Tuesday, February 09, 2016

Love Is

Coffee and grapefruit juice in the morning

A double espresso

Fizzy water

Whiskey at night after a long day

A bottle of Guinness while cooking with mi esposa 

Homemade meals, especially salmon and asparagus and roasted red potatoes

Lox on a bagel

The Sound and the Fury, The Master and Margarita, The Obscene Bird of Night, Belfast Confetti, Vilnius Poker, The Color of Summer, Written on the Body, Three Trapped Tigers, Finnegans Wake, 2666, Senselessness

Much of the poetry of Ana Akhmatova, Anne Carson, Ciaran Carson, Medbh McGuckian, Maurice Riordan, Paul Muldoon, Seamus Heaney, Joseph Brodsky, Cesar Vallejo, Nicanor Parra, Vicente Huidobro, Mina Loy, Philip Larkin, and E. E. Cummings

About 1/5 of the poems of Frank O'Hara

All the books of Kurt Vonnegut

Under Milk Wood by Dylan Thomas

Women and Factotum by Bukowski and not giving a damn that I still love Bukowski when my academic cohort would tell that doing so is wrong

The beguiling madness of Antonin Artaud

All the books in English of Sergei Dovlatov and the hope that more will be translated

Shane MacGowan’s banshee wail

Drunkenly singing along to "Left of the Dial" by The Replacements

Standing in front of a room of bored college freshman and thinking: “Okay, get ready, goddamnit”


The Melvins song “Boris” and Tom Waits’ “Jockey Full of Bourbon” and “Twa Corbies” as done by Boiled in Lead

The Mekons

Writing a book I never imagined anyone would want to read and then publishing it and hearing nice things from people, even if it embarrasses me

Writing another book that I can’t imagine will ever become anything

Editing old poems and realizing that I am the shit

Making lists



The Boredoms

Used bookstores

Chicago, save for the times I hate Chicago 

New Orleans


Mexico City







Bar hopping on 95th street in Oak Lawn, IL with my friends and my brother  

Walking down Central Park West during a frigid January in NYC with mi esposa and thinking of John Coltrane

The Cook, the Thief, His Wife and Her Lover

Calvary and The Guard and the presence Brendon Gleeson brings to films

David Thewlis doing the best acting possible in Naked

The opening credits sequence of Twin Peaks

Quoting The Big Lebowski and annoying people in the process

Much of the sketches of Monty Python, Mr. Show, and SCTV

The Third Man, which gets better with each viewing

The Butthole Surfers

Breaking Bad

Miller’s Crossing

After Hours

Bongwater (the band, not the actual water)

The later poems of W. B. Yeats

Paul Simon’s “Kodachrome”

Reign in Blood by Slayer

“Whiskey in the Jar” as done by Thin Lizzy

Italian food, Japanese food, Thai food, Mexican food, Indian food

Eating dinner with mi esposa

Taking long walks with mi esposa

Drinking with mi esposa

Watching shitty movies on cable with mi esposa

Reading books with mi esposa

Sleeping next to mi esposa

Throwing a ball and my perfect dog running for it, barking in anticipation, never tiring of this

Monday, February 08, 2016

RIP My Oddest Friend

A good friend died recently.  As Vonnegut wrote: so it goes.  And I knew it was coming.  Last time I saw him he was in a bad way, which is to say he was worse than usual and usual was quite bad.  Bedridden, unable to use his hands for much, constantly uncomfortable—I joked that he had become something out of a Beckett play.  And it was the sort of joke that he, a literary man, might have liked had it not been about him. 

I stopped going to see him around Thanksgiving, which makes me feel guilty.  But I was convinced that my visiting was causing too much confusion for him—last time he had no idea what day or time it was and seemed genuinely scared when I told him it was Wednesday at 4:00 PM, not AM.  Maybe I convinced myself it was best to stop going, but stop I did.  And then he died. 

The man was my oddest friend and I have known some oddballs.  He was my boss at the bookshop, the inspiration for a character in my book, and my friend in the sense that he seemed sincerely happy to be in my presence, an honor considering he disliked a lot of people.  He gave me a job at his store and another after it closed.  We swapped drinks, books, and jokes in the hours when we weren’t working on his eBay enterprise.  We combed the resale shops of Chicago in search of items to sell online.  We rarely found gems though some did emerge from the muck of soiled clothes and board games missing half their pieces.  We frequented the Red Lion and other bars of Lincoln Avenue that have either closed or been reborn as something he’d have no use for.  All things considered, he was a good friend.  Over twenty years my senior—only a few years older than my parents—but we closed the generation gap somehow.  Might’ve been the drinks.

There are eulogies out there better than this one.  And I have no right, really, to make some grand statement about the man.  I feel I knew him well but I’m not family, just a guy who met him at a time when my life was topsy-turvy in a way that I’ve mined for publication and some barroom stories.  He watched me go from barely able to pay rent to gainfully employed, from punk kid who thought he knew everything about books to English instructor who knows he has no real idea about anything.  And he teased me about my job, speculated that the task before me was enough to drive any sane person to drink (he wasn’t wrong).  But I think he was proud of me in a weird way.  He seemed to keep his kids informed about my life, just as he informed me about them.  

The week before I left the bookshop, I had new clothes on.  I’d just come from a job interview.  He knew it and he reminded me of what Thoreau once wrote: “Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes.”  I always keep that in mind when shopping in department stores or eating in upscale restaurants.  He wasn't one for fashion, usually opting for shirts he found at the thrift store worn for completely unironic reasons.  His favorite had a picture of a cow on it and read: Wisconsin, land of beer farts and cow shit.  

He was by no means a snob, yet he wouldn't suffer fools gladly.  He was sophisticated in his thinking and more curious than most people I've met.  He read a lot of books and was fierce in his opinions.  James Joyce was shit.  Hemingway overrated.  Woolf, Melville, and Faulkner were all that mattered.  He had no interest in literary trends or reading whatever was supposed to be the right book.  The right book was up to him.  And he was adamant in his literary beliefs, to the extent that he'd judge people based on theirs.  Once, at the Red Lion, a fellow drinker looked at the back cover description of my copy of The Man Without Qualities.  "Sounds dull," the patron said.  My friend's response: "It is if you're a simple shit."  

There are a lot more stories like that.  Some are in my book, some in my head.  I'll not go on, and anyway I might be among the few who'd find the tales amusing.  A lot of people didn't respond well to his gruffness.  But I did, even if half the time I was uneasy watching him kick a customer out of the store or tell someone to fuck off.  Waiting in line at the post office would set him off and I'd be the one to have to smooth things over with the clerk.  In fact, I was essentially hired to be the pleasant side of the store after he got too tired of the people on Clark Street.  This could be taxing, but I was willing to be taxed.  We can't always expect our friends to be what we want.  Sometimes we just accept them for who they are, but I suppose not all of them are worth the effort.  God knows I've cut people out of my life for less than my old employer put me through.  But, for whatever reason, I loved the old bastard.  I always hate when people say that the dead are in a better place, but anywhere is better than the nightmare he was living in during those last years.  Rest in peace, old friend.  

Friday, February 05, 2016

Star Wars and Caligula, or: Too Old for Camp

I get it.  I was once very into Star Wars, too.  That was 1977 and I was six.  When The Empire Strikes Back came out, I was at my peak obsession.  And while I was very excited to see whether or not Han Solo survived being frozen in carbonite, I had a sense, while watching Return of the Jedi, that the movie was bad. 

What happened?  Most of the same effects and all of the same characters were represented.  Sure, the presence of little muppets in a forest planet was pretty lame, but I could have overlooked that so long as Han was cool and sly, kissing on his buddy’s girl and Chewy was kicking his usual amount of ass.  But even those elements started to seem dull and silly.  What was going on?  I think I was growing up.

I boxed up all my actions figures and let the Millennium Falcon gather dust.  A few years later, I gladly sold all my Star Wars toys to a high school buddy who started a nostalgia museum in his bedroom.  And I stopped thinking about Star Wars.  It was easy: the movies were barely mentioned, rarely replayed on TV or theaters, and assigned to the back room of my memory.  They were pleasant reminders of my childhood, not unlike a slew of late 70s/early 80s TV shows and movies.  It wasn’t until Kevin Smith made Clerks that I remember anyone really geeking out about the films as if they were magically transported back to their six-year old selves. 

I blame Clerks for making Star Wars nostalgia cool.  Or maybe it was cool but I didn’t know it.  Or maybe it was cool in the underground fringes that have become the foreground of our culture thanks to the internet’s ability to simultaneously give everyone a voice and lessen our collective attention span and, thus, our ability to critically evaluate culture.  And before anyone gets all uppity with their grad school applications of theory to explain how a piece of pop culture can be intellectually fulfilling and socially relevant—I know all this and am I sure you are right.  But I also find the driver behind the hype over The Force Awakens to be a little depressing. 

I admit it: I have not seen the film.  So I cannot criticize it.  But I can criticize the culture that surrounds the film.  (Criticize not being synonymous with denigrate.)  I don’t understand the pre-ordering of tickets or the waiting in line for hours in costume to see the film.  And this is from a guy who actively geeks out in other ways.  I bought three copies of Bolaño’s 2666 when it came out in English.  I own over 20 copies of Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita.  I have sat through horror movie marathons and camped out for concert tickets.  I’ve pre-ordered music from my favorite bands without hearing a note.  I understand the inclination to commit to a brand, but I also know that life has a lot to offer.  Why is it that Star Wars gets so much attention?  It’s not a bad series of films (at least not the first two) but are any of them really that good?

I don’t wish to assert that my art is better than yours.  I’m not trying to be elitist here.  I have plenty of room in my cultural diet for sci-fi (when it’s good) and horror and even, occasionally, fantasy.  I like The Walking Dead (most of the time) and still think Time Bandits is a great film.  I’m a Monty Python nerd.  I obsessively listen to stand-up comedy and rewatch Mr. Show on YouTube.  I can slip into the nerd fray with ease.  But I cannot get it up to care about Star Wars.  Not at the age of 44.  It’d be like playing Dungeons and Dragons again. 


Since writing the above paragraphs, I’ve seen the Star Wars movie.  It’s pretty good.  The plot is fine thanks to the lack of intergalactic trade negotiations or whatever was bogging the prequels down.  And there’s action aplenty, old heroes popping up throughout, and a new droid to love and merchandise.

But I still think the movie is hardly worth seeing more than once. 

My bigger issue today is with Susan Sontag.  Specifically, “Notes on ‘Camp’” which is really all I know of Sontag’s work save for a short article on feminine beauty that seems to confuse my ENG 101 students.  No, wait—I’ve seen other essays and articles, but her most serious work (“Against Interpretation” and the entire On Photography) has eluded me.  “Notes on ‘Camp’” is a biggy, though, a classic.  It has been hailed as such by friends and foes alike.  I’ve only read this essay once, so forgive me if my memory of it proves faulty.  I could reread it in preparation for this post but, frankly, the idea of doing so bugs me.  I don’t want to grant Sontag’s ideas on camp the respect of reconsideration.  Not because she was wrong or that the essay is bad or that camp is a bad thing lacking any credibility, but because I am tired of camp; I’m no longer amused by kitschy crap that academics like Sontag have managed to convince me is legitimate art.  Even horror films, which I used to go through like Kleenex, repel me. 

My wife and I have had many dates centered on leaving the house and paying hard earned money to watch people eviscerated by an enigmatic psycho.  Every Halloween we spend hours in an uncomfortable movie house in the name of camp.  But I seem to be at the age where such forms of entertainment, however giddy they once made me, seem crass and stupid.  Witnessing CGI bloodbaths and lame-brained ghost stories is a tolerable way to whittle an evening, and some of these movies do still manage to shock in ways that feel inventive and even worthwhile, but more often I feel cheap after letting these films do to me what I knew they were going to do.  I’ve let them have their way with me and, even if I sort of enjoyed the experience, I inevitably feel worse about myself after.  The post-movie trip back to the car is my morning walk of shame. 

I ought to define camp, since my idea of it is probably contrary to most people’s, certainly to Sontag’s.  And I should also note that Sontag was indeed a top-notch critic and fierce intellectual.  I don’t need to have read much more than the handful of articles to know that.  I mean no disrespect to her legacy, but I have that same feeling lately with her as I do about Beckett: Waiting for Godot and Endgame are fantastic, truly important plays, but fuck if I hate the experimental theater Beckett’s work inspired.  And it is hardly fair to lay all blame on Sontag for the slew of dissertations on Star Trek, but I have to start somewhere.  May as well be with her since so many people have cited her essay on camp as a game changer. 

Back to the definition.  Camp: sometimes fun overly theatrical or sensationalistic entertainment that willfully upends traditional notions of beauty and, in doing so, attempts a discourse on the true elements of art and the elitism of the so-called canon.  The example I wish to begin with is the 1979 film Caligula

I can recall the first time I sat through Caligula.  More memorable is the time I took a college friend to the midnight showing of the legendary piece of shit.  We sat front row center and watched the fucking, fisting, and beheadings.  What fun!  Until it wasn’t.  The first twenty minutes we—the entire audience—laughed.  An hour in, some tittering was heard.  By the ninety-minute mark, no one was amused.  My friend was begging me to go.  He’d had enough.  “Let’s bail,” he said.  I protested—we’d paid money to see the movie.  We should finish it.  His response: “I’ll pay you to leave with me now.” 

I was resistant to leaving because enduring the repulsive movie seemed necessary, as if by doing so I could better measure something within me.  Who I am is who I am in response to Caligula.  And at the age of twenty-two I wanted to be a person who found trash fun, who knew about B cinema and defended it in an intellectual way.  But I was full of shit.  I was just into the gore and the sheer audacity of it all.  It appealed to me the way Japanese noise artists like Merzbow appealed to me.  It was a middle finger to elitism.  There was no way for me to realize just how elitist I was being by insisting that we stay to finish Caligula, how I was asking my friend to join me in the small group of select individuals who were ready to call this art. 

Caligula, for the record, is so bad it barely qualifies as trash, though it does have Peter O’Toole so that elevates it.  A movie that is similarly repugnant and admired is Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom, the 1975 Passolini film my movie buff friends tell me is important.  I think they defend the movie by insisting it’s about the sickness of popular entertainment or the depravity of art or something, but frankly I found the film simultaneously dull and gross.  Better, in some ways, than Caligula but still nasty and not as shocking as Cannibal Holocaust, a movie that is at least honest in its sick, exploitive nature.  No script by Gore Vidal, no top-notch actors struggling to justify their participation, no shit eating masked as political statement— just ugly people doing ugly things for an ugly audience.  Recently, a quasi-remake of Cannibal Holocaust, The Green Inferno, has been made by a director known for bringing the cinematic pain.  Five years ago, I’d have gone out of my way to watch it but today I cannot imagine viewing a second of the thing.  The prospect disgusts me.

I don’t think this is a sign of my maturation.  I’m still not the type to shun trash in favor of canonized art.  I do see the value in a lot of what some might dismiss as junk.  Dawn of the Dead (the original, though the remake is pretty good) is one of my favorite films.  As is Rosemary’s Baby.  As is Angel Heart.  These are movies full of gore and scares and, in the case of Angel Heart, crazy sex that results in blood pouring from a hotel ceiling.  But these films have something going on that elevates them, though naming that quality is difficult.  I’m guessing most people don’t try.  They simply enjoy a good flick.  Gore for gore’s sake.  But I can’t help but think of Sontag when I watch some of these films or when I read a pop novel that has been praised by academics or when I see ironic T-shirts on the backs of my students.  Or when Batman, Iron Man, and Star Wars not only dominate the box offices but also thesis papers.  We have raised trash to the status of art in the name of camp. 

Trash has always been fun because it’s trash.  Once it became art, it may have lost something essential.  I know this post-modern idea of cultural omnivorism came before her, but Sontag’s essay on camp really seems to have done a fine job of convincing a lot of academics that anything and everything is fodder for intellectual discourse.  And they’re not wrong, but I worry lately that I live in an era where fun, pulpy works of trash are elevated to a status on par or above the canon.  And while we’re on the subject, fuck the canon.  I’m not one to subscribe to the idea that there are classics that are unimpeachably great and important and that they ought to be the only books we read and teach, but I feel like this reaction against the canon has resulted in the seesaw tipped too far in the opposite direction.  I’m happy to read both Carson McCullers and Anne Bannon in a class on American women writers, but I won’t pretend that Bannon’s books are good.  I am sure they are important to a lot of people, but my interpretive community sees them as badly written pulp.  Fun, sexy, cool, and maybe worth reading, but not as good as “The Ballad of the Sad Café” goddamnit. 

You can guess that I said as much in class and that my views were called elitist.  Maybe they are.  I’m just interested in a good story, good writing, good art.  And my definition is my own; it doesn’t need to be yours.  Still, I do wonder if combatting the elitism and all the other isms involved with the canon has brought us to a place where we define the worth of a book by its politics.  Camp is the ultimate anti-elitist art, appealing to the politically marginalized.  And god bless it.  Camp is escapist fun, tawdry at times, silly at others, always entertaining, but rarely—to me—fulfilling. 

My main gripe comes in the form of hating the movies of Quentin Tarantino, though I’m sure I’ve felt this sense of unease when defending my love of Faulkner to a colleague who dismisses his books as elitist literature penned by a dead white guy.  As I disassembled my library, I saw plenty of elitism represented.  There are a lot of canonized writers, some members of what I call the sub-canon—that nebulous place where one is still literary but not as universally revered as Shakespeare—and a few genre exercises that I’ve kept for whatever reason.  I did sell a lot of the camp, though.  All the Fantômas books are gone.  A couple old ghost story collections as well.  Most of the crime books, though I kept a copy of Swag by Elmore Leonard because a friend gave it to me and I feel bad selling it.  I saved My Dark Places by James Ellroy and sold his novel Black Dahlia because I stupidly decided that the former, being nonfiction, was worth keeping over the piece of invention.  I ought to have cut them both, or kept them both, but my imposing of a distinction on them is a form of elitism.  I can’t keep a good old-fashioned mystery but the true crime book stays? 

I am willing to admit it—I am elitist.  I have no time for crap.  I define good work in my own way, but my definition clearly privileges the cheesy horror films of Roman Polanski—I love The Tenant—and rejects the genre mash-ups of Tarantino.  But Tarantino is widely celebrated by cinephiles and the bloodshed, cool dialogue, and hip retro feel of his films all but ensures the kids will love him.  And there are those who tell me I ought to let go of expectations and just enjoy a fun night at the cinema or a page-turner.  Maybe, but it strikes me that a theory is not necessary in order to enjoy pop art.  No one has ever needed persuading to watch reality TV, but it takes some convincing to get a lot of people to read a Russian novel.  Genre books, trashy cinema, campy delights have been legitimized but in doing so we have told people to strive no higher.  Maybe that isn’t the way it ought to be.  Maybe we ought to do like my junior year high school English teacher and assign Stephen King and Charles Dickens.  The post-modern concept of inclusivity shouldn’t equal ignoring the so-called classics.

I’ve been trying to fill in gaps in my reading lately.  Joyce, Melville, Sterne, Musil—reading these writers is a way of making up for what I feel is the neglect of some allegedly important books.  And it’s mostly been fun (imagine that!) though it doesn’t seem like it to the people wondering why the hell I would spend my winter break with Moby-Dick.  Netflix beckons and really this is The Golden Age of TV, didn’t you hear, Vince? 

How about this: I’ll watch Jessica Jones if you read Finnegans Wake

Tuesday, December 22, 2015

Best of 2015

2015 is limping to an end making way for a 2016 that is sure to be rife with fears, doubts, brief bursts of elation, and the ongoing certainty that all is illusion save for whatever meaning I thrust upon an empty universe.  Without any other duties to attend to, save for those that are so pressing they will likely not be addressed, I’m throwing together my end-of-the-year list comprised of random shit of little interest to anyone other than me, which is pretty much the same as any other dumb end-of-the-year list composed by anyone else on these here internets. 

So let’s go.

Best thing I ate this year: My own words.

Best thing I drank: Whiskey and lots of it.

Best book I read: Finnegans Wake, only took the whole year.

Best book I wrote: Like a Dog, which I wrote during previous years but edited this year, now available through Amazon.com, please buy a copy, I like money, thanks.

Best place I visited: I only went to New Orleans this year—no other vacations, really. So NOLA gets the vote as it should because NOLA is the best city in the USA next to Chicago, and often I feel it is a whole lot better, because really what the hell is so great about Chicago with its crime and filth and corruption and high rents and traffic and construction and debt and Jesus what am I doing in this town?

Best place I spent any time whatsoever: My couch with my dog, Finnegans Wake, and a glass of whiskey. 

Best job I worked: RU, my only job, a nice change for me. 

Best movie I saw: The Guard over and over on cable to the point where I know every line.

Best TV show I watched: Better Call Saul goddamnit.  Runner up: You’re the Worst, a delightful sitcom.

Best concert: Mekons, of course.  

Best moment at a concert: Morrissey referring to meat as shit and KFC as murder. 

Best songs to appear one after another on shuffle as I ran across a dewy track in the autumn morning: “Looking for a Kiss” by the New York Dolls followed by “Don’t Want to Know if You Are Lonely” by Hüsker Dü. 

Best sleep I got: This week, as I am on break, thankfully.

Best end-of-the-year list: This one, though it could’ve been better.

Thursday, October 29, 2015

Like a Dog Launched

Apparently I wrote a book and it's available for you to purchase.  Go here for your own copy of the magic.  

Sunday, October 25, 2015

10 Thoughts on Poetry and Why I Can't Write It (Except When I Can)


I spent the better part of this morning looking at the last bits of poetry I have written—most of it composed last year and some of it this spring—and felt a sick feeling.  It is becoming clear to me that I ought to never write poetry again.  That is, assuming anything I ever wrote approximates poetry. 


I get into modes when it comes to writing and reading.  I am not in poetry mode at the moment.  Lately, poems strike me as dull or overly labored, thus, embarrassing in their effort.  I mean both the poems I write and the ones I read, the ones that come my way almost daily via subscriptions to Poetry Magazine or Poem of the Day emails or my Facebook feed.  I peek at these poems, yawn, scratch my head, look for a nice stretch of unbroken lines to savor.


I have always written.  Mostly poems though often stories and essays and personal bullshit and even a play.  The idea being that a writer ought to just fucking write and not worry about genre definitions.  That made sense to me.  My stories and poems shouldn’t really be all that dissimilar.  I get it—people want to stretch themselves and do something different and frequently that means they will try to write differently, but all too often I feel they are overly loyal to the idea of a genre and, subsequently, stifle some of their voice.  I know that a poem ought not to be a mere story with line breaks and the occasional rhyme, but I don’t necessarily think it wise to sacrifice voice and perspective when writing a poem.  But I’m starting to think one of two things is possible:

a. I am wrong and my poems are shit because they do not do what poems should do and all my proclamations are ridiculous and a bit disrespectful to the tradition of poetry.

b. My poems are unique and my voice is fun and interesting, but, sadly, I am not following the trends of American poetry (which I find to be dull and obnoxious) and, as a result, no one in the poetry community is willing to give a fuck about my poems just as I do not give a fuck about theirs.   

Scenario a is more than likely true, though my few supports claim the second possibility is accurate.  It’s nice to have supportive friends, but damn if I don’t worry that the ten years I’ve spent writing poems have been a waste of time. 


I have the memoir coming out really soon.  That’s exciting and, having reread the thing many times, I do feel that the book is enjoyable, albeit solipsistic.  But it’s a memoir—how it could not be a little solipsistic? 

Sometimes I feel that there is nothing more solipsistic than a poem.

I wrote a book in prose, hoo hum.  It makes me think of Bolaño’s Savage Detectives.  The poets in that book were hilarious, self-important young people who would say things like: I suppose I may one day commit the sin of writing prose.  This statement suggests that prose is inherently conventional, turgid, lifeless, a betrayal of the true writer.  This sounds like something a pretentious young poet would say.  But in my heart I wonder if I have indeed sacrificed the poet within me by committing vulgarity of writing a prose book.


Here’s the thing: I have tried to publish a book of my best poems for the better part of a decade.  No one’s bitten.  The best poems I have are available in small journals or are languishing in the odd corners of the internet, and maybe that’s where they belong.  Maybe I ought to see that the writing on the walls is in prose, not poetry.  Maybe I will never break into the community of published poets because my poems are too silly, trying too hard to be funny, too full of puns and bad gags, too concerned with love (no one I know who publishes is writing about that subject), too grouchy, not linguistically inventive enough, not bothering to find new ways of expressing old ideas, too direct, too open and not sufficiently coded.  Geesh, Vince, where’re the fucking metaphors?  Where’s the elliptical image that has little to do with the next elliptical image?  You have a poem about your dog?  You actually wrote a poem about the World Cup?  How many times can you write poems about cities?  You’re too obsessed with minor poets like Ciaran Carson and Brendan Kennelly to write like John Ashbery and Jorie Graham.  REAL POETS!  AMERICANS!  C’mon, you’re not Irish—quite trying to be Paul Muldoon.  Get surreal.  Emulate Celan.  You might be onto something if you could take your humor and your casual style and be more like Koo or Hoagland and write poems as flat as the pages they’re printed on.  Those are the kind of funny poems we want: clever, precious poems full of hip irony. 

But I can’t do these things.  And this is not a rant meant to imply that so long as I refuse to do these things the poetry elite will ignore me.  No, my failure is on me, not anyone else.  While I do think it would easier to get a book out were I to conform to the trends of the day, which to me are intentionally obscure poems and cute and clever bullshit, I know that hard work, revision, and ongoing submission to publishers is the only way to reach my goal.  Maybe the publisher for me is out there, but where?  I look at the journals and the presses and I get turned off.  I’m starting to think that I don’t really like poetry because what the publishers publish does so little for me.


I started reading Guff by Brendan Kennelly, a hero of mine.  Three pages in, I was happy as hell in a way that I have not been lately.  All the poems I have tried to read as of late have bummed me out to the nth degree.  But not Kennelly.  He’s a constant source of joy.  No one I know reads him.  Obviously he is incredibly popular in Ireland—even Bono name checked him—and I am sure some other Chicagoan knows his work, but he writes poems similar to Nicanor Parra’s antipoems.  Parra, another hero, is better known among my few remaining contacts in the poetry scene.  But I doubt he’s regarded as being more than a prankster.  I guess if you’re not writing about menstruation or the trials of parenthood, it’s tough to be taken seriously.  (Okay, that’s not fair, but it felt good to type.) 


If there is a group of poets I feel a kinship with, while admitting to being nowhere near their genius, these be they:

Brendan Kennelly
Nicanor Parra
Ciaran Carson
Patrick Kavanagh
Ernesto Cardenal
Frank O’Hara
Yehuda Amichi

If there be a group I admire and will never come close to resembling, these be the names:

Anna Akhmatova
W. B. Yeats
Walt Whitman
Cesar Vallejo
Seamus Heaney
Li Po
Rachel Zucker

If there be a list of poets I admire but don’t always understand, whose work is elusive yet pleasurable most of the time, here they are:

Joyce Mansour
Mina Loy
Medbh McGuckian
Vicente Huidobro
Ingborg Bachmann
Robinson Jeffers

If there be a gang of poets who I do not care for (save for a poem here and there), this them:

Paul Celan
Robert Frost
Jorie Graham
John Greenleaf Whittier
Carl Sandburg
Sylvia Plath
Harryette Mullen
Allen Ginsberg

I’m stopping the last list because it could go on indefinitely. 


I wrote a poem today.  Not great, but it has potential.  I then looked over the last edits to the memoir.  Not great but it is as done as it’s going to ever be.  Both pieces of writing—different genres—made me laugh.  The one person guaranteed to read everything I write is my lovely esposa.  And she likes both my memoir and my poems.  I found my ideal reader.  And I married her.


Some people yearn for wide recognition.  I’m happy that a few people come across my scribblings and react.  Who knows, maybe I’ll find my way back to poetry eventually.  Maybe next year.  In the meantime, I’m going to see if Guff continues to amuse and delight and, who knows, inspire. 


“A poem is a useless thing.”  I wrote that.  It borrows from Wilde, so sue me, but I stand by it.  I make useless things.  What joy!