conceptualize, factualize

I recently attended a poetry reading at TUCC by poet CA Conrad. His reading included selections from his newest publication, the Book of Frank, but most exhilarating and illuminating were his Somatic Poetry exercises. They are built around a set of conditions offered in imperative prose that often resembles a poem itself, filled with obstructions around which to impel the reader to construct a poem. For each exercise he would read first the obstructions and then his poetic response. To give you an idea of the depth and complexity of these exercises i'll include #36, which i saw him read:

#36 CONFETTI ALLEGIANCE
Is there a deceased poet who was alive in your lifetime but you never met, and you wish you had met? A poet you would LOVE to correspond with, but it's too late? Take notes about this missed opportunity. What is your favorite poem by this poet? Write it on unlined paper by hand (no typing). If we were gods we wouldn't need to invent beautiful poems, and that's why our lives are more interesting, and that's why the gods are always meddling in our affairs out of boredom. It's like the fascination the rich have with the poor, as Alice Notley says, "the poor are more interesting than others, almost uniformly." This poem was written by a human poet, and we humans love our poets, if we have any sense. Does something strike flint in you from the process of engaging your body to write this poem you know and love? Notes, notes, take notes. The poet for me in doing this exercise is Jim Brodey, and his poem "Little Light," which he wrote in the bathtub while listening to the music of Eric Dolphy, masturbating in the middle of the poem, "while the soot-tinted noise of too-full streets echoes / and I pick up the quietly diminishing soap & do / myself again." Take your handwritten version of the poem and cut it into tiny confetti. Heat olive oil in a frying pan and toss the confetti poem in. Add garlic, onion, parsnip, whatever you want, pepper it, salt it, serve it over noodles or rice. Eat the delicious poem with a nice glass of red wine, pausing to read it out loud and toast the poet, "MANY APOLOGIES FOR NOT TOASTING YOU WHEN YOU WERE ALIVE!" Take notes while slowly chewing the poem. Chew slowly so your saliva breaks the poem down before it slides into your belly to feed your blood and cells of your body. Gather your notes, write your poem.


His response was direct, crisp, staccato, and carried elements of accusation and of overt remorse. It was also heavily abstract.
My personal response to come, with photoes.

do you like sports - or antlers - swarm

This is HEALTH's music video for their song, HEAVEN. Its appropriately titled, combining washy synths with the landscape of snow and the artistry of technical performance into an orgy of serene energy. It's composed of shots from Werner Herzog's documentary: The Great Ecstasy of the Sculptor Steiner. Some of that here:


This is a great almost ten minutes of The Antlers performing live for an NPR recording. Their style is creepy, energetic, and fulfilling.











Hardwick Hall. Photo by Steven Bryson.

Lately its been necessary for me to heavily involve myself in the practice of compiling a manuscript. My writing has had to shift from a single-work oriented autonomy to a more inclusive 'book-like' format of carrying over themes or descriptors between pieces. Here's a draft of the beginning of a new longer work, entitled Swarm. It's being critiqued for me in workshop tomorrow evening. I'll let you know how it goes.


Swarm











Breeding of the interior lets loosening
She may breathe grow fit only
Once to pluck a pear again
It was the best part of the day before she could see the sun out
She lived a less parting dismay under the townhead
We towned down often after links collapsed
We laid down less after the noting shine

Spun clear, apt and south
It was the bright part of the day when the sun was in bed
Loam, loam, loam she pitched first two
Left leaving bright part away summer stead
We don’t need the extra space. You could
Sure keep your thoughts in or run again

What would be the two notes that make up two measures.
Why were we supposed to clap once right
That but we’re not compared or to meet higher.

Loaming, Henry abridged me. Lets press less
He gave birth to millions.
Once he woke up to restless
It was the blank side of the day when dark was in bed.















Free at three. When time pokes out. Break open the night not snaps not clasped. When apart pokes out. Invent broken terminology. Break open the work all known not said. Movement shines. When remember dancing. Break open the neck bones not sit not think. Not sit not think. Strings detense. When alert unfocused. When head extends and feel the wind noise. When eyes when lids turn clear. When white blinding pokes out. Stomach doesn’t remember dancing breaks. Break open the thought not lonely all movement. It grows a slow burn at its edges. The container reveals arrangement. When loves pokes out. Break open the warm mind not tea nor key nor teacup nor egg nor paper nor fuck nor cold. It is not cold. Pieces fall low and lay and look to lay the way that snow lays. Look to lay the way that snow lays. When water as strings as flat mats and as floors. When stark eye pokes out. Contain your recoil breaks open not wind all wet and becoming. When to leave. How to decide when to need. How to lay flat hot slabs that burn when you leave them alone. When thought when love pokes in. Break open the pyramid not reasons not sit, and not think nor slide in. When to press hands. When to press hands. When to. When to break books. When to move forehead against forehead. Not thinking. All breathing. All grateful. Sojourned.




I'm putting together a new live set in the upcoming few weeks and will begin performing again in Philadelphia. Updates of progress to come.