kate greenstreet
kate at kickingwind dot com
about
some poems online
scheduled readings

case sensitive
available at your local bookseller
and online at Ahsahta Press,
SPD, & amazon.com

first-book & other interviews: here

blogs:

537neon
ada limon
almost i rushed from home...
a. lobster
adam clay
amy king's blog
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andrea baker
a peek of reach
a poet's eyes
a sad day for sad birds
asthma chronicles
a tonalist notes
avoiding the muse
awfully serious
aye, wobot!
bachelardette
bemsha swing
big window
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the blind chatelaine's poker poetics
bloggedy blog blog
blonde on blonde
boarding parties
bob marcacci
books, inq.
both both
brandon brown
brazier & inkstone
the burning chair
caconrad
cahiers de corey
can of corn
caterina.net
catherine daly's blog
charles bernstein's weblog
chaxblog
chicago postmodern poetry
chicana poetics
chicks dig poetry
clay matthews
conchology
cosmopoetica/cpb
coursing public thought
critical fiction
cruelest month
culture industry
da-crouton
dagzine
dbqp: visualizing poetics
the delay
desert city
the dishwasher's tears
DIY poetics
DIY publishing
do gummi bears dream...
dumbfoundry
elsewhere
epistle whipped
equanimity
esther press
e-x-c-h-a-n-g-e-v-a-l-u-e-s
the exquisite corpse
eyeball hatred 
fait accompli
fewer & further
flowers that gloze
frank sherlock
fringe matters
geneva convention
ghostbrain
hammer loop
harlequin knights
heatstrings
here comes everybody
heuriskein
hg poetics
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houseboat days
hum and ash
humanophone
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i am yer grammer
i'll show you mine
immoweth
imprimatur
the ingredient
in place of chairs
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isola di rifiuti
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little red's recovery room
litwindowpane
looktouchblog
lorcaloca
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the lovely arc
lutheran surrealism
mappemunde
maximum go...
micawberesque
michelle detorie
million poems
minimalist concrete poetry
minor american
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morescotch
mr. tong bliss' journal
muisti kirja
my maserati
narcissusworks
the neglectorino project
never mind the beasts
nice guy syndrome
nikuko
noah eli gordon
nomadics
notes from a fellow traveler
nothing to say and saying it
now then
odalisqued
open reader
overlap
paul hoover's blog
the pangrammaticon
pantaloons: tykes on poetry
peek thru the pines
phanopoeia
philly sound
plight of the troubadour
poetaensanfrancisco
poetry hut
poesy galore
poets' corner
postcards from the imagination
postmodern collage poetry
pseudopodium
pshares blog
pudgy pigeon enterprises
pugnacious pinoy
qbdp: the mailartworks
radish king
reader of depressing books
red slowly
reli[e]able signs
riverfall
rob mclennan's blog
rocket kids
rue hazard
said like reeds or things
saintelizabethstreet
samizdat blog
sam of the ten thousand things
say something wonderful
secret mint
serif of nottingham
shanna compton's blog
shikow
silliman's blog
slicker chumway's
snapper's effing junk(boat)heap
so and so series
spooks by me
stamped & metered flying fish
starnosedmole
steve's house of love
the steinach operation
swoonrocket
texfiles in bahrain
they shoot poets don't they?
third factory/notes/lipstick of noise
this is all your fault
this morning in poetry
tom raworth's notes
transsubmutation
twenty thousand thousand
ululations
understory
union square poetry series
the unquiet grave
venepoetics
virgin formica
voices in utter dark
voix off
the well-nourished moon
we've been talked down
whimsy speaks
whirligig
wild horses of fire
wood s lot
the word cage
the world a letter
yes, starlings! yes!
you are here
ysleta poeta
zach barocas
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.oar.

journals/small press/reviews:

1913
6 X 6
action yes
alice blue
apocryphaltext
barrow street
belladonna books
big game
bird dog
blazevox
black lodge press
black ocean press
boog city
bookforum
bookslut
braincase press
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calamari press
the canary
cannibal
carve
chax press
circumference
coconut
coldfront magazine
conduit
the constant critic
cue
the cultural society
cutbank
cy gist press
cy press
diagram
the duplications
dusie
effing press
eoagh
fascicle
faux press e chapbooks
fewer & further press
frame
free verse
frequency
galatea resurrects
gong press
gutcult
half empty/half full
hot whiskey press
jacket
h_ngm_n
the happy booker
the hat
hooke press
horse less press
house press
how2/barbara guest memory bank
jacket
katalanche press
kitchen press
konundrum engine
kulture vulture
la petite zine
lit
melancholia's tremulous dreadlocks
milk
mipoesias
new pages
no
no tell motel
octopus
octopusbooks
onedit
outside voices
the page
parakeet
pettycoat relaxer
poetry 365
the poker
portable press at yo-yo labs
practice: new writing + art
rain taxi
realpoetik
rhino
rhubarb is susan
rose metal press
rust buckle
saint elizabeth street
shampoo
skanky possum
sleepingfish
sona books
spell
the tiny
tool a magazine
three candles
transmission press
typo
ugly duckling presse
unpleasant event schedule
vert
wintered press
wire sandwich
womb
word for/word
xantippe
zafusy

selby's list

audio/radio/video:

AudibleWord.Org
Factory School audio archives  
Kelly Writers House webcasts
Laurable
LINEbreak
miPOradio
my vocabulary  
Naropa archives
PENNsound
UbuWeb

15 JAN 07

13 JAN 07

We went to a ventriloquist's show. Something was wrong with the dummy. It broke. The ventriloquist freaked, started blaming members of the audience, and a riot started. I said, "EXIT. Look, there's the exit." (Lit in red) and we headed for the door.

Throwing her voice
and, with that, she exits. "Just do what I said."

The dental sounds
/v/, /t/, /d/, and /n/

if
spoken quickly. "Who's your little friend?"

11 JAN 07

[guest blogger: Max]

When we'd said good-bye and she went inside, I started walking away but waited down at the end of the platform until the last of the conductors had stepped into the 10:24 and it was pulling out. Just to be sure. Then I turned and ran down the stairs, through the tunnel, and over to the truck. I thought she might look out her window. Drove home listening to James Brown telling me what I already knew.

"Power trouble," she said, half an hour later, phoning from the unmoving train. Stopped en route. Delay of unpredicted length. The vagaries of power. We almost never talk on the phone anymore. (Happily, the occasion doesn't arise.) But when we do, Kate's voice through the receiver always reminds me of our courtship. That 64 miles between us needed to be eliminated. Our long distance phone bills were unbelievable. Why did we eventually have to be together all the time? Being apart was just too costly. In every sense.

After an interval, a second call: "We've gotten rolling." I keep her on an extra minute, making small talk, not mentioning how strange the house feels without her around. Even though we separate every morning (she goes out to her studio), the atmosphere is distinctly different when she is actually away, even for a day. She's meeting a friend in the city, going to see the Brice Marden exhibit.

I have something else that needs doing today--my mother's 90th birthday is coming up and I'm building her a little present. My mother is the person I've known the longest. I think of her as the various people she has been during the past half century, all at once. I don't return to one era by default, the way I do with some people. Who we were when I saw her last summer is in the forefront of my mind.

But if you asked me to hand you 12 snapshots of my mother--you know, memory snapshots--I'd probably start with one that's something like this:

Fresh sawdust on the barn floor. I don't know for certain which cow that is. It's later, after my mother acquired those green coveralls to wear when she milked. I would've been in junior high or high school then, so she was a little older than I am now. No cats in the shot--they keep away from the cow's feet but they're definitely nearby, waiting for warm milk to be poured into a worn bowl. I'd be hanging around too (it's my memory), though my brother David took this photograph. The angle isn't mine. I might be sitting to the left of the frame, on baled hay or on feed sacks. It looks like a picture of solitary labor. (She started and ended nearly every day this way.) But the memory it represents is of conversation. "How was your day?"

It's almost the moment for me to head back to the station. I've added to this from time to time through the afternoon. When Kate's third call came, the noise before she spoke sounded like messages that are often left on our machine, a few accidental seconds of talking in the background--a room (I imagine) where there are many telemarketers of some sort, wearing headsets. A room of one side of conversations. It's similar to that "party" sound in songs when I was a kid. I was listening to it, kind of enjoying it, not expecting anything to happen, then she said hello.

If I'm lucky, she won't encounter any "power trouble" on the ride south. My work went pretty well--though I hoped I'd get further, the way we always do.

Driving K to the train this morning, I asked if she had a post ready. (Today's the day--she does it every other day, as the name suggests.) She said she'd started something early this morning, but it hadn't turned into anything yet. I've been stopping by her chair--not really assuming this would become the post, but thinking it'd be a pleasant greeting for her to find when she sits down at her screen again later.

9 JAN 07

I was making these paintings on the Lower East Side and finally someone comes in and says "Oh, there's a guy on the other side of town doing things a little bit like this, you know, who's trying to make things disappear."

--Brice Marden (in conversation w/Chris Ofili, Artforum 10/2006)

7 JAN 07

Train Travel Today

The man sitting in front of us:

The most important thing is doors. The most important thing? It's doors. It was a Monday. Or it was a Wednesday. He was a good engineer. The doors were closed. He knew his craft. There's a concept in law school. There's a concept in first year law, meaning "captain of the ship." Be good now, girls. Just two stops? But you've gotten so much done in that time. Be good, be safe--how about that? I'm as old as your mom. I'm two days younger than King Charles.

The woman sitting behind us:

Oh, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I haven't even spoken to... Hello? How are you? I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry. I didn't have my glasses on. I'm very sorry. Yes because. She called. I didn't have my glasses on. Because I'm not in New York, I'm in New Jersey. Okay. Oh god, that's so true. That's so true. I'm so glad. Okay. Alright. I'm so sorry.

The people sitting across the aisle:

He really doesn't like it when I'm too polite. But he also doesn't like it if I'm not polite enough. That's the tricky part. I'm not saying he's not intelligent. He's like me. I couldn't trust him--of course! A special way of... [sighs] a special person. They can accept you if it doesn't interfere with what they want. With their plans. Some of them need this or that. I forgot to say that. Like a trophy from hunting. Making your own rules and pretending that you're not making your own rules, that's not a good thing. I didn’t want you to get hurt. I don't think it helps.

5 JAN 07

14 sentences:

Kept chilled by being surrounded, became completely covered. I knelt in the sun. Dismantled their nativity scene. Preface usefulness: do or say something useful. "When, in 1592, the Plague closed the theaters…" Get the conversation going! Too close, eyes closed. Face into the background. It was sunny and I carried a tough little bag. I was in a forceful mood.

Meanwhile the body is flown here and there. I thought I could cash in my greenpoints for a hundred dollar gift card, but only had enough points for the ten. I bought onions for a meat sauce and a bottle of merlot. We all had questions.

3 JAN 07

"Maybe thoughts are the eyes of God"

spring

summer

fall

winter

1 JAN 07

[5 things you might not know]

Dear Andy,

For a week or so last month, I strongly considered asking you to collaborate with me on a chapbook. I had the title This is why I hurt you and various pieces of it. I kept getting the idea that it could be better if we worked on it together--even though (or maybe especially because) we don't know each other. I like your writing and felt you'd bring something interesting to the topic. I also like your drawings and I imagined we could both do illustrations for it in our different styles. But then the project began to take shape on its own, the way they do, and established itself as a solo venture. (So, maybe another time?)

Greenstreet is a name that Max and I made up. We wanted to have the same last name but not one that either of us already had. So he went to court and changed his name legally and I "took" it when we got married.

My mother was a cocaine dealer for a while. (Fun while it lasted.)

My first day in Ireland, I had some trouble driving on the other side of the road. On a very narrow street, trying to avoid oncoming traffic, I scraped into a parked car. Then the next one and the next one and the next. Bang bang bang bang bang bang, hitting six or seven parked cars, at least. I kept going. I didn't stop or leave a note. Or notes. On a whole street-full of cars? I always felt bad about that.

I have recently become an Irish citizen.

happy new year,

Kate

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