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some poems online
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case sensitive
available at your local bookseller
and online at Ahsahta Press,
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January 2007
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15 17 19
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blogs:

$650 apartment for $650
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asthma chronicles
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a view from the potholes
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the brother swimming beneath me
the burning chair
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minor american
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mr. tong bliss' journal
narcissusworks
the neglectorino project
nervous unto thirst
never mind the beasts

thenewermetaphysicals
nice guy syndrome
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nothing to say and saying it
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omnidawn blog
paul hoover's poetry blog
the pangrammaticon
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phactory
philly sound
poetry hut
poesy galore
poets' corner
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samizdat blog
sandra alland's blog-like entity
sandra simonds swims and swims
say something wonderful
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st*rnosedmole
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stephen vincent
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texfiles in bahrain
they shoot poets don't they
third factory
this is all your fault
this morning in poetry
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transsubmutation
twenty thousand thousand
ululations
understory
the unquiet grave
unreliable narrator
venepoetics
virgin formica
voices in utter dark
voix off
the well-nourished moon
what an errand knave
wild horses of fire
wind meals
wood s lot
the word cage
wordstrumpet
yes, starlings! yes!

you are here
ysleta poeta
zach barocas
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journals/small press/reviews:

1913
6 X 6
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above/ground press
absent magazine
action yes
ahsahta press
alice blue
apocryphaltext
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bird dog
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the brooklyn rail
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carve
chax press
circumference
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the constant critic
cue
the cultural society
cutbank
cy gist press
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diagram
dusie
effing press
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fascicle
faux press e chapbooks
fewer & further press
flim forum press
free verse
galatea resurrects
g o n g press
gutcult
half empty/half full
the hat
hot whiskey press
handsome
h_ngm_n
hooke press
horse less press
house press
how2/barbara guest memory bank
jacket
katalanche press
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konundrum engine literary review
la petite zine
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lit
little red leaves
milk
mipoesias
new pages
no
no tell motel
octopus
octopusbooks

omg press
omnidawn
onedit
the page
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poetry 365
the poker
portable press at yo-yo labs
rain taxi
realpoetik
rhino
rhubarb is susan
rose metal press
rust buckle
saltgrass
seconds
shampoo
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sleepingfish
slope
sona books
spell
tool a magazine
three candles
transmission press
typo
ugly duckling presse
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wintered press
wire sandwich
womb
word for/word
xantippe
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selby's list


audio/radio/video:

AudibleWord.Org
The Continental Review
Frequency 
Kelly Writers House webcasts
Laurable
LINEbreak

miPOradio
miPOradio POdcast
Naropa archives
PENNsound
Rabbit Light Movies
to the sound
UbuWeb
a voice box

 

 

 

every other day


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.

dummy for sale, eBay

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?"

Photo: John Thomas, c. 1885

 

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

Brice Marden

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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