1. Discuss.
2. No.
3. The sentence is a dark alley. You know what happens in dark alleys.
4. Something’s not right.
5. Discuss.
6. No.
7. What kind of person gets to the corridor then stops? On the verge of research, a question, an interview. Takes notes on the architecture, the crenallate of red roofs stretching over the East End, the cross-hatched window of Kamaldeep Bhui’s door. Then goes home.
8. The recent honor killing in Turkey. Discuss.
9. No.
10. The university department. The conflation of the shadow blogs with the comment stream. Uncles. Cousins. The sex attackers in childhood, adulthood, and beyond. The killers on the verge of killing. All my life I have looked into the eyes of serial killers and have developed a sixth sense when it comes to not being murdered. You fucking cunt. Your eyebrows are really ugly; did anyone ever tell you that?Discuss.
11. No.
12. I love you.
13. Discuss
14. No
15. Questions of non-violence bring me to the moment when, face to face with a cobra, two cobras, I look them in the eyes. I don’t know what this does other than reduce my nausea. Eileen Myles, would you take over my gig? I will re-send you the money when I get it, though I need it. I think I need this money, sometimes. No, it is better if Eileen Myles takes over from here, and maybe someone else. Elena Georgiou. Someone fierce and gentle, and someone gentle and fierce. Someone with a partner, because I think you need someone at home if you’re going to do this. If you’re going to take this up. I have a dog. I have a cat. I have a son. I have amazing neighbors and friends. I have you.
15. I have you.
16. “Shame may be fatal.” Discuss
14. No.
15. Towards an aesthetics of non-violence. Towards Elizabeth Lonzano’s work on ritual and community in Colombia. Towards an essay composed in the notebook, where it drifts, a composite of scraps. MEAT BLANKET. Discuss.
16. Towards a different kind of sex altogether.
17. The question of sex is linked to the question of territory. Discuss.
18. Yes.
19. In a war-time, predatory effects are amplified. Discuss.
20. Yes.
21. Mira Bai’s bhajans recalibrate the garden at the end of winter. In class, we read ZONG! I direct my students to Fred’s posts on reparation and trance. When Sina writes about the river and Woolf and her mum and the north, a vertical thread unfurls. Sometimes I listen to Sotere’s audio: at home, I read Craig’s book, delighted by the rain and the jungle and the aunties, in my first scan. Thom’s thinking about the sentence affects me, deeply, in the space before writing begins.
22. ”Mom, can we have a snack? Abby wants a cocoa. Can we go to The Coffee Tree?”
23. “Not yet.”
24. ”How will you put the shit back into the mother’s body?” — Cynthia Sailers, on aggression, community and the group mind.
25. Discuss!!!
26. ”Mom! We’re hungry!!!”
27. ”I’m almost done.”
I had hoped to get a couple more entries up by now, but it’s a particularly cunning germ season in our abode at the moment and I am in fact trying to dash this off before
This post (one resists the temptation to begin “This post-up” and imagine the electronic void one writes into playing zone defense) is part III because I think the fabulous set of comments to my previous post constitutes “Reading habits, part II”,
In his essay “Vermin: a Notebook”, the Australian poet John Kinsella writes that without acts of resistance, “the environment has no chance.”
This seems obvious enough.
The way things are going, the earth (or at the very least, life on it) is in danger of being irreparably damaged by humanity’s heedless gobbling of resources. Resistance and change need to happen. Everyone from Barack Obama to T. Boone Pickens agrees on that.
What no one quite agrees on is what form these acts of resistance should take. Should we chain ourselves to trees and squeal at passersby, or should we just use Flexcar once a week? Should we turn the living room lights off during the day or develop a bedroom bucket sewage system? Firebomb the coal plant or compost the coffee grounds? Let the free market take care of the polar bears or demand cap and trade?
For Kinsella, there’s one act of resistance that encompasses the full range of these possibilities, yet no one has talked much about it: Poetry.

Many have noted the poetry latent in Sarah Palin’s speech. Now that she’s published a memoir, Going Rogue, many are noting the non-poetry of her non-prose.
But who would have imagined that Palin had a poetic forerunner, a partner in rhyme, a fellow Bard of Bad? Julia A. Moore (1847-1920), popularly called the “Sweet Singer of Michigan,” produced reams of writing that soon became known as the worst of the verse. If Palin wrote a poem, I posit, it would be this definitive work of Moore’s.
One thing that happened the other day was the memorial, at which one found the issue in which one’s article on the other one recently passed was printed. Agh! I was blogging around trying to nosedive into ashes

I own a pink skirt, a pink dress, a pink scarf, a pink coat, three pink sweaters, and six pink shirts. Each time I shop for clothes, my eyes wander toward another rose tee, and my fingers fondle another salmon sarong, and I ask myself, Why?
But I know why. I love pink because I am Woman.
Obviously.
The more serious implications of being Woman—and Literary Woman in particular—have lately drawn a lot of press. First, as poet Steve Fellner noted in his blog, men beat out women four to one in the prestigious, and historically male-skewed, Whiting Awards for emerging writers. Second, in a move that attracted much more attention than the Whiting wrong, Publishers Weekly compiled a boys-only top 10 books list of the year. The extended list of 100 best books featured 29 female writers.

White space criss-crossed yesterday’s New York Times opinion page like mortar. Uneven in length and width, stanzas gave the impression of crumbling brick. Poem titles appeared painted on, recalling graffiti.
In light of the endless debate over Whether Good Political Poetry Exists, the commemoration of the fall of the Berlin Wall with a wall of poetry–a throwback to the days when poems regularly appeared in newspapers–gave me a case of the grins. The poetry wall struck me as an editorial eye-roll, a visually complex, literarily ambitious “duh.” (Just the same, it’s worth bearing that debate in mind while reading these poems, which, like the rough-hewn wall, can feel uneven.)

The literati are like aliens. Some are cute. Some are hostile. All talk funny, and all require diplomatic outreach. (Daniel Nester recently described this phenomenon in his riotous, depressing takedown of the New York poetry scene, “Goodbye to All Them.”)
I here present the strategies I have observed and developed at literary gatherings, in hopes that you, reader, will not someday find yourself lying on a couch in a grungily chic neighborhood of San Francisco at 4 a.m., claiming, along with a bald, 13-year-old Norwegian you’ve just met, to be a Macarthur Fellow.
Thom Donovan
Bhanu Kapil
Fred Moten
Craig Santos Perez
Sina Queyras
Sotère Torregian
Cathy Halley
Michael Marcinkowski
Travis Nichols
Fred Sasaki
Don Share
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