep. A century's impossible tears.

Strangers embrace & the temperature
meaningless, hanging out windows,

racing slow motion flags to sail over
awakened graves. The nameless

deliver. Fierce hands wave from dreams.

ps check out the band Oh My God. they are amazing. get right...

yours in absence, r collins

Devotions of the Medicore

2005-10-26T17:32:00.000-05:00

"We shall have everything we want & there'll be no more dying"
---Frank O'Hara "Ode to Joy"

Well, true believers, the Chicago White Sox are on the brink of one of sport's highest achievements and a truly momentous & triumphant victory for the City of Wind.

Haivng said that, a note to my fellow Cub fans--

I've heard many terrible rumors of bitterness & dumb jealousy on your part toward our South Side brothers and sisters. If you truly consider yourself to be a Cub fan, you would know that the only thing you have to be bitter about is the fact that the Cubs played far under their potential all season long and that they choked after fan interference in game 6 of the NLCS two years ago. They choked then & have been sub-par since, finishing this year behind the Brewers, which is unacceptable. Be jealous of the Cubs' divison rivals, two of whom made it to the playoffs and one of whom has one game left to play in the World Series.

I realize there is this cross-town rivalry with the Sox, but now is not the time. Be thrilled that the Astros are floundering, even if you hate the Sox. We all share a big beautiful city, and are fortunate to have two baseball teams here, linked by a single subway line. The whole faux-class war thing is bullshit, and in the scheme of baseball, is meaningless, unless the Cubs find themselves playing the Sox in the World Series. We should be joyful, celebrate and learn. It is an amazing time of Chicago, and petty cross-town beef has no place here right now. So please, hate not, cheer on your city and revel in the magical baseball we are all being treated to right now. This is as historic as last year, no doubt about it, and the fact that ratings are down means the baseball is up, and any true fan of the game, especially in Chicago, should be grateful to be alive and along for the ride. If there is a new champion in the City of Wind, let's welcome them and share, everyone, in the goodwill of victory.

I had the Sox in six. Let's hope I'm wrong. Let's get out our brooms. GO Sox!!!

All love & best, RC Cola

The Chicago White Sox Will Win the World Series

2005-10-22T04:21:00.000-05:00

Houstonians are not welcome in Chicago, IL at least through the coming week.
(if you have to ask why, please leave this site immediately)

The subliminal man aside, the triumphant path begins today, in the infant fall chill in the city of wind. White Sox in 6 or 7, so we can have it go down in the city limits. For anyone out there who subscribes to the novelty, inter-league classicist rivaly between the White Sox & Cubs:
Your decsison on who to cheer for has already been made for you & will be served rare.

Damn the great violence of storms the ovening of earth manifests against the shores of the Americas. We're getting beyond history & almanacs. Something must be done, some reason please. Help--

For all who read the new beginning last night, yes i know i need a copy editor. grammar is the bottom rung of the english language. what i say is malleable & if anyone wants to work with my words & take ownership, welcome.

As long as you're routing for the Sox..

Barely yours,

r collins

ps if you've never heard of Jack Spicer,you need to. Trust me. I don't have the time to lie to anyone about poetry

No one listens to poetry

2005-10-21T04:11:00.000-05:00

In brief, mid-level Hell is being re-invented.

At the behest of those wiser & more tuned-in than myself, "The Fifth Circle" has been reborn. This matters litle to most people clicking up blogs on the Workd Wide. All I can say is my level of hell is being re-vamped; dictated more by the tongues of flames than anything. Since blogs all essentially are writing to the wide world, I'll finsh by presenting a letter written to a friend diagnosed with leukemia. I don't know what to sya other than what came out of me right after earning of his condition:

Kev,

I remember the roar at Wharton your last year on the court, a general, more coach than the suit on the bench. Coming out for a breather only a minute at a time. No sign of the smoke wrapped in a Phillies, burnt down outside the locker room, as the six thousand rivals began to arrive. Not even lack of oxygen benched your game.

Good morning captain. Crew-cuts & cocaine, backyard pick-up games under the motion lights, a garage full of smoke. The love of pure-bred rottweilers, thick as buffalos. The television pulled outside, played loud to reign in three summers straight with the last Chicago championships.

But there are champions to come. The Ill state welcomes many to its thrones. Fall roars south through the city & all the skyscraper lights welcome all challengers. We have together over a generation come to expect flight. Flight: nothing less. Now quick thunder stares down home, the title, both hands in the fire. The defiant hands.

May justice & the heavens fall before being lost to oxygen, a sneaker’s tread squealing on a hardwood court. I will not relent & remember, the impetus of genius is momentum (& luck). Ghosts hang in the rafters of Wharton Filed House without initiation. You’re still our point guard, still Stripey… You and Your MOTHER!!!

Your smoke still curls in our rafters, the mask & oxygen forgotten. A senior year of fire, arguing the lane with future professionals. You are still the general & we young bucks hot for a point guard autograph on weekly maroon & white programs—thousands waiting to storm the court & raise you above eye level.

Glory shall be revealed. You will triumph & expand into a poisonless desert. We will expand, will disperse like pollen in the desert, command a rainy season. You expand & disperse. Still you remain the point guard. The ghosts respect.

The triumphant path speeds, without shadows, thru the roar of a glass canyon. He is what he is because he is never where he is. You live in the high rise you survive in. Traffic backs up days while we roar in the middle of the Avenue. You’re invisible & everywhere. The smoke still wants autographs, builds high rises. We’re forgiven what we have stolen, hermano. Deserts endlessly expand & you are always the point.

More tomorow. More for poets looking to be heard. All thanks to Woody for challenging me. No more dying.

cola