Sign This Man!

This is just to say:

I know people on the West Coast don't always hustle like we do here (hiss all you want-- though actually I know quite a few hustlers out there, so I contradict myself), but if anyone's still reading this now that I've been MIA for, oh, a month, please visit Michael the Blind here, for some gorgeous tunes. I'm not about to make a "sounds like a cross between obscure band number one and seminal blah blah from the early 90s Athens, GA scene," because you really needs-must-just listen:

www.myspace.com/michaeltheblind

And if anyone's reading this who has a record label and half a brain and whole heart, you should seriously sign this guy. He is the best Portland has, and Portland has a lot of good, so that's saying something.
His albums are on i-tunes, but they're oh so much prettier in your hands.

No, no, this is not a music blog now. It continues to be an occasional (read: seldom-to-never) procrastination blog, with a slight literary slant-- though music is the best form of procrastination. Hopefully the fact that I don't update this frequently means I'm writing assloads of blow-you-away songs. Or doing my "homework" (read:thesis). Let's presume that I procrastinate less and less these days.

Hey Eggers, Leave Poetry Alone or Publish It!

What is it that makes it okay to beat up on poets and poetry all the time? I mean, I do it myself, but that's self deprecation, and I can see what an easy target we verse-inclined types are, but doesn't that just make, say, hyper-success-full-of-self* novelists look slightly pathetic as they attack us, the weaker sex (by sex I mean genre, and by weaker I mean poorer). Even in supporting a young poet with a back of the book blurb, Dave Eggers manages to put down the art as a whole. There he is, on the back of Sarah Manguso's gorgeous second poetry collection, Siste Viator (Four Way Books), saying, "This book is for those of us who want to read more poetry but are frequently stopped by its... what is it? Its chilly self-seriousness? Its unwillingness to hold our hand every so often, while cracking an easy joke?" He then goes on to compare Manguso to David Berman, Tony Hoagland, and a more witty (hence, approachable/accessible) Anne Carson (every prose writer's favorite-- because she writes prose?). All amazing poets, but not the only ones writing un-chilly verse.

The thing is, Siste Viator is, YES, beautiful— one moment spare and graceful, the next, it lashes out at you with a sharp, funny tongue— but is that really so rare in a book of poetry these days? Perhaps Mr. Eggers should expand his poetic horizons a bit. Certainly he can't mention all the talented and not-averse-to-humor poets out there in one blurb, but here are a few more who might "bring you back into the form" as Eggers urges Manguso will do. It just makes me cringe that he has to take that jab at the art form before praising the author. There's Mary Jo Bang, whose subject matter ranges from South Park to David Lynch, Cindy Sherman to Willem de Kooning. There's Matthea Harvey, with poems (some persona, I believe) about Mr. Peanut and RoboBoy. Dean Young (often mentioned in the same breath as Hoagland). David Trinidad (wrote the first book of poems I ever bought, Answer Song, with odes to breakfast cereal and Barbies). Olena Davis— will make you want to fall in love and laugh about it at once.

And finally, are there not plenty of novels and prose collections imbued with the same "chilly self-seriousness" which Eggers attributes to poetry? In any case, here's some Manguso quotes to back up Eggers' blurb. Looking forward to her short story collection, forthcoming from, oh, McSweeney's. Jealous much?

From the delightful Siste Viator by Sarah Manguso:
"I didn't fall in love. I fell through it:"
"The only direction I remembered was north.
The usual junk had stopped working
And I anticipated a replacement junk"
"I am the postmaster. I have 900 boxes. And I drive under the
bridges in my truck and the hearts are alive, beating in their
boxes, and I'm driving over the bridges in love with destiny
and in charge of the 900 hearts."
"My favorite euphemism for death is the future"

*okay, not really, I'm just pissed.

P.S. I'm sure there are plenty of poets who would hold Mr. Eggers' hands, AND crack an easy joke, if he'd only publish our work. Oh man, who sounds pathetic now?

Balmy

Dear Global Warming,
I believe in you despite all local news channels celebrating the January Spring.

"Tell us what you're wearing today, in Central Park, in January."
"Oh? Just a sweatshirt and shorts? Isn't that funny? Wonderful! Look at these tulips blooming. Tulips!"