Writers are still proletarian at the start; each a lone entity in a world dominated by luxury groups.
Conflicted about big money, I’ll pick up anything. I read corporate art management aims to commandeer the pipeline, production to sales. As is fairly obvious when you look at other creative industries, film, tv, music, as marketing small press poetry, poetics, art books integrates with managerial acumen, a chunk of creative taste and decision making stands ready to fall under the control of entrepreneurial influence, NEA, Poetry, Poetry Foundation, down to every slick body.
Parable: All my spam is luxury.
Parable’s silver brown hair is replacing blonde, according to a flier.
I picked up in the same flier that my soul is a hypothesis. A fish out of water surfing coastal states to destroy his wiggly self. Since we live in new enterprises and ecologies, we begged him to learn to swim further and stick with a nearly sublime topic, to rally for more than this textual ceramic holding a spray of looking glass.
I believe a poetic artist must be set free to make more and more mistakes. So long as he or she is branded for lack of taste! (Big money in poetry takes care of that.)
So who picks my music ’n prose? She’s a far out snob.
Our area is interpretive search.
(Want to read our minds? enjoy.)
At 1 time there was modernism + plus in diffusion. Then a going dutch like critique, thanks to Millennials. Yamaguchi feels such criticism got way over-modulated becoming 2nd rate, safety school argot sampling masked hostility, the bravura of indecisiveness, backing it up with inexactitude ’n randomness from what we were doing before the next procedural (The Aughts) took hold:
A bright skepticism mostly shows up as identity. Your youthful identity, hardened m.o.’s, everything close to you — evaporating, taken down, resigned to further decades of processed shock of the simple, school crossing zone simple, where pop classics are re-authenticated, highlighting most everyone’s weak spots.
A religion of men sharpening endurance, risking focus..
Hermes masks, a precondition as two satyrid mayflies pop to something, ones who advocate for peace. Their reputations recede but the fact of apprehension remains way before guns were worn.
The males in our families prompt discussions that started long ago to induce “flipping surroundings.” Interdisciplinary terms spring up around an almost empty campground that remembers nothing of the nearly transparent sensory esotericists.
Bags of cardmember ideas prolong their standing in infinite battle with consciousness, jackets of air, big superficial clamor.
To repeat and hear homogeneous
offshore drillers / the plunk..
You and I live off their body equity
where my future holds in love with my clients,
also I’m environmentally debunked;
The sun is a naked bulb,
I’m a working temp, piling up losses
on the periodic table, petty in wanting you / I do
There are blasts from out of nowhere.. They keep getting a fifth element.
I’ve discovered squeezing adds more activity. Still. Very well, all these charming Blimpie squirts Like dreams going to fray.
I just read children get 10% of daily calories out Of soda (pronounced soder around here). That’s how they become bilingual &
Fill up with feast superstitions.
Greyhound hurling on seesaw feels fine, really
Most footage balances if pushed, so it’s wax,
Never merely serene. More news, relaxing,
Comes to ground, triples no questions asked.
Cedar clump> falls> rust pad dead> in a day.
Eyewitness: From Black Mountain to White Rabbit
Carolyn Dunn, interviewed by Kevin Killian
A sidekick or co-perpetrator, Carolyn Dunn went along with Joe Dunn.
They raised a postwar ruckus in the mid 1950s, through a remarkable chain of poetry circumstances and at least two ‘renaissances’ — including life in Boston, a stay at Black Mountain and most notably, after Jack Spicer lent them airfare, a move to San Francisco. Carolyn and Joe dabbled in the antic art of saying yes, allowing events that unfold in Eyewitness, Carolyn’s memoir/conversation/exposé.
To strains of Charles Mingus and “Shake, Rattle and Roll,” what seem exquisite are Carolyn’s clear verbal snapshots that add up to realia and hard data for digging these extraordinary events. Saying yes is central to Carolyn and Joe’s friendship and marriage. When Spicer made that airfare offer, Carolyn’s reaction is unambiguous: We couldn’t pass that up! So in San Francisco, as in Boston and at Black Mountain, Carolyn Dunn was partner and daily witness to Joe Dunn in service to poetry.
Joe’s was a special life that no one aspires to, in fact no one can. It comes to one rather than the other way around. Early friendship with John Wieners in Boston led to both John and Joe attending the last weeks of Black Mountain College on scholarship (using teabags three times to save money). For Joe and Carolyn this is followed soon by returning briefly to Boston, driving there from Black Mountain in a used car they named Opus in Pastels (after Stan Kenton), covered in rust patches and pink and purple anti-rust applications. After a few months in Boston, they made a well-timed move west to reunite raucously with other poets from Black Mountain. Once settled in the Bay Area Joe cofounded White Rabbit Press, “steadfast printers” to poets of the San Francisco Renaissance (Kyle Schlesinger). Joe’s was a daring physical commitment — Carolyn’s memoir confirms Joe covertly ran off the first ten White Rabbit books on an offset press at his work. More remarkable, Carolyn and Joe bet the house, their first floor furnished apartment on Jackson St, turning their quarters into an open meet for poets where “a party atmosphere prevailed” (Ellingham and Killian) along with an ongoing workshop for young writers to read new poems and discuss their work.
As memoir, Eyewitness is “one HELLUVA ride!!!” to quote Carolyn Dunn’s last thoughts about her times with Joe. As conversation, Kevin Killian is the Platonic ideal of interlocutor — gently prompting Carolyn’s memories from 60 years ago, big ideas and small (“You and Joe had cats…”); he’s on alert supplying frameworks to place detailed domestic recollections within a chronology of poetics events. Eyewitness sketches over blank lines of the Dunns’ adventure, enabling us to imagine more readily their concentrated work-cum-open-house in which first-order poetics was famously redefined as the praxis of poetry and discussion. It reveals salient points about Jack Spicer coming to the Dunns, first in Boston, later in San Francisco. Many others follow, Robert Duncan, Denise Levertov, Robert Creeley, Helen Adam, Robin Blaser et al. Of course, John Wieners. Joe and Carolyn were touched all over by these beings. Carolyn’s yes in partnership with Joe's enabled his youthful service to poets, service that became a lifelong celebration to the lucky few of the Black Mountain persuasion(s), their processes, their poems.
Song: If poetics is a democracy, evasion in poetics is subject for scrutiny.
Don’t get me wrong I think free speech is nominal, so there’s freedom to evade. I’m for it and against impingement unless it hurts a friend (that’s down). What’s it? There’s no workaround to the observer influencing the observed except later, much later.