effing blog

Kent Johnson receives award for "When I First Read Ange Mlinko"

Kent Johnson's poem "When I First Read Ange Mlinko" (as found in the effing chap Lyric Poetry After Auschwitz, though first published in issue 8 of Mandorla) earned him an award from The Illinois Arts Council.  Congrats!

return of a heathen

Hessssssssssssssss

Rebecca Loudon on WHOLE MILK

at Radish King

thursday none

there are no minutes for this past thursday night.  hard to write when you are on fire.  can't remember from which side my head blew out but it's there, on the wall, a paisley-like smear. 

synthetic farid matuks lined the walls of the castle

the effing hard drives were compromised in the heavy night and all i wanted was to watch a movie.  30+ designs and respective files lost.

but the robot is booting now and the files are found.

back up your junk.  i do but not enough.

meticulous recorder keeper I am not.  I keep the hardcopies of original artwork/manuscripts/notes but the digital preprint and print designs are in the mac.  I have not yet upgraded floyd's disc space to hold these things at this time.

*

another thursday night is upon us.  who will show up?  what will they read?  what flavor of beer is for me? 

there are several effing book projects underfoot.  Farid Matuk's dirty bomb for one.  and you thought mine was a crush on FM, not a soft, pre-book marketing campaign on behalf of he.  you still wonder about the blowhole.  you still don't what you have yet to deal with.

life is easy.

been writing quick poems the last week or two they look like this:

just kidding, i don't have them in front of me.  but they are all titled like: The Noun (supply noun), followed by three lines.  not haiku. 

i remember this one

the thong

i am

in love w/

a string

-

i think the word people been searching for over there is synthesis.  sure, blend is okay but i like synthesis.

and ask yourselves this regarding synthesis:

--

hey, come stitch books with me in the sun this weekend.  we are in the sun belt.  put on a belt and come over and poke your thighs with a binding needle.  we'll drink juice. real fruit juice from real fruits.  and we'll synthesize the real.  you and me and floyd and us.

a project name i want to share with you with no allusion to what it is exactly (though it deals with synthesis!)

FUCK N SUCK:

a book of flora and fauna

see you tomorrow with my minutes.

The heap of Thursday night

Nine souls on board.  They are so named Philip, Jay, Farid, David Ha., David He., Pat, Scott, Mark, and Zach.

pre-group

talk of indeterminacy before the mass arrive, talk of Tom Clark, was he an ass kicker in his youth?  possibly.  talk of Kyger, talk of Bolinas.  Reminisce the beach scene one year ago, also the poem "J.K. hit my pipe!" co-written with Anna Eyre, ages ago it seems, a best day of my life. 

what follows henceforth are my jottings from the night's readings by the peops mentioned above.  fill in the blanks as you like.  if you can find the blanks.

there is a message, there is no message, street report, the point is the point, the point is the underlying texture of eventuality, the fabric of things subversive and dark, this city is violence, is funny

read a letter from Lucas in St Petersburg. blood in a parking lot or elevator in every letter. nazi youth, hard rooskies. star in helsinki.

reads W Benjamin, work vs. gambling (opposites). previous earnings not considered in a gamble, workman loses pride for work, gambling - psuedotension, polarized emptiness, trace of participation (captivity). simulife.

spectacle makes time

jay sketch in corner, sock-less.  concern for paper in posture.

quickpoems. 

the stiffness.

selective glimpse of the plan. how figures figure in the mind. existence in change. (Gilgamesh). primitive victory in speech. attention as application.  summoned to various office.  moves along with his gun.  depths of stupidity.  "look and leave."  nice n dead in a cold, fishy way.  rough portrait of community.  essential conservatism of method.  modern mind struggle up through undergrowth of ordinary.

contents / components of contents.  chance and mood: remember our appeals.  didactic content mashed in. improper behavior manager. hours of sleeping, waking, ignoring mental furniture within ongoing composition. predominant motif - infrastructure of oafs possibly to be written in. mimetic action, the passing hours seemed many. 

world view in long run lost to grinding particulars

innocence lost that never was

array of good / bad men

NEVER BE AN EXPERT ON ANYONE

consider yourself unnecessary, ineffable in charge of ineffable.  abstract (cap A) refuses its involvement and sells for millions.

deny composition.  write headlines.

visual roughage.

read from Melville's joruanls.  Instanbul.  how many mosques can one man visit in one day.

remove shoes before entering.  more sensible than removing a hat.  muddy boots vs. muddy head.

love the Melville.  he gives good walking tour.

tidy the studio

gather beer bottles

empty ash trays

good night effing room

you held us pretty good

-

take out the trash.

pills. Thursday night, the minutes

I never post the minutes of Thursday night anymore.  Nobody takes the actual minutes anymore.  We still start at 9pm and go to whenever.  Now we do it in the effing studio where Philip's paintings grace the wall and the windows let in the warm, gentle wind.

so let us revive the minutes of thursday night however inaccurate.  here it is from my slowhead 15 hours later:

participants:  Ty, Scott, Philip, Doug, Christine, Jay, Mark and David.  That's David Hess for those blogheads in the know.

xanax, coil of light rope on the floor, drape them over your shoulders when you read, read poems from our sheaths, nothing from Doug or Jay, Jay sketches in his pad, Christine reads from 01 and new stuff overhead at last Thursday night, Ty reads two poems, Mark two short stories, Philip a long suite of beautifully wrought complaints, I with my slur lines meaningless, AB's fine effing manuscript under my arm but never got to it, David speaks of Breton and Mexico, talk of Surrealists painters other than Dali, talk of Eluard, other stuff, some stuff, hold off on the cigarettes, okay I smoked 2, some warm beers, brewing storm, heavy wind, sideways rain, falling limbs, lightning, Ty called away - house flooded, listen to KJ's "33 Rules for Poets 23 and Under" piped through laptop (hey, downtown Austin now has free wireless internet, and we are downtown, so if you come see us and you stay at Effing B&B you get free wireless, computer not included, stick that in your pocket), talk, more talk, some silence, burning plant, storm speculation, post-rain coolness, midnight, folks sleepy, leave,  Doug and I stay, find places on floor and snooze, wake at 2, look at each other, huh that was weird, see ya, someone already put the garbage on the street. 

The thing about David Meiklejohn

The thing about David Meiklejohn is that I always know he exists and is okay (at least active) when I start receiving bursts of orders for his effing book.  This science of locating David leads me to believe that he is in or has recently been to Ann Arbor, Michigan. 

I have every intention of screening David Meiklejohn's wonderful videos at the next effing studio party.  You hear that David Meiklejohn?  With or without your permission.  I'm talking about you.