I am judging a poetry contest. I’m not going to say which one. And I didn’t know I was judging it until after the deadline so it wasn’t like I could say hey I’m judging so you should send your manuscript in. I was a little glad I was judging it. I mean it was flattering. But then of course then the giant box of manuscripts arrived the drycleaners where I receive packages. Uhnnnh. I don’t have to tell you that I work really hard.

I love that somebody didn’t like my exchange with Bobby Byrd about whether the tortillas were good. Is it tortillas they didn’t like, our friendly exchange or whaa? I rarely use a question mark. Gertrude Stein said if the sentence doesn’t contain the question you didn’t write it well enough. Though whaa is a cartoon Americanism up
Probably it’s because I lost my computer that it’s looming but I had already begun the project in which I transcribed text messages from my cell phone onto my computer. Those are gone so the project feels even more urgent now. Fragmented, incomplete. The practical reason and the sentimental reason meet exactly in
I’m newly traumatized due to the following events:
On the morning of July 4th – a Saturday – I was packing my truck on East 3rd Street in Manhattan where I live. It was at the end of a rich and long haul of events.
The big question became whether it would rain or not. At one point in the late morning when we were waiting for the soundman this middle-aged guy stood with us on the stone stairs and said it will. 40% said Kristin hopefully. Definitely says this guy and he laughed. Working class I not so much sneered when he left as checked in on a reality that says if it can it will. Meaning disaster.
Just sent my last email blast. Why do we call it blast when unless everyone else has a great program that goes gush I am cutting and pasting little pods of names into rectangles and going blam blam blam more like pushing a lot of letters into a slot. When I peek at my incoming mail I see all those dead ones. Server no long has this address or delivery status notification delivery has failed. So it’s better not to look at your incoming mail till it’s over. Today the opera singer, Julie, got sick. So I was scrambling through old mails looking for singers from the opera I worked on several years ago. And I realized that someone amazing whose show just ended was probably planning to come and maybe he would rather be in it and he would. John Kelly said yes so rather than a soprano I have a mezzo and a man rather than a woman but a very special man rather than a very special woman so it’s all okay. I’m not even going to say that much about the kids today except that I very much want them both to come. Leslie Heredia and Arturo Campos. They are the kids. Every now and then I get a message from a poet and I think oh no will a poet call in sick now. But no it’s a poet who sent out a very handsome version of my first email blast and he’s checking in to see if it’s okay that he sent out one. I thank him. Everything I hear from everybody is okay, the poets are on and are walking boldly into the silence of tomorrow night with no difficulty. No one is afraid of the sound not sounding at all. Everyone is planning to come. I think we are a simple and unusual people. That’s a fact about who the tribe of the poets are. Though I’m assuming there will be much disagreement about that. What this simplicity is, or what the unusualness is all about. But it’s a kind of show business and I’m endlessly grateful though it hasn’t happened yet that the poets just show up.
My posts will pretty much be about the collection of silence till Tuesday. We started off with a hope for forty kids from PS 4 & The Poetry Club but it was maybe thirty or high twenties originally. I’m not used to being around that many kids but the energy was totally infectious in the Burroughs sense. It was their language, but ALL of it. The sounds, the


Actually I did drag the Yang Fudong concept mixed in with Gary Snyder’s Mountains and Rivers without End and some Judith Butler (not a lot – maybe just the concept) into my workshop this week at Naropa. I invited poets who wanted to hike in the Rockies and write poetry and think about gender to take part in this weeklong event. We went up on a smashing climb to Chautauqua, which is in Boulder, and there we

I would like to draw attention to a remarkable work that is viewble in Manhattan at the Asia Society from now until September. It is Yang Fudong’s Seven Intellectuals in a Bamboo Forest. From 2003 to 2007 this visual artist from Shanghai who had previously been silent for three months in order to examine his relationship to language next made a sequence of films, one a year, which took as their point of departure the Seven Sages in a Bamboo Forest an influential and mythic 5th century work about a group of
I’m lying on a bed in Boulder but I just spent a week in San Francisco. The engines of pride are beginning to turn there and all over the world and a particular genius friend of mine, the novelist and memoirist and poet and bon vivant I think Michelle Tea has been organizing fashion shows in San Francisco, benefits for summer writing retreats and finally two nights in June called Into the Streets in which a bunch of poets and writers all burrowed into the LGBT archive and found an artifact there, a poster, a
Thom Donovan
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Sotère Torregian
Cathy Halley
Michael Marcinkowski
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Fred Sasaki
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