Off to Hawaii...

Two weeks of sunburns, tequila, and swimming with turtles. Then the real work begins in New York. I'll try to send a virtual postcard or two if I can get the internet access but in the meantime, take care and make a little trouble--the summer ain't over yet.

Shackin' Up & Shippin' Out

You can find me at the No Tell Motel all week long...you know those beds that vibrate for 10 minutes when you insert a quarter? Yep.

I'm a little bit frantic readying my life to be abandoned for six weeks, but I am happy to welcome two new books into the world: THE STEAM SEQUENCE, by Carly Sachs (Washington Writers Publishing House), and ORGANIC FURNITURE CELLAR by Jessica Smith (Outside Voices). I'll have more to say soon enough, but for now go check out Ron Silliman's blog, where he champions Jessica's vision.

A Rose is a Rose is a Room is a Rose

I was working (read: snooping through the internet) and came across this old essay by Joshua Clover on the origins of L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poetry, "The Rose of the Name," in the premiere issue of Fence--

http://www.fencemag.com/v1n1/work/joshua_clover.html

It is a smart essay, and appealing; it reminds me that I wish sometimes that I was a language poet, as they seem to have slightly better parties with stiffer drinks and more talk of God. That's a joke. Mostly. I admire the philosophies and styles of Language poetry, the brassy humor and the willingness to be apropos of nothing. But the trick is that, at the end of the day, so few of the poems truly move me. So few seem to take what, to me, is the greater risk of personal (rather than merely cerebral) investment. As a poet and a reader, I'm always on the lookout for a good human moment, a moment of resonance and even comfort; I'm selfish that way. Anyone else have this problem? Maybe I am just not looking hard enough, in the right directions.

[8/9/2006 - Draft of poem that was posted here removed to maintain publication eligibility.]

Burlesque Hours and Boxes of Books

Hooray for everyone who came out to the Bar Rouge for Monday's Burlesque Poetry Hour (and a "we missed you," via smoke signal, for Maureen trapped at her law office). Karl and Christopher proved to be lovely dinner partners and great readers. Gilda and Lolita were, as always, sassy and brassy & perfect hostesses. The Down & Dirty martini had just the right dash of tobasco. I have to confess, I think I was underbid--only $18 for my garter belt, wrapped around a copy of the latest 32 Poems? Come on, people--that's quality poetry. Not to mention the best purple-satin-and-bordello-lace a girl can find in DC.

Jessica Smith not only made the drive all the way from Charlottesville, she did so with the imminent birth of Organic Furniture Cellar on her mind. Go buy your advance copy. The woman needs to pay rent, damn it. Don't pretend you've never been there.

This is the second time I have seriously debated posting a poem draft on here. Hmmmm.

In a mere three weeks I will be gone for twice that long (and who knows what my internet access will be, whether blessing or curse). I am driving all the way to the Millay Colony in New York, and so there is a big empty box in my backseat, waiting to be filled with books for inspiration. I've picked up essays by Cynthia Ozick, fiction by Nabokov, poetry by Josh Bell and Cate Marvin, criticism by Tony Hoagland, a few others. Deb Agers suggests Best Words, Best Order by Stephen Dobyns. Give me suggestions for books to throw in the box, please--