Greatest Living Poet

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Behrle) — Fri, 08 Sep 2006 05:38:00 +0000

The plan is that he and Luo live in the cage for 10 days. In that time, they cannot talk to anyone nor change clothes. There is a white cloth hanging in the cage so they go to the toilet behind it.

Every day, food, mostly vegetables, is sent to the artist and Luo, Ye collects any rubbish and stores it in a black plastic bag which is taken away each day.

The two in the cage not only don't talk to others, they don't talk to each other.

But every day they write on the wooden cage. The artist said it is the only means of communication for them.

Heath Ledger Plays Heroin-Addicted Poet in Love

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Behrle) — Fri, 08 Sep 2006 05:29:00 +0000

{trailer}

The Fugly Life

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Behrle) — Fri, 08 Sep 2006 05:00:00 +0000

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Behrle) — Fri, 08 Sep 2006 04:15:00 +0000

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Behrle) — Thu, 07 Sep 2006 13:02:00 +0000

Seventy years ago, in the middle of a late summer night, Spain's greatest 20th-century poet, Federico García Lorca, was bundled into a hollow in a wooded ravine north of Granada and shot dead. Lorca, 38, was a challenge to everything Franco's clerical fascism stood for. He was gay. He hailed Spain's infant democracy. His sympathies were with the left.

The poet could have fled Granada easily when it fell to the nationalists in the first days of the uprising against the Spanish republic, but he chose to stay with his sister, who was married to the city's mayor. Yet, despite fame, status and connections, he was soon dragged away and murdered.

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Behrle) — Thu, 07 Sep 2006 04:32:00 +0000

Best American Poetry 2006: The Cartoon [guest-starring David Lehman & Billy Collins]

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Behrle) — Thu, 07 Sep 2006 03:34:00 +0000

Anselm Berrigan & Alex Young at the Zinc Bar this Sunday Night

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Behrle) — Wed, 06 Sep 2006 12:46:00 +0000

Anselm Berrigan has been called the founder of Scholasticism. He is famous as the inventor of the ontological argument for the existence of God. His new book is Some Notes on My Programming.

Alex Young is a former Scottish footballer. He was a prolific goal-scorer in Everton's 1962/63 championship season.

Sunday September 10th, 2006
Zinc Bar 90 W Houston St.
Readings to begin late (around 7:30)
out of respect for another event
elsewhere that will be found & linked to
that somehow involves Eugene Ostoshevsky

This week guest-curated by: Greedo from 'Star Wars.'

Or, if you're in Chicago on Friday...

Zinc Bar Google Map Zinc Wikipedia Entry Films About Sex and Shitting

Hungarian Poet György Faludy dies at 95

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Behrle) — Wed, 06 Sep 2006 12:16:00 +0000

Faludy is most widely known for poetry and prose about his experiences, in particular the novel "My Happy Days in Hell," about the infamous Recsk labour camp, where he was sent to on trumped up charges in 1950. First published in English in 1962, the book was considered a precursor to Alexander Solzhenitsyn's accounts of the Soviet concentration camps (“The Gulag Archipelago").

It was translated to French, Hungarian and German as well but was banned in Hungary until the collapse of communism.

Faludy continued “writing" poetry even while at Recsk, mostly in his head, as no writing tools were available. He made his fellow prisoners memorize the verses as a mental exercise and to save them for posterity in case any of them survived the concentration camp. Whoever was released from the camp with parts of the poems in his head, they went to visit Faludy's wife, Zsuzsa Szegõ, and dictated the verses to her.

Faludy wrote his poem “For Posterity" by taking straws from a broom and using his blood as ink on toilet paper. When his eyesight turned really bad in his late years, he started writing poems in his head once again.

{stories}

Learn by Heart This Poem of Mine

Learn by heart this poem of mine;
books only last a little time
and this one will be borrowed, scarred,
burned by Hungarian border guards,
lost by the library, broken-backed,
its paper dried up, crisped and cracked,
worm-eaten, crumbling into dust,
or slowly brown and self-combust
when climbing Fahrenheit has got
to 451, for that's how hot
your town will be when it burns down.
Learn by heart this poem of mine.

Learn by heart this poem of mine.
Soon books will vanish and you'll find
there won't be any poets or verse
or gas for car or bus - or hearse -
no beer to cheer you till you're crocked,
the liquor stores torn down or locked,
cash only fit to throw away,
as you come closer to that day
when TV steadily transmits
death-rays instead of movie hits
and not a soul to lend a hand
and everything is at an end
but what you hold within your mind,
so find a space there for these lines
and learn by heart this poem of mine.

Learn by heart this poem of mine;
recite it when the putrid tides
that stink of lye break from their beds,
when industry's rank vomit spreads
and covers every patch of ground,
when they've killed every lake and pond,
Destruction humped upon its crutch,
black rotting leaves on every branch;
when gargling plague chokes Springtime's throat
and twilight's breeze is poison, put
your rubber gasmask on and line
by line declaim this poem of mine.

Learn by heart this poem of mine
so, dead, I still will share the time
when you cannot endure a house
deprived of water, light, or gas,
and, stumbling out to find a cave,
roots, berries, nuts to stay alive,
get you a cudgel, find a well,
a bit of land, and, if it's held,
kill the owner, eat the corpse.
I'll trudge beside your faltering steps
between the ruins' broken stones,
whispering "You are dead; you're done!
Where would you go? That soul you own
froze solid when you left your town."
Learn by heart this poem of mine.

Maybe above you, on the earth,
there's nothing left and you, beneath,
deep in your bunker, ask how soon
before the poisoned air leaks down
through layers of lead and concrete. Can
there have been any point to Man
if this is how the thing must end?
What words of comfort can I send?
Shall I admit you've filled my mind
for countless years, through the blind
oppressive dark, the bitter light,
and, though long dead and gone, my hurt
and ancient eyes observe you still?
What else is there for me to tell
to you, who, facing time's design,
will find no use for life or time?
You must forget this poem of mine.

Best American Poetry 2006: The Cartoon

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Behrle) — Wed, 06 Sep 2006 03:45:00 +0000

It's Official: The Evening News is Something You Can Beat Off To Again

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Behrle) — Wed, 06 Sep 2006 02:27:00 +0000

I thought after Peter Jennings went off the air I'd have to do my Evening Spews forever to "Everyone Loves Raymond" Re-runs. Enter: sweet gams.

Help Katie Come Up With a Sign-Off

Mine was: Thank you, America, for choosing CBS News. I'm Katie Couric...hey, are you looking at my *ass*?

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Behrle) — Fri, 01 Sep 2006 05:26:00 +0000

Best American Poetry 2006: The Cartoon

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Behrle) — Fri, 01 Sep 2006 03:19:00 +0000

The Ewoks

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Behrle) — Thu, 31 Aug 2006 05:15:00 +0000

Best American Poetry 2006: The Cartoon

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Behrle) — Thu, 31 Aug 2006 02:26:00 +0000

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Behrle) — Thu, 31 Aug 2006 01:13:00 +0000

New naked photos of Jimmy. Very Graphic. Very Not Safe For Work.

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Behrle) — Wed, 30 Aug 2006 13:28:00 +0000

Well, because in general I don't think people should read poetry blogs. Or poetry, for that matter. The blogs themselves are most successful in showing what's wrong with us. I guess we're waiting on that ideal googler, that person who will just ramble along after having read one of our delightful poems in a magazine or having overheard our name at a party. And doop-de-doo, here they come, experiencing our blog for the first time. Buying all our products and services, reading everything we ever wrote in one sitting and still liking us! Being even more intrigued! We're intriguing! We are able to intrigue! Googler falls in love with us and lets us know it! We are in love, a kind of shiny green apple love.

Kent wrote to me the other day, "Your [sic] a very good poet, too. But there are too many very good poets. We have to figure out something different." In Kent's case the "different" would be to find another gear, find his happy place. And anytime one is losing the argument it's smartest to change the subject. Like all of those Republican strategy-makers Kent seems to admire. I doubt whether Kent has *ever* read a poem of mine, it's just one of those things he writes. It's hard to imagine *anyone* ever having read a poem of mine. What a strange thing. I certainly don't want ______ for an audience, and yet, waiting for an idealized googler, I am stuck with _______.

But the poetry blogs have always been horrible, with certainly no exceptions. In the same way I guess that the New York Times is horrible. Information as a commodity, that sort of thing. It just feels icky. And the more you get to know any poet, the less you're gonna like them anyhow. If Holden Caufield did call all those writers he wanted to, he would have saw them for what they are. Disappointing people. Rampant careerist fucks. That sort of thing.

Everyone's relationship with the internet is personal. Your porn, your e-mail, your news, your illegal downloads. Where poems ever fit in (beyond postures and gestures and ways of nudging the competition away) has never been very clear. And I guess blogs can still function as a way to let people know your opinions are better than theirs. You'd like to think you can go into a bookstore and buy a poetry book (if they have any), but there always seems to be a reason not to. Cover too glossy. Blurbs too blurby. I picked up a book at random last night and read a poem about a father cooking pork. Poems ought to let you know when they've done something you'll like. There ought to be a way to search for poems inside this box: if you liked that, you'll like this. It is also set in a laundromat, beneath a bandana-stifled moon.

I think about this every time I get a massive spam-mail or see someone shucking a new chapbook: I think about why I can't find what I want. I accept that I'm crazy, or else I would have put away these toys long ago and become a lighthousekeeper. Guiding people through the waves. Or myself. Instead I'm stuck with you. And you suck. I hope you disappointing me haunts you.

In the old days poets would just write their names and contact information on rocks or the sides of buildings, hoping someone would happen by.

Elmo Suicide

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Behrle) — Wed, 30 Aug 2006 05:10:00 +0000

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Behrle) — Wed, 30 Aug 2006 04:59:00 +0000

Snoopy Died!!

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Behrle) — Wed, 30 Aug 2006 04:59:00 +0000

It's Not Easy Being G-Kent

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Behrle) — Wed, 30 Aug 2006 04:09:00 +0000

The Fugly Life

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Behrle) — Wed, 30 Aug 2006 04:08:00 +0000

Rum, Sodomy & The Lash

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Behrle) — Wed, 30 Aug 2006 04:08:00 +0000

Avantasaurus

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Behrle) — Wed, 30 Aug 2006 04:08:00 +0000

Lost Bob

noreply@blogger.com (Jim Behrle) — Tue, 29 Aug 2006 18:12:00 +0000

"I'm so hard-pressed / My mind tied up in knots / I keep on recyclin' the same old thoughts." The 3 Dylan records I could find with 5 star reviews upon their release were BLOOD ON THE TRACKS [check], LOVE & THEFT [hunh?] and his latest [no]. The significant musical and lyrical difference between MODERN TIMES and UNDER THE RED SKY [2 stars] is lost on me. I do not like this late cowboy pencil moustache warbler phase. It's doing nothing for me (much like the late Johnny Cash let's-get-him-to-sing-anything phase). His band has all the twangy charm of studio mercenaries. We're supposed to be thrilled that he knows who Alicia Keyes is. "I roll & I tumble / I ride the whole night long." I couldn't even listen to the whole thing straight through for free. Those weren't the first five tracks of a five star effort. If tedious 7 minute songs with indecipherable, insignificant and interchangeable lyrics and melodies is what you're looking for, head directly to your closest retail outlet. But critics are playing some kind of funny on you, or they decided that they're finished holding Bob up to any kind of standard anymore. We expect nothing of Bob, he delivers nothing. These tracks seem as forgettable as the cabs that pass you that *don't* give you a ride home. There must be some charm in becoming an artist a younger version of himself wouldn't have been able to stand. This is not a great age, an age of great music. As we sit and wait for something great to come along, we wish Dylan would do *something*. If this is "the voice of God" then it's a C+ World. I like my 5 star cds urgent & risky, not innocous and elevatory. Coming soon to a grocery store rotation near you.

I wrote to myself "When the fire is almost out any spark seems bright."