Nomad Ink

Sunday, January 29, 2006


Not vituperative, not vermininininfested, not hideous.
Not vitriolic, not virile, not virtuous.
Not venomous, not toxic, not magic.

A slather of blind wicker pointers exhibits a frame for thinking. A fat drift of weather over water. White streaked on white, and heavy dropsy informs my posts of late, n'est-ce pas? Not much to quibble about, when the snow falls like rain.

Monday, January 23, 2006

another day slept-crept away

suddenly stymied, i forget how to spell "crept." is that right? i'll let it stand but am mildly horrified at the predations of aging on my so-prized "language arts" abilities. the all-white recipe (rice, rice cakes, chicken, slivered almonds, daikon and mushrooms) was one heak of a lot of word, but i pulled it off over 2 days...marinating chicken in dry vermouth (i used a few drops of grand marnier, the only booze in the house; i used napa cabbage instead of daikon, too), egg white and cornstarch, etc etc. was it worth it? well it's pretty good, esp the ("lite") coconut milk you add in at the end) but quite bland considering all the work. i guess that's the point of white food. it's a whole issue of food n wine. i find it soothing to cook instead of work, did i already say that? and the bourbon balls and chickpea hummus are resting comfortably in the refrigerator waiting for thurs pm when the "Art as Knowing" Research Collaborative comes over to eat and talk about our future plans as a group. A nap punctuates a rereading of Raymond Williams's Marxism and Literature, now *why* am i making a graduate class in creative writing and cultural studies read this? it seemed like a good idea at the time. It is easy to have respect and affection for people like RW who cared so much about what they did that they were happily cranking books out late in life to sum up the insights gleaned in a lifetime of being a Marxist Literary Critic, or, as my students have been known to say, the insights "gleamed." I'm a gleamer myself, though the trash-cruising in my new neighborhood is a thin shadow of what it used to be like in my posh old neighborhood, Uptown Mpls, full of restaurants, bookstores, clothing stores and fancy expensive houses whose yard sales were heaven. No poems today. Next i'll figure out, courtesy of Nick Piombino, how to link to other sites where "my" "work" can be "appreciated." xo, my lovies all... just read Juliana S's Every one With Lungs and want to call everyone "Beloveds," i guess i'll make my grad class read that too, as she's coming here next sept (yippee!)

Sunday, January 22, 2006

a post-creative world

one of the formulations in this website is "post-create.g?" which seems pregant with meaning for a world in which Romantic authorship sort of wants to die and sort of doesn't. we're not comfortably past the mind-set which Barthes described and Foucault historicized for the purpose of hastening its supersession. i must admit that all notions of authorship *and* their proposed alternatives hold competing sway in my "imaging-nation" when "i" "sit down to write," making this blog a field of experimentation in consciousness-in-public, a practice of self-making that loosely takes poetic activity –the internal end of its wide-ranging continuum –as its organizing "theme." One of these days i'll learn how to link to other stuff, to make the collective aspect of this blog (as imagined by moi, a non-collective individual, but internally multiple nonetheless) a bit more defensible. here, just for the sake of experimentation with exposure, are some little ditties i wrote to keep myself alive (nothing dramatic, just brain-alive) on cape cod a few years ago:

(actually this one just a few weeks ago on trying to digest the news that my mother wants to sell the house and has a buyer...):
smeared goodbye ocean
gold-rumpled, can i bear
a thuddening unrelented-
is it heart to say
is heard
senselessness loss
12/20/05 /0/0/0/0 and all these days...
every day not here wasted...

good to me
gorge on flowermeat
loca(l) sola(ce)
cross't crowmeat
decay burnt g'dnight

blind screen sea
surface for fonts of
birthdeath scrimmed &
wavelings' glimmer

etc etc
i'm already feeling that these are corny...but my intentions are good, officer...i can't go on i'll go on and on good goon that i am...

like who has time for this...

ah, "morning again, nothing needs to be done..." except it's not quite true. I'm supposed to write a paper on "The New York School Poets and their World" and i've chosen to write about NYSchool and Flarf, a genealogy of sorts and styles. A few flarfer-nutters sent me their thoughts and impressions and i know there was a whole flurry of pop-theorizing about flarf about a year or two ago but when will i have time to comb through the archives and dredge it up? i'd rather cook. yesterday i started a recipe from food and wine, a white-rice and chicken dish in which all the ingredients are white (the picture in the glossy mag looked really good) and i got abt 1/2 way thru and i had to go out for pizza w/ a coupla dear colleagues and so i left everything (having already burnt the slivered almonds) and now, today, after a pizza dinner and a late-night walk around Lake Calhoun (3.1 miles) the thought of cooking doesn't appeal. But it appeals more than working on this paper, reading application files for the Creative Writing Program (i don't have access to the room they keep the files in anyway, so there goes that weekend plan), or most other obligations. I am supposed to read Marxism and LIterature and Notebook of a Return to the Native Land for classes this week; i guess i can do that in bed with coffee, so that looks like the best option for now. over and out. i can't go on i'll go on and on...

Saturday, January 21, 2006


so i've been formally misled, exposed my faulty poems, these pseudo-haynaku, no wonder they feel so constrained, but i found them fun to play with. The series is called Thrift. A six-letter word meaning austere economy. And there are more; i may as well memorialize them here with tom and ray magliozzi manically conducting their automotive hi-jinx in the next room.

bare, full
pen and ink.

oak and elf

warp, woof
god and dog

mark, etch
the ink pen


get him off...

edit self
ems and ens

page joke
gut nor gun

had enough??? tough. i can't go on i'll go on and on...

more epic
ode and pun

life trip
and how now!

hand, palm
eye and ear

idea-clue --
now it's not!

life from
arm and leg

when tree
has its day

ok so these mini-narratives have a kind of compulsivity to them; as i read them aloud-to-myself in the transcription process. in daily speech and writing i find myself counting the letters of the words i use in search of usable thrift-ku lines to file away for later. Thirst, that's five letters, how about that. like robert lowell cranking out several sonnets a day in his lizzie and harriet phase, but not as "accomplished;" clumsy (a word i love, find endearing), approximate, searching, like northrop frye (i first wrote norbert wiener) on doggerel: a not-fully actualized reaching for mature verse, poetry slightly refined from its block-of-marble phase.

Friday, January 20, 2006

whew. i figured it out

ok, so now i'm back in the saddle after a few days of not knowing how to access my own blog; an auspicious beginning. i am much heartened by all the wonderful encouragements i got to my first post. accordingly, i'll post some of the poems mIEKAL showed me about, namely a form initiated by sheila murphy of 1 five-letter word/two four-letter words/three three-letter words.

open muse
now now now

onto lace:
pin her ear

lost into
dew-eye day

fear your
rub, arm-boy

it's not bad

rose lips
our mad joy (that's the keatsian one...)

move over
one new hut

and the soap opera digest:
over love
put her off

more arse
fat ass rut

true much,
you li'l imp!

and after after emmett:
blow blue
row sea oar...

over moon
dye the sky

star born
yes her sin

fun for you!

isn't many
hey you rat!

cool fool:
die for art!

I can't go on I'll go on and on and on...

and yet there's more...

from upstairs here, i can smell the chickpeas cooking; i'm making cilantro hummus (just use cilantro instead of tahini, it comes out really good) and looking out hte window at a snow-covered garage roof of my gay-couple neighbors. my other neighbors are a somali family w/ six beautiful kids who plaster themselves against my chain link fence and call out "meow!" to my cat when she's outside. but it's winter now and i don't see the kids so much. i just finished a shawl for rain taxi's next-year ebay silent auction; it's lilac, light blue, dark blue and another color i forget; kelly everding picked out the colors for the weft, blue and two shades of brown. i washed it, blocked and steamed it, it's drying on the diningroom table, it's pretty trippy.
thanks for the shout-out tim p but i fear there will be scant litcrit here as i'm pretty brain-dead these days. i'm having some difficulties w/ my graduate class, creative writing and cultural studies, not sure why, i was avid to teach it last semester, couldn't wait, and then when it came time to prepare for the first class of the semester i felt muffled, mediated, at a great distance from the material and the materiality of being in the classroom. i hereby make a commitment to spend a little time thinking more seriously about the issues and the format before next wednesday. more three-liners later, when i get back from (yet) another school-related meeting...

Sunday, January 15, 2006


Whose fatuous musings riddle these unreal pages? (I hope we will do quite well together, a big fish and a small one in a babbling aquarium on the second floor of a rural post office here in the heartland. ) An adventure in public writing, with a shrieking parrot in the soundscape, this blog is launched with an inspiration of walking, writing and syllabic composition at Dreamtime Village, West Lima Wisconsin. Or was that syllabic competition? Elva, Ezra, Ervin and Ephraim are the names of the Amish guys on the farm next door, a festival of "Old Testament" E-nomenclothing.
By the time the words are formulated they're old hat. Whom can i count on to read me?
Go, little blog, envoid into it, make your mark on the formless ether of ideas.