Also for you consideration, from a Jack Spicer lecture in 1965:
I think the first kind of hint that one has as a poet – and I must confess I was, as Karen [Tallman] would say, a retard in this respect – is after you’ve written poems for a while and struggled with them and everything else, a poem comes through in just one-eighth of the time that a poem normally does. That’s the first experience. And you say, “oh well gee, it’s going to be much easier if I can just have this happen very often.”
So then you write seventeen or eighteen different things which are just what you’re thinking about at that particular moment and are lousy. It isn’t simply the matter of being able to get a fast take. It’s something else. But the fast take is a good sign that you’re hooked up with source of power, some source of energy.
Then the next thing is you suddenly figure out, well gee, when I’ve been wanting something, say I’m in love and I want to sleep with this person and, you know, the normal thing is, with a fast take, you write all these things down with an idea of, essentially, a way of selling a used car.
True that. Rest can be found here. I'm going outside to play. Have a few links, a song, a poem, another song.
- Nod to holyfuck, but what is there to say?
- Critical proximity.
- Marketing, consumption, surveillance.
- Failing it, failing within it.
- Trend or fluke. I've an acquaintance, an obamapologist, who insists Obama's still giving the fucking pigs enough rope....
- Overt ops: Abandoning the rule of law certainly provides, as it were, the ruling class with “security.” They can get away with enormities themselves, and get away with ever more blatantly high-handed measures against anyone less powerful who opposes them or is simply inconvenient. Someone else said that recently, though more sideways.
- Their man in Washington.
- C.D. Wright.
ORPHEUS IN HELL
When he first brought his music into hell
He was absurdly confident. Even over the noise of the
And the jukebox groaning of the damned
Some of them would hear him. In the upper world
He had forced the stones to listen.
It wasn’t quite the same. And the people he remembered
Weren’t quite the same either. He began looking at faces
Wondering if all of hell were without music.
He tried an old song but pain
Was screaming on the jukebox and the bright fire
Was pelting away the faces and he heard a voice saying,
He was at the entrance again
And a little three-headed dog was barking at him.
Later he would remember all those dead voices
And call them Eurydice.