Thursday, November 19, 2020

Get Drunk! by Charles Baudelaire

Get Drunk!

 

One should always be drunk. That's all that matters;

that's our one imperative need. So as not to feel Time's

horrible burden, one which breaks your shoulders and bows

you down, you must get drunk without stopping.

 

But with what?

With wine, poetry, or virtue

as you choose.

But get drunk.

 

And if, at some time, on the steps of a palace,

in the green grass of a ditch,

in the bleak solitude of your room,

you are waking and the drunkenness has already abated,

ask the wind, the wave, the stars, the clock,

all that which flees,

all that which groans,

all that which rolls,

all that which sings,

all that which speaks,

ask them, what time it is;

and the wind, the wave, the stars, the birds, and the clock,

they will all reply:

 

"It is time to get drunk!

 

So that you may not be the martyred slaves of Time,

get drunk, get drunk,

and never pause to rest!

With wine, poetry, or virtue,

as you choose!”

 

by Charles Baudelaire




Tuesday, November 17, 2020

Friday, November 13, 2020

Mrs. White—flash fiction at Right Hand Pointing

My flash fiction, "Mrs. White," now up at RIGHT HAND POINTING #141, "Plan"! The navigation is a little funky: follow the pointing hands, mine's towards the end.



Thursday, November 5, 2020

Letters To Michael—essay

My 'hermit crab' #essay, "Letters To Michael," now out in the new South Dakota Review! I'm really proud of this one. You can order here:



Tuesday, October 27, 2020

17 Haikus up at HST

My poem (which shall remain nameless so as not to attract Russian bots to my blog) is now up at HST. It's a 'form' I borrowed from David Trinidad: 17 haikus about one pop culture subject: one haiku for every syllable in a traditional american haiku. NSFW. click on the pic to go!



Thursday, October 1, 2020

People I Meet Podcast interview

Dean K interviews my about writing, travel, teaching, Deep Wild Journal and life on his People I Meet Podcast. A good talk! He's a good interviewer!



Tuesday, September 8, 2020

Reagan Sova on the Little Red School House Podcast

My friend writer/songwriter Reagan Sova interviewed on the Little Red School House Podcast ( @LRedSchoolHouse ) about anarchism, education and sports, and his novel Tiger Island:



 
 

Friday, August 14, 2020

Scott Seckel's "Despoblado"

Meet Val, one of Scott Seckel’s characters in his short story “Despoblado” from Deep Wild 2020, as he meets some fellow backcountry animals:


"It was an August night on the far east side of the Mazatzal Mountains. He was twenty-three. A pair of diamondbacks hit in a spontaneous one-two. One punctured his right calf. The other struck the outside of his left shin. The bites felt no worse than thorn pricks.

"The right snake’s head was broad as a hoe. Val saw its jaws flex as it pumped in venom. Its body was too thick to reach around. Using both hands, he frantically tried to rip it out of his leg. The fangs stuck in the wound. The third time they tore free. His calf was trenched more than an inch deep. He smashed the snake’s skull against a rock.

"The other rattler successfully disengaged its target. After striking, it withdrew in a coil beneath a saltbush. Val hacked it apart with a machete, then sank to the ground. Pain and swelling started in fifteen minutes."

Order Deep Wild #2 to read the rest!


 
 

Wednesday, August 12, 2020

The One

Recently re-discovered the copy of CURBSIDE REVIEW (I guess now defunct) in which this appeared, way back in 2003. 

The One

 

            Tu es pure, tu es encore plus

            pure que moi-même

                                    -Eluard

 

If I say I have given up nothing

it is not true

and the smoke doesn’t care

if I go

 

her mouth

her eyes

I may be the only one to speak of them

the only one to have been surrounded

and choked by the heat

 

and fire has a face

a hated face

a hating face

your face

you who I will not name who other men have known

 

the dirt says: on me

the ashes say: on me

embers sense your presence

and our best moments

still burn

 

the sadness of knowing you

the sadness of having you

or not

 

the impatience of waiting

the corruption

you who forgets

destroys

who brings absence and takes me from the world

I hate you for crying

which destroys me and creates itself

like fire

 

 

Sunday, August 9, 2020

Movies I've seen at least three times

 Movies I've seen at least three times

and have somehow formed my life


1. Star Wars

I saw the first movie thirteen times in theaters when it came out. It's a space opera, perhaps cheeseball, yet at the time, visually, it was amazing. I felt like Luke in real life, living lonely on a desolate planet. I still feel that way. And I wanted to be Han Solo. I still feel that way.

2. Aliens

The first, Alien, is also a classic, maybe even visually and artistically more so than Aliens, but there is something about this one, the non-stop action, but I love Vasquez. Ripley too, she was even smarter, but both offered me the strong women of comic books, strong women I've always looked for since. But more than one other young man I knew in the 90s loved Vasquez too, and her call to action has been mine for my life: "Let's rock!!"

3. Monty Python and the Holy Grail

I'd even argue The Life of Brian is better, but The Holy Grail was the first of theirs I saw, and changed how I saw humor: mockery and satire, above all to oneself. As a D&D nerd, this one hit home.

4. Blood of Heroes

With Rutger Hauer and Joan Chen. My group of high school friends, boys and girls, all loved this one, though I'm not sure how popular it ever was. That scene at the end—Joan Chen: I don't want to lose. Hauer: Then win.

5. Rollerball

All three times in my teens, I think. With James Caan. It spoke to something in the soccer player of my younger self: "This isn't a game! It was never meant to be!"

6. The Seven Samurai

I would be one of the group of misfits, wanting to do the right then and defend the defenseless.

7. Blade Runner

Any version, though the Director's Cut (without the voiceover) is best. Combing sci-fi with noir is genius. But the question of what makes us human (memories? emotions?) is still relevant. Loved the sequel too.

8. The Piano

The only woman-directed film on the list, I know. All three of the actors are intense powerhouses. Holly Hunter (without speaking!) gave me the first real look into women's desires and fears and the balancing acts they have to perform. I would be (am) Harvey Keitel putting his tongue in the hole in her stocking.

9. Casa Blanca

Probably on everybody's list. The choice: he could get the woman, but gives her up for the greater cause. I want to love people because they serve a greater cause.

10. Barfly

It's gritty. It's about the lowlife class which rarely gets representation. Which is what Charles Bukowski was always writing about. The beauty and the despair of being poor. Creating out of that.

11. Apocalypse Now

The original, not the Redux version. The extra footage doesn't add anything. I don't even like Martin Sheen or his performance—he was added late, was supposed to be Harvey Keitel I think and imagine that—it's everyone else in the movie, and it's the madness, not just of war, but of life. In a sense, and I just thought of this, Sheen works because he's so blank: he just wanders through the quest, already damaged from life, already shut down emotionally.

12. Spinal Tap

I remember seeing the bass player Billy Sheehan give a talk, and he said, "I didn't think Spinal Tap was funny. All that stuff has happened to me." Which makes it funnier. The deadpan humor, everything played straight. I think it's somehow a mockumentary about men, in general, somehow. And not just musicians, but anyone who loves rock/metal music loves this movie. Because it's true.

13. Sex, Lies and Videotape

I relate to James Spader's character, his distance and desire, and I love the contrast between the people who are having sex but who are not connected/intimate, and his desire but fear of intimacy.

 

Honorable mentions:

The Company

Man On Wire

Blue


A box of incense—micro-fiction

 My micro-fiction, "A box of incense," now up at VOL. 1 BROOKLYN:


Monday, June 22, 2020

Desert Cabal by Amy Irvine


This review will appear in the 2020 issue of Deep Wild: Writing from the Backcountry. Order here!

Desert Cabal
by Amy Irvine
Torrey House Press 2018
ISBN: 978-1-937226-97-8

If there is a patron saint of backcountry enthusiasts, it is Edward Abbey. And if there is a book that has ruffled the feathers of Abbey fans recently (especially men, and especially men who haven't read the book) it's Amy Irvine's Desert Cabal. It's a short, fast, informal, read—perfect, say, for carrying with you into the backcountry, which is where her imaginary conversation with the ghost of Ed Abbey framing the book takes place. Mostly this talk takes place around his most iconic book, Desert Solitaire, though also Abbey in general, all his contradictions and hypocrisies and grumpiness. Desert Cabal is not an attack, but Irvine asks important questions, not just for Abbey but for all of us lovers of wilderness, though she is definitely claiming a place at the table, as an equal, and genuinely wanting to understand a man and writer who meant so much to her.

Each chapter focuses on some aspect of Abbey's thought, with Irvine's commiserations—we get her experiences in, and thoughts about, the backcountry too. And Irvine may prove to be a little prickly to some readers, just like Abbey—she's no fan of Republicans or Democrats, no fan of upper-middle class environmental activists who look down on the working poor while driving SUVs, and she at least has some grudging respect for the occupiers of the Malheur Wildlife Refuge for standing up to the federal government. And she carries a Glock.

Of course, Abbey can't answer back, and Irvine does make some suppositions about how he might react to what has been happening recently, most of which I agree with. The one big one I question is thinking that he in fact might be in favor of Trump's border wall. As evidence, she invokes Abbey's (in)famous quote about sending mexican immigrants back from the border with a rifle and a box of ammunition (which I have always thought is misunderstood by most). My thought is that Abbey would have hated the wall, not because of the humans its supposed to (symbolically, at least) keep out, but because of the wild spaces it divides. Because of the jaguars and wolves and pumas.

The biggest question Irvine has for Abbey, and the biggest revelation of the book, is why Abbey took out references to his wife and children from Desert Solitaire. Irvine has access to the original typed manuscript, and sees first-hand the sentences mentioning them crossed out. As a writer, it's clear she understands the conceit, or concept, of the solitude of Desert Solitaire, the Romantic (with a capital R) experience of the writer/speaker in and against and with Nature (also with a capital). But as a woman, and a mother, she can't help but take that (not just omission, but a) crossing out personally.

We'll never know if by keeping his family in Desert Solitaire whether it would have been the bestseller it was (and still is). My guess? Yes. It certainly would have been different. With the inclusion of those few sentences, the entire vision would have been changed. Which is Irvine's point. She sees a missed opportunity, which women would have seen—saw—automatically: "Solitude, for women, is a different animal entirely." And, a little later: "we [women] seek not so much solitude as solidarity, intimacy more than privacy. But it's the way of wilderness—in a thriving ecosystem, integration matters far more than independence." In other words, what if we'd had a bestselling book that shaped decades of activists and nature lovers which advocated for solidarity instead of a leftover sense of American rugged individualism?

Again, Irvine still values Edward Abbey as a huge, good, influence. I was happy to read that in fact, like me, the book of his that really meant the most to her is his novel The Monkey Wrench Gang, for its spirit of activism. It was there she learned that she "could resist authority...on behalf of...these beloved public lands!"

Which brings us to the 'Cabal' of the title. Irvine prefers the french, and female, version, la cabale, but which in either case is the (perhaps conspiratorial, perhaps witchcrafty) group of us, all, who love the wilderness but also want to save it from our governments (local and federal) and tourists and maybe from ourselves. Her invocation (her 'calling in') to us is the reverse of the famous Abbey proclamation to his readers not to get bogged down in the activist part of life, but to "Get out!" and enjoy the wild. Irvine does not deny that at all, but suggest to us (and Abbey's ghost) that, decades later, maybe it's time to 'Come back!':

"So I say to you, go solo, into the desert. Yes, do this and love every minute. But then come back. Come back to the cabale that has joined together, to save what we know and love."


Order Deep Wild: Writing from the Backcountry #2, 2020, here!

The West Will Swallow You by Leath Tonino

My book review of Leath Tonino's non-fiction collection, The West Will Swallow You, now up at QUARTERLY WEST.

https://www.quarterlywest.com/issue-100/yohe-on-tonino


Friday, June 19, 2020

Tuesday, June 16, 2020

Lightning Storm-micro fiction

Here's my micro-fiction "Lightning Storm" as part of National Flash Fiction's "Micro Madness" 2 x 22 online stories for 22 days. Scroll down to mine on June 15th, four down from the top. Also includes video of me reading it! Eep!
 
https://nationalflash.org/micro-madness/
 
Here's the direct link to the YouTube video of "Lightning Storm."

Thursday, May 21, 2020

Deep Wild Journal Subscription Campaign!

Deep Wild Journal’s May Subscription Campaign is two-thirds over, and we have raised close to three fourths of our $2000 goal to help cover production and shipping costs for our Summer 2020 issue.

It’s shaping up to be something special: 170 pages of creative work by 41 writers and two artists from 22 states and five countries, each of them sharing their insights and experiences from the backcountry.

If you love wild places and good words, please consider supporting our  mission—to provide a home for creative work inspired by journeys to places where there are no roads—with a subscription for yourself and/or a friend, at https://deepwildjournal.com/subscribe/  The journal is compact and sturdy and 100% recyclable. It wants to go camping with you!

https://deepwildjournal.com/subscribe/

Monday, May 18, 2020

Armadillos-short story

My short story, "Armadillos," is in the current issue of COWBOY JAMBOREE. It's print/pdf, I'm on page 60:

http://www.cowboyjamboreemagazine.com/current-issue.html

Sunday, May 17, 2020

Me on the Malarkey Public Radio Podcast

I'm the guest on the podcast Malarkey Public Radio! Alan, Travis, Jason and I talk Deep Wild Journal, Ed Abbey, writing, and other cool stuff.
 
Check out the Malarkey Book website here.

https://s159.podbean.com/pb/1ca8b6aab594f164007beca787e634cc/5ec13949/data3/fs116/6431000/uploads/EdwardAbbeysWhiteClaw9y6lm.m4a?pbss=900687c4-8313-5d75-be0d-4ed0b99f675e

Saturday, May 9, 2020

Friday, April 10, 2020

Our Death by Sean Bonney


Our Death
by Sean Bonney
Commune Editions 2019 Oakland, CA.
ISBN: 978-1934639283

Please forgive us if we here in Merica learned about British poet Sean Bonney too late: He died in 2019, and Our Death is the first and only book of his published, posthumously, on this side of the Pond. Bonney comes out of the spoken word tradition and radical left politics, and although he was a lecturer at the university level, he would have been at home at the Nuyorican in New York City or the Green Mill in Chicago. All of his poetry is angry, and some of it brutal, like in "one royal car one screaming mob":

"freedom." yeh. tell me about it.
I think you mean the holes in my shoes.
but, you know, I
get to do what I want all the time
whereas you, you get all these duties, yeh
that whatever-it-is you call fucking
you bonus your job
that fish sauce you tell yourself you're eating
when really you know you're eating shit
yes, I walk around on your roofs
in my fucked up boots
whenever I want
no, not like Mary Poppins, no
demons of the cities either
you kind of don't know what I'm talking about
certain frequencies you don't get, no
I'm not jealous of you
freedom, yeh, these holes in my shoes....
you see they're special they'll never wear out
as I boot your face in over and over, as
yes as I smash it. three nails in your forehead.
special receivers in your bougie head.

Bonney tends not to use titles in these poems, but this one does a great job of already placing us in the streets, in or part of that 'mob,' protesting someone from a royal family, something you'd never hear about on the BBC. The title is also a key that the speaker of the poem isn't Bonney. The word 'mob' is never used by a group itself. Bonney seems to be the outsider, looking on, or in, though he's at least somewhat sympathetic—like newspapers, poetry collections reveal their biases in how much ink is devoted to a certain topic.

Most of the poems in Our Death are prose, many in the style of John Ashbury, if Ashbury dropped f-bombs and came from the lower-class—technically grammatically-correct sentences that don't quite proceed linearly, but rather take readers, and their minds, un-logically off in some unexpected direction, so that at the end we're not sure where we are, except not where we started. Take for example this excerpt from "On Bomb Scares":

It was a bullet replaced all history. Couldn't recognize ourselves in it—all of its dates compressed to a phalanx of immaterial noise. And then we ignited, were permanently stained. We had always guessed it would be cities that would fall, but how wrong we were, transformed in our sleep to an alphabet rearranged as a disc of cranial time. Letters were allocated. Calendars and surgery. Vowels and black clouds. Several royal bastards. They wail and screech in the lower part of the city.

We're far from Ashbury's finger sandwiches here. I'm not sure there's a definite meaning to this poem, even if there seems to be an accusation of blame at the end, towards the royal bastards, which reads like Bonney thinks all royals are bastards, maybe not literally (though in a system where bloodlines are of the utmost importance, 'bastard' is probably the worst insult you could call a royal) but in the sense that all royalty behaves awfully. Still, I feel that "phalanx of immaterial noise," now especially as I write this over the Christmas holidays, surrounded by bad music every time I step out in public.

A mini-manifesto titled (in the Table of Contents, at least) "all poetry that does not" from his first full book, Blade Switch Control Unit (2005), which I read at the same time as Our Death, helps make sense of Bonney's Anarchist-Ashbury style:

All poetry that does not testify to an awareness of the radical falsity of the established forms (of life) is faulty. Understand prosody via black bloc tactics.* No-one has yet spoken a language which is not the language of those who establish, enforce, and benefit from the facts. Language is conservative. Its conservatism issues (a) from its utilitarian purpose, (b) from the fact that the memory of a person, like that of humankind, is short.

In other words, we're all using the language of the oppressor if our poems 'make sense.' Which is not a new idea—L*A*N*G*U*A*G*E poets in the 80s, in America at least, were ostensibly rebelling against this same idea, though to my mind ended up betraying their middle-class-ness, sounding, at best, clever, and at worst, gibberish. Above all, their 'politics' never manifested, sounding like their poems were written from comfortable academic offices. What I mean is, they would never mention "black bloc tactics" at all, as Bonney does, if perhaps ironically or sarcastically: That asterisk in the poem directs us to a footnote: "Archaic reference, unexplained." Which says a lot of you're at all politically aware (like if you just get your news from NPR)—The black bloc folks are the ones dressed all in black, with baklavas, at protests, who are not above some destruction of corporate property, and other mischief, to shut the system down. In this age of peaceful and playing-nice pink pussy protests, Bonney's reminding us that the corporations, and the politicians they buy off, aren't scared of us, don't even notice us, and certainly don't care about us, unless we scare them, make them notice us, and make them care.

What makes Bonney's poetry 'anarchist' or 'protest', though he does use those words, is not any wisdom or 'revelation' but the settings (for example, in the streets, during protests) and especially the things mentioned, connecting him to another Merican poet, William Carlos Williams, whose admonition "no ideas but in things" is maybe the key to Bonney's poetry. The boot is the idea.

There are no revelations, nor definite political solutions in Bonney's poetry. There is only what he calls "desperation", which he addresses in a prose-poem-letter, "Dear Katarina," to Greek anarchist poet, Katarina Gogou. I'm sure many readers feel a certain desperation in American and European politics. But Bonney argues that our of our sense of desperation is  needed, necessary. That from it comes

....a way of pronouncing the language needed to help undermine the fascist tinnitus that all of our sensory networks have become....I'm telling you this because I sense something of this desperation—a desperation I'm determined not to normalize—in your work as well.

I'm not familiar with Gogou's work, Bonney talks about her in a late interview, but she isn't available in English (or not in Merica anyways). In one section of Our Death titled "Cancer: Poems after Katerina Gogou," Bonney writes what he calls "versions" of her poetry, half-translations, or more like translations of her intentions or emotions. They're anyways distinct style-wise from Bonney's other poems, with more repetition and Ann Waldman-style chanting. The title poem becomes a catalogue of fears, desperate ones:

Fearful we'll abandon our history or steal it. Fearful we'll set up borders around that history. Fearful we'll drive up the rents on that history and talk and talk about the old days in meter and rhyme while the pigs close the borders. Fearful we'll be those borders. Fearful we'll confuse those borders with songs and sit inside those songs as if they were the scars on our veins. Fearful our scars will become a lullaby and that we will turn into dogs. Fearful we'll confuse dogs with doves. Fearful of doves and swans, of corpuscles, of medical robes, of silence and smack. Fearful we're doing what they want. What silence wants. We police their borders. They know how it is. Fearful bastards. Fearful of everything. All of us. Fuck it. Do it tomorrow. No escape from the massacre.

The question is, who is the 'we'? The fears start off lower-class and anti-establishment, talking about "the pigs." But then we get a 'we' that polices 'their' borders—who is this but the pigs themselves. The answer is, I think, that it's a listing of the fears of everyone. Again, Bonney isn't the speaker here, but speaking for everyone. Everyone is afraid, and we're all acting and re-acting out of that. In this poem I see a glimmer of, not hope, but basic wisdom, a reminder to not act in fear, even if still angry. You could argue anger comes from fear. Though the kind of anger Bonney is channeling comes from a sense of self-defense: It's ok to get angry at fascists and corrupt politicians and the rich: they're out to kill us. But let us not be afraid of them.

I wrote that we learned about Bonney too late. I think I actually mean just in time. I've been looking for a response to what's happening politically, both in England and here in Merica, wondering how I could/should respond as a poet. And I don't mean pink pussy protests. The answer is not to worry about being profound and having a great message, but placing our poems in the streets, to be in the streets, fighting against the people who are literally killing us (the title is, and about, Our Death). And/or, if we introverted poets can't be front-line protesters, we can place them and their things, like their boots, in our poems.

I would have liked to read more of Bonney, for decades to come. Though compared to Rimbaud, I think he might have become a British Allen Ginsberg. Maybe there will be a posthumous collection of previously uncollected works. A Collected Works would be welcome. Remains to be seen if the street protests of England and Europe Bonney invokes will happen to that extent here in Merica.

Problems by Jade Sharma

My review of Problems by Jade Sharma appeared in WORD RIOT (now defunct) August 2016.


Problems
by Jade Sharma
Coffee House Press 2016
ISBN: 978-1-56689-442-5

I decided to read Jade Sharma's Problems because Coffee House Press is selling it as “girl meets Trainspotting,” and Trainspotting was one of my favorite books of the 90s, because it encapsulated the seedy underbelly of the supposedly prosperous 90s for the western world. I was entirely ready to be disappointed with Problems, since that's a lot to live up to. But I'm not, I'm not disappointed at all.

Maya, the narrator of Problems, is mostly unreliable. One page she's telling us (or maybe herself) that she only 'chips': snorts heroin no more than two days in a row, while a few pages later she's telling one of her best friends that she's done it ten days in a row. She's lying to somebody, probably her friend, who herself is a 'successful' magazine editor also with a heroin/crack/whatever addiction: Maya’s friend  needs the drugs to get through her job, and needs the job to buy the drugs. Thus is Sharma's critique of hipster life in New York (and maybe the rest of the country, or world).

The most radical fact about Maya, even more than her snorting heroin, is that she's an Indian-American, as in from the Indian subcontinent, snorting heroin. Or, half-Indian, but just like with Barack Obama, in America, if you're half/mixed, then you're considered, even by yourself seemingly, as belonging to the darker half. In any case, Maya dispenses with her Indian-ness fairly quickly, or wants to, and for most of the book describes herself as “brown,” making her(self) a member of the 'ambiguously brown' minority-majority that can include native-americans, latinos/hispanics, middle-easterners, mediterranean-ers, anyone not 'white' or dark.

Maya's family works hard to achieve and maintain the safe and respectable facade of middle- to upper-middle-class-ness, a fantasy of prosperity, tradition, order, and economic improvement. But Problems shatters this fantasy. Sharma is not interested in niceness or pleasant representations of the Indian-American experience. Instead she tells us the story of a young woman living single, fucking white guys, using hardcore internet porn vocabulary, and snorting heroin. It is a story not everyone will be happy with.

Given, Maya is on the surface, on that façade, living a middle-class life: ostensibly going to college, getting a PhD, and in conversation with her mother about apply for college teaching jobs. But the car wreck that we readers are slowing down to look at in Problems is whether all of this is going to fall apart for Maya. One suspects yes. The 'how' is the fascination, with the 'why' kind of secondary, because that's another part of the critique that Sharma is offering: the hipster lifestyle of New York and elsewhere is all just as much a façade as 'regular' middle-class-ness, and not sustainable:

You can't help the truth, the mundane details that frame people's perceptions of who you are, like where you were born, what your father does for a living, how many siblings you have. In our lies we offer the world a presentation of how we would be if we had complete control over our existence. That's why it's so embarrassing to get caught in a lit. It offers a glimpse into how you want to be seen. Those are the things I am insecure about. You take things off the table, clean up your stories, edit out the parts that don't make sense, and think, Now that's better.

What's interesting is that for Maya, drugs are the least of her problems. Whether that's true or not is a question, but Problems could exist as a story without the drugs, in that Maya certainly has other problems, including (but not limited to) body issues, and race issues, and daddy issues, if it were just about these things the book might verge on up into basic chick lit, whereas really it's kind of the anti-chick lit novel, or the novel for all the real women out there who can't afford to just up and head for Italia to eat, drink and pray when some dude breaks up with them.

But it's in the body issue rants or self-critiques that I feel like I'm getting a glimpse behind the curtain at what all women go through, though female readers will probably be like, 'yes, thank you, finally someone finally putting this shit on paper!' Maya feels she can't win, even from the beginning, because she's brown, and white women don't have any problems (which, is absurd, and shows how much she's in denial, because she describes white women she meets in this hipster drug world, and anyone but her can tell they're fucked up too). But I get it when Maya says she hates her big breasts and the fact that she has no ass, and wishes she could move all the weight from her top to her bottom so she could have a nice juicy butt like other women. I get that there surely is some other woman who just as strongly wishes her butt weren't so big, and that her breasts were. You can't win as long as you're playing the game of guessing what men want, of having men (even hipster men) in the position of power to be the Deciders about what looks good in women. Thus, problems.

Having a sympathetic character who is kind of a fucked up and unreliable and a liar and a drug (ab)user is tough to pull off, especially for the length of a novel. Irvine Welsh did it in Trainspotting by having multiple characters, at least half of whom weren't totally dislikable, merely pathetic. Also, he captured the world of the characters, lower-class life in economically poor Scotland of the 90s, which was kind of exotic for someone like me. The hipster drug culture of the now in New York City is also kind of exotic for me, though less so. And, both books are funny. Like this:

You live in New York, and you're so cool. You have an apartment in the East Village, and you call yourself an artist. But after a while, you forget what it was you were so excited about. There is nothing here for you. You feel like a sucker every day paying fourteen bucks for a pack of smokes. You take stock of your resources, and you don't have anything. You call yourself an artist, but you work fifty million hours a week just to sleep in a room where only a bed fits. You go to bars where you can't sit down or hear anyone talk. You're a hipster in New York City. There are a million of you, and it doesn't matter that you believe you're talented, because no one cares and you're only getting older. The thing you didn't realize when you were fourteen and thought Kurt Cobain was God was that not every weirdo with an ironic tee from Urban Outfitters makes it. There are a lot of people in their sixties, toothless, broken, and poor, who have stories of almost making it. At what point do people hear “loser” when you say “artist”?

Problems is a sign of the times: a (dark) satire, a tragedy, and a critique of something bubbling under our supposedly back-to-normal economy, where those that are still nouveau-riche-y middle-class are not that far from a hard fall into crack-whore-dom.

But still, even with Maya's problems, what I like the most is that she's unrepentant, and refuses to see herself as a victim. Her problems are her own, and she's dealing with them, and she won't take your pity. We may not agree on how she's proceeding, or if she's proceeding at all, but she is still smart, and able to laugh at herself. And if she's lying to herself as well, well, don't we all. In this she's like the characters of another favorite author of mine, Kim Addonizio, though Addonizio is stronger and more successful in the short story form. Sharma makes Problems move right along with an almost (but not quite) collage style similar to David Markson, or some Vonnegut (like in Hocus Pocus) and maybe most especially Charles Bukowski.

And so there: I've just compared Jade Sharma to four of my favorite writers of all time. I've been grumbling to my friends lately that I don't seem to like reading fiction, period, anymore, but Sharma gives me hope. I think it's that dark, seedy, satiric novels like Problems just aren't considered marketable by the Big Publishers, gone are the days when Hubert Selby Jr. was a bestseller. And so I can't find any novels like this anymore. And probably the Eat, Pray, Love crowd would not like this book. Though, that said, fans of Cheryl Strayed's Wild might. Thankfully we have indie publishers like Coffee House who will take chances. Although, they're not taking a chance. They have a great book on their hands. and they know it.

[Release date: July 5, 2016]

What I've Stolen, What I've Earned by Sherman Alexie

My review of "What I've Stolen, What I've Earned by Sherman Alexie" appeared at WORD RIOT (now defunct) February 2014.


What I've Stolen,
What I've Earned
by Sherman Alexie
Hanging Loose Press 2013 156 pages
ISBN: 978-1934909-32-4

As a break-out short story writer, then a break-out screenplay writer, then a novelist, and most recently a National Book Award-winning author of the YA novel The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian, it's easy to forget that Sherman Alexie started out as, and remains, a poet, and a good one. Some of his poems have been chosen for the yearly anthology Best American Poetry, and I would argue that his success in other genres is because he is a poet, and brings to them his unique and imaginative language, that above all sounds new and fresh, and that contains his unique blend of humor, despair, exaggeration/hyperbole, such as that found in his latest book of poetry, What I've Stolen What I've Earned, from Hanging Loose Press.

Because his poetry has always been so accessible and new-sounding, I had always thought of him mainly working in free verse, forgetting that even in his first books he's at least playing with a kind of formalism, which he continues in this collection, with variations on his own invention, in what I call the prose poem sonnet, though which he simply calls sonnets. They are blocks of text in which each sentence is numbered, up to fourteen of course, though also of course he even breaks with his own rule on this when the story he's telling becomes more urgent and a numbered sentence can become a numbered section of multiple sentences, usually happening after the traditional 'turn' of a sonnet on the eight line. For example, the first part of “Sonnet, with Saxaphone”:
1. This poem doesn't contain a saxophone or any reference to music, played with or without the saxophone. 2. This poem, though written by a Native American, will not contain any reference to Native Americans or, more idiomatically speaking, Indian, or, speaking in slang, Skins. 3. This poem will not be funny. 4. This poem is very funny. 5. No, it's not....

He also sometimes breaks a poem/story into fourteen sections separated by line breaks, creating more of a collage, like in “Love Sonnet, Constructed by Wikipedia”:
1. Love is a universal construct related to affinity.

2. Affinity, etymologically, is the opposite of infinity.

3. Love and ego are incompatible....

What's interesting in any of his sonnet versions is how the effect ends up being a blend (or maybe the contemporary pop term mash-up is more appropriate?) of poetry with essay and/or fiction. In fact, many of the 'poems' in this collection could almost just as easily be labeled as flash fiction and/or 'mini-essay' pieces now appearing in some journals. And the question of whether they could be 'stories' (ie fiction) or 'essays' (ie 'true') is interesting. Poetry, unlike supposedly prose, has no fiction and non-fiction sub-categories. The difference here in Alexie's prose pieces seems to be whether the story that unfolds ends on something in reality (or real, therefore 'true'), or if he goes off into what could be called exaggeration though is really imaginative, like in “Sonnet, With Bird,” the best poem in the book, about the death of a friend:
….14. A gathering of quail is called a bevy. A gathering of Indians is called a tribe. When quails speak, they call it a song. When Indians sing, the air is heavy with grief. When quails grieve, they lie down next to their dead. When Indians die, the quail speaks.

Does that last sentence push what had been factually 'true' into fiction? Even though it is true? Is it factually true? How can you prove it's not? Does it depend on who wrote the line? Or who reads it? I don't know, but it's perfect.


In addition to form, another formalistic device Alexie works with in this collection is rhyme, along with a little rhythm. And he's pretty explicit about why in the 'poem' appearing midway in the collection, “Phone Calls From Ex-Lovers,” the longest piece in the book, which, again, if it were crammed into prose would 'pass' as an essay. Instead, it's mostly free verse in mostly three-line stanzas. And it mostly is indeed about when he was younger and an ex-lover called him, but Alexie uses that story as a starting point to talk about memory, and how or why we remember things. From there, the poem goes kind of way off track, speaking directly to the reader:
And yet, there is still something more

To say about this, and so I irritably
Reach for that thing, and I want you
To remember it, to encode it

In your primate DNA, and in order
For that to happen, my final message
Needs to rhyme. Yes, I'm sorry, but

Free verse isn't designed to be
Memorized. I mean, Jesus, if you want
Proof, just turn on the radio, tune

To a classic rock station, and sing
Along with every song you know.
Count those songs. Count the lyrics,

Count the number of choruses—rhymed,
Of course—that you have memorized
Without even trying. If you're a typical

American, you'll discover that you know
The lyrics to thousands of songs
And you know those songs so well

Because they have, say it, rhythm
And rhyme. Hell, memory itself
Works in rhythm and rhyme.

The poem then switches to prose:

To prove my point, I offer here a list of “The Top 100 Songs of 1984”....As you read this list, I guarantee that all of you, between the ages of 35 and 50, will have one specific memory associated with 93% of these songs.

And then he actually does just that. The 'poem' contains a list of 100 songs. Which, I sheepishly confess, I mostly all know, and could sing along with, just as Alexie says. As the 'poem' continues, and it switches back into free verse, he argues, again I guess, that free verse just isn't made to be memorized, nor is even this very poem, which, he claims, I guess seriously, that the poem (and not he?) “desperately strives to equal Springsteen, / Stevie Wonder, or Carole King,” and so, he returns, finally, (anti-climactically) back to the main story “Of Phone Calls From Ex-Lovers” and ends with a rhyming couplet, which I won't include here.

As a whole, the poem isn't successful, not compared to other poems in the book, but it reveals a lot about Alexie. And it's where I diverge from him. I feel his frustration that poetry isn't more well-received, and even his (disguised as his poem's) desire for recognition/fame. But I just can't take seriously his implication that Bruce Springsteen's song “Dancing In The Dark” has as much power as a good poem, and I say that as a poet and musician, a music lover, and a somewhat fan of Springsteen even. Because pop music tends to deal simplified versions of good ideas, at best, and cliches, at worse. And the rhyme almost always is more important than the ideas expressed. Not to mention that pop music has, well, music to back it up. A catchy cliché can get a lot of mileage off of a good beat. Alexie's experiment, rhyming, leaves him with just that: obvious sounding rhymes, which are all too obvious, for example, in the next poem in the book (and the worst), “Ode to Coffee”:
In the coffee shop, the dreadlocked white dude
Orders a complicated drink.
“Man, don't be rude
To that sacred liquid,” I think....

And so on. Can't be coincidence that Alexie put this rhyming poem right after his explanation of why he has chosen to experiment with rhyming poetry. If anything, the explanation/justification makes “Ode to Coffee” that much more obvious, therefore that much more worse. And it's not even funny? Even if some readers think so, poetry that relies on mere cleverness is a step down for Alexie, whose humor normally, to my mind, transcends to joy. I just don't like seeing him, seemingly hubristically, sacrificing his great sense of language for the kind of silly desire to have his poems memorized and somehow passed on to future generations.

Which makes me feel totally horrible, since most of the book is great, and Alexie remains one of my top five favorite contemporary writers. I said earlier that Alexie's poems 'could' be labeled flash fiction or creative non-fiction, but they do still feel like poems, though that may just be context (that is, they're in a book I bought in the poetry section) and Alexie's intention (that is, putting them in a book of poetry). Still, some of these pieces would fit fine in one of his short story collections. Though I say that and immediately think, well, these might stand out as being a little experimental since, however vivid and alive his short stories sound, in appearance look fairly standard.

All of which is an argument for how good a writer Alexie is, which makes me wonder why he went with Hanging Loose Press for this book, when I would think he could get a bigger poetry publisher. In an interview with Bill Moyers last year, Alexie stated that he likes to help support indie poetry presses by publishing with them, when, I assume, he could get a big publisher (of fiction) to put out his books through a poetry imprint. And that's fine and good, except I wish someone like Copper Canyon would pick him up, a company that would put a little bit more care into the design of its books. At first I thought What I've Stolen What I've Earned was an old early book of his that I had somehow missed, since it's design is so basic and bland. People do judge books by their covers, and this one doesn't do justice to the language inside. Plus I'm not sure Hanging Loose has the widest distribution range, though I could be wrong, and I only say that because I just want Alexie's poetry to be available to as many readers as possible. His is the type of poetry that appeals to hardcore poetry fans, but could also bridge over to folks that think they don't like poetry. I guarantee that anyone who has enjoyed his fiction would also like this book. Imagine if this book of poetry sold as much as The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian. Thus, Alexie's perhaps frustration. I feel it, though he's probably one of the better-selling poets in the country. Which, I know, isn't saying much. I too want him recognized more widely. Or, that is, he is widely recognized. His poetry should be too—and poetry in general should be. But if it is, it's not going to be playing by pop music's rules. Poetry is never going to 'popular' just by its nature: it's language, ideas, thinking, on the edge of Being, forming it. That Alexie does this in such accessible language makes him one of the best poets we have.

Tuesday, March 31, 2020

Tower Point Lookout Blues, Chorus II

"Tower Point Lookout Blues, Chorus II" now up in the CIRQUE Spring 2020 issue! Buy the print issue, and/or check out the free pdf at their website. I'm on page 98:

https://cirquejournal.com/

Saturday, March 28, 2020

Blue Oranges

"Blue Oranges" appeared in DEAD FLOWERS Volume 2, #5, page 11. December 2013. (Now defunct)


Blue oranges

I like how you can peel them in one big
continuous peel and set the peel on the table
still roughly holding its round shape while
we place slices in each others mouths
and I love the tartness of the orange
and you sitting there in your lime bikini
smiling at me ogling your bruises from the
riding crop you asked your boyfriend
to use on you last night but you change
the conversation back to my website and
answer my previous question about the
monthly analytic explaining who is visiting
and why and how they got there using various
search terms like moccasins and macintosh
apples and violent sex so that I have a
sense of what I should concentrate on in the
long term though for now I will continue
my list of songs that make me cry like Give Me
Love by George Harrison and I Live For You by
George Harrison and even Isn't It a Pity sometimes
by George Harrison none of which you say
you've ever heard until I sing them to you
watching the blue orange peel or rather
the spaces between so as to avoid looking
at you again and again