I don't think I've ever heard an American sing the whole song.

A little video from Pangea day.

A Picture of Jack Morgan back from New York

I wanted to post a picture of me back in California from New York a lot earlier, but there has been a lot going on lately, and I am just now getting around to taking a picture of myself.

So this is Jack Morgan after his trip to New York.

Last Night MAPP Was off the Poetic Chain, Mang!

Last night was MAPP, and it was our best yet, I think.

Valyntina Grenier opened the event with a splendid poetry reading, and she sang, which was much more enjoyable than I thought it was going to be when she told me she was going to sing. Usually when poets tell me that they are going to sing, I roll my eyes and thing that I am in for some torture. But V has a lovely voice, and I think it worked perfectly with her poetry.

Our first musical act, Sarah Melfy of Hello Handsome, was next, and she was phenomenal, I do say. I was dancing, and I saw plenty other people in the audience wiggling their heads and getting happy feet. She added a great deal to the already fantastic vibe of the evening.

Chad Sweeney was up after that, and since everyone knows I think Chad is one of the bay's best poets, I won't say too much. He has a new book out called An Architecture, from which he read, and I loved his chapbook, so I expected a great reading from him. He didn't let me down, and people were coming up to me and wondering why I haven't told them about Chad Sweeney. I told them they should read my blog more often.

Ryan Partridge played a set as the one-man band, Bull. Pretty intense. At this point, I couldn't believe how well everything was going. We had TWO great musical acts and THREE great poets. Was this really happening, were we really going to pitch a perfect game? Was this thing really going to go off like this? Ryan's act was extremely impressive. I mean, one-man punk band. Well, kind of punk. Kind of rock. You had to be there. But forget about the one-man bands you've seen before. This is not some folksie guy with a washboard on his chest.

Ann Svilar read fiction, which often doesn't fly well at readings, methinks, but here it worked wonderfully, as her fiction was rather delicious and her delivery was charming. I must say, a pleasant surprise and a refreshing change from what I have come to expect from fiction readers, which is much lower than what I expect from poets.

Good poetry readings are few and far between, but good fiction readings are even harder to come by.

Then, finishing up, was Della Watson, whose poetry has thrilled me since I discovered it at a previous MAPP that I didn't co-curate. I read at the same event she did, and she is awesome. You can find her work in the last issue of The Hat. I think she's one to watch fo sho. The audience was moved to spontaneous applause more than once. A rare treat, that.

After the reading, I went to my friend, Carl Pisaturo's show. It was one of the coolest art shows I've ever been to, and why the MOMA hasn't given him his own floor there is a unsolvable mystery. Who is running the MOMA these days? People were talking Burning Man there, but I think Burning Man is beneath Carl. If you come to the next MAPP, I will take you to Carl's show. It's be in about 60 days. Until then, check out his site, which does not do his work justice at all.

Who Thought a Poem about Lightning Could Be so Boring?

I went to a reading tonight.
I wish I hadn't.
The people reading had all the right poetry friends, though. Good for them.

I think it's funny that I only see certain people at really bad readings. They come out to support their friends. From now on, if I see certain people at readings, I am going to be on my guard for horrific poetry.

The clique I'm referring to consists of people who like me and people who hate me, and that's good. But if they only go to the bad readings, why are they still involved in poetry at all? If I only went to bad readings, I would stop going to readings all together. Supporting your friends is nice—kudos! But is it worth it if it's always crappy? I think not. If every time you go into a room, someone pours a bucket of corn syrup on you, will you go back in?

Readings, Readings, and Reading.

I don't like it when people say "but I like his stuff on paper" after a reading, but now I have to say it. I don't understand how a good writer can be a bad reader. If you believe the words you've written, or if you care about them, you will read them as such. If you just throw away every line like they don't matter, why should they matter to an audience? Why would I buy your book and invest my time in it if you obviously don't think it's worth that investment?

Zachary Mason's THE LOST BOOKS OF THE ODYSSEY is a trip. I liked what I read of it very much. But when he read his work at Pegasus on Wednesday, I was disappointed. I don't think he's doing his work any favors by reading it like a bad lecturer. The fact that his work is so good just makes it more frustrating.

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Last night was MAPPY hour at the Red Poppy. Fun was had by all in preparation for MAPP, which is the Saturday! MAPP is one of my favorite things that happens in the Bay. Jack Morgan and Sara Mumolo are having an event featuring some great poets, writers, and musicians at L's Caffe, 2871 24th st. between Bryant and Florida. I hope you can make it.Chad Sweeney, Della Watson, Valyntina Grenier, Ann Svilar, Sharon Zetter, Hello Handsome, Bull.

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I bet you want to go to a reading tonight. What else is there to do on a Friday? You're in luck: there's a reading at Pegasus!

EYEBALL HATRED: so say we all

EYEBALL HATRED: so say we all
You should go to the reading, freal.

I don't know who these guys are, but this tickled me a little, and I am not ticklish.

I always thought it was weird that I wasn't ticklish. I like tickling other people. I don't understand why people always say "STOP!!!!!" when they get tickled. They are laughing, and it looks like they are having fun. Sometimes, when someone surprises me, I laugh for half a second when they try to tickle me. But if I see it coming, or once I am aware that I am being touched, I don't laugh.

I would like to be ticklish.

I know why I am not ticklish. I figured it out once I met other people like me with similar backgrounds. It's like we're in a club none of us wants to be in.

back

This photo reminds me of Star Trek except the women on Star Trek looked more human.

It took me a very long time to get home. I rode in six different types of vehicles to get here. It is 4:20 AM in New York, which only means that I am hungry. I should be sleeping, but I sleep according to clocks and not according to my body telling me when I should. My body and my brain don't talk enough.

The only reason I am blogging right now is because I am curious about a reading that is taking place tomorrow at Pegasus Books. I know nothing about it, but I am going to it. I hope it's good. You should join me.

A Longish Post about National Poetry Month and Hack Poets; You Fuckers Make Me Want to Puke on Babies

National Poetry Month is here again.  That means that you should go to readings.  It isn't one of those months in which you just think about things that happened or watch a special on television about how things once were.  It isn't a time when you find a person and tell them that you're sorry you've ignored/marginalized them.

Poets don't need your fucking pity.  OK, we need your pity a little.  But check this out: you can buy a book of poetry at Pegasus Downtown in Berkeley and get ten percent. (10%) (!) off.  That isn't bad.  I wish I could get ten per cent. off all the time.  I for one will be buying a butt load of poetry books.

There are some of you who hate national poetry month.  I can understand it.  Charles Bernstein, in his hilarious essay (please read until the end,,, or just the end) on the month-long holiday very nearly convinces me to hate national poetry month.   But I love it.  10%!!!  If I had as much money as Charles Bernstein, I wouldn't need the 10% off, but I do.  Sorry Chuck.

The way I see it is that most poetry, like most of all art and music and food and almost everything else, sucks, blows, and bores.  So if I take the conservative estimate of 10% being worthwhile, I dramatically increase my chances of finding something good during national poetry month.  There are more readings and more books, and everything's cheaper.  Yes, it's lame that the masses are told to like poetry one month out of the year, but mostly everyone doesn't even know it's poetry month. Maybe some teachers tell their students, and then they teach them mainstream shit, but that's what they were going to do anyway.

I think it's kind of a joke for the avant-garde poets to cry about not being included in the festivities.  They don't really want anything to do with the public libraries or Junior High Schools.  The established mainstreamers have their place, and we have ours. That's all right.  I don't want to be mainstream when it comes to poetry.  I don't want to be a National Poet Laureate.  Such outward things dwell not in my desires.  If I wanted that, I would write du jour poetry about African Americans during the Harlem Renaissance or something.  Or I would write long, pretentious poems about colors that seem high-brow because the colors I pick are green and grey and I use big words.

See, there are poets who make me sick all the time. I am fucking sick of all the hack poets who mess up the sport.  Shall I list them? Nooo.  But neither will Charles Bernstein.  It's already awkward enough to walk into parties and have people there who know who I am and what I say about them.  They can't take criticism.  You're an instant enemy as soon as you say something out loud about their poetry.  Maybe people at the top who care so vehemently about non-streamers should be meaner to the people who are garbage poets and politicians and networkers.  Maybe if they were throwing enough stones, someone would notice, and the world of poetry would be more interesting to the people outside it.

And all you homework poets.  All you poets who sit where you sit because of who you know.  All you impostors and charlatans.  All of you who claim right to your laurels without having earned them.  You, who have put me to sleep at readings and blamed the audience for not understanding your garbage.  You, whose fans are other poets who only like you because of who you know. . . you make me nauseous all year long.  I don't have to wait on April for that.

There will be rain tonight.

Let it come down. 

That being said, their poster makes me want to barf and watch you dogs lap it up.  Especially, you, crap poet who writes tripe about race to win awards.