Friday, November 14, 2008

Here's My Intro For Tenney Nathanson From Last Night's Amazing Reading

“I was dreaming when I wrote this, so sue me if I go too fast”
--Prince, "1999"

Tenney Nathanson is much more than a poet and a critic. He is a mind in action. He has written one of the most important books in our time on Walt Whitman, called Whitman’s Presence: Body, Voice and Writing in Leaves of Grass, plus several books of poetry: One Block Over, Erased Art, (Published by Chax Press) and Home On The Range (O Books). Linguistic innovation in his work is fresh, startling, and will help you unknow things.

When I first started listening to Tenney read, I was alarmed and intrigued in a marvelous way, by the wild flow of collage and abstract narrations, and I’d get so happily lost. Now I listen for the way he moves through the various personalities of his phrasings. Whose voices are these? His? Mine? In one listen, I hear a multitude.

In a review of his work, Ron Silliman says, “By now the Whitmanesque line feels far less like Whitman & far more like Nathanson.”

And every line, if you listen carefully, becomes a hyperlink under erasure. Within Tenney’s poetry there is the constant sense that everything is infinitely linkable, infinitely connected. Or not…perhaps it’s infinitely fractured, but endearingly so.

Here’s a bit from the poem “Madame Bovary, The National Enquirer, Capital, and The Hardy Boys, Published For the First Time Together In A Single Volume” from the book Erased Art:

1.

“here is an equivalent stretch of sand
Or an equivalent stretch of sand
To the paper of this word
Fired like glass
Then fired like glass and perused
Wattles everywhere
With splayed mud giving it torsion in parts
Here’s some sand in your glass
Here’s some mud in your eye
As equivalence stretches the breaking point
Like a list including itself as one of its minor items
All had been well with the big engine of its dream”

You see that the words and the voices that motivate them are always moving towards and away from us, always slipping out of and into the framework of art.

Tenney has also done his fair share of cushion work, and has created a drifter poetics that is always grounded by that don’t-know mind. Even though he does know: the academy, the cushion, the koan. Frequently it treks through our desert place, and it always hears voices from all over and under the literary world. This drifted poetics is cozy in the movement of language, and ranges wide. It puts out its Whitmanian thumb and is picked up by Kafka, by Walter Benjamin, by D.T. Suzuki, by Tucson, and New York.

Writing about the content in Tenney’s most recent book, Home on The Range, Ron Silliman says: “I’m reminded of Peter Yates’ great definition of content in music as aesthetic consistency & Nathanson would be an example of the principle. It helps that he has an ear that is continually complicated by an overlay of mind…At that level, [the] poem is one long elaboration of the senses, yet it’s just as deeply embedded in history...It’s a complex production, yet completely governed by desire & its cognates...[and the intertexts] feel less like sources and almost as tho they were angels particular to a given section of the poem.”

I once heard an interview with jazz titan Thelonious Monk, who was asked about the use of silence in his work. Monk replied: “Silence is the loudest thing around but most motherfuckers can’t hear it because it’s moving.”

Tenney’s poetry hears the silences, works with them, brings out what they might say in a language that doesn’t ever let us get complacent. His poems attest to the movement of language, its awareness and unawareness of itself. His books create climactic zones, “musical notes, terns whose peaks as resonances, the different vibrational predications named together, a finer level of matter, the gravitational force there is no explanation” (Home On The Range).

It is a poetry that listens and speaks the body, and the newspaper, and the full range of what we mean when we say “Guatemala!”

His current project, which we will hear some of tonight is “Ghost Snow Falls Through The Void (Globalization)”.

I encourage you to listen to the silences between the multitudes, and you may find listening a new thing altogether. Please welcome my mentor and friend, Tenney Nathanson.

An Old (1998!) Email I sent a Pal:

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Tenney Nathanson Reads!


Photo by Tim Peterson.

Tomorrow night (Thursday, 11/13) I will introduce Tucson’s own Tenney Nathanson when he reads poems for the University of Arizona Poetry Center, 8pm at Gallagher Theatre. He’ll be reading with fiction writer and new U of A faculty member Manuel Muñoz. Tenney has written one of the most important books in our time on Walt Whitman, titled Whitman’s Presence: Body, Voice and Writing in Leaves of Grass, plus several amazing books of poetry: One Block Over, Erased Art, and Home On The Range. Linguistic innovations in his work are fresh, startling, and will help you unknow things. His current poetry project is a book length poem called Ghost Snow Falls through the Void (Globalization). He is my mentor and friend and even if he weren't, I'd still say his readings are not to be missed. Especially when he makes animal sounds.

The Overarching Notion

The other day I was asked by someone if there was a theme or an overarching property that acted as a binding force within my book, The Comeback’s Exoskeleton. My answer, its simplicity and accuracy, surprised me. "The overarching notion," I replied, "is the adoration of the cave man’s adoration of animals." I’d say this holds true to most everything I do these days.

Also, there's something slightly terrifying about the compound noun "baby changing station."

For Poem To Activate

Immersion in the break
(as in the break of a wave)
is what must:

eradicate rigid acres
(counties of thought
fouling out dead tribunal banter);

open more than jars of relish
(mere tensepoints banking at cozy poembottom
in wreck’d clammy tangles).

Then the act of making
has to put up its dukes
against the action of what’s made.

Charged into more than life’s pretty corpse
(if we die in life our dreams die, too)
the poem activates,
evicts the jealous what,
embraces the prodigal hOW.

Tuesday, November 11, 2008

This Is Not The Poem


Some wincing dude
grips his head,
puts his palms together,
Junes July,
and Augusts August.
Months are nouns
and verbs too.
You know it when you make
cold and wind in you grow.
There’s always a way
to climb in space,
in imagination,
on igneous walls
of cardiac crick.
A new music is playing
and I hear it
from my extra sides.
We are not alone.
Tiny thin men
in silver suits
inhabit us,
ray guns ablaze.
I know this is for paper,
for winning all robot races,
and recovering
the habit of seeing
the future.
The tragedy began
the moment I started flying.

Monday, November 10, 2008

A Cork In The Floor Comes Out


Chaos can’t tangle. Only carcomido can. Only trash and ruddy hands can tango. Only tragicomic grunions running under math can burden or can share. Only rusted bodies and boding clouds can rut in angled canyons. Chaos can rankle, but can’t drone. Candles can drone in a visual way, though if a badness, they cannot. Tarnation cancels codes, cancels orders, cancels every swing. Yesterday can take root, leave a mark, and turn. It does so every day. If feet have their way, the worker goes away. The wording holds and tangents tersely fix the mode of going. Each caustic breach of trust camps within encomiums. And mottled hills are grey. And green chili, red chili, hair in my mouth, all of it goes wondering through a fever, through a span of night, a brace of rain. Some wired wisdom talker rides a bike through fields; we are there, we are there, we write shields with our mouths. I lend you a towel, you dry. After the thing, there’s its wa, its ness. We speak in close silences, and tangle. So the yes can tangle. It can, and the chaos, too.

Friday, November 07, 2008

In the want of an original title I have ventured to call the following piece a Remonstrance.

Elk train spine torque. A few years ago, no one imagined that the spines (foliage) of pine-trees could be converted into wool. Roanoke ember auroch, bos taurus primigenius. The problem Saxby Chambliss faces is that he has maxed out his support base. What about: “I don’t like you, do you not understand?” Keep in mind, keep leaves in mind, keep then, using the habitat template approach, that hydropeaking pressure is related to biological quality elements, such as the ellipse of the half-moon. Lunatic lollers and lepers about, and mad as the moon sit, more other less. When passing a senior center or other facility primarily used by senior citizens, contiguous to a street other than a state highway and posted with a standard "SENIOR" warning sign, a local authority is not required to erect any sign pursuant to this paragraph until donations from private sources covering those costs are received and the local agency makes a determination that the proposed signing should be implemented. One thing about this, the longer you last the less you care.

Thursday, November 06, 2008

Child Moon Crowns A Shirt

Them stay not a brain fever. Instead them shirk old wonder in monk cars in clone real must, must mustard. Driven by not night, waiting not back until youth bereft and sorted goes swaying, child moon crowns a shirt. It’s all very sane as we planned a last weekend in hell, over Europe, over dangerous skies, over leaning into water. Never been on a boat together, as a function of being American. Sways at docksides, beaches in last gleam, shows with studio holy houses, hardwood floors where dumb friends try: placards and vibrations.

Wednesday, November 05, 2008

President Barack Obama



Breadbasket Panoramic
Porkiest Maraca Nabbed
Probed Beatnik Mascara
Imported Cabana Bakers
Armada Backbone Esprit
Robbed Karmic Anapaest
Direct Panorama Kebabs
Poised Bareback Mantra
Akimbo Cabstand Reaper
Parked Macabre Bastion
Ameboid Cabaret Pranks
Peskier Badman Acrobat
Abated Backspin Roamer
Armband Tieback Operas
Pancake Timbers Aboard
Bedpan Ambrosia Tacker
Easier Batman Backdrop
Pancaked Errata Bimbos
Madcap Baritone Bakers
Parked American Abbots
Ramrod Pancake Tabbies
Mandrake Bobcat Praise
Backbit Enamor Parades
Kneecap Matador Rabbis
Roamed Brickbat Paeans
Carbon Beaked Pastrami
Bicarb Nematode Parkas

Tuesday, November 04, 2008

Geopoliticus Child Watching the Birth of the New Man



Salvador Dalí, 1943. Salvador Dalí Museum, St. Petersburg, Florida.

Monday, November 03, 2008

Norman Fischer at Antigone Bookshop!



In 40 minutes I introduce poet and Zen Teacher Norman Fischer at a reading he's giving at Antigone Bookshop, in Tucson.

Here's an excerpt from his talk called "Language and Dharma":

“I suppose you could say that language is humanity, because human consciousness is language-making consciousness. Language is so close to us we cannot understand what it is. We are in language as a fish is in water: for the fish there [is] no such thing as water, water is just the way things are, you can’t get outside of it and call it water. I have been wondering about language almost all my life and I cannot understand it at all. It is probably the case that I am no closer to understanding language now, after all these years of exploration, than I have ever been. Still, I am always writing about this effort to understand language in my poetry. It seems to be my chief topic: can we know what language is, can we know what we are?”

Sunday, November 02, 2008

God Sautéed In A Shrimp Boat

Gainsaid Bathroom Deputes
Amputated Seabird Shooing
Tutored Amphibian Dosages
Outmoded Thespian Airbags
Dogeared Spumoni Habitats
Thrombi Diastase Poundage
Admitted Saguaro Hipbones
Smudgiest Tabooed Piranha
Pegboard Satanism Hideout
Bigmouth Diapered Sonatas
Parting Houseboat Diadems
Abusing Toadied Metaphors

Tarp Narrative

Private Art Ran
Rear Van Tar Pit
Near Art Vat Rip
Avert Rain Trap
Rave Train Part
Art Riven Apart
Raven Tapir Rat
Avatar Reprint
Partner Via Art
Variant Rat Rep
Rattrap Ravine
Atentar Privar
Partira Ventar
Entrapar Vitar
Trap Narrative

Where Am I Going?

Friday, October 31, 2008

Thursday, October 30, 2008

Small Fries

Go Git 'Em.

Radio Hat Chassis



Wednesday, October 29, 2008

Why That Fear Is Still Them Enemies

Without chaos with reciprocity for the horse, I bow down to a lonely dog. I’m still pounded by the iron fist of my me. Hey, you be a tequila. Mister wears a skirt. I am stronger by the way. Him doubt him right mind. How go forward in train, waiting to hear rags, or a rock? Them endings, endings of them. My muscles hurt, I meditate. I monk my life and me anyway making things wordsy: a choice, the addressee, this a poem. Slap a new date on it and find the way crumbles go down. Find some place in head to cavern out, westering, ever going. Yaws, a transport. Tonsils not victims. Them grow and make things, themselves, making life a complex raid on reason. On smacked-out liar heads. From these shifting wisps a life is made? Yes, and the risks are too grand to try and make a Bigger so best to shut it down. Too risked out most find it to make a Colossus, a Tangerine of Super Proportions. Mutts get it, even retrievers too. You make a life by working overtime. In tinted hollow moments nobody hardly anybody gets that.