Who: myself, Philip Trussell, Eric Furbish, Doug Warriner, Farid Matuk
Where: Philip's studio
Heat, mosquitoes, ice cold beer, wheat crackers.
decipher this best I can
read from Olson's accounts of meeting Pound for the first time at St. Elizabeth's.
Frida Kahlo memoir I Will Never Forget You: Frida Kahlo to Nick Murray (Farid is reviewing for P******** Weekly). The stache was her thing. NM's photographs look fake and beautiful. Basically invented modern fashion photog. We scrutinize the possible lighting scenarios for several shots.
Scott reads dream poem "I smite in the ever brightening sun shard..."
Farid reads his poem "Do the Moth". His poems break my heart, his deliberate incantation, precise repetition. Bring you back to the vital noun.
Doug reads ranch poems, his trademark character sketches.
Eric recounts his wild dream, his wild "thump it against the fence" dream. Mustache to the nape of the neck!
Philip wax on:
no vision sanctioned...free of hard facts (the new young)...functionalist attitude toward time...if still in the habit of blanking the brutal impact of the real...syntactic sprawl...the happy-to-just-be-babbling...pay rent to the underplex...all backs to the storefront as the transformation passes...postponing in advance all upward mind... "adrenaline hotplate"...sullen-faced laptopery.
PC is one big rubber on your brain
read Spicer, we love it, drunk and stunned.
Farid is bleeding. (We took a break outside for air. Doug then Farid rode Eric's bike around the lot across the street. Farid returned bleeding and bruised. Crashed in the alley where the gravel is loose. Skinned palm and knee. He seems calm. Philip applies Peroxide, a little blood drips down the shin the remainder of the night, poor dude. )
A "Popish butt"? Someone mentions this. I cannot explain.
Philip is reading Spicer aloud. I'm writing this. Farid is still bleeding. Eric is poised at the edge of the bed one hand over another, listening. Doug is crosslegged - will leave when he can drive.
some stuff is taking flight
one keeps reading the stuff
clock ticking thursday night
here's a sound emitted, I
mean: __________
--
Farid is bleeding (a poem)
negotiating alleyways
is tough drunk
bicycle or not
line up the humans along the curb. garbage cans high five and stagger home to sleep. Until next week.