"…unseen blusher in an obscene coalhole…"
'Finnegans Wake' (194)
You can write your first poems
thinking you might as well
since the most stupid people in the universe
are writing their five hundredth here.
I’m doing that now. What
difference does it make.
I like my poems. They’re
as good as rocks.
—Alice Notley, “As Good As Anything” (via luminousmysteries)
readings are often rather polite affairs, tucked away somewhere safe. everything about them staged for safety. i mostly loathe them. i tried running a reading. it was fun. but it was always safe and there was a self-imposed silence to the entire proceeding. i think if we hate what we’re hearing or disagree or love it and agree, for that matter, we should say so. loudly. participate. break the silence over the back of a chair. staged seriousness and composed safety and then civil obedience threaten poetry more than anything else. i like to talk to the audience when i read. i once went to a reading in brooklyn—i flew from denver to participate—where the reading was held over the telephone. i liked the idea of it. i wanted to watch it from the source. most readings i’ve ever been to could have been held over the phone. being there was inconsequential. i think we should do something about this.
Invisibly visible, unlocatably everywhere: if the gay presence is threatened by absence, it is not only because of the secret (or not so secret) intentions of those who are fascinated by gays, or even as a result of the devastating work of AIDS, but also because gays have been de-gaying themselves in the very process of making themselves visible.
—Homos by Leo Bersani (via temporarilyeuropean)
tin type Miller&Shellabarger
Third Station, Barnett Newman, 1959
Lee Krasner, Gothic Landscape, 1961
Robert Motherwell (American, 1915-1991). From the Lyric Suite, 1965. Ink on Japanese paper. 8 15/16 x 11 in. (22.8 x 28 cm). Dedalus Foundation, New York.
Jim Dine, Picabia’s Son, 1961. Collection of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.