Making ready for the hometown trip, the mine tour, the old places.

I'm nervous, dreaming badly. Morenci is strange and I don't go back often. I'll bring back pictures for you. For me. Am working through the Inferno again thinking of the concentric circles of the open pit, and reading Paracelsus, "On the Miners' Sickness." Much work to do.

And fire:

[Neighborhood #2 (Laika, The Arcade Fire)]

Bought a copy of Richard Avedon's In the American West yesterday. I wanted more time with these famous portraits of miners, factory workers, prisoners, drifters, truck drivers, oil field workers, housewives, slaughterhouse workers, carneys. Avedon was lauded for treating these subjects with the same dignity reserved for celebrities and dignitaries as well as criticized for a disparaging view of rural working America. But I am looking for something else in the work, some tension between the ethical and the beautiful I can't seem to shake these days--it has silenced me, my poems--for the portraits are beautiful, but I'm not inclined to trust beauty just now, not my sense of it anyway, which is so often nostaligic and enthused. I am easily moved, and being easily moved seems to do the world an insidious wrong. I am wary, weary.

I see nothing problematic with Avedon's photograph of Warhol's scars which is the artist's turn to artifice, to beauty, to the machine that the artist is even in trauma or especially in trauma, the art object, the object of desire. That's what artists do to themselves sometimes, sometimes at a dear price, but we aren't surprised and we aren't hurt by it anymore than we are hurt by television. I am often moved by television--by commercials in particular--though I know I oughtn't be moved too much.

But these others, these faces in West photographed against blank white paper, removed from their contexts, projected into the artificial white space of the exhibit: they are displaced, but as if they were already displaced, already other, already object in the story that this gaze would have us see. They are transformed from themselves into a point of view. My point of view.

***

Reprehensible, yes. But who? Who is reprehensible?

***

"A portrait is not a likeness. The moment an emotion or fact is transformed into a photograph it is no longer a fact but an opinion. There is no such thing as inaccuracy in a photograph. All photographs are accurate. None of them is the truth."

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The kids are watching Labyrinth. Am noticing this little turn of phrase (gaze?) for the first time:

"Your eyes can be so cruel
Just as I can be so cruel"

What the eyes I. "I can't live within you."

***

I can find no way out of seeing wrong.

***

thanks.

"Experts have noted that it is incorrect to equate pedophilia with homosexuality."

Huh. Ya think? Such euphemistic correctness reeks of elision. I can't believe somebody said that: "incorrect." But I've got no bone to pick with the Times, not really. I'm utterly disgusted with the goddamned church.

Going to tour the Morenci mine the first week of December--made my reservation today. Grew up there, but haven't been inside. I used to dream about the insides, the tailings dams behind the chainlink fencing, the smelters. And still I won't see the molten ore, the rows of anodes in sulferic acid and copper sulfate. They won't show them to me, tourist, camera in hand. I am taking my camera. I am reading about concentrating, refining, leaching. I will tell them I went to the lookout point every week with my father for 12 years, that I need not go back. I will say show me something I haven't known but should have. Show me what my father knows. Show me forging.

Happy birthday to me.

Gonna take my legs for a test run. It's been awhile--too long to expect more than a crawl--but it's also been ten years since I last ran in the desert on my birthday. So here goes...

Looked over some rejection slips yesterday.

I usually let the rejections pile up before sorting through them for my records. I resent it, but it seems my life is defined by the things that pile up--email, for the love of God, somebody pick up the damned phone--and though I am oppressed enough by my piles to transport them across the country with me, I am rarely convinced I ought to use my energy to dismantle them.

So I arrived in Arizona with a pile of rejection slips to look over and found some closely-written thoughtful commentary from Ron Offen of Free Lunch on yellow post-its attached to each rejected poem. I don't think an editor has ever commented on my work before, aside from the usual "close, but not for us," or "we liked ______ but chose not to publish it." Frankly, I don't expect editors to comment on my work. They have their own piles to manage--obviously--and if they do their editing lovingly, as I know most do, I don't expect more then a generic sentence or two on a slip of pink paper and a set of initials in blue ink indicating we--the editors and I--have had our correspondence.

(Cream City, on the other hand, returned my work with my own cover letter on top, just as I'd sent it. Not the first time it's happened with them. I don't do them an injustice when I say I assume they haven't given my work even a cursory reading. Sloppy and dismissive, that.)

Question is, if editors are to comment on submissions at all--and I'm not suggesting they should--what ought they say? (Well, what do you say, those editors among you, and why?) What I appreciate most about Offen's response is that he accounts for taste, which in the abstract, I hadn't thought would be useful to me beyond my knowing how my poems fall short of it. He says of the last poem in the batch I sent:

"Again--too fragmented for me. Don't care for this style of writing. Overall too prosey--lacks figurative language, which I like."

Yeah, exactly. Exactly! All those qualifiers--"for me," "don't care for," "which I like," and even "style of writing"--ring true here, though in a workshop setting such language usually comes from the faux apologist in the room. The editorial bias, as an objective, as a standard of taste, allows Offen to say something surprisingly true about the poems. They are fragmentary, prosey, and sadly lacking in figurative language, the polar opposite of what I often most admire in other poets.

In the mail just before leaving Galesburg, I received a copy of Suzanne Frischkorn's Spring Tide. Spent yesterday recovering from the long drive and steeped in her poems. I have more to say about what Suzanne can do that I simply can't--figurative language!--but for now must be off to the grocery store. There is turkey to consider.

postcard from the road #3: towel poetry

In a glass frame by the sink:

I'm a thirsty towel, without stains or tears, put here for your use by a staff who cares. There are 3 sets of me on the towel rack; and the office has extra for pool and deck. If you must take me home, if my softness entices, please ask at the desk for a list of my prices. I hope you won't take me, I don't like to roam, they are good to me here--this is my home. Treat me like that and after awhile, I will have to retire to the old rag pile. Thank you for listening and taking the time to read my woeful little rhyme. The Best Western Wyota Inn wants to thank you too, we really appreciate nice people like you!

postcard from the road # 2: holiday inn, tucumcari

tuesday:

outdrove the tornado warnings surrounding Springfield, MO. For several hours plowed through forty mile an hour winds and the kind of rain that drops inches in a few hours. My hands are sore today from gripping the wheel. Accidents all over the road, nothing visible. I didn't think about being alone, not then. I thought about driving west and south where the drought might bring us a dust storm instead.

***

Springfield: Joplin: Tulsa: at exactly 1:39 pm the clouds opened up and the sun shone down on Romulus and me. Before the clouds cleared completely, one grinned at us. Big torn eyes and a big torn mouth. Then it dissolved into a big blank sky.

***

Road trip food is brilliant orange and green. Cheetos and Diet Mountain Dew.

***

That white car tailing your ass because you don't move fast enough at 85, the one passing you on the right before you can do 90 or move over?

That's a cop.

***

Tulsa: Oklahoma City: Texahoma: Oklahoma slipped into Texas unannounced, but somwhere before the border, I bought a baseball cap that says "Native Pride" and has the entire state of Texas embroidered on the front of it in red white and blue and many many feathers. I bought it because I was driving into the sun and my blinder was useless, but I'm beginning to like it.

***

Those giant windmills are eerie. Anybody know what they are, really?

***

Other sights from the road: the Largest Precious Moments Gift Shop in the World, the Largest Cross in the Western Hemisphere, and Twilight Church whose yard served both the human dead and the bovine feeding.

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Amarillo: New Mexico: and now we are in Aztlan.

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Bird and sun this morning. I am whole again.

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postcard from the road #1: wish I were there

Monday:

twenty-seven hours as near as I can figure it, though already, starting late today, I’ve driven six, Galesburg to Springfield to St. Louis to Lebanon, with Springfield looming up again tomorrow an hour into the drive. When I look again at my atlas, I see my math is confused. Just as: why so many neighboring states with a Springfield? Concatenating tiles: Illinois: Missouri: Oklahoma: the Texas panhandle: New Mexico: Arizona. I am in Missouri for the night. The room is pricey but clean and warm and Romulus, for an extra ten bucks, is welcome too. He roams about sniffing the rug. He likes the curtain billowing in the hot fan. He’s shared my confusion and not a little of my stress about this trip, but mostly he was quiet today in the dark rain as we drove. Fog outside and the windshield fogging. The two truncated legs of the Arch. We hit slow traffic in St. Louis just past them and watched taillights amass in the dark, a long slow thread floating ahead of our crest. Thrilling to me, beautiful. Like the blue-lit cross from a church, a sudden sign announcing Sweet Tree Road, near nowhere. I think I won’t see them again. Nor this room and this bed.

The fan is drying my eyes out, but my legs are tucked under the covers and an episode of the X-Files I haven’t seen is on, and I am feeling lazy after the long hurry to finish up and leave for home. The fan stays on for now. No internet connection, so I post from Word as if publishing now. I should be sleeping—tomorrow’s leg, I tell myself is fourteen hours if I’m up to it—but I’m thinking of Sweet Tree Road and the bare trees in the billboard lights. She is driving home, Glenda told Trystan. Then she is bringing Romulus, he said, because when she drives she brings him with her. Once before, last year around this time, I drove and brought Romulus with me. Now we are expected. Going south and further south, I shed my gloves, I scratch his ears. He is quiet.

Somebody dead is screaming on tv. Scully renounces her invisible man. Mulder wishes for peace on earth. Sufjan Stevens: I did everything for you I did everything for you I did everything for you. I would, too, to be home in time for my birthday on Saturday. It’s done the genii says. (What did I wish for?) Mulder again: guess I should’ve seen that coming.

Noticed that a technorati search for prussian blue landed at this blog.

Here, of course, I meant Prussian blue, as in read the paint label if you don't know what sort of blue you're using. But I followed the technorati search to see what's what, and it turns out Prussian Blue is White.

Lynx and Lamb Gaede (scroll down this site to Prophecy of the Flowers for the source of their names), twins, thirteen, folksy musicians, White race activists. Read from some of their interviews:

"Please tell me the significance of the name Prussian Blue: Part of our heritage is Prussian German. Also our eyes are blue, and Prussian Blue is just a really pretty color. There is also the discussion of the lack of "Prussian Blue" coloring (Zyklon B residue) in the so-called gas chambers in the concentration camps. We think it might make people question some of the inaccuracies of the "Holocaust" myth.

What do you think is the most important social issue facing the white race right now? Do you have any songs that address this issue? Not having enough white babies born to replace ourselves and generally not having good-quality white people being born. It seems like smart white girls who have good eugenics are more interested in making money in a career or partying than getting married and having a family. And yes, we are working on some new songs about this issue."

and:

"They need to realize that this is not a game and that it is serious business even though it can also be fun to be around other racially aware people. A lot of young people like to dress in a way that gets them attention because they don’t know any other way to feel proud of themselves and special. Sometimes the way they dress doesn’t make them look as attractive or handsome as they could be. We think that they should work to look as good as possible by working out and dressing nice to show that people who are White Nationalists are not scary, but good people. The way that you look and act is activism in a way because you represent your family your beliefs and your race. You are a walking talking advertisement and our young people are the best advertisement so they need to realize this."

Listen to one of their songs here. And while you're ordering their cd from Resistance Records you can also order a copy of Ethnic Cleansing: The Game.

***

Just after I'd discovered the Prussian Blue twins yesterday, Netflix brought American History X, which honest to God I knew nothing about and had forgotten I'd queued. Weird coincidence. Intense. Some reviews called the film didactic--I find it predictable--but Edward Norton is phenomenal. Also: he put on 30 pounds of muscle for this role. I guess you knew that. I'm late everywhere I go.

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That Glittering Possibility: Eighteen Debut Poets Who Made Their Mark in 2005

The current issue of Poets & Writers features 18 poets and their first books published in 2005, and while the article isn't available online it's worth a look if you don't mind feeling voyeuristic (and just a little bit dirty), if only to see what P&W perceives as important information to disclose. Each poet receives a profile write-up that reads just like a personals ad: age, residence, graduate degree, job, a single "representative" line from the book, names of poets who wrote blurbs as well as names of those who were influential, time spent writing the book, time spent finding a publisher, future plans ("in the works"), and ideology ("a bit of advice"). It's a sad showcase with a dark premise, reiterating the many anxieties of (forgive the term) emerging poets and the insignificant significance of first collections. How old and how long and who and how many and where before It happened?

Ah, pathology.

Put P&W's red carpet on view here so you can advise me. What to read? I've read some of the books on the list, a few rather than most, but good ones.

1. Andrea Baker, Like Wind Loves a Window, Slope Editions
2. Christian Barter, The Singers I Prefer, CavanKerry Press
3. Geoff Bouvier, Living Room, American Poetry Review (Honickman First Book Prize)
4. Leslie Bumstead, Cipher/Civilian, Edge Books
5. Victoria Chang, Circle, Southern Illinois University Press (Crab Orchard Series)
6. Geri Doran, Resin, Louisiana State University Press (Walt Whitman Award)
7. K.E. Duffin, King Vulture, University of Arkansas Press
8. Thomas Sayers Ellis, The Maverick Room, Graywolf Press
9. Dana Goodyear, Honey and Junk, W.W. Norton
10. Sarah Gridley, Weather Eye Open, University of California Press
11. Tyehimba Jess, Leadbelly, Verse Press (National Poetry Series)
12. Corinne Lee, Pyx, Penguin (National Poetry Series)
13. Sheryl Luna, Pity the Drowned Horses, University of Notre Dame (Andres Montoya Prize)
14. Rusty Morrison, Whethering, Center for Literary Publishing (Colorado Prize)
15. Matthew Shenoda, Somewhere Else, Coffee House Press
16. Laura Sims, Practice, Restraint, Fence Books (Alberta Prize)
17. Mark Sullivan, Slag, Texas Tech University Press
18. Catherine Wing, Enter Invisible, Sarabande Books

And Jordon:

Reacting to my own defensiveness, of course.

The issue isn't so much that one's empathy is being directed one way or the other -- the issue is that one's empathy is the object, no matter how temporary, of this pervasive morbid competition, the culture at large.

What I want to tell to fuck off wherever it surfaces is this general competitive intolerance. The endless qualifying, correcting, withholding. Which I just engaged in. Just fuck the fuck off.

At the same time, I appear to be in no hurry to let go of my need to be number one or nothing at all.

I'm in love with a ghost, or I'm thinking of taking a new imaginary lover #2

A.D. said: When aren't our great loves so wholly imaginary? I don't think this lessens them . . ."

Em said: It doesn't lessen the love or the sentiment. But it lessens the loved one. Do you see?

A.D. said: i meant to say . . . it allows us to take them with us. the beloveds here are the wonderful ghosts of memory, before they're even reduced to memories or ghosts themselves. in this way they're permanent—not thinking of imaginary as "made up", but rather as integratedly ours as much or more than anything else external to ourselves.

any sense to that?

***

And Lorna: Credo #3 - Never under-estimate the power of the Dead.

***

And me: ghostword