antisocial media

if most of the shit in the world is the fault of social media then WTF are we to do?  

antisocial media?

the old dude

oh!  what to make of standing in line at the grocery store waiting yr turn watching the guy ahead of you put his items on the counter all booze so as you are sizing him up grey hair bit of a paunch saggy face you think man that is one old dude the clerk asks him his birthdate because of CA law & when he states his date it hits you like an anvil dropped on the head of wile e. coyote that you are one year older than this old dude!

happy winter solstice!

today is the beginning of winter & the shortest day of the year.  now, we get to see the days lengthen & slowly start to warm up.  bummer!  i love winter & the cold.  but california cold, not arctic subzero cold.  so but anyway, it's a few days before christmas.  death takes no holiday.  i'd been thinking about my late friend robert hansen, & also terry hall.  both died unexpectedly & way too young.  i was going thru some of my papers [that sounds official, but my papers are all my shit stuffed here & there in cabinets, cupboards & bookcases without any rhyme or reason] & found a bunch of tiny books published by hansen & sent to me by my brother in the art jonathan hayes & by robert himself.  robert often included a line drawing self-portrait as well.   i miss him.  hall died after a developing pancreatic cancer.  after diagnosis hall died very quickly.  there is no object lesson to be gathered by either robert's or hall's deaths but i am thinking that everything can & does & will change in an instant.  so CARPEFUCKINGDIEM.  if i may be so bold.  as i am now an official old man one of the privileges of aging is stopping to give a flying fuck what others think.  old man punk rock!  anyway, i've not been feeling poetic in a long while.  did read a couple of short stories today & yesterday by raymond carver & zimbabwean poet john eppel.  & i read a few poems today by my late friend michael dennis.  dennis' poems are always full of humor, humility, love, kindness & the grittiness of life.  oh shit.  let me end this ramble by wishing you all a happy christmas.  with that in mind below is the comedy short by cheech & chong on the origins of santa claus.  

peace & love

terry hall [1959 - 2022]

terry hall, lead singer & lyricist of the great ska band The Specials, & Fun Boy 3, & The Colourfield, died today at the very early age of 63.  another blow to the fucking heart.  i can't write a proper obit.  i can only report on my & anna's love of his music.  how important The Specials are to us.  when i think of bands that are truly great in every way The Specials are on the top of my, & anna's, idiosyncratic list.  ska as a genre of music is extraordinarily important to us.  we were fortunate to see them perform at The Fox Theater in oakland in 2019 on their 40th anniversary tour.  it was a great show.  hall's life & music was all about racial justice, workers' rights, equality, peace & love.  The Specials' 1981 song 'Ghost Town' is one of the greatest written, produced & recorded of its kind.  but the tune below is a personal favorite of mine.  hall co-wrote this song with jane wiedlin of the L.A. based band The Go-Gos.  The Go-Gos had a hit of their own with this tune, but it is this performance of that song by hall's later band Fun Boy 3 that i think captures & expresses hall's charisma.

terry hall died today.  

fuck you, mr. death.

let me end with the three words hall used to end all of his performances & to which anna & i heard him say at the end of The Specials' show at The Fox in 2019.

LOVE LOVE LOVE

quote unquote

if you could construct an ideal poet, what attribute would you give him or her -- dress included?

(from The Paris Review #154, the poetry issue)

[i'm not sure what the critic frank kermode means by 'cosmic poverty' yet it has a resonance that fires up my cylinders.  kermode is my favorite opinion expressed here.]

it's friday nite & i will always love the screaming guitars of rock&roll

stranger than paradise [1984]

it was a grey sunday where we didn't do nothing.  the past week & a half was filled with all sorts of activities.  but today was rain, & clouds & very little that required our immediate attention.  so anna asked me, when i got up fairly late & hankering for the first cup of coffee, about obscure 1980s movies.  she mentioned this one, the second film by jim jarmusch.  i told her that when i was a young apprentice poet i watched a shitload of jarmusch movies.  but i couldn't recall this particular film.  what's it about?  nothing.  & that is the beauty of this flick.  essentially a chamber piece with three young people at its core jarmusch crafted a style of storytelling that does not require traditional narrative techniques.  rather, our three goofballs roam thru the american wastes of youthful aimlessness to come to their own separate paradise.  this american wasteland includes the eating of TV dinners, watching endless hours of TV, going to the movies, & smoking cigarettes.  i can't think of any other work of art that details the essence of late 20th C living.  indeed, the most significant part of this movie is when our three goofballs contemplate lake erie in the frozen tundra of cleveland, oh.  what happens next is a kind of miracle of narrative structure.  suddenly, out of seemingly nowhere, something happens when our trio travels to the sunny, warm, clime of a dead-end motel in nowheresville florida.  & when that miracle happens i rooted for our young friends who are out there in these united states of america to help in the creation of this country.  in short, jarmusch has made a film of staggering dimensions.  what thou lovest well, remains american, said the poet richard hugo echoing ezra pound.  hugo might have had this movie in mind when he wrote that line.   

nicanor parra y bob dylan y allen ginsberg

it's friday nite & you wanna hear three american sisters fucking rock an ol' british blues/rock tune

cats

 also show you their love by chewing thru all your electrical cords

cats

fool you into quiet comfort 

curling into your lap 

with some soft purring 

then their murder mittens 

go to work to knead 

any spare spot of exposed skin 

like the inside of your forearm or your thigh

fast or slow the tattoo 

of these devil needles  

as an expression of love is nearly 

always marked by a blood trail

boiling it down

after the long day, the travails, the hardships, the affections, the affectations, the love, the horror, the silliness, you fire up the laptop, or you open the book, or you turn on the TV, or you scroll thru the choices on a streaming platform, or you stare at the blank page of a new word doc & you realize, in the kitchen, waiting for you, just as blake prophesied, here be

cookies

(richard) robert hansen

tonight i can only record my shock in learning about the death of (richard) robert hansen  robert is the long-time publisher of the tiny book series poems-for-all.  he began life as a small-press publisher in 2001 when he was the owner of The Book Collector located on 24th St between K & J Streets in midtown Sac.  robert [he was richard when i knew him best but later adopted his middle name when he moved to San Diego] died suddenly & unexpectedly on november 13.  we are, i think, the same age.  & i am 55.  

too early.  

i don't remember how & when robert & i met & became friends.  he published by first chapbook The Grapevine with his 24th St Irregular Press in 2003 which is an off-shoot of his tiny book series.  we had a shitload of fun hanging out at his store, at my home etc etc.  

again, i am in shock.  i don't know how to record my grief.  i will say that robert was sui generis in poetry.  he was dedicated to the art.  his publishing became known thru out the world.  nearly every small-press poet knew him.  when nick was born i stopped attending readings & events because i was a brand-new father so my hanging with robert dropped off too.  but i recall a time when i brought the visual poet geof huth to The Book Collector to meet robert, hang out, goof off, & live in poetry.  another time i took nick who was just a wee baby.  nick was a happy calm little guy patient as his poet father was shooting the shit with another poet father.  see, i suspect robert also wrote poetry but kept that side of him hidden.  i might be wrong but he was a man who organized his life in poetry.  someone that much in love with the art is, in my experience, also a practitioner of the art.  i may be wrong.  he may have written a few poems & that is all.  rather robert hansen is that rare bird who is widely loved & roundly respected as a human being & as a publisher of poetry.

i will not edit or clean up the grammar, spelling or other proofreading, this short obit.  for i want to express, again, my shock & grief.  & i am not thinking straight.  robert's death hits me right in the solar plexus & i am gasping for breath.  he was a good man.  & a good friend.  even if our paths diverged these past years i will always call him my friend.

below is a short video made by the local NPR affiliate about robert''s tiny books.  i shall end by stating again my praise & admiration of (richard) robert hansen, DIY small-press poetry publisher, good man, & genius book designer.     

off the cuff: poems inspired by & in response to jonathan hayes

thank you lord for all 

that you've not given me 

 

for you do not exist 

& i am a poor philosopher 

forgive me 

you suck i suck 

 

this whole beautiful world 

fucking sucks 

& i am lucky 

to be living in it

 * * * 

my death poem 

here 

there is no air