Tuesday, December 19, 2006


One From the Vaults

Dusting off some old CDs, getting some poetry into some semblance of order in the hopes I can get something going in the next 6 months or so (I'm talking to someone about getting a book out, and maybe seeing about a road trip to do some perf po if I can swing it), I came across this one--always enjoyed this one, just for the way it clangs against the original, though to be honest, I suspect it benefited from its original context--which was as a response to a particularly virulent flame war on the old boards, where I first met Tara, my co-collaborator for the past five years, whom I've yet to meet in meatspace. Those boards, once incredibly vital, have been dead for longer than is really acceptable, though I do get the sense that it could have some little to do with general forum dynamics and the group in question's commitment to exploring poetry together. I know a few of the old contributors are still active on forums or elsewhere (all four of the current Trip editors have put in their time over at the boards linked to, but years ago...and tchitch here found it to be one of a couple of boards I was erased from entirely...that's a whole nother story, and not really an interesting one). In any case, the following "poem" was a response to a flame war on those boards that had gotten out of hand, and I wanted to park it here both for ease of access and just for shits 'n' giggles. Hopefully, it doesn't lose all of its punch in translation.

I'm looking at 43 pages of material, with a fair amount of thematic coherence, right this minute...and I actually got a poem into fair shape last night...with a little luck, I'll find the energy to extend my current work for a few weeks. Lord knows I need to.

Hope the holidays are shaping up to be SAD-free for all of you. --tchitch

The Mellow Hen

Mistah Keats--he dead

"Everybody is so full of shit..." Jane's Addiction


We are the starving hens,
We are the sated hens,
Clucking together
Pecking at keyboards. Alas!
Our resonant clucks, when
We Bock Bock B-Gawk!
Are resonant and meaningless
As bells in a steeple
Or fingers over inert keyboards
Of our dry computers

Form? There's no form. Meaning? No meaning.
Just the recollection of communication to teach and entertain in tranquility...

Those who have crossed,
With crossed eyes, our furious paths,
Have felt--if at all--the burning coals
Of our derision, but only
As the starving hens,
The sated hens.


Hens I dare not meet in dreams
Upon computer screens
These do not appear:
There, the hens are
Blustery as a winter wind
There, is a skyscraper singing
And cluckings are
In the sunlight's eating
More earnest and more serious
Than a strutting rooster.

Let me be no nearer,
Upon computer screens
Let me also wear
No presumptuous disguises
Teacher, Anti-hero, Scarecrow
In a field
Blowing in the wind
No nearer--

Not that taught veneer
Of untrained jadedness.

This is the message board
This is the pecking ground
Here our clucked images
Are raised, here they receive
Empty praises, meaningless "nice"s, or else
Critique from which we glean
Is it like this,
On the computer screen
Waking to hens
At the hour when we are
Vulnerable to words
Lips that would sing
Form empty rails against form.


The beaks are not here
There are no beaks here
In this valley of dying words
In this starving valley
This rolling eye of our lost poetry

In this last of pecking grounds
We grope each other
And avoid poems
Gathered on this chicken wire encaged dirt floor

Tongueless, unless
The beaks reappear
As the perpetual word
Bane and boon of us all
Upon computer screens
The hope only
of starving hens.

Here we go round the floppy disk
Floppy disk, floppy disk
Here we go round the floppy disk
At five o'clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the "reality"
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the henhouse

For Thine is the barnyard

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the henhouse

AOL is very bad

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the henhouse

For Thine is the barnyard

For Thine is
AOL is
For Thine is the

This is the way the argument ends
This is the way the argument ends
This is the way the argument ends
Not with a post but a silence.

Sunday, December 17, 2006


All Your Life is Time Magazine

...I read it, too.
What does it mean?

Yeah, yeah. I don't usually go in for that rag. But I picked up this story from the The Huffington Post, and I almost get the sense that they're finally getting it...

Meanwhile, placed a review in Get Underground, if you're interested. It's a 500 worder, which doesn't give one a lot of space in which to work, but I've been asked to release the director's cut in a couple of months...I'll keep you posted here.

Busy times. I'll have to find an extra 12 hours or so to catch up on the blog sometime soon...much afoot. As always.

Happy Holidays, y'all.


Tuesday, December 05, 2006


When you call yourself an editor

...you get all kinds of special privileges. Like receiving the following message in your e-mail. To the person who sent this: best of luck.

Dear Sir/madam,
I'm ______________. I wrote a wonderful book about God and the nature of God and creation mystery. My book is ready for publishing. My book has about 46000words (about 130 pages) and it is a good book for any person that can read English books and want to know about God.
My book title is:
What is the nature of God?
My book subtitles are:
Chapter 1: Introduction
Chapter 2: Why God should be existed in the world?
Chapter 3: What is the nature of God?

Chapter 4: Why God create this world?
Chapter 5: What is the reason of future life?
Chapter 6: Why prophets are sent?

Chapter 7: What does the soul, intelligent and human understanding?
Chapter 8: Why do we worship God?
Chapter 9: What is faith?

Chapter10: What are human feelings?
Chapter 11: How is the science of God?
Chapter 12: What is the predestination?

Chapter 13: conclusion.

It think that it is better that my book publish as black and white and my book has not any photos, images or graphs and I need to your publish, sales, distribution and promotion services. You can use of soft or hard cover and my manuscript is in English, my book is ready for publish.

I think that this book is a new revolution in the religion and philosophy books and public books too and whole of peoples in the world need to read it.
I think that whole of peoples that can read English books and want to know about God need to buy this book for understanding about nature of God and secret creation.
Although my book is about God and secret creation but I think that it is a public book.

I think that there is not any book similar my book in the world and knowing about God and nature of God and secret creation is very interest for all of peoples.

I expect that you have a good offer for publishing my book.

I trust that a good publisher can public and sell at least 100000 copies of my book in the first step.

I trust that publishing my book will shake the world and I hope that receive a wonderful offer from your side very soon and I send a copy of chapter 1 of my book for you in this E-mail and expect that you read it carefully.

Saturday, December 02, 2006


Watching Patton last night...

...didn't quite know what to make of this exchange, but it seemed quite relevant to whatever I've been thinking over of late.

PATTON: Rommel's out there somewhere, waiting for me.

JENSON: Yes, sir.

PATTON: You know, if I had my way, I'd send that genius son of a bitch an engraved invitation in iambic pentameter: A challenge in two stanzas to meet me alone in the desert.

JENSON: I'll deliver it.

PATTON: Rommel in his tank and me in mine. We'd stop about ten paces. We'd get out, we'd shake hands, then we'd button up and do battle, just the two of us. That battle would decide the outcome of the war.

JENSON: It's too bad jousting's gone out of style. It's like your poetry, general. It isn't part of the 20th century.

PATTON: You're right, Dick. The world grew up. Hell of a shame. Dick, I want a 24-hour guard put around this area. lf we don't, the Arabs will dig them up for their clothes.

JENSON: Yes, sir.

PATTON: Our graves aren't gonna disappear like everybody else's who fought here. The Greeks, Romans, Carthaginians. God, how I hate the 20th century.

Friday, December 01, 2006


The Continuing Crisis

So, this e-mail, from some clown named papa_geno who is wasting time he would better spend on writing over at foetry.com:

"I'm growing weary of the many, many people who continue to insist that there is no comtemporary poetry that touches the lives of anyone outside of the narrow confines of those who have the luxury of making this arcane art the subject of their lives' efforts. What continues to be ignored is that it is not contemporary poetry that is in crisis, but a very specific form of contemporary poetry, one which has chosen a path that is exclusive and elitist, and which seems to be based on the central tenet that poetry can only arise from some pure abstraction eschewing the engagement of any media other than the written word. In truth, excellence in poetry, and in prose, is flourishing, but those artists that flourish, in the public sphere, have taken inventions such as the light bulb and the phonograph into account when shaping their work. If the crisis is real, it is real because there is a subset of artists that continue to insist that poetry must remain unmuddled by anything not tasting of candlelight and quill and ink.

"I think it's true enough to suggest that the general public is probably unfamiliar with contemporary poetry, as defined by work that remains planted firmly on the page, and that there are many who would like to engage the craft that are wholly unfamiliar with any poem--in this sense--more recent than Ginsberg's "Howl". If, however, a broader definition is accepted, one that understands that much contemporary poetry is disseminated not via the page, but the CD--and similarly, that much prose is disseminated not via the page, but DVDs--I think it reasonable to say that there are several poets that the average audience is very familiar with. While I am aware that many will argue the point, I respectfully submit the following non-exclusive list of 40 poems, in no particular order, all of which are younger than "Howl," and all of which would be recognizable to an audience unfamiliar with contemporary poetry as defined by those who continue to insist that contemporary poetry is in crisis, as evidence for the above points."

On a tear, he then goes on to list the following 40 "poems":

1. "Peace Frogs"
2. "Ball and Chain"
3. "A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall"
4. "Sweet Jane"
5. "The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars"
6. "Lust for Life"
7. "Anarchy in the U.K."
8. "Gloria"
9. "Once in a Lifetime"
10. "Hallelujah"
11. "Graceland"
12. "The Passenger"
13. "Here Comes Your Man"
14. "London Calling"
15. "Orange Crush"
16. "Heroin"
17. "Smells Like Teen Spirit"
18. "Black"
19. "Ruby Vroom"
20. "Big Science"
21. "It's Alright Ma (I'm Only Bleeding)"
22. "Fight the Power"
23. "Chocolate City"
24. "Bohemian Rhapsody"
25. "Ground Control to Major Tom"
26. "Man on the Moon"
27. "Atomic Dog"
28. "Ripple"
29. "Redemption Song"
30. "Sweet Virginia"
31. "Exile In Guyville"
32. "Disarm"
33. "The Stars of Track and Field"
34. "Solsbury Hill"
35. "Bone Machine"
36. "Swamp"
37. "Clandestino"
38. "First We Take Manhattan"
39. "Sympathy for the Devil"
40. "Fast Car"

I'm thinking there must be others...but I'd like to open the question to anyone who wishes to contribute other poets, or poems, within the last 50 years, with which the average non-English major might be familiar.

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?