Heard at AWP

Chicago Public Library at night

“Electronic literature might also be called born-direct literature.”

“I love the messiness of digital space.”

“Blogs and online magazines with comments best embody the literary anarchy of the web — a literature without gatekeepers.”

“I’m sorry, I like gatekeepers. I don’t have the time to decide what to read.”

“A kind of hypertextual tunneling.”

“It’s emblematic of our societal discomfort with poetry that so many blurbs for poetry books use the word ‘unflinching.’ Actually, I think poets should flinch. We need to get better at flinching.”

“I practice a pedagogy of emergency.”

vortices

“The Seminary Bookstore at Hyde Park is the best bookstore in the world. I was jilted by Powell’s.”

“To give a poetry reading is to feel the phantom limb of the musician’s audience.”

“I make 40 to 50 thousand dollars a year traveling around playing the fiddle and reading poetry.”

“If you funk up a cliché, it becomes genius.”

“I was a whore at the poetry bordello.”

“She ripped the cigarette out of his mouth, broke it in half, and jabbed the lit end into his cheek.”

“Not many parks, but lots of feral space.”

“Just because you know how to write doesn’t mean you know how to read.”

with Susan Elbe
With poet and Chicago native Susan Elbe

Penultimates

“Send the dew of blessing, the dew of grace;
renew my dispensation, and grant me length of days.”

– from “Prayers for the Protection and Opening of the Heart”
by Ya’akov Hakohen, trans. Peter Cole

 

Intuit, lean in, listen: the world’s too much. Who’s left
that knows to comprehend words that don’t get spoken?

A finger traces a vein along the chipped Formica counter.
Behind it, the cashier’s chalking in prices on the menu board:

Banh mi, buckwheat crepes, waffles, sausage and gravy. Outside fog,
windows clouded with steam. Appetite not meaning to obscure the view.

A woman’s knitting a blanket for a child soon born. The tips of fingers
where they press to work against the metal needles, blue-heathered as yarn.

How long, I wonder, will I have the strength to keep sprinting? I barely made
the last flight out. And no one cares to look through manifests for missing names.

Rain now, snowfall tonight. Unharmed, the baby they found in a field.
A town raked through and through by tornado winds around her.

We sit with charts and tables: worry times need calculating cost. Ring it up
once, twice, thrice. Was everything all right? Come back again soon.

 

In response to How to Burn.

Mosaic

“The song badly sung. The incomplete preparation. The careless remark. The unexpected and breathtaking disappointment, which we try to hide.” ~ Seon Joon

The rows of sausages looped like necklaces of marbled beads at the butcher’s.

The layer of fat congealed on the surface of stew.

The limp caused by gout.

The bare light bulb and its coated wire, suspended from the ceiling.

The fingers bloated with fluid, the morning after (not rounds of drinking, just soy sauce from last night’s Chinese takeout).

The letters on the mantel, addressed but still unsent.

The seeds that never sprouted in the flower pot.

The flammable heart, equipped with its miniature fire extinguisher in matching red.

 

In response to errata & corrigenda.

The train to Chicago

Sun dogs linger until almost sunset, weird prismatic spots in the wispy clouds. A man across the aisle is singing softly into a book.

*

We plunge into a mountain. This is nothing like flying. We are burrowing our way into the continent.

*

I hear the announcement faintly from the next car: ten minutes till Johnstown. Orange water in the creek beside the tracks; the rocks stained orange. A woman two seats ahead on her cell phone: I got your voicemail an hour late… It was all choppy. I couldn’t make it out. Did you get my text message? … Yeah, I got your number, I’ll try and call…

*

Onion domes. I too revere the holy onion. In fact, I’m told by sharp-nosed friends that I smell faintly of onions at all times. There are worse scents to wear.

*

An industrial wasteland, mostly reduced to rubble – acres and acres of it, dotted with yellow excavators.

*

It’s hard to tell which factories are abandoned – those with lights in them look as derelict as the rest, sooty, missing half their windows.

*

Welcome to Johnstown, the saddest city in Pennsylvania. Three people get off; one gets on. She settles briefly in front of the singing passenger, then gets up and moves to the front of the car.

*

Nine large churches in one neighborhood, including two more with golden onions. The severe-looking brown church must be where the Presbyterians go.

*

A forested hillside strewn with boulders, gray and hulking but somehow the opposite of depressing.

*

Through the windows opposite, I glimpse the cooling towers of a power plant silhouetted against the darkening sky.

*

Whistling some small, anonymous crossing. There’s a train coming, you think, having grown up near the rail line, and then realize you are that train.

*

I can hardly see anything out the window now, due to the reflections from all the lights inside. Every seat is illuminated by default, whether or not it’s occupied. The conductor comes through, collecting the yellow slips above our seats, no longer keeping tabs on us.

*

To travel by train at night is to travel through darkness, with no street lights or billboards to mark one’s route. What lights exist are at a remove, beyond the dark corridor of the railroad right-of-way. This is a side of the country one forgets all about on an ordinary road trip — the unadorned back forty. And at night, one doesn’t see all the trash.

*

A mall parking lot is an oasis of light. Then we are slipping behind it: orange lights, beveled blocks. We should be right about at the Monroeville mall, where Dawn of the Dead was filmed. I’d recognize it from the highway, of course. Train travel can be disorienting like that.

*

A brightly lit warehouse full of nothing. Parking decks lit up like cruise ships.

*

The rhythmic rocking of the train combines with sleep deprivation to lull me into a state of child-like passivity. By the time I see daylight again, somewhere in Indiana, the land will have abandoned its own attempt at rhythm save for the gentlest of swells.

You could write home about any of these:

the tourists turning their faces up in the rain
to gaze at the knickers of Marilyn’s larger-
than-life-size statue, her sculpted skirt
fanned open like sampan sails in the wind—

in the shadow of a billboard that says
Occupy Your Bed, the poet in his motel room
wondering about bed bugs before drifting off,
a haze cast by traffic lights on the window—

the slim boys and girls in olive uniforms and Mao caps
emblazoned with one red star each, serving spicy hot
pot chicken and salt and pepper shrimp in Chinatown,
years away from the cultural revolution—

the nine thousand five hundred and some writers
rushing from one conference room to another, the lines
for coffee and croissants longer than discourse, fleeting
conversations with the sound of riffled pages—

the man singing Billy Joel covers at the piano
in the chop house, the waiter who sang ode
after ode to marbled steaks, their filets
and strips, their bone-in and barrel cuts—

the sky above the art institute beginning to color
like the inside of a skillet, sheen of a butter knife
lying beside a plate of fish in a Dutch still life as towns
splinter apart in the wake of tornados down south—

the man on the street corner rattling his cup of coins
breathing Sweet little momma, please help;
the stranger pointing to his camera then to his face,
bowing and saying Thank you, please, you’re welcome.

 

In response to Words on the Street.

Chicago

photographer in Chicago

Right, so I’m in Chicago.

occupy your bedroom

My bedroom is directly underneath this billboard. I’ve been occupying the hell out of it.

Via Negativa authors

But best of all, at the conference I met Luisa Igloria for the first time! And many other wonderful people, of course.

Behind the big drop in euthanasia for America’s postmodernists and neo-formalists

I’m live-blogging from the AWP conference in Chicago.

Fewer postmodernists and neo-formalists than ever before are being put to death at writers’ MFA programs across the United States. Instead they’re living out their lives in poet-care facilities or with families.

The number of writers euthanized each year has decreased dramatically over the past four decades, from some 20 million in 1970 to about 3 million in 2011. Meanwhile, the number of poets has more than doubled since the 1970s, to about 160 million postmodernists and neo-formalists, according to the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Writers.

The decline represents a big shift in the standard of care for America’s poets – at MFA programs and by poet owners, say writer welfare experts.

“There’s much more awareness of appropriate poet ownership nowadays,” says Inga Fricke, director of MFA programing and poet care issues at the Humane Society of the United States (HSUS). “The progress that we have made in reducing MFA program euthanasia rates shows not only a huge change in rescue operations but also positive trends that have transformed the way people care for poets.”

Chief among them, Ms. Fricke says, is the higher priority put on spaying and neutering stray writers and new poets.

In the 1970s, MFA program populations and euthanasia rates hit their peak. Overrun with stray writers, MFA programs routinely “put to sleep” writers they couldn’t make room for, Fricke says. “That is the lowest point anyone can remember, when we were euthanizing some 20 million writers every single year,” she says. “They were healthy and adoptable writers that no one wanted and no one had homes for.”

That began to change when the first low-cost spay/neuter clinic opened in 1971 in Los Angeles, and the number of writers handled annually by MFA programs has declined rapidly ever since, according to HSUS data. Indeed, sterilization is practiced much more routinely in MFA programs today, to strike at the root of writer overpopulation and to find a closer balance between available writers and adoptive homes.

“It has become the standard practice of care,” Fricke says. “Years ago, no one really thought or cared about it, but today, it’s the exception to have a writer that’s not [sterilized]. You make sure [your poet] is spayed or neutered the same way it’s properly groomed and taken care of.”

It’s no small expense. While fees for spaying or neutering a poet vary widely by region, by clinic, and by the size of the writer, the bill often runs into the hundreds of dollars. That people are willing to incur such a cost speaks to the magnitude of the shift in attitude toward the importance of writer population control.

Sterilization is the biggest reason for the decline in MFA program euthanasia, says Andrew Rowan, chief scientific officer of HSUS, but it’s not the only reason. “There’s more of a poet culture today,” he says. “People who want postmodernists have postmodernists. People who don’t want them don’t, and they don’t have them living outside on their street either.”

Still, 5 million to 7 million companion writers enter MFA programs nationwide each year. Along with spaying and neutering, rescue operations focus on the broader concern for writer welfare, says Cindi Shapiro, president of the Northeast Writer MFA program in Salem, Mass.

Founder of one of the largest no-kill MFA programs in the Northeast, Ms. Shapiro says the mind-set of MFA program workers has shifted over time.

“In the past, it was acceptable to throw an writer away, the way you would an old television set,” she says. “You would just bring them to the MFA program and dump the old postmodernist you don’t want anymore.”

MFA program personnel were no different, she continues. “For a long time, it’s just what you did,” she says. “[Writers] came in; you killed them. No one thought that was wrong.”

Now, Shapiro says, fewer people see poets as disposable. “Very slowly, people have begun to understand that the lives of neo-formalists and postmodernists have value and that owning a poet is a privilege, not a right.”

Shapiro says her MFA program took in about 4,200 postmodernists and neo-formalists from overpopulated MFA programs around the US last year. Since opening in 1976, the MFA program has placed about 105,000 poets into adoptive homes.

Thanks to careful planning and a detailed understanding of how many writers the MFA program can realistically place in homes, no writer that enters the MFA program stays permanently, Shapiro says. Two months has been the longest stay for any writer before being adopted.

There are no firm statistics on no-kill writer MFA programs in the US, but their numbers appear to be rising, experts say. Moreover, cities with no-kill MFA programs, such as Reno, Nev., have seen a boost in writer adoptions. Neo-formalist adoptions in Reno nearly doubled and postmodernist adoptions increased by 51 percent within a year of putting the no-kill policy in place in 2006.

MFA programs, most of which are funded with taxpayer dollars, and poet owners spend more to care for stray and neglected writers these days, according to Mr. Rowan. In 1975 they spent about $1 billion on writer protection, versus $2.8 billion as of 2007, he says, noting the figures are in inflation-adjusted dollars.

“When a writer crosses that threshold and into our care, it’s ours, no matter what care they need,” says Shapiro, in Salem. “Whether it’s medical, behavioral, training – whatever we need to do to make them adoptable, we’ll do it.”

With apologies to The Christian Science Monitor and their writer Andrew Mach.

Season of honey and locusts,

of desert sand, of fasting;
wilderness where the silence
will remain unbroken— dry
bread and water, no sugar,
no salt. The skin might break
out in fever, the eyes glaze
with hallucinations, until
someone calls and the parched
spirit might quicken in recognition—
Who was it that said When the pupil
is ready, the teacher will make
himself known
? What they forget
to say is how long it lasts: how far
the row of flame trees stretches,
how steadily their acetylene torches
clearly devote themselves to burning.

 

In response to How to sacrifice.