A More Recent Embarrassment (Critiqued)
Dale Houstman
recent (and much more on topic) example of the crashingly awful.
>Fawn Greyhound
>Fawn Greyhound---
>your magic secrets.
"Your magic secrets": expertly upholds that fragile high school girl's
diary ambiance, while also avoiding any taint of image or interest. A
solid beginning.
>The shimmering minutes,
Ah! A brilliant rhetorical abstraction torn directly from the pages of a
failed soap opera writer. The slightest stench of vaseline-smeared
lenses, but still replete with the tones of an hysterical bride-to-be
left standing outside a crumbling Edwardian church with a handful of
anti-depressants.
>making your acquaintance -.
>Coming to your smile,
Brian Wilson on Maalox, running rampant through a field of tufted corn
on his way to a hippie sleep-over at Rod McKuen's "pad."
>greeted at your door,
>welcomed with my green shoes.
Green - as in copper tarnish or the seasickness visited upon an anemic?
Oh - could it be - "green" represents fertility? Who would have imagined
such a stroke of genius from such a genius of the stroke?
>Fawn Greyhound ---
Always nice to repeat a dull line, in the vain hope it may make the rest
of the poem less doggish. Or maybe it's the name of some half-recalled
girlfriend who left him for a shoe salesman from Duluth?
>sweet golden wench,
"grey" "golden" : it's nice they begin with the same letter. A shame
they don't quite add up, spectrum-wise, but the "wench" hits just the
right tone of old-fashioned misogyny that we forgive the writer his
accumulating incapability and celebrate his infusion of old-world charms.
>you've wandered the blue astral.
"blue astral": how utterly delicious a pointless line can be tucked
amidst other pointless lines, like a turd in a field of turds: all
individual yet - so subtle - exactly alike. The effect is calming to the
point of coma, as the field of tufted corn flattens into a half-baked
tortilla drifting like a lily pad on a pool of bland salsa made in Iowa
for "sensitive palates". This partakes of a polio-stricken third-rate
symbolist now working at a grocery store.
>Now fade into my turqoise,
>swim in your darkened opal hell.
Love the ineffective and totally arbitrary usage of color: makes me feel
dizzy, as though I were spinning 'round and 'round in a hamster wheel
made out of Velveeta strips. The most amazing unearned journey to Hades
ever.
>Fawn Greyhound ---
Can't get enough of it! Exquisite Elmer's Paste jewelry (made from skim
milk).
>greeted at your door,
>by your gentle pup.
>Sad eyed, unconditional,
>sweet Australian hound, your child.
Awwwwwwww! A Purina man through and through. No pussies for him: he's
dogged in his determination to over-express nothing in the sad vestments
of a junior high cheerleader.
>Fawn Greyhound ---
Again and as marvelous as ever. Some things are so dull to begin with
that their repetition cannot lessen their luster.
>to die repeatedly in your smile,
Canina dentata. It reeks of the lowest High-Romantics without all that
cumbersome beauty og expression and soaring imagery. Unladen, it manages
to rise to the level of a floorboard, coming through the wood like a dim
stain in the shape of a dog biscuit.
>sweet glow of your presence.
>Pink, golden, sweet fluid,
>ride in your vehicle.
More swirls of pointless color, to accent the tepid wavering of the
ephemeral stickiness. The neighboring repeat of "sweet" as if it were an
effective word in an effective place. The slight "sensuality" of the
final (dying) lines only partly undercut by their vapid sleaziness of
expression.
A Triumph! Without wheels...
dmh
Dale Houstman
>God Smiles
Well, he gives away the ending, but what the hell…Perhaps it's a symptom
of the poem's para-post-panto-nylonistic-quasi-schtump attitude?
>Star gazing,
>all by myself,
>on Mulvey Street.
Note the daring use of “all by myself” where “alone” would not only
suffice but actually enhance the reputed poem’s progress. Such bold
experiments (usually only glimpsed in the writings of those unfamiliar
with English) here add a touch of alienation, as if the speaker were a
slightly pretentious Eastern-European expatriate wandering up and down a
alleyway looking for something to kill the “ennui.” Not quite Language
Poetry (not quite language) but touched somewhat inappropriately by the
hand of a lewd customs agent “on the make.” And those short lines! All
chopped into tiny segments in a sensitive attempt to impart a hesitant
tone of grandiosity where only a glutinous tone of hammiosity is
present. Sheer genius, if the writer were a puppy.
>The
>Stars glimmer brightly,
>in colors like I never seen before.
Such gem-like precision! The stars (repeated here in case you forgot he
was staring at them a few short lines before: very empathetic to a slow
reader’s needs) don’t “sparkle” or merely “shine” or even “wink / blink
/ stutter / palpitate / throb / pulse / etc.” They “glimmer”! Not
unexpected of course, and certainly not interesting to anyone over the
age of minus-9 months, but bravely (even corrodingly) insipid, as if the
speaker were not afraid of appearing dim as a gutter full of grey
cardboard soaked in runny mashed potatoes. Courage is needed to be this
flat. Lack of ability is NOT enough.
>The man next door leaves,
>drives off in his rattling sedan.
From “glittering” to “rattling” in such a short while. It is perhaps
unfortunate that the two modifiers were not transposed, but that might
have begun to encroach upon the grandiose blandness of the lack of
vision that is being unreeled before our “shimmering” eyes like a
“tumbling” tub of fatty oils that is both "congealing" and yet
"remaining" liable to run down one’s leg at any moment not entirely
devoted to avoding the poem altogether. Such are the viscous
contradictions of the poem as they dribble into our rapidly degrading
attention. From a pot to a thimble in 3 seconds flat. If there is a
half-life of piqued interest, this poem may yet register a click or two,
before the universe collapses back onto itself, putting out all that
innocuous “glimmering.” Only time need tell, although we petition it
nightly to keep it to itself. After all, there are children in the house
besides the writer of this poem.
>Being here,
No GPS required! Location verified. Existential eczema squeezed
patiently through the filter of a broken Mr. Coffee Machine poised (ever
so delicately) upon the edge of a gynecological examination table? Hard
to say: might be a gated ghost town in the Alps, or a creosote-soaked
trogylodyte settlement just peeking through the fallen snow. Could be
Kansas relocated to the back of a sun-bleached junkyard Edsel. Whatever:
it is “here” and so are we: it’s like we were separated at birth!
>feeling the perfect breeze.
>Strange fog floats by,
It must be perfect: he says so right there! Which is not the same as
“here” I conjecture. That’s all the verification any man has a right to
desire. More would merely ruin the effect of “effervescent noodling”
which holds supreme reign here, there, and everywhere, running its beefy
hands through our hair, reminding us all of how thick nothing can be in
the right hands. He repeats this trope in “strange fog” and renders us
speechless (if only ever so giggly) with the wafting currents of his
wading pool, evaporating in the Sun (which – I am assured by the gated
ghost Carl Sagan – is happy to have not been mentioned).
>but the stars shine,
Relief! The suspense was killing me.
>right through.
Not “through” but “right” through. Like it’s real or something! Very
delicate handling of a line that might have actually amounted to
something in the brutal embrace of another writer. Here, the writer
allows (almost unconsciously) the “bare knuckles” of a denatured nature
to “glimmer” “right through” an otherwise unfingered cavity. Poeme
verite, echoing the Russian movement of "The New Stupid" although
lacking anything new.
>You can shine, too.
There’s a drunken hippie in the best of us carrying an old poster with a
silk-screen print of flowers in a sanitarium. John Lennon would have
appreciated the sentiment, and even dared to “improve” upon it, but
what’s that English twat know about anything? Just “saying it” is often
so – scintillating. Oh – the poem's stars don’t do that either!
>God smiles.
But does He “glimmer” I suspect not, although the answer is left
open-ended, until all the salted peanuts fall out and get oil on the
couch covers. A shame: grandma gave us those as birthdays gifts so many
years ago. Still, there’s that damn “smile” again. It is so nice to have
a philosophomoric moment or two at the end of a seemingly long trek
through a watercolor left out in the “driving” rain. It makes the entire
process almost seem as though it meant to drive somewhere in the first
place. An undertone of lost potential expertly run over by an overtone
of gained turgidity? Perhaps, but don’t we secretly know better, and
laugh WITH the author at his little joke: the entire universe is like a
bad university poetry class conducted in a beer hall, with the lights
out, and God brushes frequently because his teeth are the only power
source for the “glimmering” stars. A fable for the disabled. Last call!
The lights are “dimmering” out…
dmh
Will Dockery
Dale Houstman wrote:
> Since we're into making "harmless" fun at other's expense,
And have been for /years/ before I even arrived on Usenet, it seems
appropriate...
> here's a more
> recent (and much more on topic) example of the crashingly awful.
>
> >Fawn Greyhound
>
> >Fawn Greyhound---
> >your magic secrets.
>
> "Your magic secrets": expertly upholds that fragile high school girl's
> diary ambiance, while also avoiding any taint of image or interest. A
> solid beginning.
>
> >The shimmering minutes,
>
> Ah! A brilliant rhetorical abstraction torn directly from the pages of a
> failed soap opera writer. The slightest stench of vaseline-smeared
> lenses, but still replete with the tones of an hysterical bride-to-be
> left standing outside a crumbling Edwardian church with a handful of
> anti-depressants.
>
> >making your acquaintance -.
> >Coming to your smile,
>
> Brian Wilson on Maalox, running rampant through a field of tufted corn
> on his way to a hippie sleep-over at Rod McKuen's "pad."
He was busy with Sharon McElroy, though.
> >greeted at your door,
> >welcomed with my green shoes.
>
> Green - as in copper tarnish or the seasickness visited upon an anemic?
You haven't seen the video?
> Oh - could it be - "green" represents fertility? Who would have imagined
> such a stroke of genius from such a genius of the stroke?
>
> >Fawn Greyhound ---
>
> Always nice to repeat a dull line, in the vain hope it may make the rest
> of the poem less doggish. Or maybe it's the name of some half-recalled
> girlfriend who left him for a shoe salesman from Duluth?
She left with a fortune telling gimp from Buffalo, actually.
Nikki was a good dog, and deserved a nod.
> No pussies for him: he's
> dogged in his determination to over-express nothing in the sad vestments
> of a junior high cheerleader.
>
> >Fawn Greyhound ---
>
> Again and as marvelous as ever. Some things are so dull to begin with
> that their repetition cannot lessen their luster.
Yeah...
> >to die repeatedly in your smile,
>
> Canina dentata. It reeks of the lowest High-Romantics
Shakespeare's /die/... multiple orgasm.
> without all that
> cumbersome beauty og expression and soaring imagery. Unladen, it manages
> to rise to the level of a floorboard, coming through the wood like a dim
> stain in the shape of a dog biscuit.
>
> >sweet glow of your presence.
> >Pink, golden, sweet fluid,
> >ride in your vehicle.
>
> More swirls of pointless color,
I was describing the close up view of her quaint charms... abstract
art, and I didn't have a camera.
> to accent the tepid wavering of the
> ephemeral stickiness. The neighboring repeat of "sweet" as if it were an
> effective word in an effective place. The slight "sensuality" of the
> final (dying) lines only partly undercut by their vapid sleaziness of
> expression.
>
> A Triumph! Without wheels...
Thanks for the belated critique, Dale--- a refreshing change from the
usual "shoot Dockery and tell 'em you were doing a 'lil *tarrrget
practice" inanity... this latest batch of critiques /say something/
that I can put to use in my current group of poems in progress. Perhaps
a good time to post the drafts of those, since critical though is
returning to the newsgroups, replacing personal attack and other forms
of /mud slinging/?
And true, Fawn Greyhound as a character's name is on the the level of
Hasty Pudding as one of the worst ever--- though Hasty Pudding still
has it beat for being utterly pathetic... plus Fawn's prettier.
--
"Mirror Twins" [Will Dockery]
<http://www.lulu.com/items/29000/29085/preview/Will_Dockery_-_03_-_Track__3.mp3>
"Black Eagle Lady" [Will Dockery/Henry Conley]
http://www.lulu.com/items/84000/84578/1/preview/Henry_Conley_-_06_-_Black_Eagle_Lady.mp3
Will Dockery
Dale Houstman's insightful critique of the poem "God Smiles". The poem:
----
God Smiles.
Star gazing,
all by myself,
on Mulvey Street.
Stars glimmer brightly,
in colors like I never seen before.
The man next door leaves,
drives off in his rattling sedan.
Being here,
feeling the perfect breeze.
Strange fog floats by,
but the stars shine,
right through.
You can shine, too.
God smiles.
-Will Dockery
----
Dale Houstman's critique:
I'm brewing some fresh coffee to go over this one, Dale--- just a quick
thanks, and a post of the actual poem for easy access to future Will Dockery
enthusiasts, as well as for my ongoing poetry studies.
More thoughtful writing like this, and there may be hope for these
newsgroups, after all.
Dale Houstman
The dazzling/deadening “smile” fixation continues, as if it were a
methadrine-driven maggot in a cheese wheel. One begins to suspect that
the writer has not actually seen one (at least upon the face of anyone
in his presence) for a long, long time, and so compensates by putting
them into every poem. No matter: here he is demanding that some
unsuspecting “mark” beam at him despite the probable lack of any cause
for elation. Thus we can be relatively certain that this piece will
focus on emotional fascism (as Elvis Costello put it). This title is
surely only a small goose step away from “get in the ditch”? A subtler
evocation of authoritarianism could scarcely be imagined, and
puce-tinted shades of Belsen and Garcia Lorca drift over the face of
this relentlessly unassuming firebomb in the guise of a piece of sugared
bird dropping. It is also highly imitative of many of Nietzsche’s
aphorisms, advocating while also admonishing the rise of the
“UberMensch”, (here manifested as an Enlightened Warrior Woman/Man) but
it is even more insidious as it hides its counter-intuitive “red hot
iron” philosophy beneath the shroud of a lukewarm tea bag. No more sugar
please: we’re buzzing!
>Influence the moment,
>hearing the details.
>The story of a guy,
Thank Baal he only mentions “details” but is not so cruel as to reveal
them. This gives the overall feel of an impressionist landscape reduced
to the size of a flea’s fedora. The decorative “hat band” of the slowly
unfurling lines (it’s really about a sentence long,but with the “method”
it becomes a small symphony of whining loser-bait, bereft of any
distracting “pensees” or revolting imagery). It may seem like the shoddy
production of a God-worshipping audio-visual geek, but that can safely
be ascribed to the clever “persona lacquer” that makes it stick to the
floor tiles after it falls out of the “plastic poetry reticule” near the
sink. Anyway (here’s the sly part!), it states “The story of a guy” but
instantly loses us in the dank underground of a futuristic un-sex,
stripped of easy referents AND stimulating word play, until we are
forced (ala the “emotional fascism”) to see the “thing” AS “thing,” the
“it” in “shit,” the underdeveloped “ab” in “abs,” etc. It also functions
as (another!) obvious sequel to both the Beach Boys’ “Smile” album, and
the film of the same name. So – with this cross-cultural reference to
other genres, it reduces its presence as mere “poem” to the reflection
of a headless cyclops in search of a fedora.
>the hermit is turned over.
>Everybody thinks she's a child,
>that what she's doin' is not right.
How marvelously ambi-sexualistic the writer (nay: the “composer”) is
here, in lines which artfully confuse at least two (or more) characters
into one (or less) without the slightest urge to clarify the “conundrum”
with actual exposition or those dreaded “details” we weary of in other,
less demure arteestes. Finally, a writer who isn’t obsessed with
reading, who (even wistfully) anticipates the day when “poems” (or
tablets labelled “poems”) will literally melt in your hand and not your
mind. Good and plenty, you bet! No more sticky hands after an arduous
pawing through haiku. Pop one in and a few hours later, something not
worth looking at plops into your “poetry potty” and you flush it away,
confident that you have successfully avoided “reading.”
>She just flows to the moment,
A whiff of the Woodstock Notion. Telepathic apple wine freaks gathering
before the radio tower to collect messages from “The Now.” Since “The
Now” is owned by Clear Channel, the messages are mainly MOR adult rock
and advertisements, but one seeks their enlightment where they can, and
doesn’t quibble over the repetitive rotation. Here the rotation is kept
down to a barely discernible “twitching” soaked in a fragile melange of
patchouli oil and karo syrup. Smells like dirt and tastes like diabetes!
>collecting riches in the night.
Hope she/he/it brought a flashlight. Or maybe this weird amalgam
creature has cat eyes? Why not: it could be one of those “details” that
were left out to ensure we wouldn’t be swamped with “poetry.” Bravo!
Another swipe at the tyranny of literacy, this time from the dark side
of a third-rate Doors album reject, or possibly a sampling of an early
gold prospector lost in the basement without a candle? Oh my, the
nihilistic possibilities abound. Luckily none of the “details” of these
possibilities is allowed to tarnish the “silvery” twitter of a
nightingale caught in a toaster oven door.
>Enlightened warrior poet,
>learning about infinity.
And there is much to learn! A lot. Really. Here we see the muddled beast
transformed into a combination of Buddha and Zena. Unfortunately, I fear
it has Buddha’s breasts and Zena’s beatitude, but we relent from too
close an examination of the eerie animal, for we might make the
antithetical mistake of creating our own “details.” No use doing the
work that the writer felt confident enough to avoid. Such brass should
be rewarded with the faintest of hopes it will end sooner rather than later.
>When the endless frames,
“Endless” obviously serves as a self-reflexive modifier. Very chic and
hip in a Millard Filmore fashion. When asked recently if he had written
this poem, the author replied (wittily enough for a sot) that he had
been “framed.” We beg to differ: this poem has no borders to its plasma
of deflowered floridity. We applaud its insoucience, its devil-may-care
attitude in the face of its own ineptitude: an ineptitude which (seen
from the reverse angle) becomes a startling blend of jailed teenage
diarists, and the most extreme morbidity of the pen hand seen in his
earlier collection, “Where Did I Leave My Smile/Can I Come Over to Your
House To Look For It?”
>hit that point of wet light.
Stage lights shining upon a small pool of ant sperm? A cup of spilled
milk being cried over by a man in a miner’s hat? A forest fire beneath
the waters of the Pacific? The answer to the puzzle is not important: we
live in the “flow” (no doubt “glimmering”) of the permanent Now, in
which the validity or beauty of a line read only seconds ago is
irrelevant to what will follow as we forget it in the anticipated
“front-wash” of that clear, white moment just beyond the termination of
the poem. It’s coming. Really. Don’t get nervous. In this way, the poem
does not insist on its being “read” as much as it insists upon the
ecstatic possibility of its ceasing to be readable at all, because we
have thrown it away by accident, mistaking it for a bill from a
long-forgotten collection agency.
>The lord God is at my door.
On the inside or outside? Doorman or arriving guest? These sorts of
ambiguities begin to weave a festering festoon of half-imagined woofs
and warps which capture – not the dolphin, or even the tuna – but the
infamous sea mosquitos, full of the blood of many ambi-sexualistic
enlightened warrior women, slicing open the entrails of sleeping
acolytes to get at the “good stuff” hidden just beyond each knife point.
>The Queen of Swords,
>is a kind, good woman,
>but she's hard,
>she got the tough love.
The vernacular brings the rather insipid Tarot symbol into the modern
world of “Oklahoma!” and “Female Wrestling.” A dandy little trick of
linguistic apathy performed by a writer who thinks of projectile
vomiting as a performance art. One senses pride (mildly misplaced) in
the bland paralleism of “hard” and “tough” but the very awkwardness of
this attempt at “real” writing speaks volumes on the wayward modern
poetic soul. It is as though the writer were standng upon a small
footstool, peering into a garden full of discarded Hot Pockets
containers. A sort of “Songs of Solomon” for the anemic adolescent stuck
in study hall. Watch it, Junior, keep your eyes on the calculus text.
This sneaky “nuance-chain” leads us to reconsider the poem in light of
the words to Robert Johnson’s “Stones in My Passway” and to furthermore
re-examine the relation between “calculus” “Catullus” and “cacaphony.”
At any rate, some deeper thought is required to render all the fat from
this skinny cow.
>There's a river, as usual,
Damn the usual river! Bring me one with extra milk foam!
>this one is filled with salt and red chemicals.
We can be assured the environment will never be raped as long as such
daring poetic souls as the writer have the courage to declaim the abuses
in such a way as to disrupt the very wavery “flow” of an otherwise
over-the-top goth-lite schmear.
>Her goals are good,
>but she must not put
>the horse before the cart.
Heaven forbid! We might actually be forced to attend an “event” with
her/he/it. Probably a dreary Warrior Buddha convention in San Diego with
plastic bardoswords for sale, and books of “wisdom” drenched in the
blood of hapless villagers.
>Everything cannot be art.
Another finely crafted self reflexive line.
>You got it going,
The wheeless car? The bladeless lawn mower? The horse with a cart in
front of it like a feedbag? The very inability to discover the answer
adds to the unterpferdiness of the anti-protological world sheet which
covers the stained couch of consciousness.
>flip your hair in that cool way,
>smile at me.
Again, the ending is given away in the title: a stupid blunder, or an
artful evocation of the hidden (yet obvious) flatness of the experience?
To attempt an answer is to beg the question, “are the stars still
glimmering?” The answer lies in confronting the Buddha-Zena character on
her/his own turf: a robert E. Howard Conan novel as filmed by Ron Howard
and starring Moe Howard as ‘the sexually vague Bodhi Tree Killer.”
The lack of those repulsive “details” in the description of the
hair-movement is refreshingly easy to ignore or just miss on our
frightened advance to the clear, white moment just beyond the
termination of the poem. Yet there it is: a paean to vague follicle
dancing, and a tribute to the hairy ambi-sexual Buddha Warrior.
Reviewed by Lo Tolerenz Fircrap
Berryman's Legacy
On 2005-06-27 will Dockery <will_d...@knology.net> said:
> Dale Houstman's insightful critique of the poem "God Smiles".
> The poem:
>
> ----
> God Smiles.
>
> [ ... 'poem' and 'critique' snipped ... ]
>
> I'm brewing some fresh coffee to go over this one, Dale--- just
> a quick thanks, and a post of the actual poem for easy access to
> future Will Dockery enthusiasts, as well as for my ongoing poetry
> studies.
>
> More thoughtful writing like this, and there may be hope for these
> newsgroups, after all.
Uhhh...Will, hope you're speaking in irony here. That wasn't
a 'critique,' son; it was a trashing. A Dale version of Susan's
act.
Will Dockery
Looks like some good /crystal/ you're tooting today, Dale--- these would
make a nice little chapbook of reviews, already, and it looks like you're
working your way through the entire "Secret Madrigals" collection.
My only addition would be that you add the actual poem to the top of the
review, to give the casual reader some perspective on what he's reading
/about/:
----
Smile At Me.
Influence the moment,
hearing the details.
The story of a guy,
the hermit is turned over.
Everybody thinks she's a child,
that what she's doin' is not right.
She just flows to the moment,
collecting riches in the night.
Enlightened warrior poet,
learning about infinity.
When the endless frames,
hit that point of wet light.
The lord God is at my door.
The Queen of Swords,
is a kind, good woman,
but she's hard,
she got the tough love.
There's a river, as usual,
this one is filled with salt and red chemicals.
Her goals are good,
but she must not put
the horse before the cart.
Everything cannot be art.
You got it going,
flip your hair in that cool way,
smile at me.
-Will Dockery
----
Moving really fast while standing stock still...
--
"Sea Weed Fox" [Will Dockery]
http://www.lulu.com/items/36000/36412/preview/Irony_Waves_-_Track__8.mp3
"Karma Bombs" [Will Dockery]
http://www.lulu.com/items/32000/32109/preview/Karma_Bombs.mp3
Will Dockery
Dale Houstman
I suspect he's just pulling off a version of his patented defense
mechanism of "if I pretend it didn't happen, it didn't happen." Or else
he's very, very stupid. JRS may have an opinion on that. As a matter iof
fact, I have the same one, but JRS says it with such unbridled gusto
that I feel uneasy about competing.
At any rate - the REAL point of the "critiques" (one which Will cannot
recognize) is that there is more poetry in those rapidly tossed off
sentences of mine than in Will's entire "oeufs." Oh, that's French for
"eggs" isn't it? Hard to keep track...
dmh
dmh
Will Dockery
Heh.
This one got me laid more than once, which after all is the true purpose of
good poetry, as is all art.
That, and a free tab with the bartender:
----
To The Lions
G C/G G C/G G C/G
Lost my girl on Monday
G C/G G C/G G C/G
Lookin for some sympathy
G C/G Em
I went to church directly
C
The Lord was not there for me
(same as 1st verse)
Didn't go to work on Tuesday
Got to drinking around noon
I lost my heart to a mean bartender
She knocked me off my stool
Chorus
C D
Now the worlds spinnin round
Em
Too fast and wrong
Am C
Won't you let me off on the corner
Am (not exactly sure about chrd, but it works for me)
You know a man can take to sittin all he
G C/G G C/G G C/G
needs is a little push in that direction
(same as first verse)
I lost my job on Friday
Said I lacked the discipline
I went to church directly
Peter said he's not in
(same as first verse)
I hit the bar on Sunday
Looking for some discipline
I sold my soul to the mean bartender
She said I'm born again
Chorus again, but instead of "that direction" substitute
C
you time it just right
G ( and so on with the C/G and G)
you could send me to the loins tonight
-Lloyd Cole
----
"Standing stock still and moving really fast
Hasty Pudding's steady sniffin' my ass."
There's a poem in this...
Will Dockery
"Dale Houstman" <dm...@skypoint.com> wrote
You can pat yourself on the back as far as your poetry, Dale... I long ago
proclaimed you a superior poet, and one to watch and learn from, which is
what I'm doing with this spate of /pans/.
What I'm learning from your poetry, and Houstman's is to not be afraid
to hack the extra *shit* from the poem... sometimes to almost nothing,
apparently, compared to the original, is left.
And illuminating example in this direction was shown to me reading an
old post by Houstman to Bishop, where by "hacking away", Dale turned a
crap-poem into something almost good:
----
From: Dale Houstman (dm...@citilink.com)
Subject: Re: Spring, 2003, right?
Date: 2003-03-27 04:57:45 PST
Tom Bishop wrote:
> Pregnant sweet, and dripped from Female best:
> a rose, a garnish on the plate of kings,
> the Vulva sparkles with reflected stings
> as secrets-comfort find an offered breast.
Not too enamored of the weak pun "Female best" so quickly followed by
the "hidden" word "breast" itself.
> Chaste roving pollen budded, earthen feast
> of planting, hard ground plowed. The winter clings
> to death, but life is greener now that April springs
> into the bloom of sex; each slug is repossessed.
> The whirl wash rains will ravage, rant and wet
> the ground, and nectared sun will kiss the spore,
> now pushing dirt, they strive to fill the silhouette
> of every green-Goded thing that begs on evermore.
> The turning phrase of seasons won't forget
> that life writhes always in its milky core.
>
I still think that - considering these are just "word piles" you tend
to
stick entirely too close to a singular word source: your language
doesn't defeat itself ENOUGH and this would benefit greatly from
judicious condensation.
thus...
The Milk Core
Pregnant rose
garnished plate of kings,
the vulva
reflected stings offered
chaste and bundled
and the iced ground
already plowed
where winter
and her slugs
clung
repossessed
in the wet ravage
of neckless sun
with kiss spore's
silhouette
turning
the writhe
of the milk core.
----
This is the dirsection I'm taking with poems such as these three:
----
Two Blackbirds Flying Side-By-Side.
Running broken, confused and happy,
down a highway of lights.
Fog like smoke, lonely and free
down a green highway---.
Glacial clouds,
intelligent, shifting and silent
in a sky that's panned with black and purple.
Totally swamped
by color sound and illusion
breathlessly rushing back to the spot.
Losing the whole flow of these characters
unknowable to me at this point anyway.
There is no death
the spirit continues
no dead end.
Green tree,
expanding fresher than I myself feel,
backed up with a shimmering blue sky
and red brick crumbling and almost ancient.
Down a paranoid two way street
two blackbirds fly together
the clouds are gone
leaving a shimmering blue sky and two birds.
Pine frame
illuminating flow
golden liquid solid.
Dark green
losing myself in the green---.
Glass table
holding my coffee cup...
just completely fallen behind on important things.
-Will Dockery
----
Next:
----
Skirt Of Green.
The Atlantic is
the best for me
so much more
"personality" than the Gulf.
Crashing waves,
riptides,
the waves are tricksters...
They sneak up
and belt ya in a friendly but solid manner.
And no need for skyclad beach---
countless times I've
watched
the good ole mother ocean
strip the bikinis
right off the girls
who then submerge
neck down in the
drink...
Wearing a gown of
endless seawater...
a skirt of green.
-Will Dockery
----
And last:
----
"Water Under A Burning Bridge"
One zap--- Hex,
sitting on a doorstep,
where I once was within.
Circumstance and experience.
Reflecting prism,
interestingly cold,
the sun is warm.
Walking proud,
walking tall.
But it seems stupid to even begin.
Somewhere the soul gets swallowed,
not a good time,
that's what I'm thinkin'.
Kind for kind,
karma for karma.
Leadership of my own self,
selective submission.
Rebellion against G-d,
how long can it go?
One zap--- Grace.
Kindnes follows the rule,
the virtuous lady rules the hows.
No more the Beast of Burdon.
How many Shamen do it take,
to change a light bulb?
1... but it's gotta wanna change.
Spirit--- one zap.
Dave Fisher knew his kingdom
be established.
protect a fool 'til it gets tiresome.
Yes--- when the other shoe falls.
Speak to me 0 Shaman Kickboxer,
let me borrow a jacket.
He came to Golgothia to hang out in a tree,
a busload of faith, not hardly.
P.D. and Barnabas,
aint no room for Vlad.
One zap--- triple karma.
Crown of thorns
and red red wine on a sunday.
Crude diamond,
Cruel heart,
cheap flesh.
Kindness among the beasts,
postage stamp forehead.
Under the mi'r,
bounce, Baby Snake.
Kicked the money table---
he did not give up,
for a worn slithering down 2nd Avenue.
March to the tree,
head held high.
Mercy--- zap.
Beastiality--- zap.
What kind of vessel,
wretched chairiot?
Shite or get off the pot,
learn or shut down tight.
Traitor?
It is all relative,
odd mix of odor,
snuff, powder and rouge---
and mothballs and coffee grounds.
0 you beautiful Crone,
what kind of family,
life,
church,
anything you, car, blood, wife...
Can't always get what you want,
can't always get what you want,
can't always get what you want,
and you may not, get what you need.
Kindness--- zap.
When He came to Shadowville,
tatooed palm,
his back was against the wall.
No sword will rise,
the Lady,
the Queen of these Swords shall rest.
Lust--- zap.
Women like snowflakes,
76 blizzard on Allah's coat-tails...
Strange and bizarre creatures
the mouth that evolved with no teeth.
"You Belong in a zoo!"
"Yes... it is true!"
It's in the blood,
these certain surreal days.
By-pass the brain,
she rides the pink dragon.
-Will Dockery
----
When these and other poems finally resurface, they'll be drastically
and [as much as I can stand, being so in love with my words, which is
of course a big part of the problem/solution] mercilessly rewritten...
in some cases, they won't exist at all.
Comments and suggestions on what to keep and what to throw out [*all of
it* is not an option, y'know] are welcomed.
--
The Netherlands/Shadowville cross cultural exchange
project <http://www.kannibaal.nl/shadowville.htm>
"Greybeard Cavalier" [0x0000/Fowler/Dockery]
http://www.lulu.com/items/26000/26663/preview/Track__1.mp3
Will Dockery
Yeah, but it also passes for the closest thing to a review on these
newsgroups in many months... Dale, having infinitely more class than
the obsessive little JRS and his jeering hecklers that invariably
revolve around /real life/ personal insults generally just has
fantasies that revolve around my death, and lately, his fantasy
involves Dale Himself shooting me while I'm performing... so someone
actually using the poetry as a vehicle for the persecution is a
refreshing change.
And since I consider myself not only a poet, but an /Entertainer/ in
general, coving song and dance as well as comedy, I go by PT Barnum's
proclomation "There's no such thing as bad publicity".
*And* I use my mantras are based on the statements of two of my
mentors, master poets Uncle Dennis Hammes and Mike "The Manipulator"
Cook:
"If I gave a whim what "better" men than they had to say about sniffy
sonnets, Ida never writ in the first place."
-Dennis M. Hammes, 2005
----
The Michael Cook Manifesto Of *No Surrender!*:
from:<http://www.talkaboutabook.com/group/alt.books.beatgeneration/messages/19992.html>
What an outrageous statement! Even if credible what is to be gained by
surrender?
You think gg wrong prove him wrong, you think a matter out of hand step
up
to the plate,
The folks that coward out, here or in rap or any other group, fail both
themselves and those that share in their beliefs. I am living proof of
that
philosophy.
When I had my ignorance thrown back in my face, when Ross or Mr. G or
any of
a dozen others tweaked me on the nose I hit the books, I educated
myself!
I refused to lose, to surrender, to adopt a defeatist attitude, to take
a
path of least resistance.
My goal is to write one good poem, just one if that means reading
one
or one thousand books then so be it, if that means I must endure off
hand
remarks, the scorn, the ridicule of critics real, supposed or otherwise
then
so be it.
Writers, real writers do not hide from reality they define it!
The have not's, can not's, the bored, doe eyed house wife,
the intellectually static, the hanger on will fail, will quit, will
seek the
safety of mediocrity.
You want to be a bear then be a grizzly, be a bad mother fucker
Then you cannot lose, you cannot because even in defeat your loss
is always a gain. Well, confusing but true
mdc
----
As well as the famous words of folk poet Woody Guthrie:
"I hate a song that makes you think that you are not any good. I hate a
song that makes you think that you are just born to lose. Bound to
lose.
No good to nobody. No good for nothing. Because you are too old or too
young or too fat or too slim or too ugly or too this or too that. Songs
that run you down or poke fun at you on account of your bad luck or
hard
traveling. I am out to fight those songs to my very last breath of air
and my last drop of blood. I am out to sing songs that will prove to
you
that this is your world and that if it has hit you pretty hard and
knocked you for a dozen loops, no matter what color, what size you are,
how you are built, I am out to sing the songs that make you take pride
in yourself and in your work. And the songs that I sing are made up for
the most part by all sorts of folks just about like you. I could hire
out to the other side, the big money side, and get several dollars
every
week just to quit singing my own kind of songs and to sing the kind
that
knock you down still farther and the ones that poke fun at you even
more
and the ones that make you think you ve not got any sense at all. But I
decided a long time ago that I d starve to death before I d sing any
such songs as that. The radio waves and your movies and your jukeboxes
and your songbooks are already loaded down and running over with such
no
good songs as that anyhow."
And that's the name of that tune.
--
"Does she give head?" -Elvis Presley
Karla
says...
>
>Berryman's Legacy wrote:
>> On 2005-06-27 will Dockery said:
>>
>> > Dale Houstman's insightful critique of the poem "God Smiles".
>> > The poem:
>> >
>> > ----
>> > God Smiles.
>> >
>> > [ ... 'poem' and 'critique' snipped ... ]
>> >
>> > I'm brewing some fresh coffee to go over this one, Dale--- just
>> > a quick thanks, and a post of the actual poem for easy access to
>> > future Will Dockery enthusiasts, as well as for my ongoing poetry
>> > studies.
>> >
>> > More thoughtful writing like this, and there may be hope for these
>> > newsgroups, after all.
>>
>> Uhhh...Will, hope you're speaking in irony here. That wasn't
>> a 'critique,' son; it was a trashing. A Dale version of Susan's
>> act.
>
>Yeah, but it also passes for the closest thing to a review on these
>newsgroups in many months...
Wrong and wrong. In just an hour or so of catch-up rap reading, I note
critiques of poems by Dennis Hammes, SAO, even Lysaght. Whereas Dale did a
great service to us reading this newsgroup with a Rumplestilskin. You are not
the newsgroup.
Karla
Will Dockery
"Karla" <kar...@sbcglobal.net> wrote
So, /see/ since you just wrote the next critiques, following Dale's bold
lead, perhaps the trend has begun and there'll be more critique on these
newsgroups.
But Dale was the first of this new wave.
> You are not the newsgroup.
Never claimed to be.
Stuart Leichter
on 6/27/05 8:29 PM:
In your own words, how would you explain what happened?
I ain't buyin the psychobabble, except for the mean & destructive impulse
part.
It's not Karma, but close, more a sins-of-the-fathers unto the 3rd
generation.
We knew there'd be hell to pay for Inna Gadda Da Vida and Dungeons &
Dragons.
You know who you are.
Will Dockery
----
God Smiles.
Star gazing,
all by myself,
on Mulvey Street.
Stars glimmer brightly,
in colors like I never seen before.
The man next door leaves,
drives off in his rattling sedan.
Being here,
feeling the perfect breeze.
Strange fog floats by,
but the stars shine,
right through.
You can shine, too.
God smiles.
-Will Dockery
----
> >God Smiles
>
> Well, he gives away the ending, but what the hell.Perhaps it's a symptom
> of the poem's para-post-panto-nylonistic-quasi-schtump attitude?
>
> >Star gazing,
> >all by myself,
> >on Mulvey Street.
>
> Note the daring use of "all by myself" where "alone" would not only
> suffice but actually enhance the reputed poem's progress.
Good idea, but the change would blow my homage to Eric Carmen.
> Such bold
> experiments (usually only glimpsed in the writings of those unfamiliar
> with English) here add a touch of alienation, as if the speaker were a
> slightly pretentious Eastern-European expatriate wandering up and down a
> alleyway looking for something to kill the "ennui."
You nailed that one very well, Dale. Good to know that I captured the moment
well since at that moment in time I was a /slightly pretentious Shadowville
expatriate wandering the old streets of Saint Augustine/.
> Not quite Language
> Poetry (not quite language) but touched somewhat inappropriately by the
> hand of a lewd customs agent "on the make." And those short lines! All
> chopped into tiny segments in a sensitive attempt to impart a hesitant
> tone of grandiosity where only a glutinous tone of hammiosity is
> present. Sheer genius, if the writer were a puppy.
Puppies grow into big dogs, if they survive the gnashing of older mutts who
want them /gone/.
> >The
> >Stars glimmer brightly,
> >in colors like I never seen before.
>
> Such gem-like precision! The stars (repeated here in case you forgot he
> was staring at them a few short lines before: very empathetic to a slow
> reader's needs) don't "sparkle" or merely "shine" or even "wink / blink
> / stutter / palpitate / throb / pulse / etc." They "glimmer"! Not
> unexpected of course, and certainly not interesting to anyone over the
> age of minus-9 months, but bravely (even corrodingly) insipid, as if the
> speaker were not afraid of appearing dim as a gutter full of grey
> cardboard soaked in runny mashed potatoes. Courage is needed to be this
> flat. Lack of ability is NOT enough.
>
> >The man next door leaves,
> >drives off in his rattling sedan.
>
> From "glittering" to "rattling" in such a short while. It is perhaps
> unfortunate that the two modifiers were not transposed,
Excellent thought, and if this poem ever gets a /once over/ I'll think of
that. The Houstman method of "language defeating itself" would come into
play, here.
> devoted to avoding the poem altogether. Such are the viscous
> contradictions of the poem as they dribble into our rapidly degrading
> attention. From a pot to a thimble in 3 seconds flat. If there is a
> half-life of piqued interest, this poem may yet register a click or two,
> before the universe collapses back onto itself, putting out all that
> innocuous "glimmering." Only time need tell, although we petition it
> nightly to keep it to itself. After all, there are children in the house
> besides the writer of this poem.
>
> >Being here,
>
> No GPS required! Location verified. Existential eczema squeezed
> patiently through the filter of a broken Mr. Coffee Machine poised (ever
> so delicately) upon the edge of a gynecological examination table? Hard
> to say: might be a gated ghost town in the Alps, or a creosote-soaked
> trogylodyte settlement just peeking through the fallen snow. Could be
> Kansas relocated to the back of a sun-bleached junkyard Edsel. Whatever:
> it is "here" and so are we: it's like we were separated at birth!
"This Place Where" -Rick Howe
> >feeling the perfect breeze.
> >Strange fog floats by,
>
> It must be perfect: he says so right there! Which is not the same as
> "here" I conjecture. That's all the verification any man has a right to
> desire. More would merely ruin the effect of "effervescent noodling"
> which holds supreme reign here, there, and everywhere, running its beefy
> hands through our hair, reminding us all of how thick nothing can be in
> the right hands. He repeats this trope in "strange fog" and renders us
> speechless (if only ever so giggly) with the wafting currents of his
> wading pool, evaporating in the Sun (which - I am assured by the gated
> ghost Carl Sagan - is happy to have not been mentioned).
>
> >but the stars shine,
>
> Relief! The suspense was killing me.
>
> >right through.
>
> Not "through" but "right" through. Like it's real or something! Very
> delicate handling of a line that might have actually amounted to
> something in the brutal embrace of another writer. Here, the writer
> allows (almost unconsciously) the "bare knuckles" of a denatured nature
> to "glimmer" "right through" an otherwise unfingered cavity. Poeme
> verite, echoing the Russian movement of "The New Stupid" although
> lacking anything new.
Yeah, cut the /right/ or find away to defeat it.
> >You can shine, too.
>
> There's a drunken hippie in the best of us carrying an old poster with a
> silk-screen print of flowers in a sanitarium. John Lennon would have
> appreciated the sentiment, and even dared to "improve" upon it, but
> what's that English twat know about anything? Just "saying it" is often
> so - scintillating. Oh - the poem's stars don't do that either!
>
> >God smiles.
>
> But does He "glimmer" I suspect not, although the answer is left
> open-ended, until all the salted peanuts fall out and get oil on the
> couch covers. A shame: grandma gave us those as birthdays gifts so many
> years ago. Still, there's that damn "smile" again. It is so nice to have
> a philosophomoric moment or two at the end of a seemingly long trek
> through a watercolor left out in the "driving" rain. It makes the entire
> process almost seem as though it meant to drive somewhere in the first
> place. An undertone of lost potential expertly run over by an overtone
> of gained turgidity? Perhaps, but don't we secretly know better, and
> laugh WITH the author at his little joke: the entire universe is like a
> bad university poetry class conducted in a beer hall, with the lights
> out, and God brushes frequently because his teeth are the only power
> source for the "glimmering" stars. A fable for the disabled. Last call!
> The lights are "dimmering" out.
My goal, if I ever get back to this one, would be to put what I'm learning
from reading your admittedly superior work to use, such as this one, one of
my favorites from Dale Houstman:
----
The Milk Core
Pregnant rose
garnished plate of kings,
the vulva
reflected stings offered
chaste and bundled
and the iced ground
already plowed
where winter
and her slugs
clung
repossessed
in the wet ravage
of neckless sun
with kiss spore's
silhouette
turning
the writhe
of the milk core.
-Dale Houstman
----
Yeah, with all this helpful critique, a re-write of "God Smiles" is becoming
interesting... the last "rewrite" I did on it, it became a completely new
piece:
"God Smiles" [Will Dockery]
http://www.lulu.com/items/26000/26881/preview/Irony_Waves_-_Track__5.mp3
Similarly, the previously reviewed "Fawn Greyhound" went through many
changes:
"Fawn Greyhound" [Will Dockery]
http://www.lulu.com/items/26000/26968/preview/Track__3.mp3
So, just have to see how it goes.
Dennis M. Hammes
> >Smile At Me
...
>
> Reviewed by Lo Tolerenz Fircrap
*clap* *clap* *clap* *clap* *clap* *clap* *clap* *clap*
Cut that in about half and you could write for /The New Yorker/.
--
-------(m+
~/:o)_|
The only thing that doesn't change
is that nothing changes. -- Herakleitos
http://scrawlmark.org
Dale Houstman
Dennis M. Hammes wrote:
> Dale Houstman wrote:
>
>> >Smile At Me
>
>
> ...
>
>>
>> Reviewed by Lo Tolerenz Fircrap
>
>
> *clap* *clap* *clap* *clap* *clap* *clap* *clap* *clap*
>
> Cut that in about half and you could write for /The New Yorker/.
>
Of course; but here time I(and bulk) is of the essence. One doesn't want
to spend more than five minutes churning these steaming chunks of
faux-adoration out, for we can see what care and attention has done to
the work of Will: the poems are weakened by over-indulgence to the point
of almost constant swooning, the stays very tight about the atrophied
corpse of a once beautiful Buddha Warrior Woman/Man.
dmh
Will Dockery
----
Smile At Me.
Influence the moment,
hearing the details.
The story of a guy,
the hermit is turned over.
Everybody thinks she's a child,
that what she's doin' is not right.
She just flows to the moment,
collecting riches in the night.
Enlightened warrior poet,
learning about infinity.
When the endless frames,
hit that point of wet light.
The lord God is at my door.
The Queen of Swords,
is a kind, good woman,
but she's hard,
she got the tough love.
There's a river, as usual,
this one is filled with salt and red chemicals.
Her goals are good,
but she must not put
the horse before the cart.
Everything cannot be art.
You got it going,
flip your hair in that cool way,
smile at me.
-Will Dockery
> >Smile At Me
>
> The dazzling/deadening "smile" fixation continues, as if it were a
> methadrine-driven maggot in a cheese wheel. One begins to suspect that
> the writer has not actually seen one (at least upon the face of anyone
> in his presence) for a long, long time, and so compensates by putting
> them into every poem.
Pontoon boat Summer's here, Dale, smiles abound in the Dirty South!
> No matter: here he is demanding that some
> unsuspecting "mark" beam at him despite the probable lack of any cause
> for elation. Thus we can be relatively certain that this piece will
> focus on emotional fascism (as Elvis Costello put it).
A gay Atlanta cop back in 1981 told me I'd been listening to too much
Elvis Costello when a neighbor called him over on a "domestic dispute"
in which I threw a hysterical chick into the apartment swimming pool to
calm her down... but it was actually that damned Frank Sinatra record
that caused the problem. "Smile At Me" wasn't involved, though. The
poem I got from that glimmering night was:
***
Green Ringlets.
The ocean turns with each new day
he spilled the beer and domestic turmoil abounds.
I dropped the reciever back
and lit a cigarette--- it tasted murky.
Her eyes are green with deep golden ringlets
'round her pupils.
A dead spot--- there was nothing there at all.
Saw his lady drinking beer with another man all alone
said I'd like to take her to the shed
make pictures of her eyeballs.
She is like smoke--- she smells musky.
There is a crackling
it's too numerous, conjunctual---
the burden of the poachers
they line around you for favors.
They come to you under smoky skies
the smoky underlit city skies.
Coming around and hitting my fist on wood
it gets quite late when it's early then.
The cold wind blows on the orderly ghetto
the city is moonlit and quiet
silent black cars pass sometimes.
Watching the searchlight in the smoked up sky
as it crosses the perimeter
and doubles back upon itself.
-Will Dockery
> This title is
> surely only a small goose step away from "get in the ditch"? A subtler
> evocation of authoritarianism could scarcely be imagined, and
> puce-tinted shades of Belsen and Garcia Lorca drift over the face of
> this relentlessly unassuming firebomb in the guise of a piece of sugared
> bird dropping. It is also highly imitative of many of Nietzsche's
> aphorisms, advocating while also admonishing the rise of the
> "UberMensch", (here manifested as an Enlightened Warrior Woman/Man) but
> it is even more insidious as it hides its counter-intuitive "red hot
> iron" philosophy beneath the shroud of a lukewarm tea bag. No more sugar
> please: we're buzzing!
Damn, you're good! Little wonder you're the finest known poet on
Usenet--!
> >Influence the moment,
> >hearing the details.
> >The story of a guy,
>
> Thank Baal he only mentions "details" but is not so cruel as to reveal
> them.
"We have all the time in the world"...
> This gives the overall feel of an impressionist landscape reduced
> to the size of a flea's fedora. The decorative "hat band" of the slowly
> unfurling lines (it's really about a sentence long,but with the "method"
> it becomes a small symphony of whining loser-bait, bereft of any
> distracting "pensees" or revolting imagery). It may seem like the shoddy
> production of a God-worshipping audio-visual geek, but that can safely
> be ascribed to the clever "persona lacquer" that makes it stick to the
> floor tiles after it falls out of the "plastic poetry reticule" near the
> sink. Anyway (here's the sly part!), it states "The story of a guy" but
> instantly loses us in the dank underground of a futuristic un-sex,
> stripped of easy referents AND stimulating word play, until we are
> forced (ala the "emotional fascism") to see the "thing" AS "thing," the
> "it" in "shit," the underdeveloped "ab" in "abs," etc. It also functions
> as (another!) obvious sequel to both the Beach Boys' "Smile" album, and
> the film of the same name.
This tanks up there with the comment you made last year that I'm a
"better poet than Bukowski", Dale... certainly worth distilling and
/quoting/... outta context, of course...
> So - with this cross-cultural reference to
> other genres, it reduces its presence as mere "poem" to the reflection
> of a headless cyclops in search of a fedora.
>
> >the hermit is turned over.
> >Everybody thinks she's a child,
> >that what she's doin' is not right.
>
> How marvelously ambi-sexualistic the writer (nay: the "composer") is
> here, in lines which artfully confuse at least two (or more) characters
> into one (or less) without the slightest urge to clarify the "conundrum"
> with actual exposition or those dreaded "details" we weary of in other,
> less demure arteestes. Finally, a writer who isn't obsessed with
> reading, who (even wistfully) anticipates the day when "poems" (or
> tablets labelled "poems") will literally melt in your hand and not your
> mind. Good and plenty, you bet! No more sticky hands after an arduous
> pawing through haiku. Pop one in and a few hours later, something not
> worth looking at plops into your "poetry potty" and you flush it away,
> confident that you have successfully avoided "reading."
I hosted a sign language poetry reading in Saint Augustine back 1n
1999...
> >She just flows to the moment,
>
> A whiff of the Woodstock Notion. Telepathic apple wine freaks gathering
> before the radio tower to collect messages from "The Now." Since "The
> Now" is owned by Clear Channel, the messages are mainly MOR adult rock
> and advertisements
Yeah, like comix, radio's had better days.
> >collecting riches in the night.
>
> Hope she/he/it brought a flashlight. Or maybe this weird amalgam
> creature has cat eyes? Why not: it could be one of those "details" that
> were left out to ensure we wouldn't be swamped with "poetry." Bravo!
Thanks, pal!
> Another swipe at the tyranny of literacy, this time from the dark side
> of a third-rate Doors album reject, or possibly a sampling of an early
> gold prospector lost in the basement without a candle? Oh my, the
> nihilistic possibilities abound. Luckily none of the "details" of these
> possibilities is allowed to tarnish the "silvery" twitter of a
> nightingale caught in a toaster oven door.
>
> >Enlightened warrior poet,
> >learning about infinity.
>
> And there is much to learn! A lot. Really. Here we see the muddled beast
> transformed into a combination of Buddha and Zena. Unfortunately, I fear
> it has Buddha's breasts and Zena's beatitude,
Very close to the truth... this one I can contemplate re-writing, with
your skill as an interpreter/teacher quiding my path. I'd considered
this one to be one of the poems I'd leave behind to be butied, but now
I'm interested in it again, as I became interested in "God Smiles"
earlier today.
> but we relent from too
> close an examination of the eerie animal
She has possibilities for graphic sequential art interpretation, as
well, true.
> >When the endless frames,
>
> "Endless" obviously serves as a self-reflexive modifier. Very chic and
> hip in a Millard Filmore fashion. When asked recently if he had written
> this poem, the author replied (wittily enough for a sot) that he had
> been "framed." We beg to differ: this poem has no borders to its plasma
> of deflowered floridity. We applaud its insoucience, its devil-may-care
> attitude
And /ruggedly handsome/, as I'm most often described.
> >hit that point of wet light.
>
> Stage lights shining
Hundreds of times over the last decade, the stage experience is an
ultimate rush, and a perfect spot for editing and expanding a piece of
poetry.
> >The lord God is at my door.
>
> On the inside or outside? Doorman or arriving guest?
----
"If Jesus Came to Your House"
If Jesus came to your house
To spend some time with you,
If He came unexpected,
I wonder what you'd do.
Oh, I know you'd give your nicest room
To such an honored guest
And all the food you'd give to Him
Would be the very best.
And you would keep assuring Him
You're glad to have Him there--
That serving Him in your home
Is joy beyond compare.
But when you saw Him coming,
Would you meet Him at the door
With arms outstretched in welcome
To your heavenly visitor?
Or would you have to change your clothes
Before you let Him in
Or hide some magazines
And put the Bible where they'd been
Would you hide your worldly music
and put some hymn books out?
Could you let Jesus walk right
in, or would you rush about?
And I wonder - if the Savior
spent a day or two with you,
Would you go right on doing, the
things you always do?
Would you go right on saying, the
things you always say?
Or would life for you continue
as it does from day to day?
Would you take Jesus with you
everywhere you go?
Or would you maybe change your
plans for just a day or so?
Would you be glad to have Him
meet your closest friends?
Or would you hope they stay away,
until His visit ends?
Would you be glad to have Him
stay forever on and on?
Or would you sigh with great
relief when He at last was gone?
It might be interesting to know,
the things that you would do,
If Jesus came in person, to spend
some time with you.
-Red Sovine
----
> >The Queen of Swords,
> >is a kind, good woman,
> >but she's hard,
> >she got the tough love.
>
> The vernacular brings the rather insipid Tarot symbol into the modern
> world of "Oklahoma!" and "Female Wrestling." A dandy little trick of
> linguistic
Thanks, I had to move fast.
> >There's a river, as usual,
>
> Damn the usual river! Bring me one with extra milk foam!
>
> >this one is filled with salt and red chemicals.
>
> We can be assured the environment will never be raped as long as such
> daring poetic souls as the writer have the courage to declaim the abuses
> in such a way as to disrupt the very wavery "flow" of an otherwise
> over-the-top goth-lite schmear.
We, as poets of the people, must do what we can to "make the world a
better place", old son. Keep fighting the good fight.
> >Her goals are good,
> >but she must not put
> >the horse before the cart.
>
> Heaven forbid! We might actually be forced to attend an "event" with
> her/he/it. Probably a dreary Warrior Buddha convention in San Diego with
> plastic bardoswords for sale, and books of "wisdom" drenched in the
> blood of hapless villagers.
A comix convention...
> >Everything cannot be art.
>
> Another finely crafted self reflexive line.
>
> >You got it going,
>
> The wheeless car? The bladeless lawn mower? The horse with a cart in
> front of it like a feedbag? The very inability to discover the answer
> adds to the unterpferdiness of the anti-protological world sheet which
> covers the stained couch of consciousness.
>
> >flip your hair in that cool way,
> >smile at me.
>
> Again, the ending is given away in the title: a stupid blunder, or an
> artful evocation of the hidden (yet obvious) flatness of the experience?
> To attempt an answer is to beg the question, "are the stars still
> glimmering?" The answer lies in confronting the Buddha-Zena character on
> her/his own turf: a robert E. Howard Conan novel as filmed by Ron Howard
> and starring Moe Howard as 'the sexually vague Bodhi Tree Killer."
> The lack of those repulsive "details" in the description of the
> hair-movement is refreshingly easy to ignore or just miss on our
> frightened advance to the clear, white moment just beyond the
> termination of the poem. Yet there it is: a paean to vague follicle
> dancing, and a tribute to the hairy ambi-sexual Buddha Warrior.
>
> Reviewed by Lo Tolerenz Fircrap
Nice read, but just a bit biased by the agenda at hand... thanks for
the pointers, though.
--
Shadowville/Netherlands project:
http://www.kannibaal.nl/shadowville.htm
Thomas Dylan
"Dennis M. Hammes" wrote
in article <Sk3we.518$p5....@news7.onvoy.net>:
>*clap* *clap* *clap* *clap* *clap* *clap* *clap* *clap*
Now tell us about your other diseases.
----== Posted via Newsfeeds.Com - Unlimited-Uncensored-Secure Usenet News==----
http://www.newsfeeds.com The #1 Newsgroup Service in the World! 120,000+ Newsgroups
----= East and West-Coast Server Farms - Total Privacy via Encryption =----
Dale Houstman
Thomas Dylan wrote:
> "Dennis M. Hammes" wrote
> in article <Sk3we.518$p5....@news7.onvoy.net>:
>
>
>>*clap* *clap* *clap* *clap* *clap* *clap* *clap* *clap*
>
>
> Now tell us about your other diseases.
>
>
>
This has the ersatz-clever-but-ruined-by-curt-vapidity of another
familiar Tommycod. Do all Toms just naturally stink of stupid, or is it
just the one? But you couldn't be "our" Tom, because he said he was only
here for the poetry. He wouldn't stoop to merely being the worm in the
apple, he'd shoot for being the nipple on a waffle. Always acute to the
slightest scent of his own shit reflected in his mess kit lid, he would
recognize himself coming back for seconds, and dig down deep for that
"special syrup" he long ago concocted out of liquified retardation
strained through the constricted bile duct others laughingly refer to as
his "magilla oblongatta" but that we all know as "the chimp's small
vaccumm bag."
dmh
Will Dockery
>
> >Fawn Greyhound
>
> >Fawn Greyhound---
> >your magic secrets.
>
It was a delicate and difficult thing to convey, glad you thought it
held up well, Dale.
> >The shimmering minutes,
>
> Ah! A brilliant rhetorical abstraction torn directly > replete with the tones of an hysterical bride-to-be
> left standing outside a crumbling Edwardian church
I was remembering what a good ball she was there, actually.
> >making your acquaintance -.
> >Coming to your smile,
>
> Brian Wilson running rampant through a field of tufted corn
> on his way to a hippie sleep-over at Rod McKuen's "pad."
Interesting image, Dale, but I was still remembering what a good lay
she was, particularly when I slid in for the first time.
/aquaintence/
> >greeted at your door,
> >welcomed with my green shoes.
>
> Green - as in copper tarnish or the seasickness- "green" represents fertility? Who would have imagined
> such a stroke of genius from such a genius of the stroke?
Green magick:
----
Black Art From A Green Heart.
Spirit sing sky songs,
rotate through.
Runs and runs into the sand.
Long stretch of woodgrain.
Plastic wander,
hack light balcony.
To be in the sky,
float through cedar.
Wonder through twilight
flag through to and send.
New start, new storm night,
new winter.
Circular spin of seasons.
Watching for tornados,
and the howl.
Stand off,
send off.
Not in this world,
this is different times.
City seasons,
lights glitter.
Fountain winter,
what doom and gloom,
all imagined.
Storm watch.
Black art from a green heart.
That syndrome has come and gone.
New start,
on a storm night.
Peace by peace,
large Christmas tree.
Start the car,
and she is silently gone,
down the road.
It goes into another format,
the story builds and changes.
New Winter's day,
years like in a clip.
Running through on a sideways glance,
thunder roll shook the place.
-Will Dockery.
----
Something I learned from a Classics Illustrated adaptation of Hamlet...
or was it Silver Surfer?
> >Fawn Greyhound ---
>
> Or maybe it's the name of some half-recalled
> girlfriend who left him for a shoe salesman from Duluth?
Fawn left with Jack Shindler, a fortune telling gimp from Buffalo:
----
Flower/Stargirl.
She's too independant to be attentive---
in the former situation
over the last 15 years she was perfectly safe.
Her father told me she had a bad temperament.
With respect
her father said she was really curious.
I take that into account---
but she had charm.
Like a little Russian whirlwind tragedy.
Continue, this endless honeymoon,
I can be perfectly true.
Like a novel,
starting with you.
Asked yourself about that man.
Are you strong enough for unhappiness?
Are you strong enough to be that strong?
Are you strong enough for divorce?
Dear me.
The piano---
I simply wonder about your daughter.
Did you marry for love?
Did you marry for the ugliness?
Did you marry for love?
Did you marry for the pain?
She was amused
giving it an even chance.
-Will Dockery
----
> >sweet golden wench,
>
> "grey" "golden": it's nice "wench" hits just the
> right tone of old-fashioned misogyny that we celebrate his > infusion of old-world charms.
I was going a bit /retro/ here, and now I'm gaining the book-learning
/thanks to a gift by Colin Ward/ to re-write this one in a "classic"
type style... I'm mulling over attempting Uncle Dennis' beloved sonnet
crutch. Wish me luck?
Interesting [to me], that this was one of the poems, along with the
other three you reviewed today, that I'd expected to leave behind...
you've revived my interest in it, as well as "God Smiles" and "Smile
For Me", and these three will be attempts at, as Sword put it,
/evolving/. Thanks for the input!
> >you've wandered the blue astral.
>
> "blue astral": how utterly delicious a line can be tucked
> amidst other: all individual yet - so subtle - exactly alike. > The effect is calming.
The calm before the storm, so-to-speak. Astral War on Blue Territory on
the Night Of The Gimp followed:
----
William Bloodaxe Greybeard.
Wally Will born under Kell,
to a Union Jack,
loyalist yank from Virginia.
Secret pass of wine to my uncle,
sneaking among the sheds,
near those cooking apple butter.
Breathing cold mist,
then to be breathing the hot misty wind.
Amid incestuous Alabama backporches,
good lard dishes,
and cool dark water.
And you at my door...
Phantom fetish stands charging up
the entrance...
Little pink flesh knot
charming toward my touch.
William B. Graybeard,
passes hinterlands, he travels the depths,
into soul, and spirit.
These doors open for me,
these many days.
And your voice is drenched in sadness,
and I can catch it.
I must remain,
my heart is with you.
Moonstone Bloodaxe,
have you gone a hunting?
I do not want spiritual bullets,
shoot up an astral plane,
little stars speckle.
-Will Dockery
----
> >Now fade into my turqoise,
> >swim in your darkened opal hell.
>
> Love the totally arbitrary usage of color: makes me feel
> dizzy, as though I were spinning 'round and 'round in the > most amazing unearned journey to Hades
> ever.
A personal little Hades:
----
Shadowville Rain.
Three A.M.; the air lies still
this muddled night in Shadowville.
Conjured memories and gin
have turned my thoughts to Katherine.
It is
dark and rainy...
sleet is coming in.
Things are quiet and peaceful,
and sleep is far away.
Lost another round
wander through the town
heart sinking pound
as the vibes surround
this alley
thirty one streets over.
I still have my hope
and the knowledge
she still wants me.
But it's a lonesome
end of that story
that pushes me tonight.
Peacefull and so quiet
she lies with
the Fisher King tonight.
Not a sound to hear
she the sleet glistening bright.
She has many options
and knows full well that I am one,
she knows I can tie her loose ends
weave them until they come.
It's a lonesome night
on this road
not a word is spoke
my heart implodes.
It's a bright veiw
in this chair
the taste of her lips on mine
the smell of her hair.
When I think about it
I'm a man and I do not cry.
And I piece together
all the wrong moves
I know all the reasons why.
But I remember the chemistry
that put us in her bed.
How I once again was happy
and I knew love was not dead.
If it takes some time
by God I've got it
and the useless rhyme
she knows I've got it.
And the flowers bloom
for you alone.
Won't you roll away
a heart of stone?
I know you needed time
on your own
but I was there with you
I was never gone.
As I am there with you
as you sleep.
I walk your dreams tonight
and it still is sweet.
Think I'll light this bowl
get in touch with
the subtle pain.
Go deep inside my head
to a time I'll never see again.
When the Summer burn was on us
and we made love that sweet night.
I tossed the catfish aside
I think it was love
painted white.
Went out walking
through the woods yesterday.
The thickets that surround
the railroad tracks.
Thought of the conversation
we had yesterday,
about water and doom and children.
Went out walking
down the road last night
after I'd waved you off from
our sweet meeting.
The cars were roaring
and the lights were
soft and strange
and I thought about compression,
how our time together seems
thousands of years ago.
And maybe we were together
in some other lifetime,
when animals buzzed and birds clarked.
The air was sweet with
the smell of your breath
and nothing was ever really dark.
Yes you loved me before
the Night of The Gimp.
You showed me things
no man had ever seen before.
Your love was sweet
and your eyes were ablaze,
and nothing was hidden
behind your door.
Bonnie Bender is a
sweetly kinda girl,
her eyes are bright hazel
and her hair is brown grey curls.
She showed me truly
that love is not a myth.
She showed me everything
with just one gentle kiss.
She got a heart that's curious
and there's so much
for her to learn.
Whatever option
just keep me on the list,
The Winter will be a long one
and my heat you should not miss.
I will wrap my arms if you want them
and my blanket is for you.
I stand here waiting
and you know these words are true.
Now I wander the a crispy kind of mist
Whatever option
just keep me on your list.
It is
dark and rainy...
sleet is coming in.
Things are quiet and peaceful,
and sleep is far away.
Lost another round
wander through the town
heart sinking pound
as the vibe surround
this alley
thirty one streets over.
I still have my hope
and the knowledge
she still wants me.
-Will Dockery
----
> >Fawn Greyhound ---
>
> Can't get enough of it! Exquisite.
Fawn was quite addictive.
> >greeted at your door,
> >by your gentle pup.
> >Sad eyed, unconditional,
> >sweet Australian hound, your child.
>
> Dogged in his determination to over-express nothing.
>
> >Fawn Greyhound ---
>
> Again and as marvelous as ever.
>
> >to die repeatedly in your smile,
>
> High-Romantics with all that beauty og expression and soaring > imagery.
It just worked out right, first thought best thought and all that. It
comes easy to us natural born street poets.
The /die/ thing I copped from Shakespeare, modern men and poets of the
hip-hop would say to /bust a nut/.
> >sweet glow of your presence.
> >Pink, golden, sweet fluid,
> >ride in your vehicle.
>
> More swirls of color, to accent the wavering of the
> ephemeral. The neighboring repeat of "sweet" an effective > word in an effective place. The slight "sensuality" of the
> final lines.
>
> A Triumph!
Thanks, and hope you find the rewrite, in Uncle Dennis' Retro Rhyme
Stanza form interesting, as well. I'm working with that tonight,
though, as I wrote earlier, I'm in now hurry for the first time in my
life... I will serve no poem before its time.
Barbara's Cat
Karla <kar...@sbcglobal.net> said:
Shhhh. You're going burst Little Willma's bubble.
--
Cm~
Dale Houstman
That's Will's head: he doesn't use it for anything much anymore, but
he's found he can store his poems there until they rot away in the dry
air of discernment.
dmh
Barbara's Cat
Dale Houstman <dm...@skypoint.com> said:
Dry air? I've always thought: 5% water, 95% ethanol.
--
Cm~
Will Dockery
>
> > >Smile At Me
>
> *clap* *clap* *clap* *clap* *clap* *clap* *clap* *clap*
Reminds me of the old issue of National Lampoon, with Spiro in the
bathtub, snapping at his fart bubbles...
--
Shadowville/Netherlands project:
http://www.kannibaal.nl/shadowville.htm
"Mirror Twins" [Will Dockery]
http://www.lulu.com/items/29000/29085/preview/Will_Dockery_-_03_-_Track__3.mp3
Will Dockery
Moon Studies.
Toys toys toys,
among these flowers.
Little Angel,
shaven and beautiful,
falls, smacks her behind on the cement
a couple of times.
She's mystical, punk,
and her magic transforms this street
to Bourbon Street.
Three lesbian pirates walk by,
Spaniard girls,
far east traders.
I think of Edith the bag lady,
she's bored with her bags,
her bag is to split me open,
tear me apart with pleasure,
but I am far far away.
Three weeks now in a rainbow town,
living with the Lion and his silver lady.
There's art,
Joseph on his bicycle,
grampa singing his heart out.
But my grampa's in heaven with a ballpeen hammer,
breaking all the mirrors.
Skulls, crossbones,
the Raven does cross stitch.
Two Flagler blondes pass,
I look up from my writing just in time.
I see them looking back smiling,
my heart skips a beat.
There is art, the wind is artistic,
the colors so very perfect.
Silver moon like no other,
people shifting and speaking.
Artist ladies,
a street that comes inward.
Cacaphony of music, shout, sounds,
jazz blowing in the wind over my head.
Fast Chicago blues from the tavern,
cars and yells and click clack,
walking sounds and the whir of wind.
Jarrod and Dawn have closed the coffee shop,
so I sit ---.
Then a car on Hypoltia Avenue
rushes by with 70's soul blast,
fast and then it's gone.
I saw death on Saint George Street,
in the doorway of the tavern,
on All Hallows Eve.
Electric fire blood,
remembering Megan's crystals,
spoken of in her poetry.
Moonchild native of the dreamtown.
Going on with a spiral of thought,
remembering golden Elaine.
Flash of sparks of memory,
unfolded to other causes and times.
Problematic possibilities,
paranoic perspective,
peopled by children in an ancient city.
She's bored with her bags.
Her bag is to split me open,
tear me apart with pleasure,
but I am far far away.
-Will Dockery
"Play it loud." -Plastic Ono Band, 1969
> >Moon Studies
>
> It is perhaps an encouraging sign of stomach-crawling progress that the
> title isn't also the last line of the poem. A small lesson learned out
> of a million or two unlearned. Well it's a long road to poetry, and it
> is rumored (if not believed) that this writer has all the borrowed tools
> he'll ever need to eventually discover which continent that road is on.
> His best guess at the moment is "Cleveland" and who has the heart to set
> him right?
>
> As to that title: how utterly refreshing (like that light "spritz" of
> camel expectorant in the Sahara Room's Quince martinis) that a poem
> titled "Moon Studies" contains next-to-nothing concerning the moon, and
> really has nothing studious about it. This reviewer - for one (last week
> it was two, but I have since reconnected with my medications) - has
> grown tired of being promised things that they actually receive (how
> meticulously expected), and here the writer has the "trouser satellites"
> to say "fuck you, I don't need no steenking guiding metaphors!" This
> title though does have the meek advantage of sounding like a
> semi-romantic mudlark distress call, and - hell - that's good enough for
> anyone who's ever looked at a cantaloupe and recognized the face of
> their dream lover.
>
> >Toys toys toys,
>
> An oddly parched punctuation moment which leaves the readers perplexed,
> but perhaps this is that "deregulement" spoken of by Rimbaud (a poet
> name-dropped by the writer but seemingly not otherwise benefited from,
> unless there is the slightest, delicious possibility of his quitting
> poetry and running off to the desert regions, perhaps to deal in slaves,
> perhaps to be one: comme ci comme ca). The iteration has a very palpable
> "no-point-at-all-ness" to it that makes one think of the earlier poet,
> Rev. Josiah T. Thirt, whose mangos opus, "Ring Ring Ring O Roses of
> Marmalade," once electrified an entire Nepalese village into a
> poignantly engineered immolation of the Rev. Thirt, whose "way with
> words" ("an undulant and adipose grumble of mild romantic twitterings" -
> Boston Atlas Monthly Bicubical, 1924) had previously only led him to a
> life of unusual banality and constant napping in the shade cast by his
> pet cow, Microbe. Again, a fate we can only hope falls upon this new
> "genius of the peripatetic brow."
>
> >among these flowers.
> >Little Angel,
> >shaven and beautiful,
>
> Strange to note that the writer's style has seemingly lost the little
> motley-hued [note: by coincidence, the writer's first editor was a
> Boston man named Hugh Motley] steam it did once have in putrescent
> abundance, taking on in substitution an equally challenged patina of
> "dys-social realism" that mainly eschews the rapturous heights of
> Buddhist Warrior Ambi-Sexualiessence scaled at a goat's pace by the
> intrepidly ovine master of sentimental ephlegmera in favor of a
> pan-dirigible and willowy evocation of a clean-razored vagina (possibly
> unattached to a woman) which frolics amongst the usual river of
> "defloralized flowers" whose very anonymity of shape, color, scent and
> type renders them symbols of what poetry ought to be if it weren't so
> busy being about language: a smirking stumble through a field of
> transparent generics. One would applaud if the hands were not busy
> searching for the egress toggle. Nonetheless, we shall later remember to
> clap, and then recall that marvelously childish "witticism" by one of
> the writer's dearest cohorts, who compared the clap of applause to the
> "clap" of STDs. Perhaps not exactly Oscar Wilde territory, but maybe
> (just maybe) somewhere in the region of Billy DeWilde, although we have
> heard that that performer (albeit dead) has had a restraining order
> issued against such an approach.
>
> >falls, smacks her behind on the cement
> >a couple of times.
>
> A bouncing Betty no doubt, and a shaded reference to the most horrible
> scenes of the Vietnam war, as espied through a thin layer of shad roe. A
> masterpiece of compact "Ur-spew" turned upon its pointed head and worked
> for all it is worth by a gnarled pen nib until it crumples to the
> pavement and turns into a pamphlet about the dangers of eating raw
> hamburger. These lines literally (i.e. figuratively) scream out "Beware
> of the exploding trampoline debutante!" and the rest of us can only nod
> our heads and wonder at the similarity (here unsketched but suggested)
> between the vacuum which surrounds the moon and that which keeps the
> writer's small apartment clean by drawing all the discarded poetry
> worksheets deep inside his head. I know: it is difficult to believe that
> these poems might have gone through any stages to get to the cow town
> they now sleep in, but we are certain some journey across a barren,
> dusty vastness must have been involved in such a unclassifiable
> desiccation of form and content. Just add water...
>
> >She's mystical, punk,
> >and her magic transforms this street
> >to Bourbon Street.
>
> Her "magic" appears to consist mainly of the ability to bounce off
> cement on her behind. Well - not Isis for sure. Redolent of the Ash Can
> School, these lines speak to that serpentine atman hidden behind each of
> our third ears. Probing deeper is both unnecessary and - yes -
> dangerous, for removing the containment shell from a large vacuum can
> lead to disastrous suctions, as noted above. Suffice to say that "punk"
> is ambiguous, being either a further modification of the extremely
> unmodified "She" or a direct address to some (unlikely) listener who has
> pissed off the writer by failing to "clap" when called upon. And yes -
> Bourbon Street - a sobriquet for the writer's favorite breakfast, or a
> hazy allusion to a line of royalty once renowned for its women's ability
> to bounce their derrieres off cement. The textures continue to congeal...
>
> >Three lesbian pirates walk by,
> >Spaniard girls,
> >far east traders.
>
> Ah! Here - at last - a slight return to the ecumenical intra-hysteria of
> the Buddhist Zena and her sidekick, Gabby Haze. Finally, that gauzy ply
> of patchouli-infused donkey-skin carpets laid upon a yak stable floor so
> as to absorb the "poetic effusions" that lubricate our favorite author's
> artful dodging. No mere book-stealer he, but a stealthless kidnapper of
> small children's "poetry journals" from which he ferments a rich brew of
> cloudy "meaty-beaty-big-and-bounciness" most lesser "creatures of the
> pen" would eschew the quaffing of. Yet his tumbler of courage - fueled
> on "Bourbon Street" - knows no such thing as that anxiety fostered by a
> harrowing five or ten minutes of sustained thought. As innocent as the
> new-driven Yugo, he careers up and down the forty acres where he is the
> Emperor of Mules.
>
> >I think of Edith the bag lady,
>
> Who doesn't indeed, who doesn't?
>
> >she's bored with her bags,
>
> But our writer seems mesmerized by their pendulant urban "thereness" as
> exemplified by a delivery truck spreading typhoid in the heart of a
> "happy, shiny village." so - yes- we cry, but they are tears like
> feathery epistles, pre-stamped for easy mailing. Also, this is a neatly
> turned reference to that phrase so often applied to our slam poetry
> reading friend: "oh look, he's bagged on the boards again!"
>
> >her bag is to split me open,
> >tear me apart with pleasure,
>
> A bag as a rending weapon! Oh, and the discreet interweaving of that
> quantum nonsense with the oh-so-forty years ago touch of "hippie
> palaver." Do not ask "where does the inventiveness end?" for the answer
> is "It ends here." The sado-masochistic touch of the second line is
> perhaps not quite sweeping enough to clear away all the debris that has
> accumulated, but it does manage to raise a dandelion-colored dust which
> obscures the reader's vision, and we should be grateful for small
> favors, no matter how small their flavor.
>
> >but I am far far away.
>
> "Promises, Promises" as Burt Bacharach once penned.
>
> >Three weeks now in a rainbow town,
> >living with the Lion and his silver lady.
>
> Again, the acrid marijuana aroma of "trailerized" hippiness forced
> through the gullet of a civet and "shat out" as a reinvigorating morning
> cuppa. At this point, certain parallels with the Greek Anthology occur
> to me, although I cannot recall why precisely, due to a poetry-induced
> migraine. The "Lion" is obviously a low-fat reference to King Richard,
> who fought the "good fight" against the Islamic devils. So this poem
> demands to be read as a hydrogenated sequel to several medieval epics.
> And that paretic nod towards "A Bridge Over Troubled Waters" makes this
> critic's toes tingle as if they had been dipped into a Boone's Farm
> Apple Wine cocktail. If only all 60s rock songs (and not just the ones
> from Seals and Croft) could have had this same "glittering" lapse of
> mere intelligence. It is to marvel that the writer's flowered shirts
> could not help him more accurately depict the above-mentioned blossoms,
> but a bowlful here and a bowlful there, and soon the little sailor in
> the little boat simply sinks into the blue reservoir. Thus the thin wail
> of a lurking Ahab or Odysseus appears in the doorway of the poem and
> offers anyone a gold coin if only they will put wax in their ears. For
> the Sirens are announcing the imminent arrival of the vice squad. And
> the sin involved? Pure poetry for poor piety...
>
> >There's art,
> >Joseph on his bicycle,
> >grampa singing his heart out.
>
> While Joseph was riding his Schwinn over to the donkey meet, Mary got
> her freak on with a local girdle-fitter named Art Muddle. A sad domestic
> tale, here metamorphosized into a Deco-Rumba rutabaga of indigenous
> "desalinization." The poem - long ago cured to a tough inedible strip -
> no longer needs the sodium chloride, and so has imported it to the tears
> in our eyes as we read on and on. Of course it is a long road, but a
> long road is best if one does not know exactly where to "get to" for it
> supplies the scenic details that the writer is dedicated to forgetting.
> One MAY (with the luck of the Amish) get "somewhere" but they will
> ALWAYS get "nowhere" and we hear tell that the hotels in nowhere are
> cheap and free of bugs. So Joseph wheels his Schwinn up that long and
> winding road until he comes across "grampa" (a South American sand bird
> known principally for its urine-scented breath), at which point he stops
> and looks about in puzzled muzzlement, for the grampa is singing his
> heart out in a gay rendition of that old standard "Someone's Doing Your
> Old Lady, Joe" once trilled by Joan Blondell in "The Fatuous Follies of
> 42."
>
> >But my grampa's in heaven with a ballpeen hammer,
> >breaking all the mirrors.
>
> It is sad to note that heaven still requires us to have employment. And
> to have passed so rapidly from "singing his heart out" to this low
> astral time-killer is perhaps too much to bear, akin to the
> transformation of Ulysses' men into pigs. Such "deflowering" moments can
> occur at any time, even to a urine-breathed South American bird it
> seems. So what hope is there for those of us unblessed with wings, a
> personal girdle-fitter, and a Schwinn? Does the poem itself only pose
> these nebulous questions, or has it also encoded the solutions somewhere
> behind its purposely dull surface? The advice might be: if you're going
> to sing your heart out try to have a donor standing nearby. A bicycle
> may not get you into heaven as quickly as a ballpeen hammer will, but at
> least it has a bell.
>
> >Skulls, crossbones,
> >the Raven does cross stitch,
> >Two Flagler blondes pass,
>
> A sort of crossword for schizophrenic mattress salesmen? Or perhaps a
> sly reference to one of our Presidents and the indelible figure of one
> Edgar A. Poe? How often have blondes "passed" on the writer, or the
> writer "passed out" on a blonde? Still, the bold decision to add
> "skulls, crossbones" to the earlier "lesbian pirates" leaves this reader
> breathless. What scholarly profundity allowed the author to make such a
> connection, now lost in the "glimmering" miasmas of history? Shall we
> ever know?
>
> >I look up from my writing just in time.
>
> Not soon enough we fear. Or long enough.
>
> >I see them looking back smiling,
>
> >my heart skips a beat.
>
> Another coronary disaster! And - we thought it would never come! - the
> return of the writer's signature "smile." The numinous fantasy of the
> proffered scene is infinitely charming while also being bathed in a
> light not unlike that which falls upon an Akron rendering plant at about
> 7 in the morning. So, he returns to his retro-anti-impressionistic sense
> of "ennuis" with the emphasis (as usual) on the "wheeze." Are we perhaps
> indulging our own imaginations too loosely when we envision a strange
> sinking boat made of rice paper disappearing beneath a cold dark sea
> just minutes before a cruise ship full of drunken Playboy Playmates
> appears on the horizon? Forgive us our anabasis - but surely the
> profound (and undoubtedly conscious) absence of any distracting elements
> within the poem itself invites us to "swim further out"? Is that Joseph
> pedaling along the surface of the ocean? Is that Mary sticking her
> tongue out at Hugh Hefner? Where did Odysseus go to with my mai tai?
> Such "posers" surface easily in thin waters, despite their relative
> density in comparison with the "medium."
>
> >There is art, the wind is artistic,
> >the colors so very perfect.
> >Silver moon like no other,
>
> There's the damn titular tart herself! Again with the "perfect" that
> precludes any necessity for laborious "description." The modulating
> repetition of "art" in the first line "perfectly" captures the obsessive
> emptying out of substance throughout the piece. I cannot say with
> certainty that "the wind is artistic" but - given a handful of paper
> slips with random words scribbled on them - the morning zephyrs might be
> quite capable of assembling a poem as a good as even this one merely by
> blowing the scraps against a chicken wire fence. So there might be some
> validity to the supposition. Three lines, and not one aggravating moment
> of all-too-demanding physicality. Beats eating Milk Duds in a hailstorm!
> And that last line, "silver moon": who would have noticed that except a
> writer used to noticing what everyone else has already noticed?
>
> >people shifting and speaking.
> >Artist ladies,
> >a street that comes inward.
>
> "Artist ladies" has a squeamish small-mouthed auntie feel to it.
> "Bobby's dating one of them artist ladies again." And the gas-lined
> psychoburble of that street, most likely bending inward behind our third
> ears, headed for a bus station in the boonies.
>
> >Cacaphony of music, shout, sounds,
> >jazz blowing in the wind over my head.
>
> Since "the wind is artistic" can we be sure that that jazz isn't in fact
> being created by the wind itself? Certainly this would make listening to
> music cheaper, because wind is very undemanding in its contracts. It can
> be gotten for a song really. The first line has that rare sense of
> having been seen a million times before, and ignored just as often.
> Here, its banal flaccidity is utilized to provide a counter-point to the
> otherwise vividly "over mowed" feel of the rest of the poem. Such
> effects may be easy to identify, but creating them out of whole clots is
> the labor of a mesmerized terrapin.
>
> It might be conjectured (by less sagacious geishas) that the misspelling
> of "cacaphony" is an error to be regretted. However, the word as is
> manages to add just a hint of coprophilia to an otherwise banal phrase,
> which (to sophisticated caterers) is a deliciouus para-post-modern blend
> of the hackneyed and the post-chaised. Also, one is amused to realize
> that this "error" actually echoes the title of one of the author's
> earliest poems: "A for O."
>
> >Fast Chicago blues from the tavern,
> >cars and yells and click clack,
> >walking sounds and the whir of wind.
>
> A nice effect here: evoking not the real scene, but a Hollywood back lot
> version of some real scene, as reimagined by a scriptwriter with a Woody
> Guthrie "jones." He just can't get over "the wind": it keeps blowing
> back into the poem, maybe because it is "artistic" and wants to
> rearrange the prevailing "thing in itself" into a rumpus room for
> divorced parents and their microcephalic "angel"? One can easily imagine
> Jude Law as a down-beat existentionalist puppeteer drifting through this
> paper-mache likeness of a shoddily-remembered ideal past, and speaking
> his "Whiskey and Jell-O" epic into the "Unseeing eyes of the tenement
> walls / which draw me nearer to / the saloon where my poetry drowns. /
> Beer Phoenix! / Whiskey woman! / I drive to her Carpathian Mountains /
> on a grassy path / in my uncarpeted car." A little Kenny G. floating
> about in the hot air, and a sprinkling of "authentisized" poor folk grim
> but "glimmering" in the infinite distance. Which is a really long way!
> Really.
>
> >Jarrod and Dawn have closed the coffee shop,
>
> Anti-human bastards! Lumpen proles!
>
> >so I sit ---.
>
> The suspense is as solid as the knuckles on a jellyfish! You could cut
> the tension with a Percodan butter knife.
>
> >Then a car Hypoltia rushes by with 70's soul blast,
> >fast and then it's gone.
>
> Good thing... obviously one doesn't want or need to go into "details"
> about such iconic rubber stamps. A little mythology name-dropping, add
> some retro-musical reference, put it all in a fast car, and voila!... the
> ineffable made inedible!
>
> >I saw death on Saint George Street,
> >in the doorway of the tavern,
> >on All Hallows Eve.
>
> I heard the air going out of an overblown balloon on Donkey Boulevard,
> in the alleyway outside a Lo-Cal yogurt shop
> on Mother's Day.
>
> >Electric fire blood,
> >remembering Megan's crystals,
> >spoken of in her poetry.
>
> A rare and painful hemological condition surrealistically positioned as
> something which can remember! The enticing suggestion that a poem
> mentioning crystals is out there somewhere, waiting to be ingested like
> a mud pie! Too many riches in so short of a time! I must admit to
> feeling overwhelmed by the radical distance between what is "implied"
> and what is "not worth getting." It's quite rocoocoo.
>
> >Moonchild native of the dreamtown.
> >Going on with a spiral of thought,
> >remembering golden Elaine.
>
> "Dreamtown": a word to conjure invisible garden slugs with! "A "spiral
> of thought" as opposed to a "trapezoid of ideation." And that seductive
> (and once again fruitless) name-drop with a pernicious anemia of
> modifier dangling so dipsomaniacally before our eyes. It doesn't "take"
> us anywhere, but that is because it has been "grounded" by Dad for
> pissing in his pipe tobacco. Kids will have their fun, and this poem is
> no exception.
>
> >Flash of sparks of memory,
> >unfolded to other causes and times.
>
> That descending triad of gutted "thinglessness" that warbles in the
> bonsai Bozo trees outside the green room where a Grateful Dead tribute
> band named "The Dreadful Grates" waits to play to an audience of
> suburban locker room tyrants. O dishes!
>
> >Problematic possibilities,
> >paranoic perspective,
>
> Why not break out the alliteration at this point? The writer has taken
> so much care to avoid any overtly "readable" distractions up to this
> point, and now it is time to tear off the caftan, grab a long,
> straight-haired hippie chick out of the Love Van and toke up on pure,
> undiluted "Word Acid." This IS the Woodstock of the poetic generation;
> three days of poetic bag ladies, artistic wind, lesbian pirates, and the
> mud of human kindness. A split-screen extravaganza of party-less
> endings! The "glittering" day-glo "extremitude" of verbal liberty man!
> And so on... This might - despite its splendid hallucinogenicidal flow -
> have been better if "paranoic" were a word, but why quibble in the face
> of an overall stunning?
>
> >peopled by children in an ancient city.
>
> Jim Morrison just walked by, looking for his leather chaps.
>
> >She's bored with her bags.
> >Her bag is to split me open,
> >tear me apart with pleasure,
> >but I am far far away.
>
> Why not repeat lines that were not interesting in the first place?
> Maybe, after it has been sprinkled with so much K-mart hippie-dippie
> generic floral sputa, it will really know how to fly and finally make it
> to Not-A-Chance-In-Hell Land?
>
> Reviewer: Heebie Offwhite, (under the guiding hand of Editor Denise Gams)
Thanks for the review, Dale- I added the actual poem to the beginning
so the reader can have some perspective.
I'll read and comment, and as usual study what you've critiqued at
length over the next days, and comment/reply.
--
The Netherlands/Shadowville cross cultural exchange
project <http://www.kannibaal.nl/shadowville.htm>
Autograph Of Zorro" {from *Shadowville Live*}:
<http://www.kannibaal.nl/zorro.mp3>
Will Dockery
And, as I wrote before, for the first time in my life I'm in no
hurry... perhaps progress will show, sometime in the not-too-distant
future. If not, of course, I'll keep writing... so far it's worked out
well for me on several levels.
> > As to that title: how utterly refreshing
Yeah, and it was originally the title of a chapbook I made at the time,
"Moon Studies & other poems" with this one as the lead poem.
> that a poem
> > titled "Moon Studies" contains next-to-nothing concerning the moon
"Little Angel" is the /key/. Read again, old son.
> This reviewer - for one (last week
> > it was two, but I have since reconnected with my medications) - has
> > grown tired of being promised things that they actually receive (how
> > meticulously expected), and here the writer has the "trouser satellites"
> > to say "fuck you, I don't need no steenking guiding metaphors!" This
> > title though does have the meek advantage of sounding like a
> > semi-romantic
Yeah, I was /romantic/ at one time, but that died with my jealousies...
and other things.
> > >Toys toys toys,
> >
> > An oddly parched punctuation moment which leaves the readers perplexed,
> > but perhaps this is that "deregulement" spoken of by Rimbaud (a poet
> > name-dropped by the writer but seemingly not otherwise benefited from,
> > unless there is the slightest, delicious possibility of his quitting
> > poetry and running off to the desert regions, perhaps to deal in slaves,
> > perhaps to be one: comme ci comme ca). The iteration has a very palpable
> > "no-point-at-all-ness" to it that makes one think of the earlier poet,
> > Rev. Josiah T. Thirt, whose mangos opus, "Ring Ring Ring O Roses of
> > Marmalade," once electrified an entire Nepalese village into a
> > poignantly engineered immolation of the Rev. Thirt, whose "way with
> > words" ("an undulant and adipose grumble of mild romantic twitterings" -
> > Boston Atlas Monthly Bicubical, 1924) had previously only led him to a
> > life of unusual banality and constant napping in the shade cast by his
> > pet cow, Microbe. Again, a fate we can only hope falls upon this new
> > "genius of the peripatetic brow."
Heh. Now I need a beer to cure the headache that last bit left me
with...
Jeezuzfug, I'll come back to all this later.
--
Shadowville/Netherlands project:
http://www.kannibaal.nl/shadowville.htm
"Mirror Twins" [Will Dockery]
http://www.lulu.com/items/29000/29085/preview/Will_Dockery_-_03_-_Track__3.mp3
Will Dockery
Back up with a smile like Hasty Pudding.
> Well - not Isis for sure. Redolent of the Ash Can
> > > School, these lines speak to that serpentine atman hidden behind each of
> > > our third ears. Probing deeper is both unnecessary and - yes -
> > > dangerous, for removing the containment shell from a large vacuum can
> > > lead to disastrous suctions, as noted above. Suffice to say that "punk"
> > > is ambiguous, being either a further modification of the extremely
> > > unmodified "She" or a direct address to some (unlikely) listener who has
> > > pissed off the writer by failing to "clap" when called upon. And yes -
> > > Bourbon Street - a sobriquet for the writer's favorite breakfast, or a
> > > hazy allusion to a line of royalty once renowned for its women's ability
> > > to bounce their derrieres off cement. The textures continue to congeal...
> > >
> > > >Three lesbian pirates walk by,
> > > >Spaniard girls,
> > > >far east traders.
> > >
> > > Ah! Here - at last - a slight return to the ecumenical intra-hysteria of
> > > the Buddhist Zena and her sidekick, Gabby Haze. Finally, that gauzy ply
> > > of patchouli-infused donkey-skin carpets laid upon a yak stable floor so
> > > as to absorb the "poetic effusions" that lubricate our favorite author's
> > > artful dodging. No mere book-stealer he, but a stealthless kidnapper of
> > > small children's "poetry journals" from which he ferments a rich brew of
> > > cloudy "meaty-beaty-big-and-bounciness"
Great album.
> most lesser "creatures of the
> > > pen" would eschew the quaffing of. Yet his tumbler of courage - fueled
> > > on "Bourbon Street" - knows no such thing as that anxiety fostered by a
> > > harrowing five or ten minutes of sustained thought. As innocent as the
> > > new-driven Yugo, he careers up and down the forty acres where he is the
> > > Emperor of Mules.
In the modern times ya'll don't crucify the poet, rather you /shoot/ us
in mid-performance.
> > > >I think of Edith the bag lady,
> > >
> > > Who doesn't indeed, who doesn't?
She was hell with them bags.
> > > >she's bored with her bags,
> > >
> > > But our writer seems mesmerized by their pendulant urban "thereness" as
> > > exemplified by a delivery truck spreading
A van filled with roses?
> in the heart of a
> > > "happy, shiny village."
With blue trees, no doubt--- or maybe a blue collectors item leaf
pressed dry?
> so - yes- we cry, but they are tears like
> > > feathery epistles, pre-stamped for easy mailing. Also, this is a neatly
> > > turned reference to that phrase so often applied to our slam poetry
> > > reading friend: "oh look, he's bagged on the boards again!"
> > >
> > > >her bag is to split me open,
> > > >tear me apart with pleasure,
> > >
> > > A bag as a rending weapon!
The /butterfly effect/.
> Oh, and the discreet interweaving of that
> > > quantum nonsense with the oh-so-forty years ago touch of "hippie
> > > palaver." Do not ask "where does the inventiveness end?" for the answer
> > > is "It ends here." The sado-masochistic touch of the second line is
> > > perhaps not quite sweeping enough to clear away all the debris that has
> > > accumulated, but it does manage to raise a dandelion-colored dust which
> > > obscures the reader's vision, and we should be grateful for small
> > > favors, no matter how small their flavor.
> > >
> > > >but I am far far away.
> > >
> > > "Promises, Promises" as Burt Bacharach once penned.
> > >
> > > >Three weeks now in a rainbow town,
> > > >living with the Lion and his silver lady.
> > >
> > > Again, the acrid marijuana aroma of "trailerized" hippiness forced
Yeah.
To be continued after coffee-break from Hades.
Dillman Thomas
I have no newsfeeds account at this time.
But fuck you very much, idiot Dale.
I assume BL, DHS etc..
They had a newsfeeds accnt, right?
Will Dockery
"Dillman Thomas" <delt...@sbcglobal.net> wrote
Tom, I see you're responding to Hasty Pudding here, but /what/ was the
/question/?
"Whatchoo tawkin' 'bout, Willis?"
"Why yoo snippin' lak a nooby, Toamy?"
Cold December Mist [a comix-poem] by Rick Howe:
page one:
<http://tinyurl.com/8gm8e>
page two:
<http://tinyurl.com/dy7xf>
page three:
<http://tinyurl.com/d8go7>
page four:
<http://tinyurl.com/ark38>
And, as written of previously, Howe's singing and guitar work has an
uncanny resemblance to yours, Colin:
Prisoner of Freedom by Colin Ward:
<http://www.firesides.net/prisoner.wav>
Till the Next Time, Billy by Colin Ward:
<http://www.firesides.net/billy.wav>
Hometown Sod by Colin Ward:
<http://www.firesides.net/sod.wav>
Seeds on the Breeze by Colin Ward:
<http://www.firesides.net/seeds.wav>
Cards by Colin Ward:
<http://www.firesides.net/cards.wav>
The Writer by Colin Ward:
<http://www.firesides.net/writer.wav>
I've unearthed Rick Howe's last known address, from several years back,
and thanks to the memory jog, will attempt to find him... I'll also
concentrate on getting some of his music digital and archived... hope
he's still with us.
--
The Netherlands/Shadowville cross cultural exchange
Dennis M. Hammes
Simpler proof it isn't our ToMommy: Dylan Tommy /killfiled/ me,
remember?
Dale Houstman
Oh I remember: it's obvious that it's his computer (the brightly-colored
jelly plastic thing with
the extra large "easy to see and hit" keys) that doesn't remember. So
maybe his "Magic Connect-With-People Machine" enjoys Tammy's daily
exercise in self-immolation and public flogging even more than he does.
He might be advised to return it to "Toys For Retards" before the
warranty runs out, and he's stuck with its aggravating "beep beep beep"
every time he pisses into the "Stick It In Here And Pretend You're A
Man" slot?
dmh
dmh
Will Dockery
> > > Karla <kar...@sbcglobal.net> said:
> >
> > >>Wrong and wrong. In just an hour or so of catch-up rap reading, I note
> > >>critiques of poems by Dennis Hammes, SAO, even Lysaght. Whereas Dale did a
> > >>great service to us reading this newsgroup with a Rumplestilskin. You are not
> > >>the newsgroup.
> > >
> >
> > That's Will's head: he doesn't use it for anything much anymore, but
> > he's found he can store his poems there until they rot away in the dry
> > air of discernment.
>
Gamble can put his lips together and /blow/ the head of my green rhino,
and we can float over to the backwaters--- the
*babe-magnet-poontoon-days-await!
Will Dockery
> > abundance, taking on realism that mainly rapturous heights of
> > Buddhist Warrior Ambi-Sexual master of willowy evocation of > > a clean-razored vagina which frolics amongst the usual river > > of
> > "flowers" whose very shape, color, scent and
> > type renders them symbols of what poetry ought to be if it
> > weren't so
> > (just maybe) somewhere in the region of such an approach.
> >
> > >falls, smacks her behind on the cement
> > >a couple of times.
> >
> > A bouncing Betty no doubt, and a shaded reference to the most horrible
> > masterpiece of compact "Ur-spew" turned upon its head and worked
> > for all it is worth. These lines literally (i.e.
> > figuratively) scream the exploding and the rest of us can
> > only nod
> > our heads and wonder at the similarity (here unsketched but suggested)
> > between the vacuum which surrounds the moon and that which keeps the
> > writer's small apartment clean by drawing all the discarded poetry
> > worksheets deep inside his head.
As you know many of the works are written /freestyle/, onstage, or in
the woodshed, recorded and transcribed /as is/. This poem was sketched
from the images and people that passed me, as well as the sounds on
Saint George Street. Moon Studies.
> > >She's mystical, punk,
> > >and her magic transforms this street
> > >to Bourbon Street.
> >
> > Her "magic" appears to consist mainly of the ability to bounce off
> > cement on her behind. Well - not Isis for sure.
> > And yes -
> > Bourbon Street - a sobriquet for the writer's favorite breakfast, or a
> > hazy allusion to a line of royalty once renowned for its women's ability
> > to bounce their derrieres off cement.
As mentioned earlier, Little Angel is the /key character/.
> > >Three lesbian pirates walk by,
> > >Spaniard girls,
> > >far east traders.
> >
> > Ah! Here - at last - a slight return to the intra-hysteria of
> > the Buddhist Zena and her sidekick, Gabby Haze. Finally, that gauzy ply
> > of patchouli-infused donkey-skin carpets laid upon a yak stable floor so
> > as to absorb the "poetic effusions" that lubricate our favorite author's
> > artful dodging from which he ferments a rich brew of
> > cloudy tumbler of courage - fueled
> > on "Bourbon Street" -
Saint George Street is Bourbon Street /unplugged/.
> > >her bag is to split me open,
> > >tear me apart with pleasure,
> >
> > A bag as a rending weapon! The sado-masochistic touch of the second line is
> > perhaps not quite sweeping enough, but it does manage to raise a dandelion-colored dust.
The influence of Her Majesty's Satanic Service, in answer to Sgt.
Fury's Lonely Commandos.
> > >but I am far far away.
> >
> > "Promises, Promises" as Burt Bacharach once penned.
Casino Royale.
> > >Three weeks now in a rainbow town,
> > >living with the Lion and his silver lady.
> >
> > Again, the acrid marijuana aroma of "trailerized" hippiness as a reinvigorating morning
> > cuppa. At this point, certain parallels with the Greek Anthology occur
> > to me, although I cannot recall why precisely. The "Lion" is obviously a reference to King Richard,
> > who fought the "good fight" against the Islamic devils.
Actually a reference to my pal and mentor, Dan Barfield:
----
Columbus Ledger-Enquirer (GA)
July 13, 1997
Section: LOCAL
Edition: FIRST
Page: B1
HOW GROSS THY ART
Tim Chitwood
Apparently it was all just a big misunderstanding.
The misunderstanding led to a 911 call about a decomposing body in an
old house M***** S*****'s husband R****** owns at 2113 **th St. in
Columbus. That led to the discovery that it wasn't a body after all,
but artwork made of barbed wire and blowtorched Barbie dolls.
But it sure looked like a body to police. And it looked like a body to
paramedics. And it definitely looked like a body to Danny W****.
Danny is a real estate agent who with M***** went to look at the house
July 2. He wanted to buy it and fix it up. It needs fixing up. The
roof leaks in places and some of the floor's rotting. The S**** now
live on F**** Drive and use the **th Street house for storage.
M*****'s son Will Dockery lets friends -- artists, poets and madmen,
Will says -- store their work there.
Among those artists is Dan Barfield, who has a concept piece called
``Vietnam,'' part of which the veteran made of melted Barbie dolls.
(``He hates Barbies,'' says his wife Judy.) It now lies on the floor
among other stuff stored in the dark, northwest bedroom of the ##th
Street house. To someone who didn't know what it was, it might look
like a rib cage and sternum atop decayed matter.
That's what it looked like to Danny W**** when he walked into that
musty room, first staring up at the rafters. Then he looked down. Then
he froze. Then he ran.
He wasn't sure what he saw. Maybe a body. Maybe it was sealed with
wax, which trapped the odor. Maybe this was a bizarre ritual. Maybe he
didn't want to know.
M***** followed Danny as he dashed outside, where he tried to make a
call on his cell phone. She told him not to. According to her, she
told him he'd just seen some artwork. According to Danny, she never
said that; she just said they didn't need the police coming there.
This did not sound reassuring. Danny had to make that call. Now don't
call the police, M***** said again. She says she also told Danny her
son Will had a bad temper, and he wouldn't like Danny calling the
police.
She says Danny replied that the police wouldn't do anything to her;
she wasn't involved. That's true, she said (she wasn't involved in
storing the art), but the police needn't be bothered.
M***** claims Danny then offered her $13,000 for the house, then said
it needed so much work the most he could give her was $10,000.
Danny maintains all M***** did was tell him no one should call the
police.
The next day, someone called the police.
About 10:30 a.m., police and paramedics rushed to the house, unboarded
a door to get in and examined what they, too, thought was a decaying
body, oddly odorless. Then they poked it and figured out it wasn't. It
was such a weird story, the Ledger-Enquirer ran it on the front page
July 4.
That's how M****** learned police had broken into the house. She was
perturbed. She blamed Danny.
CHITWOOD, B3
Danny won't say he called police, but admits he told someone what he
thought he saw. Stan Swiney of the 911 center says the call reportedly
came from a Billy Hanson. (No Billy Hanson listed in the Columbus
telephone directory was involved; I called.)
The 911 report said someone saw the alleged corpse through a window.
That's difficult: The room's dark; the window's dirty; the art's hard
to see.
The artist, Dan Barfield, says it's funny Danny W**** would be
frightened, because the real estate agent stopped by a few months ago
when Dan was moving art into the house, and this piece was out on the
lawn at the time. The artist claims the agent told him a decayed body
was found in the house once.
Danny says that's outrageous: He has never met Dan Barfield. ``I would
remember that,'' he says.
Danny says he just wanted to buy the house to help clean up the
neighborhood, where he owns other property. ``As far as I'm concerned
now, they couldn't give it to me,'' he says.
Perhaps it will remain the house of scary art, where once people
thought they saw a dead body.
But didn't.
----
> > So this poem
> > demands to be read as a sequel to several medieval epics.
> > And that nod towards "A Bridge Over Troubled Waters" makes this
> > critic's toes tingle. If only all 60s rock songs (and not just the ones
> > from Seals and Croft) could have had this same "glittering" > > intelligence. Thus the thin wail
> > of a lurking Ahab or Odysseus appears in the doorway of the poem and
> > offers anyone a gold coin.
Or a Gold Star of Pandora?
> For
> > the Sirens are announcing the imminent arrival of the vice squad. And
> > the sin involved? Pure poetry for poor piety...
> >
> > >There's art,
> > >Joseph on his bicycle,
> > >grampa singing his heart out.
I cut here at Joseph and Grampa, for now.
--
The Netherlands/Shadowville cross cultural exchange
project <http://www.kannibaal.nl/shadowville.htm>
"Mirror Twins" [Will Dockery]
http://www.lulu.com/items/29000/29085/preview/Will_Dockery_-_03_-_Track__3.mp3
Will Dockery
> > Strange writer's style seemingly little hued steam in
> > abundance, taking on realism that mainly rapturous heights of
> > Buddhist Warrior Ambi-Sexual master of willowy evocation of > > a clean-razored vagina which frolics amongst the usual river > > of
> > "flowers" whose very shape, color, scent and
> > type renders them symbols of what poetry ought to be if it
> > weren't so
> > busy being about language. One would applaud. Perhaps not > > exactly Oscar Wilde territory, but maybe
> > (just maybe) somewhere in the region of such an approach.
> >
> > >falls, smacks her behind on the cement
> > >a couple of times.
> >
> > A bouncing Betty no doubt, and a shaded reference to the most horrible
> > scenes of the Vietnam war. A
> > masterpiece of compact "Ur-spew" turned upon its head and worked
> > for all it is worth. These lines literally (i.e.
> > figuratively) scream the exploding and the rest of us can
> > only nod
> > our heads and wonder at the similarity (here unsketched but suggested)
> > between the vacuum which surrounds the moon and that which keeps the
> > writer's small apartment clean by drawing all the discarded poetry
> > worksheets deep inside his head.
As you know many of the works are written /freestyle/, onstage, or in
the woodshed, recorded and transcribed /as is/. This poem was sketched
from the images and people that passed me, as well as the sounds on
Saint George Street. Moon Studies.
> > >She's mystical, punk,
> > >and her magic transforms this street
> > >to Bourbon Street.
> >
> > Her "magic" appears to consist mainly of the ability to bounce off
> > cement on her behind. Well - not Isis for sure.
> > And yes -
> > Bourbon Street - a sobriquet for the writer's favorite breakfast, or a
> > hazy allusion to a line of royalty once renowned for its women's ability
> > to bounce their derrieres off cement.
As mentioned earlier, Little Angel is the /key character/.
> > >Three lesbian pirates walk by,
> > >Spaniard girls,
> > >far east traders.
> >
> > Ah! Here - at last - a slight return to the intra-hysteria of
> > the Buddhist Zena and her sidekick, Gabby Haze. Finally, that gauzy ply
> > of patchouli-infused donkey-skin carpets laid upon a yak stable floor so
> > as to absorb the "poetic effusions" that lubricate our favorite author's
> > artful dodging from which he ferments a rich brew of
> > cloudy tumbler of courage - fueled
> > on "Bourbon Street" -
Saint George Street is Bourbon Street /unplugged/.
> > >her bag is to split me open,
> > >tear me apart with pleasure,
> >
> > A bag as a rending weapon! The sado-masochistic touch of the second line is
> > perhaps not quite sweeping enough, but it does manage to raise a dandelion-colored dust.
The influence of Her Majesty's Satanic Service, in answer to Sgt.
Fury's Lonely Commandos.
> > >but I am far far away.
> >
> > "Promises, Promises" as Burt Bacharach once penned.
Casino Royale.
> > >Three weeks now in a rainbow town,
> > >living with the Lion and his silver lady.
> >
> > Again, the acrid marijuana aroma of "trailerized" hippiness as a reinvigorating morning
> > cuppa. At this point, certain parallels with the Greek Anthology occur
> > to me, although I cannot recall why precisely. The "Lion" is obviously a reference to King Richard,
> > who fought the "good fight" against the Islamic devils.
Actually a reference to my pal and mentor, Dan Barfield:
CHITWOOD, B3
But didn't.
----
> > So this poem
> > demands to be read as a sequel to several medieval epics.
> > And that nod towards "A Bridge Over Troubled Waters" makes this
> > critic's toes tingle. If only all 60s rock songs (and not just the ones
> > from Seals and Croft) could have had this same "glittering" > > intelligence. Thus the thin wail
> > of a lurking Ahab or Odysseus appears in the doorway of the poem and
> > offers anyone a gold coin.
Or a Gold Star of Pandora?
> For
> > the Sirens are announcing the imminent arrival of the vice squad. And
> > the sin involved? Pure poetry for poor piety...
> >
> > >There's art,
> > >Joseph on his bicycle,
> > >grampa singing his heart out.
I cut here at Joseph and Grampa, for now.
--
The Netherlands/Shadowville cross cultural exchange
project <http://www.kannibaal.nl/shadowville.htm>
"Mirror Twins" [Will Dockery]
http://www.lulu.com/items/29000/29085/preview/Will_Dockery_-_03_-_Track__3.mp3
Dennis M. Hammes
SSHHhhhhhh... That's the /"cupholder"/...
Dale Houstman
But do you want a cuppa that?
J Rinier
wrote:
>Since we're into making "harmless" fun at other's expense, here's a more
>recent (and much more on topic) example of the crashingly awful.
>
>
> >Fawn Greyhound
>
> >Fawn Greyhound---
> >your magic secrets.
>
>"Your magic secrets": expertly upholds that fragile high school girl's
>diary ambiance, while also avoiding any taint of image or interest. A
>solid beginning.
>
> >The shimmering minutes,
>
>Ah! A brilliant rhetorical abstraction torn directly from the pages of a
>failed soap opera writer. The slightest stench of vaseline-smeared
>lenses, but still replete with the tones of an hysterical bride-to-be
>left standing outside a crumbling Edwardian church with a handful of
>anti-depressants.
>
> >making your acquaintance -.
> >Coming to your smile,
>
>Brian Wilson on Maalox, running rampant through a field of tufted corn
>on his way to a hippie sleep-over at Rod McKuen's "pad."
>
>
> >greeted at your door,
> >welcomed with my green shoes.
>
>Green - as in copper tarnish or the seasickness visited upon an anemic?
>Oh - could it be - "green" represents fertility? Who would have imagined
>such a stroke of genius from such a genius of the stroke?
>
> >Fawn Greyhound ---
>
>Always nice to repeat a dull line, in the vain hope it may make the rest
>of the poem less doggish. Or maybe it's the name of some half-recalled
>girlfriend who left him for a shoe salesman from Duluth?
>
> >sweet golden wench,
>
>"grey" "golden" : it's nice they begin with the same letter. A shame
>they don't quite add up, spectrum-wise, but the "wench" hits just the
>right tone of old-fashioned misogyny that we forgive the writer his
>accumulating incapability and celebrate his infusion of old-world charms.
>
> >you've wandered the blue astral.
>
>"blue astral": how utterly delicious a pointless line can be tucked
>amidst other pointless lines, like a turd in a field of turds: all
>individual yet - so subtle - exactly alike. The effect is calming to the
>point of coma, as the field of tufted corn flattens into a half-baked
>tortilla drifting like a lily pad on a pool of bland salsa made in Iowa
>for "sensitive palates". This partakes of a polio-stricken third-rate
>symbolist now working at a grocery store.
>
> >Now fade into my turqoise,
> >swim in your darkened opal hell.
>
>Love the ineffective and totally arbitrary usage of color: makes me feel
>dizzy, as though I were spinning 'round and 'round in a hamster wheel
>made out of Velveeta strips. The most amazing unearned journey to Hades
>ever.
>
> >Fawn Greyhound ---
>
>Can't get enough of it! Exquisite Elmer's Paste jewelry (made from skim
>milk).
>
> >greeted at your door,
> >by your gentle pup.
> >Sad eyed, unconditional,
> >sweet Australian hound, your child.
>
>Awwwwwwww! A Purina man through and through. No pussies for him: he's
>dogged in his determination to over-express nothing in the sad vestments
>of a junior high cheerleader.
>
> >Fawn Greyhound ---
>
>Again and as marvelous as ever. Some things are so dull to begin with
>that their repetition cannot lessen their luster.
>
> >to die repeatedly in your smile,
>
>Canina dentata. It reeks of the lowest High-Romantics without all that
>cumbersome beauty og expression and soaring imagery. Unladen, it manages
>to rise to the level of a floorboard, coming through the wood like a dim
>stain in the shape of a dog biscuit.
>
> >sweet glow of your presence.
> >Pink, golden, sweet fluid,
> >ride in your vehicle.
>
>More swirls of pointless color, to accent the tepid wavering of the
>ephemeral stickiness. The neighboring repeat of "sweet" as if it were an
>effective word in an effective place. The slight "sensuality" of the
>final (dying) lines only partly undercut by their vapid sleaziness of
>expression.
>
>A Triumph! Without wheels...
>
>dmh
He's right, Will.
HTH
J Rinier
J Rinier
wrote:
>
> >God Smiles
>
>Well, he gives away the ending, but what the hell…Perhaps it's a symptom
>of the poem's para-post-panto-nylonistic-quasi-schtump attitude?
>
> >Star gazing,
> >all by myself,
> >on Mulvey Street.
>
>Note the daring use of “all by myself” where “alone” would not only
>suffice but actually enhance the reputed poem’s progress. Such bold
>experiments (usually only glimpsed in the writings of those unfamiliar
>with English) here add a touch of alienation, as if the speaker were a
>slightly pretentious Eastern-European expatriate wandering up and down a
>alleyway looking for something to kill the “ennui.” Not quite Language
>Poetry (not quite language) but touched somewhat inappropriately by the
>hand of a lewd customs agent “on the make.” And those short lines! All
>chopped into tiny segments in a sensitive attempt to impart a hesitant
>tone of grandiosity where only a glutinous tone of hammiosity is
>present. Sheer genius, if the writer were a puppy.
>
> >The
> >Stars glimmer brightly,
> >in colors like I never seen before.
>
>Such gem-like precision! The stars (repeated here in case you forgot he
>was staring at them a few short lines before: very empathetic to a slow
>reader’s needs) don’t “sparkle” or merely “shine” or even “wink / blink
>/ stutter / palpitate / throb / pulse / etc.” They “glimmer”! Not
>unexpected of course, and certainly not interesting to anyone over the
>age of minus-9 months, but bravely (even corrodingly) insipid, as if the
>speaker were not afraid of appearing dim as a gutter full of grey
>cardboard soaked in runny mashed potatoes. Courage is needed to be this
>flat. Lack of ability is NOT enough.
>
> >The man next door leaves,
> >drives off in his rattling sedan.
>
> From “glittering” to “rattling” in such a short while. It is perhaps
>unfortunate that the two modifiers were not transposed, but that might
>have begun to encroach upon the grandiose blandness of the lack of
>vision that is being unreeled before our “shimmering” eyes like a
>“tumbling” tub of fatty oils that is both "congealing" and yet
>"remaining" liable to run down one’s leg at any moment not entirely
>devoted to avoding the poem altogether. Such are the viscous
>contradictions of the poem as they dribble into our rapidly degrading
>attention. From a pot to a thimble in 3 seconds flat. If there is a
>half-life of piqued interest, this poem may yet register a click or two,
>before the universe collapses back onto itself, putting out all that
>innocuous “glimmering.” Only time need tell, although we petition it
>nightly to keep it to itself. After all, there are children in the house
>besides the writer of this poem.
>
> >Being here,
>
>No GPS required! Location verified. Existential eczema squeezed
>patiently through the filter of a broken Mr. Coffee Machine poised (ever
>so delicately) upon the edge of a gynecological examination table? Hard
>to say: might be a gated ghost town in the Alps, or a creosote-soaked
>trogylodyte settlement just peeking through the fallen snow. Could be
>Kansas relocated to the back of a sun-bleached junkyard Edsel. Whatever:
>it is “here” and so are we: it’s like we were separated at birth!
>
> >feeling the perfect breeze.
> >Strange fog floats by,
>
>It must be perfect: he says so right there! Which is not the same as
>“here” I conjecture. That’s all the verification any man has a right to
>desire. More would merely ruin the effect of “effervescent noodling”
>which holds supreme reign here, there, and everywhere, running its beefy
>hands through our hair, reminding us all of how thick nothing can be in
>the right hands. He repeats this trope in “strange fog” and renders us
>speechless (if only ever so giggly) with the wafting currents of his
>wading pool, evaporating in the Sun (which – I am assured by the gated
>ghost Carl Sagan – is happy to have not been mentioned).
>
>
> >but the stars shine,
>
>Relief! The suspense was killing me.
>
> >right through.
>
>Not “through” but “right” through. Like it’s real or something! Very
>delicate handling of a line that might have actually amounted to
>something in the brutal embrace of another writer. Here, the writer
>allows (almost unconsciously) the “bare knuckles” of a denatured nature
>to “glimmer” “right through” an otherwise unfingered cavity. Poeme
>verite, echoing the Russian movement of "The New Stupid" although
>lacking anything new.
>
> >You can shine, too.
>
>There’s a drunken hippie in the best of us carrying an old poster with a
>silk-screen print of flowers in a sanitarium. John Lennon would have
>appreciated the sentiment, and even dared to “improve” upon it, but
>what’s that English twat know about anything? Just “saying it” is often
>so – scintillating. Oh – the poem's stars don’t do that either!
>
> >God smiles.
>
>But does He “glimmer” I suspect not, although the answer is left
>open-ended, until all the salted peanuts fall out and get oil on the
>couch covers. A shame: grandma gave us those as birthdays gifts so many
>years ago. Still, there’s that damn “smile” again. It is so nice to have
>a philosophomoric moment or two at the end of a seemingly long trek
>through a watercolor left out in the “driving” rain. It makes the entire
>process almost seem as though it meant to drive somewhere in the first
>place. An undertone of lost potential expertly run over by an overtone
>of gained turgidity? Perhaps, but don’t we secretly know better, and
>laugh WITH the author at his little joke: the entire universe is like a
>bad university poetry class conducted in a beer hall, with the lights
>out, and God brushes frequently because his teeth are the only power
>source for the “glimmering” stars. A fable for the disabled. Last call!
>The lights are “dimmering” out…
J Rinier
wrote:
> >Smile At Me
>
>The dazzling/deadening “smile” fixation continues, as if it were a
>methadrine-driven maggot in a cheese wheel. One begins to suspect that
>the writer has not actually seen one (at least upon the face of anyone
>in his presence) for a long, long time, and so compensates by putting
>them into every poem. No matter: here he is demanding that some
>unsuspecting “mark” beam at him despite the probable lack of any cause
>for elation. Thus we can be relatively certain that this piece will
>focus on emotional fascism (as Elvis Costello put it). This title is
>surely only a small goose step away from “get in the ditch”? A subtler
>evocation of authoritarianism could scarcely be imagined, and
>puce-tinted shades of Belsen and Garcia Lorca drift over the face of
>this relentlessly unassuming firebomb in the guise of a piece of sugared
>bird dropping. It is also highly imitative of many of Nietzsche’s
>aphorisms, advocating while also admonishing the rise of the
>“UberMensch”, (here manifested as an Enlightened Warrior Woman/Man) but
>it is even more insidious as it hides its counter-intuitive “red hot
>iron” philosophy beneath the shroud of a lukewarm tea bag. No more sugar
>please: we’re buzzing!
>
> >Influence the moment,
> >hearing the details.
> >The story of a guy,
>
>Thank Baal he only mentions “details” but is not so cruel as to reveal
>them. This gives the overall feel of an impressionist landscape reduced
>to the size of a flea’s fedora. The decorative “hat band” of the slowly
>unfurling lines (it’s really about a sentence long,but with the “method”
>it becomes a small symphony of whining loser-bait, bereft of any
>distracting “pensees” or revolting imagery). It may seem like the shoddy
>production of a God-worshipping audio-visual geek, but that can safely
>be ascribed to the clever “persona lacquer” that makes it stick to the
>floor tiles after it falls out of the “plastic poetry reticule” near the
>sink. Anyway (here’s the sly part!), it states “The story of a guy” but
>instantly loses us in the dank underground of a futuristic un-sex,
>stripped of easy referents AND stimulating word play, until we are
>forced (ala the “emotional fascism”) to see the “thing” AS “thing,” the
>“it” in “shit,” the underdeveloped “ab” in “abs,” etc. It also functions
>as (another!) obvious sequel to both the Beach Boys’ “Smile” album, and
>the film of the same name. So – with this cross-cultural reference to
>other genres, it reduces its presence as mere “poem” to the reflection
>of a headless cyclops in search of a fedora.
>
> >the hermit is turned over.
> >Everybody thinks she's a child,
> >that what she's doin' is not right.
>
>How marvelously ambi-sexualistic the writer (nay: the “composer”) is
>here, in lines which artfully confuse at least two (or more) characters
>into one (or less) without the slightest urge to clarify the “conundrum”
>with actual exposition or those dreaded “details” we weary of in other,
>less demure arteestes. Finally, a writer who isn’t obsessed with
>reading, who (even wistfully) anticipates the day when “poems” (or
>tablets labelled “poems”) will literally melt in your hand and not your
>mind. Good and plenty, you bet! No more sticky hands after an arduous
>pawing through haiku. Pop one in and a few hours later, something not
>worth looking at plops into your “poetry potty” and you flush it away,
>confident that you have successfully avoided “reading.”
>
> >She just flows to the moment,
>
>A whiff of the Woodstock Notion. Telepathic apple wine freaks gathering
>before the radio tower to collect messages from “The Now.” Since “The
>Now” is owned by Clear Channel, the messages are mainly MOR adult rock
>and advertisements, but one seeks their enlightment where they can, and
>doesn’t quibble over the repetitive rotation. Here the rotation is kept
>down to a barely discernible “twitching” soaked in a fragile melange of
>patchouli oil and karo syrup. Smells like dirt and tastes like diabetes!
>
> >collecting riches in the night.
>
>Hope she/he/it brought a flashlight. Or maybe this weird amalgam
>creature has cat eyes? Why not: it could be one of those “details” that
>were left out to ensure we wouldn’t be swamped with “poetry.” Bravo!
>Another swipe at the tyranny of literacy, this time from the dark side
>of a third-rate Doors album reject, or possibly a sampling of an early
>gold prospector lost in the basement without a candle? Oh my, the
>nihilistic possibilities abound. Luckily none of the “details” of these
>possibilities is allowed to tarnish the “silvery” twitter of a
>nightingale caught in a toaster oven door.
>
> >Enlightened warrior poet,
> >learning about infinity.
>
>And there is much to learn! A lot. Really. Here we see the muddled beast
>transformed into a combination of Buddha and Zena. Unfortunately, I fear
>it has Buddha’s breasts and Zena’s beatitude, but we relent from too
>close an examination of the eerie animal, for we might make the
>antithetical mistake of creating our own “details.” No use doing the
>work that the writer felt confident enough to avoid. Such brass should
>be rewarded with the faintest of hopes it will end sooner rather than later.
>
> >When the endless frames,
>
>“Endless” obviously serves as a self-reflexive modifier. Very chic and
>hip in a Millard Filmore fashion. When asked recently if he had written
>this poem, the author replied (wittily enough for a sot) that he had
>been “framed.” We beg to differ: this poem has no borders to its plasma
>of deflowered floridity. We applaud its insoucience, its devil-may-care
>attitude in the face of its own ineptitude: an ineptitude which (seen
>from the reverse angle) becomes a startling blend of jailed teenage
>diarists, and the most extreme morbidity of the pen hand seen in his
>earlier collection, “Where Did I Leave My Smile/Can I Come Over to Your
>House To Look For It?”
>
> >hit that point of wet light.
>
>Stage lights shining upon a small pool of ant sperm? A cup of spilled
>milk being cried over by a man in a miner’s hat? A forest fire beneath
>the waters of the Pacific? The answer to the puzzle is not important: we
>live in the “flow” (no doubt “glimmering”) of the permanent Now, in
>which the validity or beauty of a line read only seconds ago is
>irrelevant to what will follow as we forget it in the anticipated
>“front-wash” of that clear, white moment just beyond the termination of
>the poem. It’s coming. Really. Don’t get nervous. In this way, the poem
>does not insist on its being “read” as much as it insists upon the
>ecstatic possibility of its ceasing to be readable at all, because we
>have thrown it away by accident, mistaking it for a bill from a
>long-forgotten collection agency.
>
> >The lord God is at my door.
>
>On the inside or outside? Doorman or arriving guest? These sorts of
>ambiguities begin to weave a festering festoon of half-imagined woofs
>and warps which capture – not the dolphin, or even the tuna – but the
>infamous sea mosquitos, full of the blood of many ambi-sexualistic
>enlightened warrior women, slicing open the entrails of sleeping
>acolytes to get at the “good stuff” hidden just beyond each knife point.
>
> >The Queen of Swords,
> >is a kind, good woman,
> >but she's hard,
> >she got the tough love.
>
>The vernacular brings the rather insipid Tarot symbol into the modern
>world of “Oklahoma!” and “Female Wrestling.” A dandy little trick of
>linguistic apathy performed by a writer who thinks of projectile
>vomiting as a performance art. One senses pride (mildly misplaced) in
>the bland paralleism of “hard” and “tough” but the very awkwardness of
>this attempt at “real” writing speaks volumes on the wayward modern
>poetic soul. It is as though the writer were standng upon a small
>footstool, peering into a garden full of discarded Hot Pockets
>containers. A sort of “Songs of Solomon” for the anemic adolescent stuck
>in study hall. Watch it, Junior, keep your eyes on the calculus text.
>This sneaky “nuance-chain” leads us to reconsider the poem in light of
>the words to Robert Johnson’s “Stones in My Passway” and to furthermore
>re-examine the relation between “calculus” “Catullus” and “cacaphony.”
>At any rate, some deeper thought is required to render all the fat from
>this skinny cow.
>
> >There's a river, as usual,
>
>Damn the usual river! Bring me one with extra milk foam!
>
> >this one is filled with salt and red chemicals.
>
>We can be assured the environment will never be raped as long as such
>daring poetic souls as the writer have the courage to declaim the abuses
>in such a way as to disrupt the very wavery “flow” of an otherwise
>over-the-top goth-lite schmear.
>
> >Her goals are good,
> >but she must not put
> >the horse before the cart.
>
>Heaven forbid! We might actually be forced to attend an “event” with
>her/he/it. Probably a dreary Warrior Buddha convention in San Diego with
>plastic bardoswords for sale, and books of “wisdom” drenched in the
>blood of hapless villagers.
>
> >Everything cannot be art.
>
>Another finely crafted self reflexive line.
>
> >You got it going,
>
>The wheeless car? The bladeless lawn mower? The horse with a cart in
>front of it like a feedbag? The very inability to discover the answer
>adds to the unterpferdiness of the anti-protological world sheet which
>covers the stained couch of consciousness.
>
> >flip your hair in that cool way,
> >smile at me.
>
>Again, the ending is given away in the title: a stupid blunder, or an
>artful evocation of the hidden (yet obvious) flatness of the experience?
>To attempt an answer is to beg the question, “are the stars still
>glimmering?” The answer lies in confronting the Buddha-Zena character on
>her/his own turf: a robert E. Howard Conan novel as filmed by Ron Howard
>and starring Moe Howard as ‘the sexually vague Bodhi Tree Killer.”
>The lack of those repulsive “details” in the description of the
>hair-movement is refreshingly easy to ignore or just miss on our
>frightened advance to the clear, white moment just beyond the
>termination of the poem. Yet there it is: a paean to vague follicle
>dancing, and a tribute to the hairy ambi-sexual Buddha Warrior.
>
>Reviewed by Lo Tolerenz Fircrap
J Rinier
<will_d...@knology.net> wrote:
<......>
>Everything cannot be art.
You are so close to understanding your purpose now, Will.
Meditate on a porcupine, AssStopper.
J Rinier
<snip>
J Rinier
I suppose if you call sticking one's head up one's Very Own Arse a
'killfile', yeah.
Cheers!
J Rinier
Will Dockery
> Dale Houstman wrote:
>
> > >Smile At Me
Smile At Me.
Influence the moment,
hearing the details.
The story of a guy,
the hermit is turned over.
Everybody thinks she's a child,
that what she's doin' is not right.
She just flows to the moment,
collecting riches in the night.
Enlightened warrior poet,
learning about infinity.
When the endless frames,
hit that point of wet light.
The lord God is at my door.
The Queen of Swords,
is a kind, good woman,
but she's hard,
she got the tough love.
There's a river, as usual,
this one is filled with salt and red chemicals.
Her goals are good,
but she must not put
the horse before the cart.
Everything cannot be art.
You got it going,
flip your hair in that cool way,
smile at me.
-Will Dockery
Review by Dale Houstman:
> >the film of the same name. So - with this cross-cultural reference to
> >and warps which capture - not the dolphin, or even the tuna - but the
Yes, Dale nailed "Smile At Me" to the wall, and there's more for me to
learn from this one post than a thousand posts from JRS and the rest.
The other two in this series, Dale's reviews of "Moon Studies" and "God
Smiles", are also a dynamite read.
Dennis M. Hammes
We've been using a revolving pineapple as being easier on
slightly-endangered species.
All he hasta do is follow the signs:
"You must be at least this low to go on this ride."
Will Dockery
"Dennis M. Hammes" wrote
> > "Will Dockery" wrote:
> >
> > <......>
> >
> >>Everything cannot be art.
> >
> > You are so close to understanding your purpose now, Will.
Just as merely writing 800 sonnets doesn't mean they're /worth reading/,
Uncle Dennis.
--
Shadowville/Netherlands project:
Dennis M. Hammes
>
>
> Dennis M. Hammes wrote:
>
>> Dale Houstman wrote:
...
>>>>
>>> Oh I remember: it's obvious that it's his computer (the
>>> brightly-colored jelly plastic thing with
>>> the extra large "easy to see and hit" keys) that doesn't remember. So
>>> maybe his "Magic Connect-With-People Machine" enjoys Tammy's daily
>>> exercise in self-immolation and public flogging even more than he
>>> does. He might be advised to return it to "Toys For Retards" before
>>> the warranty runs out, and he's stuck with its aggravating "beep beep
>>> beep" every time he pisses into the "Stick It In Here And Pretend
>>> You're A Man" slot?
>>>
>>> dmh
>>>
>>> dmh
>>>
>> SSHHhhhhhh... That's the /"cupholder"/...
>>
>
> But do you want a cuppa that?
>
I don't think it has anything to do with the "cupholder," or
certainly not mine, since Tommy's unspeakable shit continues to
dribble down my screen whether the "cupholder" is Open or Closed.
Besides, a Nice Lady sent me real coffee cups, and I really don't
think she'd be at all comfortable if I let Tommy hold them, so they
sit in front of the Power Good Light so that I can actually get a nap
in the next room now and then with the door open.
I mean, what kind of SUCKING IDIOT puts a Big, Blue Light on the
front of the box, and has it Flash Like A Squad Car when the computer
goes to /sleep/?
Is it just so that nobody else can?
Wait. I bet it is.
Because if you go to sleep these days, you'll wake up with your
bedroom fulla Squad Cars telling you that your bedroom is now owned
by Dockery's Pizza because Dockery's Pizza will bring in Mo' Money to
the "police."
CHE-ney has only GOT ONE BALL;
Georgie has two but THEY ARE SMALL;
Chertoff? Rip his Brown Shirt off,
'Cos Aunt Scalia won't see ya at all!
Time to resurrect a popular old "number" to do a "number" on Mommy's
Little Cannibals...
Dennis M. Hammes
Well somebody /had/ been calling it a revolving pineapple. Perhaps
it's our very own personal chance to turn a lesser dotcom into a
whirling success that would make even Google's eyes pop...
Berryman's Legacy
On 2005-07-01 Dennis Hammes said:
> I mean, what kind of SUCKING IDIOT puts a Big, Blue Light on
> the front of the box, and has it Flash Like A Squad Car when
> the computer goes to /sleep/?
> Is it just so that nobody else can?
Uhhh...they've got this new thing on computer monitors now,
Hammy. It's called a 'Power Switch.'
If you turn it to the 'Off' position, the Blue Light goes away.
And no, turning off the power to the /monitor/ will NOT nega-
tively affect your silly WinDoze box in any way.
Gee...for a guy who thinks he knows a lot, you sure don't know
very much.
Art
Berryman's Legacy wrote:
> On 2005-07-01 Dennis Hammes said:
>
> > I mean, what kind of SUCKING IDIOT puts a Big, Blue Light on
> > the front of the box, and has it Flash Like A Squad Car when
> > the computer goes to /sleep/?
> > Is it just so that nobody else can?
So you can see it in the dark as you're going through the house (like a
good Scotsman) turning off lights as you're getting ready for bed.
>
> Uhhh...they've got this new thing on computer monitors now,
> Hammy. It's called a 'Power Switch.'
>
> If you turn it to the 'Off' position, the Blue Light goes away.
>
> And no, turning off the power to the /monitor/ will NOT nega-
> tively affect your silly WinDoze box in any way.
>
> Gee...for a guy who thinks he knows a lot, you sure don't know
> very much.
You guys still using CRT's?
---
Art
Stuart Leichter
arty_...@yahoo.com wrote on 7/1/05 2:49 PM:
Mine's attached to the iPod with titanium rope so no one runs off with the
iPod. I got the idea from a Polish friend who said there was an epidemic of
thefts of Clubs (The Club) in the 1980s, so everyone bought cars and
attached their Clubs to the steering wheels to outwit the Club thieves.
Dennis M. Hammes
> "Dennis M. Hammes" wrote
>
>>>"Will Dockery" wrote:
>>>
>>><......>
>>>
>>>>Everything cannot be art.
>>>
>>>You are so close to understanding your purpose now, Will.
>
>
> Just as merely writing 800 sonnets doesn't mean they're /worth reading/,
> Uncle Dennis.
Ah. But they're a lot more worth reading than 800 sonnets that
/weren't/ written, aren't they.
And they're a lot more worth reading than 800 piles of Extra Carriage
Returns, aren't they.
But you can /still/ gibber that they are Not PO-metry because they Do
Not Have Any Extra Carriage Returns, can't you.
And you can go on gibbering that until the revolving pineapple
comes right out the top of your head, can't you.
P.S.:
I din't write 800 sonnets.
And you forget the fundamental principle of Soil Bank.
I'm a /lot/ better for not-writing 800 sonnets, than you are for
not-writing 800 haiku.
Will Dockery
Dennis M. Hammes wrote:
> Will Dockery wrote:
>
> > Just as merely writing 800 sonnets doesn't mean they're /worth reading/,
> > Uncle Dennis.
>
> Ah. But they're a lot more worth reading than 800 sonnets that
> /weren't/ written, aren't they.
Not if they waste the reader's time, and don't entertain.
> And they're a lot more worth reading than 800 piles of Extra Carriage
> Returns, aren't they.
>
> But you can /still/ gibber that they are Not PO-metry because they Do
> Not Have Any Extra Carriage Returns, can't you.
> And you can go on gibbering that until the revolving pineapple
> comes right out the top of your head, can't you.
Did I hit a nerve, Uncle Dennis?
> P.S.:
> I din't write 800 sonnets.
> And you forget the fundamental principle of Soil Bank.
> I'm a /lot/ better for not-writing 800 sonnets, than you are for
> not-writing 800 haiku.
If you insist, and if it makes you feel better, Uncle Dennis.
I know, 600. But 800 looked better for some reason... and there's
always time for you to write 200 more bits of rhyming hackwork.
Barbara's Cat
posted 29 Jun 2005 07:12:49 -0700,
Will Dockery <will.d...@gmail.com> said:
> > Dale Houstman <dm...@skypoint.com> said:
> > > > Karla <kar...@sbcglobal.net> said:
> > >
> > > >>Wrong and wrong. In just an hour or so of catch-up rap reading, I note
> > > >>critiques of poems by Dennis Hammes, SAO, even Lysaght. Whereas Dale did a
> > > >>great service to us reading this newsgroup with a Rumplestilskin. You are not
> > > >>the newsgroup.
> > > >
> > > > Shhhh. You're going burst Little Willma's bubble.
> > >
> > > That's Will's head: he doesn't use it for anything much anymore, but
> > > he's found he can store his poems there until they rot away in the dry
> > > air of discernment.
> >
> > Dry air? I've always thought: 5% water, 95% ethanol.
>
> Gamble can put his lips together and /blow/ the head of my green rhino,
> and we can float over to the backwaters--- the
> *babe-magnet-poontoon-days-await!
What does your unachievable sexual fantasies
have to do alcohol? Oh, wait...
never mind.
--
Cm~
Will Dockery
Dale Houstman <dm...@skypoint.com> said:
> > > > > Karla <kar...@sbcglobal.net> said:
> > > >
> > > > >>Wrong and wrong. In just an hour or so of catch-up rap reading, I
note
> > > > >>critiques of poems by Dennis Hammes, SAO, even Lysaght. Whereas
Dale did a
> > > > >>great service to us reading this newsgroup with a Rumplestilskin.
You are not
> > > > >>the newsgroup.
> > > > >
> > > > > Shhhh. You're going burst Little Willma's bubble.
> > > >
> > > > That's Will's head: he doesn't use it for anything much anymore, but
> > > > he's found he can store his poems there until they rot away in the
dry
> > > > air of discernment.
> > >
> > > Dry air? I've always thought: 5% water, 95% ethanol.
> >
> > Gamble can put his lips together and /blow/ the head of my green rhino,
> > and we can float over to the backwaters--- the
> > *babe-magnet-poontoon-days-await!
>
> What does your unachievable sexual fantasies
> have to do alcohol? Oh, wait...
>
> never mind.
That's why G-d invented Viagra, old son.
--
"Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke." -Keith Richards
"Mirror Twins" [Will Dockery]
<http://www.lulu.com/items/29000/29085/preview/Will_Dockery_-_03_-_Track__3.
mp3>
"Black Eagle Lady" [Will Dockery & Henry Conley]
http://www.lulu.com/items/84000/84578/1/preview/Henry_Conley_-_06_-_Black_Eagle_Lady.mp3
Barbara's Cat
posted Wed, 6 Jul 2005 02:42:47 -0400,
Will Dockery <will_d...@knology.net> said:
>
> Dale Houstman <dm...@skypoint.com> said:
> > > > > > Karla <kar...@sbcglobal.net> said:
> > > > >
> > > > > >>Wrong and wrong. In just an hour or so of catch-up rap reading, I
> note
> > > > > >>critiques of poems by Dennis Hammes, SAO, even Lysaght. Whereas
> Dale did a
> > > > > >>great service to us reading this newsgroup with a Rumplestilskin.
> You are not
> > > > > >>the newsgroup.
> > > > > >
> > > > > > Shhhh. You're going burst Little Willma's bubble.
> > > > >
> > > > > That's Will's head: he doesn't use it for anything much anymore, but
> > > > > he's found he can store his poems there until they rot away in the
> dry
> > > > > air of discernment.
> > > >
> > > > Dry air? I've always thought: 5% water, 95% ethanol.
> > >
> > > Gamble can put his lips together and /blow/ the head of my green rhino,
> > > and we can float over to the backwaters--- the
> > > *babe-magnet-poontoon-days-await!
> >
> > What does your unachievable sexual fantasies
> > have to do alcohol? Oh, wait...
> >
> > never mind.
>
> That's why G-d invented Viagra, old son.
What does pouring rocket fuel on a tricycle have to do
with your unachievable sexual fantasies, old daughter?
--
Cm~
Will Dockery
> Don't think it is me, no.
>
> I have no newsfeeds account at this time.
>
> But fuck you very much, idiot Dale.
>
> I assume BL, DHS etc..
> They had a newsfeeds accnt, right?
Okay, but were you Jane Asher's Vagina? Many people here, including
Houstman and Barbie Catshit thought so:
And JAV's poetry/parody style is remarkably similar to yours:
----
From: Jane Asher's Vagina (LadyJaneAs...@Vaginas.net)
Subject: Spectacle by Vicki
Date: 2005-02-11 12:15:50 PST
spectacle
---------
renay haunts me still
fatbutt, I called her
behind her fatback
her fish odors fascinated me
made me beautiful by contrast
and I look like a runover raccoon,
I never gave her the finger
or my used tampaxes
I never asked to be my friend
but her oily pubes offended me
we never
went to a munch
saw a porn flick
traded spaces
shared my boyfriend
I never asked her
to forgive my laughter
her poetry CatShitLike
Why?
but(t) fuckened her husband
so I guess I win.
Vicki
----
Hmmm... JAV /did/ vanish right before your return, also.
Will Dockery
Barbara's Cat wrote:
> > Will Dockery said:
> > > > > >
> > > > > > >>Wrong and wrong. In just an hour or so of catch-up rap reading, I note critiques of poems by Dennis Hammes, SAO, even Lysaght. Whereas Dale did a great service to us reading this newsgroup with a Rumplestilskin.
> > You are not the newsgroup.
> > > > > > >
> > > > Gamble can put his lips together and /blow/ the head of my green rhino, and we can float over to the backwaters--- the
> > > > *babe-magnet-poontoon-days-await!
> > >
> What does pouring rocket fuel on a tricycle have to do
> with your unachievable sexual fantasies, old daughter?
Kinky, Barbie! You wish you were my mother?
----
I Wish I Was Your Mother
I scream at you for sharing
I curse you just for caring
I hate the clothes you're wearing, they're so pretty
I tell you not to see me
I tell you not to feel me
I make your life a drag, it's such a pity
I watch your warm glow palin'
I watch your sparkle fadin'
As you realize you're failin' cos' you're so good
Oh, I don't mean to upset you
But there's so much crime to get through
If I could make it easier then I would
I wish I was your mother, I wish I'd been your father
And then I would have seen you, would have been you as a child
Played houses with your sisters and wrestled with all your brothers
And then who knows, I might have felt a family for a while
It's no use me pretending
You give and I do the spending
Is there a happy ending, I don't think so
Cos' even if we make it
I'll be too far out to take it
You'll have to try and shake it from my head
I wish I was your mother, I wish I'd been your father
And then I would have seen you, would have been you as a child
Played houses with your sisters and wrestled with all your brothers
And then who knows, I might have felt a family for a while
-Ian Hunter
----
Ah, glory days.
--
The Netherlands/Shadowville cross cultural exchange
project http://tinyurl.com/7r7gj [Greybeard Cavalier]
Berryman's Legacy
On 2005-09-04 will.d...@gmail.com said:
> [ ... snip ... ]
>
> I repeatedly commented that these pieces should be collected,
> that's just one I found at random in the archives.
But, y'see, Will, that doesn't constitute "permission," or
even acquiescence, on Dale's part for you to reproduce his
work.
Plus, you seem to have missed the point that Dale's posts
were not "reviews" of your writings. Dale was MOCKING your
poetry. He was pointing out, in an acerbic manner, how BAD
he thought it was.
There's no way you can save face on this particular issue,
son. Best just let it drop, and move on to other stuff.
As Renay once wrote,
"...a perfect autumn wind
blows in the smell of sealion shit"
- "paying the price"
Renay 'Saint' James
Dearest Thomas
Berryman's Legacy wrote:
> On 2005-09-04 will.d...@gmail.com said:
>
> > [ ... snip ... ]
> >
> > I repeatedly commented that these pieces should be collected,
> > that's just one I found at random in the archives.
>
> But, y'see, Will, that doesn't constitute "permission," or
> even acquiescence, on Dale's part for you to reproduce his
> work.
Y'see, BL, none of you are using your brain.
There is nothing Dale can do about it unless
Will were to make enough money to sue for.
Selling all Dale's /works/ for a decade wouldn't
make it.
--
http://Clitin.Com *The Pussy Poetry Place*
*** MORE THAN 150 meg FREE PORNetry ***
(in > 80 "hands free" slideshows)
with poetry from famous poets (soon)
Berryman's Legacy
On 2005-09-04 Tom Bishop said:
> Berryman's Legacy wrote:
>
> > Will Dockery said:
> >
> > > [ ... snip ... ]
> > >
> > > I repeatedly commented that these pieces should be collected,
> > > that's just one I found at random in the archives.
> >
> > But, y'see, Will, that doesn't constitute "permission," or
> > even acquiescence, on Dale's part for you to reproduce his
> > work.
>
> Y'see, BL, none of you are using your brain.
> There is nothing Dale can do about it unless
> Will were to make enough money to sue for.
>
> Selling all Dale's /works/ for a decade wouldn't
> make it.
That's not the point, Tom. We're not necessarily talking
legalities and lawsuits here; we're talking good form, and
ethical behavior.
This contemporary notion that "What's yours is MINE" just
don't cut it, Hoss. We ain't descended quite /that/ far
into socialism. Yet.
Even Hammy agrees...for whatever THAT might be worth.
~~Jinn~~
"Berryman's Legacy" <m...@privacy.net> wrote in message news:dffnmh$5b6$1...@domitilla.aioe.org...
>
> On 2005-09-04 Tom Bishop said:
>
> > Berryman's Legacy wrote:
> >
> > > Will Dockery said:
> > >
> > > > [ ... snip ... ]
> > > >
> > > > I repeatedly commented that these pieces should be collected,
> > > > that's just one I found at random in the archives.
> > >
> > > But, y'see, Will, that doesn't constitute "permission," or
> > > even acquiescence, on Dale's part for you to reproduce his
> > > work.
> >
> > Y'see, BL, none of you are using your brain.
> > There is nothing Dale can do about it unless
> > Will were to make enough money to sue for.
> >
> > Selling all Dale's /works/ for a decade wouldn't
> > make it.
>
> That's not the point, Tom. We're not necessarily talking
> legalities and lawsuits here; we're talking good form, and
> ethical behavior.
I thought you were talking about Dale and Dockery.
Give me a fucken break. The way Dale treats people
and the stupidity that is Dockery?
>
> This contemporary notion that "What's yours is MINE" just
> don't cut it, Hoss.
Tell me about it. I've been ripped off for over $1000 in value
in the last month by locals with this concept.
> We ain't descended quite /that/ far
> into socialism. Yet.
Yup, at least in this cesspool fuckwit mikey lead the way.
Dale supports the theft of my image for no other purpose than
to defame me. He has no place to talk about what Will did.
Dale pressed send. Will simply rebroadcast. Better if he
marked it Usenet, but whatever...
Karma, karma, neener...
>
> Even Hammy agrees...for whatever THAT might be worth.
'ennis has no good handle on this shit.
Obviously a latent transsexual and soon I'll have the doctored photos
to prove it. Bunches of them. Fucken make mikey look like a talentless
ghetto-moron. Gee.. go figger.
Will Dockery
"Berryman's Legacy" wrote
Hm. I seem to remember Dennis M Hammes actively applauding Michael Cook's
thievery of poetry and intellectual property.
Did Uncle Dennis /ever/ speak out against this /real/ theft?
What I did was excerpt Houstman's critiques of the poetry of "Will
Dockery"... unfavorable, at that. If i have no right to excerpt material
exclusively about /me/, then perhaps we've descended /below/ Socialism.
--
Mirror Twins by Will Dockery:
<http://tinyurl.com/7on5h>
Black Eagle Lady by Will Dockery & Henry Conley:
<http://tinyurl.com/bev5f>
Will Dockery
"Berryman's Legacy" wrote
> On 2005-09-04 will.d...@gmail.com said:
>
> > [ ... snip ... ]
> >
> > I repeatedly commented that these pieces should be collected,
> > that's just one I found at random in the archives.
>
> But, y'see, Will, that doesn't constitute "permission," or
> even acquiescence, on Dale's part for you to reproduce his
> work.
>
> Plus, you seem to have missed the point that Dale's posts
> were not "reviews" of your writings.
They were bad reviews, and badly written, as well.
Well worth keeping for when the dust settles and I'm still standing.
Will Dockery
"Dearest Thomas" wrote
> Berryman's Legacy wrote:
> > >
> > > I repeatedly commented that these pieces should be collected,
> > > that's just one I found at random in the archives.
> >
> > But, y'see, Will, that doesn't constitute "permission," or
> > even acquiescence, on Dale's part for you to reproduce his
> > work.
>
> Y'see, BL, none of you are using your brain.
> There is nothing Dale can do about it unless
> Will were to make enough money to sue for.
>
> Selling all Dale's /works/ for a decade wouldn't
> make it.
Plus, the writings by Houstman were about /Will Dockery/... I had a right to
excerpt them, although I wanted to put the entire series out.
Now that Dale finally has the guts to say "no", then they'll just remain in
the Google archives, for future generations to decide upon.
--
The Netherlands/Shadowville cross cultural exchange
project <http://www.kannibaal.nl/shadowville.htm>
Berryman's Legacy
On 2005-09-05 will_d...@knology.net said:
> "Berryman's Legacy" wrote:
>
> > Even Hammy agrees...for whatever THAT might be worth.
>
> Hm. I seem to remember Dennis M Hammes actively applauding
> Michael Cook's thievery of poetry and intellectual property.
Yeah, well, Hammy's "ethics" appear to be a bit...uhh, flexible
-- depending upon whose ox is being gored.
In any case, Will, your characterization of the Dale Houstman
cut'n'paste as an "interview" was deliberately deceptive.
As was your contention that "Skirt of Green" was "re-written."
C'mon, son, you don't need to stoop to that level. If you
happen to be in a creative dry spell right now, that's okay.
We've all been there at various times.
Heck...look at 'jr sherman.' His "dry spell" is going into
its sixth or seventh year now. Heh.
Will Dockery
I just do what I do, and let the critics whine.
--
The Netherlands/Shadowville cross cultural exchange
project <http://www.kannibaal.nl/shadowville.htm>
Mirror Twins by Will Dockery:
j r sherman
>
>
>"Dearest Thomas" wrote
>> Berryman's Legacy wrote:
>> > >
>> > > I repeatedly commented that these pieces should be collected,
>> > > that's just one I found at random in the archives.
>> >
>> > But, y'see, Will, that doesn't constitute "permission," or
>> > even acquiescence, on Dale's part for you to reproduce his
>> > work.
>>
>> Y'see, BL, none of you are using your brain.
>> There is nothing Dale can do about it unless
>> Will were to make enough money to sue for.
>>
>> Selling all Dale's /works/ for a decade wouldn't
>> make it.
>
>Plus, the writings by Houstman were about /Will Dockery/... I had a right to
>excerpt them, although I wanted to put the entire series out.
actually you don't. but you claimed in your fraud column that it was a
interview, and it wasn't.
why don't you be a man for once and admit that you lied? for once. even chuckles
admitted that he was liar.
--
------------------------------------------------------------------
"Astral projection isn't just a theory ."
A. Real Dope
------------------------------------------------------------------
Berryman's Legacy
On 2005-09-05 will_d...@knology.net said:
> Berryman's Legacy wrote:
>
> > In any case, Will, your characterization of the Dale Houstman
> > cut'n'paste as an "interview" was deliberately deceptive.
> >
> > As was your contention that "Skirt of Green" was "re-written."
>
> I just do what I do, and let the critics whine.
Which is fine, as long as you don't jump another man's fence
in the process.
But your Houstman cut'n'paste was like saying, "I just rob
banks, and let the depositors whine."
That jes' don't make a lick o'sense. It's over the line, son.
And now, as a result, you've lost your column in Playgrounds
Magazine.
It's true that Bob Dylan got away with stealing some lines
from an obscure Nip, but at least Dylan (burned-out old hack
that he is) had the presence of mind to filch'em from a
stranger in a foreign country.
You stayed a little too close to home, Hoss. That's called
"messing in your own nest," and it's always bad form.
As Renay once put it:
oh hell, I've done it now
- from "connected square like jigsaw pieces"
by Renay "Saint" James
Will Dockery
"Berryman's Legacy" wrote
> > Will Dockery wrote:
> >
> > > In any case, Will, your characterization of the Dale Houstman
> > > cut'n'paste as an "interview" was deliberately deceptive.
> > >
> > > As was your contention that "Skirt of Green" was "re-written."
> >
> > I just do what I do, and let the critics whine.
>
> Which is fine, as long as you don't jump another man's fence
> in the process.
>
> But your Houstman cut'n'paste was like saying, "I just rob
> banks, and let the depositors whine."
>
> That jes' don't make a lick o'sense. It's over the line, son.
> And now, as a result, you've lost your column in Playgrounds
> Magazine.
>
> It's true that Bob Dylan got away with stealing some lines
> from an obscure Nip, but at least Dylan (burned-out old hack
> that he is) had the presence of mind to filch'em from a
> stranger in a foreign country.
>
> You stayed a little too close to home, Hoss.
The writing was about "Will Dockery" so I had a right to excerpt it.
Will Dockery
"Berryman's Legacy" wrote
>
> And now, as a result, you've lost your column in Playgrounds Magazine.
Heh. I'll survive, if so.
Will Dockery
"j r sherman" wrote
> >> > >
> >> > > I repeatedly commented that these pieces should be collected,
> >> > > that's just one I found at random in the archives.
> >> >
> >> > But, y'see, Will, that doesn't constitute "permission," or
> >> > even acquiescence, on Dale's part for you to reproduce his
> >> > work.
> >>
> >> Y'see, BL, none of you are using your brain.
> >> There is nothing Dale can do about it unless
> >> Will were to make enough money to sue for.
> >>
> >> Selling all Dale's /works/ for a decade wouldn't
> >> make it.
> >
> >Plus, the writings by Houstman were about /Will Dockery/... I had a right
to
> >excerpt them, although I wanted to put the entire series out.
>
> actually you don't.
Yeah, I did, and I /did/.
~~Jinn~~
"Berryman's Legacy" <m...@privacy.net> wrote in message news:dfgrs3$nia$1...@domitilla.aioe.org...
>
> On 2005-09-05 will_d...@knology.net said:
>
> > "Berryman's Legacy" wrote:
> >
> > > Even Hammy agrees...for whatever THAT might be worth.
> >
> > Hm. I seem to remember Dennis M Hammes actively applauding
> > Michael Cook's thievery of poetry and intellectual property.
>
> Yeah, well, Hammy's "ethics" appear to be a bit...uhh, flexible
> -- depending upon whose ox is being gored.
>
> In any case, Will, your characterization of the Dale Houstman
> cut'n'paste as an "interview" was deliberately deceptive.
I wish he would try talking to the guy. See, the problem is that
the publisher has money, so someone launching a lawsuit
has pockets to aim at. Except the paper doesn't know Dale
is a impotent moron. Dale seems impressive till you know him.
>
> As was your contention that "Skirt of Green" was "re-written."
That was pretty funny.
>
> C'mon, son, you don't need to stoop to that level. If you
> happen to be in a creative dry spell right now, that's okay.
> We've all been there at various times.
Wandering in the "Will Dockery" Memorial Desert.
> Heck...look at 'jr sherman.' His "dry spell" is going into
> its sixth or seventh year now. Heh.
This is really sad.
Renay
have I been ignoring you too much lately? sorry. end of
summer rush.
if you're gonna obsess, at least do it correctly. it's "black
and white and red"
and it was long before Robert's name got stuck to me.
as president of my fan club, you should know this stuff.
Renay
Will Dockery
"~~Jinn~~" wrote
>
> I wish he would try talking to the guy. See, the problem is that
> the publisher has money, so someone launching a lawsuit
> has pockets to aim at. Except the paper doesn't know Dale
> is a impotent moron. Dale seems impressive till you know him.
This event has given Dale Houstman his biggest publicity boost since DC
Comix used his superhero character Hasty Pudding.
He'll be obscure again in short order, while I'll continue to build.
--
The Netherlands/Shadowville cross cultural exchange
project <http://www.kannibaal.nl/shadowville.htm>
Mirror Twins by Will Dockery:
<http://tinyurl.com/7on5h>
Berryman's Legacy
On 2005-09-05 rena...@yahoo.com said:
> have I been ignoring you too much lately? sorry.
> end of summer rush.
>
> if you're gonna obsess, at least do it correctly.
Heh. Honey, if I'd wanted anything from you, you'd've
known about it long before this.
Now go paint your toes, or iron your hair, or something.
~~Jinn~~
<cyt...@my-deja.com> wrote in message news:1125911705.8...@g44g2000cwa.googlegroups.com...
>
> Dearest Thomas wrote:
>> Berryman's Legacy wrote:
>> > On 2005-09-04 will.d...@gmail.com said:
>> >
>> > > [ ... snip ... ]
>
>
>> Y'see, BL, none of you are using your brain.
>
Probably not. How many would we have to ask to find out?
~~Jinn~~
"Berryman's Legacy" <m...@privacy.net> wrote in message news:dfh45m$1k4$1...@domitilla.aioe.org...
Friends of mikey frequently dip to the old "don't notice how
I'm obsessing over you -- as I accuse you of obsessing over me"...
When it comes to mikey and his friends my hate is complete and
I'm personally, totally obsessed and don't give a fuck who knows it.
It'll become more clear when I get back to programming for a few
days.
Dale Houstman
j r sherman wrote:
> In article <23acb$431bedf0$18d62363$22...@KNOLOGY.NET>, Will Dockery
> says...
>
>>
>> "Dearest Thomas" wrote
>>
>>> Berryman's Legacy wrote:
>>>
>>>>>
>>>>> I repeatedly commented that these pieces should be collected,
>>>>> that's just one I found at random in the archives.
>>>>
>>>> But, y'see, Will, that doesn't constitute "permission," or even
>>>> acquiescence, on Dale's part for you to reproduce his work.
>>>
>>> Y'see, BL, none of you are using your brain. There is nothing
>>> Dale can do about it unless Will were to make enough money to sue
>>> for.
>>>
>>> Selling all Dale's /works/ for a decade wouldn't make it.
>>
>> Plus, the writings by Houstman were about /Will Dockery/... I had a
>> right to excerpt them, although I wanted to put the entire series
>> out.
>
>
> actually you don't. but you claimed in your fraud column that it was
> a interview, and it wasn't.
>
> why don't you be a man for once and admit that you lied? for once.
> even chuckles admitted that he was liar.
>
>
Also - as I noted - the "interview" would not pass legal muster as an
"excerpt' because of two issues outlined in the fair use doctrine: The
parts used make up the larger part (by far) of Will's "original" work,
and are thus stolen not excerpted. Also, Will subverts the obvious
original intent of the work by his less-than-adequate weditings and
insertions. This is also grounds for declaring the published work as
infringment.
dmh
Renay
Not really. It was a Usenet posting, and if he simply said so
you would have nothing to say. (or refute intelligently)
Even so, legally you would never---ever in a million-trillion years
be so stupid as to sue, so why pretend you know anything about it?
I did, but never as deluded as you, and I have much better /case/
against mikey. This shit is trivial beyond skosh.
With a little finesse you could,
all at the same time:
- make fun of Will
- expose your weblink more
- quickly take over his /column/
- syndicate
But you just whine, piss an editorial rant
and smack an idiot.
...
Where the fuck is your website?
I'll give you somethin' to whine about.
Moron.
Will Dockery
Dale Houstman wrote:
>
> Also - as I noted - the "interview" would not pass legal muster as an
> "excerpt' because of two issues outlined in the fair use doctrine: The
> parts used make up the larger part (by far) of Will's "original" work,
> and are thus stolen not excerpted.
So you agree that Michael Cook is a thief rather than a parodist by
stealing my "Karma Bombs" word-for-word?
If it isn't legal for me to excerpt your writings about /my/ poetry,
then obviously Cook stealing my poem can no longer be defended.
ggamble
Will Dockery
"Renay" wrote
>
> With a little finesse you could,
> all at the same time:
> - make fun of Will
> - expose your weblink more
> - quickly take over his /column/
> - syndicate
Interesting that Dale can do all this over some excerpted bits he wrote
/about me/, yet my poetry and intellectual property can be stolen and used
on websites and all the reaction that comes from /that/ is applause for the
thief.
Perhaps Dale can discuss that in his new Playgrounds column next month.
j r sherman
>
>
>"Berryman's Legacy" wrote
>> > Will Dockery wrote:
>> >
>> > > In any case, Will, your characterization of the Dale Houstman
>> > > cut'n'paste as an "interview" was deliberately deceptive.
>> > >
>> > > As was your contention that "Skirt of Green" was "re-written."
>> >
>> > I just do what I do, and let the critics whine.
>>
>> Which is fine, as long as you don't jump another man's fence
>> in the process.
>>
>> But your Houstman cut'n'paste was like saying, "I just rob
>> banks, and let the depositors whine."
>>
>> That jes' don't make a lick o'sense. It's over the line, son.
>> And now, as a result, you've lost your column in Playgrounds
>> Magazine.
>>
>> It's true that Bob Dylan got away with stealing some lines
>> from an obscure Nip, but at least Dylan (burned-out old hack
>> that he is) had the presence of mind to filch'em from a
>> stranger in a foreign country.
>>
>> You stayed a little too close to home, Hoss.
>
>The writing was about "Will Dockery" so I had a right to excerpt it.
how does that give you the right to lie and say the item was an interview when
it wasn't, and then lie and say Dale agreed to let you use his words when he
didn't.
i think your slop of shit Karma Bombs is about Michael Cook. so according to
your rules Michael has ever right to use the words as he wishes, and you should
have no complaints. huh, hyprocrite?
j r sherman
>
>
>"Berryman's Legacy" wrote
>>
>> And now, as a result, you've lost your column in Playgrounds Magazine.
>
>Heh. I'll survive, if so.
you always cared more about drinking anyway, right dockery? think of it as one
less thing that will keep you from alcoholism. but it's also one less thing you
can lie about, so it all equals out.
Will Dockery
"j r sherman" wrote
>
> you always cared more about drinking anyway, right dockery?
Good whiskey is one of my passions, yeah.
j r sherman
>
>
>"Renay" wrote
>>
>> With a little finesse you could,
>> all at the same time:
>> - make fun of Will
>> - expose your weblink more
>> - quickly take over his /column/
>> - syndicate
>
>Interesting that Dale can do all this over some excerpted bits he wrote
>/about me/, yet my poetry and intellectual property can be stolen and used
>on websites and all the reaction that comes from /that/ is applause for the
>thief.
you did the same thing, liar.
karma's a bitch, isn't it?
>Perhaps Dale can discuss that in his new Playgrounds column next month.
real poetic justice, isn't it? heh.
j r sherman
>
>
>"j r sherman" wrote
>> >> > >
>> >> > > I repeatedly commented that these pieces should be collected,
>> >> > > that's just one I found at random in the archives.
>> >> >
>> >> > But, y'see, Will, that doesn't constitute "permission," or
>> >> > even acquiescence, on Dale's part for you to reproduce his
>> >> > work.
>> >>
>> >> Y'see, BL, none of you are using your brain.
>> >> There is nothing Dale can do about it unless
>> >> Will were to make enough money to sue for.
>> >>
>> >> Selling all Dale's /works/ for a decade wouldn't
>> >> make it.
>> >
>> >Plus, the writings by Houstman were about /Will Dockery/... I had a right
>to
>> >excerpt them, although I wanted to put the entire series out.
>>
>> actually you don't.
>
>Yeah, I did, and I /did/.
to quote Mr. Houstman:
"Also - as I noted - the "interview" would not pass legal muster as an
"excerpt' because of two issues outlined in the fair use doctrine: The
parts used make up the larger part (by far) of Will's "original" work,
and are thus stolen not excerpted. Also, Will subverts the obvious
original intent of the work by his less-than-adequate weditings and
insertions. This is also grounds for declaring the published work as
infringment.
Dale Houstman"
heh, karma's a bitch, huh, liar?
j r sherman
>
>
>"~~Jinn~~" wrote
>>
>> I wish he would try talking to the guy. See, the problem is that
>> the publisher has money, so someone launching a lawsuit
>> has pockets to aim at. Except the paper doesn't know Dale
>> is a impotent moron. Dale seems impressive till you know him.
>
>This event has given Dale Houstman his biggest publicity boost since DC
>Comix used his superhero character Hasty Pudding.
>
>He'll be obscure again in short order, while I'll continue to build.
how is being proven a clear liar "building" anything? this is the funniest
comment you've ever made.
Will Dockery
"j r sherman" wrote
> >Will Dockery wrote:
> >
> >The writing was about "Will Dockery" so I had a right to excerpt it.
>
> how does that give you the right to lie and say the item was an interview
when
> it wasn't, and then lie and say Dale agreed to let you use his words when
he
> didn't.
Houstman /did/ agree at one point, and never had any objections after i
wrote of my plans to use the material for promotional purposes... just as I
use Michael Cook's use of "Will Dockery" intellectual property.
~~Jinn~~
"j r sherman" <jr...@earthlink.net> wrote in message news:dfhqh...@drn.newsguy.com...
> In article <4eef4$431c64e2$18d62363$17...@KNOLOGY.NET>, Will Dockery says...
>>
>>
>>"Renay" wrote
>>>
>>> With a little finesse you could,
>>> all at the same time:
>>> - make fun of Will
>>> - expose your weblink more
>>> - quickly take over his /column/
>>> - syndicate
>>
>>Interesting that Dale can do all this over some excerpted bits he wrote
>>/about me/, yet my poetry and intellectual property can be stolen and used
>>on websites and all the reaction that comes from /that/ is applause for the
>>thief.
I said "with a little finesse"...
>
> you did the same thing, liar.
>
> karma's a bitch, isn't it?
>
>>Perhaps Dale can discuss that in his new Playgrounds column next month.
>
Actually why doesn't RAP have a column, where Will and Dale get together
and pic the best poetry of the month.
Heh.
Will Dockery
~~Jinn~~ wrote:
> >
> >>Perhaps Dale can discuss that in his new Playgrounds column next month.
>
> Actually why doesn't RAP have a column, where Will and Dale get together
> and pic the best poetry of the month.
I like the idea...
j r sherman
says...
>
>
>Dale Houstman wrote:
>>
>> Also - as I noted - the "interview" would not pass legal muster as an
>> "excerpt' because of two issues outlined in the fair use doctrine: The
>> parts used make up the larger part (by far) of Will's "original" work,
>> and are thus stolen not excerpted.
>
>So you agree that Michael Cook is a thief rather than a parodist by
>stealing my "Karma Bombs" word-for-word?
but you stole my poems, word-for-word, and reposted them without my permission.
which, according to you, makes you a thief.
we're only going by your rules.
~~Jinn~~
"j r sherman" <jr...@earthlink.net> wrote in message news:dfhr0...@drn.newsguy.com...
> In article <32bbe$431c0ea6$18d62363$81...@KNOLOGY.NET>, Will Dockery says...
>>
>>
>>"~~Jinn~~" wrote
>>>
>>> I wish he would try talking to the guy. See, the problem is that
>>> the publisher has money, so someone launching a lawsuit
>>> has pockets to aim at. Except the paper doesn't know Dale
>>> is a impotent moron. Dale seems impressive till you know him.
>>
>>This event has given Dale Houstman his biggest publicity boost since DC
>>Comix used his superhero character Hasty Pudding.
>>
>>He'll be obscure again in short order, while I'll continue to build.
>
> how is being proven a clear liar "building" anything? this is the funniest
> comment you've ever made.
If you retype a poem enough times I guess it seems like you
are making progress.
Will Dockery
"j r sherman" wrote
>
> how is being proven a clear liar
I don't know, JRS, how is it?
Will Dockery
"j r sherman" wrote
>
> to quote Mr. Houstman:
>
> "Also - as I noted - the "interview" would not pass legal muster as an
> "excerpt' because of two issues outlined in the fair use doctrine: The
> parts used make up the larger part (by far) of Will's "original" work,
> and are thus stolen not excerpted. Also, Will subverts the obvious
> original intent of the work by his less-than-adequate weditings and
> insertions. This is also grounds for declaring the published work as
> infringment.
>
> Dale Houstman"
After all the complaints from Dale, I probably won't print the chapbook of
the complete piece, although since the subject is "Will Dockery" I think it
would be fair use of my intellectual property.
Will Dockery
"j r sherman" wrote
> >Will Dockery wrote
> >>
> >> With a little finesse you could,
> >> all at the same time:
> >> - make fun of Will
> >> - expose your weblink more
> >> - quickly take over his /column/
> >> - syndicate
> >
> >Interesting that Dale can do all this over some excerpted bits he wrote
> >/about me/, yet my poetry and intellectual property can be stolen and
used
> >on websites and all the reaction that comes from /that/ is applause for
the
> >thief.
>
> you did the same thing
Wrong again, liar: Cook /took/ my poem "Karma Bombs", made and posted an Mp3
recording of it and posted it on /his/ website, withoout crdit to me or my
permission.
I excerpted a critique of my poetry written by Dale, I didn't steal his
poetry, and I gave him full credit for what he wrote.
If you want to attack me for this you should at least have the balls to not
mix your lies in with it.
j r sherman
>
>
>"j r sherman" wrote
>>
>> you always cared more about drinking anyway, right dockery?
>
>Good whiskey is one of my passions, yeah.
so then what are you complaining about? now you have a chance to drink even more
than usual. and spare us the "good" whiskey bullshit, would you? you wouldn't
know a good whiskey if it bit huge chunks out of your fat cracker ass.
Dale Houstman
Will Dockery wrote:
>
> I excerpted a critique of my poetry written by Dale, I didn't steal his
> poetry, and I gave him full credit for what he wrote.
I've explained - using the wording of the fair use doctrine - that what
you published cannot be termed an excerpt, for two reasons: my work
forms the greater portion (by far) of the text, and your additions
subvert the original intent: that's fraud, not fair use.
dmh