Brief Reviews: Three from Burning Deck (Howard, Dubois, Doppelt)

The weight of the terror and loss of 20th century European history hovers—nearly unspoken—in the background of the prose poems in Isabelle Baladine Howard’s Secret of Breath (Burning Deck 2008, tr. Eléna Rivera), all of which explore communication, miscommunication, and the limits and end of communication. The pieces are divided between sections in italics and sections not in italics, which seem to sustain a dialogue between them, although no stable identities are maintained by the marked divisions. Instead, the attempt at dialogue constantly breaks down, or open, because of a social landscape of uncertainty and horror: “the earth is plundered and the bodies abandoned./They changed the names of countries,/they no longer even know from what.”

If one senses, in these prose poem dialogues, the lurking presence of more specific details of European history (“here we are at the gaping borders” brings to mind many possibilities; I thought for instance of Walter Benjamin’s suicide at Portbou, but many other implications are possible), those details rarely emerge; this is a book whose power comes from suggestiveness rather than direct treatment. That technique leads to a few lines whose heaviness seems more posture than profound (“the talking of everything and of nothing,” or “The tires scream as though someone were insane with pain”). For the most part though, Secret of Breath is an unsettling book, one providing no clear answers to questions which can never quite be raised.

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The group of serial prose poems that make up Caroline Dubois’ You Are The Business (Burning Deck 2008, tr. Cole Swensen), all revolve in strange circles of displacement around the idea of the double, of split identity. Each of the seven individual prose poem series latches onto a specific set of names/characters around whom to spin their tight, often funny permutations, with some of the names drawn from the history of film.

In one of the serial sets, Simone Simon (the French actress perhaps most famous to American audiences through the evocative Val Lewton horror films The Cat People and The Curse of the Cat People in which she stars) becomes, with her human/jaguar split identity and her neatly split female/male name, a perfect site for a set of twisting reflections on gender identity and more: “Or Simon name of daddy so slightly exceeded because I’m a girl inscribed inside with the silent and so that I Mmm there name of Daddy in my own”

The poems in You Are The Business are tautly constructed, often lasting just long enough to turn in a new direction off the previous poem in a way that makes the serial aspect clear; each poem seems to think again on the one before it. The result, over the course of the book, is a kind of gleefully paranoid hall of mirrors in which viewers, thinking they are watching the spectacle of the world, end up often seeing only their own projected distortions–which, to some extent, is what Dubois suggests makes up the spectacle of the world.

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Suzanne Doppelt’s Ring Rang Wrong (Burning Deck 2006, tr. Cole Swensen) fascinatingly combines visual images with prose poem paragraphs that appear at first to be explanations of, or at least reflections upon, the visual images but turn out to be no such thing. The black and white images, all in rectangular frames, are mainly abstract textures divided into two contrasting halves, though the occasional insect or pair of human hands enters either directly or in distorted silhouette.

But it’s in the prose poem commentary that surrounds these images that Ring Rang Wrong comes most alive. The commentary seems at first to be notes for some kind of explanatory lecture, yet the notes veer off quickly into obviously nonsensical statements that still have a metaphorical, even symbolic, resonance (“The sun is as wide as a man’s foot”), or similar statements that, while seeming ludicrous, are actually quite exact (“To experience imbalance just spin around for awhile and then stop, you get the vertiginous sense that it’s the earth that’s spinning, a rotation—swirl and vertigo”) These statements show, quite often, how a very precise specific can seem almost too weird to be true.

Within the commentary, occasional sections of pun-heavy invented or borderline pre-existing language strings sometimes take over (”Orclôsśorambĺocha” begins the start of one such string, which includes multinational or just plain invented typograhical marks that I can’t recreate, while some of the language seems vaguely French or else unlike anything I can recognize).

The result is a funny, precise, ambiguous set of often dissociated reflections that bear many resonant implications for the surrounding images, while neither explaining or exhausting them. Ring Rang Wrong is a book operating on multiple levels of oddity and precision, and is well worth returning to more than once.

Brief Reviews: Donato Mancini and Benjamin Friedlander

Donato Mancini’s AEthel is a focused, nuanced, and frequently minimalist book of concrete visual poems that gain power through Mancini’s use of repetition and engaging variation. The visual poems are split into two basic series. One consists of letters constructed from different typographical systems that have been combined, melted together, and stretched in ways that make the original letters usually (though not always) illegible. The other juxtaposes visual images of hands, similarly melted and blended, that at the same time are both clearly hands and yet not-so-clearly different from each other.

The titles of each piece, placed beneath or beside the images, are poems both in themselves and in their resonant, never precisely defined relation to the visual details floating above or alongside them. Each title (such as “Xxtreeme Author-Function,” or “I Think Therefore I Am Not Sure”) intriguingly and often satirically twists and combines phrases, some of which are recognizable in the history of literary and cultural theory, and others of which come from some of the oddities of ordinary daily language.

Both the visual poems and their titles reflect back on and alter each other, as well as the proceeding and following pieces, through these different interactive serial changes. While each piece, on its own, has a unique visual interest, where AEthel most excels is at showing the interconnectedness of language and visual systems and, by implication, the interconnectedness of human bodies that both deploy and are deployed by those systems.

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If it isn’t already, it should be a truism that literature developed through procedures that take language from outside the author’s subjective vocabulary is no less free of the marks of an individual writer’s concerns and obsessions than other kind of literature, though it may distribute those marks in ways different than the poem fundamentally attempting to express a unique subjectivity.

Given that, I was eager to read Benjamin Friedlander’s Citizen Cain, a collection of flarf poetry by a writer who has neither been stuffily dismissive of flarf or whose work has been significantly defined by it. For awhile now, Friedlander has been one of the most inventive contemporary poet-scholar-critics, able to write game-playing critical work that is literature in its own right, while he has also written understated, subtle lyric poems that recall at times the poetry of Robert Creeley and at times a graceful, thought-provoking European lyric influenced by a broad array of poets and philosophers, including Emmanuel Levinas and many more.

Of the Friedlander whose work I have encountered over more than a few years, I was curious to know what echoes would still remain in the context of the crude reveling in the contradictions and incoherence of contemporary Internet speech for which flarf is either reviled or loved. And Citizen Cain didn’t disappoint: although its gleeful vulgarity is not much different from a lot of flarf, there’s a greater range of historical reference, both cultural and literary. Ezra Pound, T.S. Eliot, and long historical mistreatment of Jewish people and culture are just as likely to appear in Citizen Cain as “Hugs, Fudge, and 41 Cellphones,” the title of one of the poems here.

Of course, flarf has always been at least partly an investigation, purposely irreverent, haphazard and slapstick, of contemporary cultural conditions, but Friedlander writes flarf that has a larger and more explicit sense of history than most other flarf attempts, although it resembles some of the historical sense of one of the first and still most crucial works of flarf, K. Silem Mohammad’s Deer Head Nation. The opening to the poem “The Chinese Written Character as a Medium for Poetry,” among many pieces, makes this larger historical context clear:

The Chinese cantos are about a girl
who lived in the Song dynasty
about a thousand years ago.

The girl was not only poor but crippled. Happily,
there was a Shriners Hospital
in Louisiana

with free orthopedic care.

People who hate flarf on sight will not give a pass to Citizen Cain. Friedlander fully indulges himself in the pigfuck grossout bathroom humor fests that give fans of flarf giggles and enemies conniptions, which the book’s very first poem, “Biological or Social Female Parent of a Child or Offspring and Its Poetry,” hardly allows readers to avoid:

Kangaroo poo eaten by a kitten
made you into a “back-up” turkey,

in case my bird flopped. Mom,
you are simply red-

faced professor made up scary story
about moms and their poo

which, in consequence of Section 3
of this agreement, the turkey baster

can eliminate Eve’s curse with a flush—
and now there’s nothing new to eat!

Whether one finds Citizen Cain tough to read through, or not, depends on one’s ability to enjoy lines of this sort. For the most part, the book doesn’t add much that’s new to the most recognizable aspects of the flarf tone.

Flarf though it is, Citizen Cain is also unquestionably Benjamin Friedlander’s flarf. The book consistently and fascinatingly combines flarfy obsession over the detritus of contemporary culture with a larger contextual exploration of European and global history. Although it’s no doubt consciously ludicrous, Citizen Cain thus takes its place in the history of a writer who has matched tremendous critical and philosophical sophistication with constant undercutting of any too settled way of approaching literature or the world.

The Washington Review (old reviews): Jennifer Moxley and Jacqueline Risset (1997)

 

I published many reviews in The Washington Review, the fine D.C. arts and literary magazine that thrived through the 1990s and even, I think, into the early 2000's before finally succumbing. I’m going to reprint occasional reviews from that era on this blog when I have the time, because other than being in the old print issues of TWR, these reviews are probably no longer available. I’ve edited them a bit for style and phrasing, but otherwise want them to reflect the time and place of their writing.

It’s interesting to me how these old reviews show not only the different ways I thought about poetry some time ago, but show also the era of their composition, and the questions about poetics that were abroad and in play at that time.

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Jennifer Moxley
Imagination Verses
Tender Buttons Books
P.O. Box 185
Stuyvesant Station
New York City, NY 10009
90 pgs., $8.95

Jacqueline Risset
The Translation Begins
Burning Deck Press
available through:
Small Press Distribution
1814 San Pablo Ave.
Berkeley, CA 94702
96 pgs., $10.00


In contemporary avant garde poetry circles, very little can cause such extreme disagreement as a discussion about the value of lyric poetry. Is lyric poetry by definition the singing of a solitary voice which takes its own problems to be central? Is lyric poetry based on the idea that the human being is an autonomous, free individual who always has power to choose, and who forms all meaning, a notion that would imply that social power and cultural history play no major roles in who we are? Or are there ways of using lyric that suggest that people are formed as much in the connections between each other as in their solitary wills?

Such questions are very much foregrounded by Jennifer Moxley's excellent first collection of poems, Imagination Verses. When Moxley writes, in her brief preface, that her poems are "written out of a desire to engage the universal lyric 'I,'" readers need to understand that she is not reasserting the idea that lyric poetry consists of a series of isolated individuals singing their own lives. Rather, she is engaging the cultural dilemmas that such a notion reflects and creates. In so doing, Moxley strikes at the heart of the conscious ambiguity that lyric poetry can suggest at its best; that we are both isolated and connected, that we are not simply individual but nonetheless cannot speak for others. In Imagination Verses, Moxley struggles with the problem of how to find a perspective from which to write. Who is she when she writes as "I"? Her poems seem to ask who she is in relation to others, and how a lyric poem can help her understand that.

Perhaps the greatest pleasure of Imagination Verses is the way the ironic ambiguities of these problems reveal themselves in the crafted twists of her lines, as in the opening of the book's first poem, "Home World":

    I will say what the register calls forth,
    the range of the heart
    a journey in the strap of speech,
    unrealized, failing to grapple
    with even the first word,
    or world where I saw humans
    in the shadows of buildings
    unable to speak at all.

Here, the "range of the heart," which might seem a conventional lyric positioning of the individual as central, is ironized by the way the heart can speak only from the "strap of speech," from what "the register calls forth." Rather than speaking simply as herself, the poet can speak only from what the "register" of this speech will allow; by thinking of herself as centered on a metaphor about her "heart," the narrator is aware of how much she is leaving out. She has already assumed something that cannot be assumed, and she knows it. But she still wants to speak from the heart, however much she is aware of the limitations of doing so, and however much she has already failed. Not to do so would be to suggest that there was some other, less located possibility from which she could speak, and she knows that's a falsehood also.

What's remarkable about these poems is the way their sophisticated intellectuality is, in fact, so located. They don't read like a theoretical discussion of the problems of lyric poetry; Moxley is not simply investigating the history of the lyric, or analyzing the problems of language from a safely contained distance. Rather, her poems read as lyrics of moving personal intensity that nonetheless consciously embody theoretically sophisticated investigations of lyric. These poems show the poet living a life, but one in which thinking about what she is doing is as crucial as doing it, as she reveals in "Night Train to Domestic Living Arrangements":

    In my own mind you have put me
    beside compunction. Re-worked
    this mourning room where looking
    smacks of mother may I
    though to this day I'll falter
    when sleep holds sway.
    Throw me over your deep end
    with some faith next time,
    as if to lend some bother to the vex.

The problems that the narrator faces in these poems will be familiar to anyone well read in the history of lyric poetry; problems of desire and love, of the effect we have on others, of the narrator's limited abilities to make the wholesale social changes she often wants to make. That these themes echo the history of lyric poetry does not suggest traditionalism on Moxley's part so much as it suggests the flexibility that lyric poetry can offer in the present moment, in the hands of a writer willing to engage both its possibilities and its problems. While, at times, the twisting ambiguities of Moxley's poems feel so carefully crafted that they lack energy, even that lack seems not Moxley's unconscious failure to write with the passion of her existence, but a conscious understanding of the limitations of passionate conviction.

And there is, in Imagination Verses, a haunting sense of limitations. Much of the book confronts the very harsh reality of the world around her, with its political manipulations, legal robberies, and personal misunderstanding. Limits imposed by others, self-imposed limits, the limits of all that it seems not possible to act on--all these bring to Imagination Verses a deep sense of loss and sadness that is not quite, but just barely not, resignation. In the book's last poem, "Wreath of a Similar Year," hope emerges one more time, flitting in and out of focus among a landscape of mistakes and misunderstandings:

                As in the wake
            of awakening
        wrong attempts
            and wrongful death
        will fall adjacent
                careful Hope.

But, as the last stanza of the poem tells us, this Hope sounds "strangely of untold direction," and is "blind as/the first letter on the first stone/written down." This hope is as blind as even the first attempts to write it into poetry. As blind, that is, as any attempt to write into a poem the ironic depths of opportunity and despair that a conscious life faces when it touches the displacements of its connections.


Anyone wanting a further look at Jennifer Moxley's talents should check out Jacqueline Risset's The Translation Begins, recently published by Burning Deck, and which Moxley translates from the original French. Compared to the struggle for a fully-lived language in Imagination Verses, the poems in The Translation Begins can seem anemic. Indeed an abstracted, distanced lack of particulars, designed to resist representation and image, is at the heart of many other contemporary French avant garde poets, including writers like Claude Royet-Journoud and Jacques Roubaud. One can develop a taste for Risset's anemia, though, once one recognizes the complex shifts in her work. Although the bloodlessness is disturbing, it can be disturbing in a way that is often illuminating.

As Moxley points out in her "Translator's Note," Risset's work often centers on destabilizing patterns, patterns that often emerge from interplay with a series of "hermetic references." Moxley writes, "as soon as the significance of the pattern is recognized, the pattern itself is transformed and torn apart." Although the pattern of destabilizing patterns could easily itself become a too stable pattern, there is enough striking variance on the level of the line, and between lines, in Risset's work that one does not feel the presence of any overarching theoretical schema. There is surprise in these poems, and constant subtle ironies, as in these lines from "M.S. 1544", which do not offer anything to see, and even critique the idea that there might be a clear perspective from which something might be seen:

    the reverse--
    or the relation--
    knowing that everything--
    and if in you--
    you see--
    that seeing--

Still, in lines like "that the problem consists of/ torpid--the story...," from the end of the poem "Fiction," I find it too tempting to take Risset's comments as an accurate evaluation of some of the book. But the brilliance of her insights finally do win out over my skepticism, because Risset's work reveals a truly cunning destabilization that can even anticipate and diffuse potential criticisms of its sometimes anemic abstractions. As if in agreement with Imagination Verses, Risset's book suggests that conscious anemia is better than passionate conviction that doesn't know what it's talking about.

Imperial Feelings of Warlike Victoryhood as the Example for All Minorities: Anarcho-Capitalist Commando Mythos Force, conclusion

 

 

Part One can be found here.

Part Two can be found here.

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Anarcho-Capitalist Mythological Action Force: A Drama in Multiple Voices

Part Three

Section Leader (wheels out an overstuffed filing cabinet): Here are the brief summaries for the Section, Sir. Shall I get the raw data?

Commandant: No need.. The principles we use define the raw data, because that’s what principles do. As you see, I have no need whatsoever for data, the, as it were, facts. The facts are simply, as you know, a function of the principles.

(He takes the first folder that the Section Leader hands to him) Beautiful Object? Which of you is Beautiful Object?

Beautiful Object (stepping forward): As if there could be any doubt. Here I am, Commandant Sir. What do you think? Do I have what it takes? Am I the principle of me?

Commandant: Well, uh, yes. Quite a looker. I may have to, uh, inspect this situation later. Eh? Doesn’t it seem that a little inspection is in order? That is, take a moment, in this instance, to examine the, how shall I say, raw data?

Beautiful Object: I can be as raw as you’d like me to be, Commandant Sir.

Commandant: Very good. Shall we say 7? Ahem. I have read your Personality Profile Survey. Your mission, if you choose to accept it, is this. You will move about among the populace in a way that shall cause, how do I put this, I’m not becoming flustered, I’m not losing the point, desire. You must make people believe that there’s a chance, just a chance, that if they become an example of success in the marketplace, that is a principle of success, that you may, just may, belong to them. You will serve as a principle of what the market can get for those who succeed. Ownership, sex, the ability to show off are further subprinciples of the principle you are. And last but surely not least, you will serve as a principle of love, but love, of course, understood as the combined principles of ownership, sex, and the ability to show off. Love as the Beautiful Object of the Marketplace. Can you do it?

Beautiful Object: What do you think, Big Boy? We’ll talk about it at 7, won’t we, Sir? You do like to be called Sir, don’t you? I mean, even at special times?

Commandant: Ha ha ha. Well done, Beautiful Object. I think you are, uh, well-equipped to begin your mission. Now (taking another Survey from the Section Leader), which of you is Group of Dudes?

Group of Dudes: We’re him.

Commandant: Very good. This should be easy. Your mission: make it fast but spend it faster.

Group of Dudes: Shit, man. That’s a mission? That’s, like, what I do already.

Commandant: Indeed. The logic of the marketplace is beauteous. Your indifference about how you make your money must be well-matched to the indulgence with which you throw it away. Beach vacations, resort hotels, beer bashes. You are here to party. A total, good time willingness to break down any local barriers to international trade. Are you ready to buy and sell whole cultures, rip them out and replace them with Tiki Bars and $1 Friday Night Jello Shots? Can you put a kegger in that gas guzzling SUV? Do you thrill to the idea of Inland Waterways Demolition Derby Casino Cash Giveaways?

Group of Dudes: We thirst for what I do, no doubt about it. Will we each get, like, an eight-pack of seven ouncers in our own bucket of ice?

Commandant: The Skyy Vodka’s the limit, Group of Dudes. Now (taking another survey) which of you is Grammar?

Grammar: I am the one of whom you are speaking.

Commandant: Excellent, Grammar. The market will rely very heavily on your precision. Your principle, should you choose to act on it, will be this: The marketplace is self-correcting. Every time anyone does anything that imbalances the markets, it will be your job, as a principle of the self-correcting marketplace, to correct them.

Grammar: Will there be frequent exams?

Commandant (coughing). Well uh, yes, uh, you could see it that way. The marketplace imposes tests on all of its members, and the marketplace is always correct. Those who succeed in conforming to the laws of the marketplace will do well. Those who fail to learn those laws go to the bottom—although we must remember that they will be welcome there. And you will keep watch over all this, making sure that those who conform know that they will be rewarded, and that those who do not conform always have the option to conform at a later time or, if they do not wish to conform, will be welcome at the bottom. Well Grammar, what do you say? It’s important that you give everyone accurate marks. Marketplace marks, as it were.

Grammar: I can’t tell you how pleased I am, Sir. I feel like the Marketplace and Grammar are one.

Commandant: Excellent, Grammar. And you will be zealous in your duties? You will correct everyone? You will correct any and all errors which you may encounter?

Grammar: Without fail, Sir. And actually, Sir, now that you mention it, in your speech I noticed...

Commandant: Ha ha ha. That’s enough, Grammar. When I said it was your duty to correct everyone, I didn’t mean that you were supposed to correct those in charge. Just, you know, everyone.

Grammar: But as a category, everyone includes...

Commandant: Grammar, you’re talking too much. Don’t you have some correcting to do? So, who’s next? (Picking up another survey and reading). Ah, oh ah. Fascinating. Brilliant. Unexpected and original. And at the same time, so successful in the marketplace. An example of how one can find perfectly one’s own unique niche. Which of you is Judas Priest?

Judas Priest: There I was, completely wasted, out of work and down.

Commandant: Most excellent. And then you broke the law, eh? A shining example of a successful use of failure. Impressive vandalism. Extreme forms of sadomasochistic desire linked directly to imperial feelings of warlike Victoryhood. You pummel your victim, do you not? You let them get away with nothing? You are determined to triumph? You, as it were, deliver the goods?

Judas Priest: You give me evil fantasies. You want to get inside my mind.

Commandant: Then you will have no problem, I take it, whipping up fear and rage among the masses, encouraging them to believe that war is only the natural extension of their frustrations? That individual Victoryhood is the goal of all endeavor?

Judas Priest: Sin after Sin, I have enjoyed. But the wounds I bear are the wounds of love.

Commandant. Poetry, Judas Priest, poetry. Sadomasochistic war poetry, to be precise. There’s none like you, Judas Priest. Which brings me to an important point. You have a crucial role here. Our current Anarcho-Capitalist force is a little lacking in, what’s the word again? Diversity. By which I mean, window-dressing. You are an excellent, how shall I say it, token. There are not many minorities here on our force. Warlike sadomasochism is indeed under-represented in the culture at large. No doubt you have experienced, how shall I say it, prejudice. Everyone can succeed of course. The marketplace is never prejudiced. I mean, that is the theory. And the theory is the principle. And therefore the raw data results from the theory. At the moment, of course, there are so many, ahem, minorities, ahem, at the bottom. Of course that cannot be the fault of the market. If they are at the bottom, that can only be because they have failed to conform to the principles of the market. Eh? That’s what it means to be a minority, does it not? To have failed to conform to the principles of the market? But that can change. The market is, as we know, open to the proper functioning of the market. On our force here, Judas Priest, since you are currently the only minority, you can be an example of all those minorities not currently on the force. Eh? You have been abused. Left out. But only abused by your failure to conform to the principles of the marketplace, which is to say, you have abused yourself. It is a principle of the marketplace that the only person who can truly abuse you is yourself. That is, you have left yourself out. But that can change. You, Judas Priest, have held on to your anger, have kept your culture and everything that makes you unique. Yet you have also conformed to the marketplace, and you have been a success. Can you therefore play a role as the Example for All Minorities? The one that suggests that conforming makes success possible? Which of course it does.

Judas Priest: The truth is like a chain.

Commandant: Excellent, Judas Priest. Fascinating. Ah, the originality of Judas Priest, an Example for All Minorities Everywhere. Now (picking up another survey), where is Revolution?

Revolution: I despise you. I will devote my whole life to overthrowing you and all the principles you stand for.

Commandant: Excellent. Just the sort of revolutionary rage essential to your role.

Revolution (confused): What? I said I despise you. I won’t play any role in your system.

Commandant: Ah, Revolution. Your gumption is impressive. Your fervor. Your total commitment. Your willingness to break down all barriers in your own name. It’s just what we need.

Revolution: Are you hearing anything I’m saying?

Commandant: I can only hear you, Revolution. What else could I do? The marketplace exists to hear you. You, Revolution. Your role, should you choose to accept it, is to question, undermine, and change anything too settled. You must bring the old guard down, Revolution. You must usher in a new era. Nothing is more encouraging to the marketplace than a new era.

Revolution: I won’t participate, I tell you. I won’t do anything you say. I’m going to bring down you and the rest of the old guard.

Commandant: That’s the spirit of Revolution, Revolution. Cut the excess. Chop off the, as it were, fat. Be willing at any and all times to change everything it’s in your power to change. As you know, the marketplace has no role for the old verities. It needs the new, whoa baby. The total new.

Revolution (looking frustrated): I’m going to bring your marketplace crashing to its knees.

Commandant: Excellent, Revolution, excellent. The marketplace must be cleansed, so that it can function in the realm of the total new. And who better to do that than Revolution?

Revolution: I’ll tell you once more. I refuse to participate in any aspect of this circular logic.

Commandant: Revolution, of everyone gathered here, you feel your own role most deeply. You see limitation everywhere, you know no bounds in your desire and effort for change. You cannot pause for a single second in the restless pursuit of your path. I can only thank you.

Revolution: You’re a slave of all that’s indecent in men.

Commandant (blushing shyly): I love how you talk to me. It’s really hot. Don’t stop for a second. Right about now, the whole marketplace is turned on. Fired up by the fires of Revolution.

Revolution (looking more and more frustrated): I don’t intend to stop.

Commandant: That’s the spirit. Now (looking at Section Leader) have I missed anyone? Are there any folders left? Are we done here?

Reginald. What about me? What’s my role? How do I fit in?

Commandant (looking at him skeptically, taking the final survey from the Section Leader, looking at it skeptically): Oh. It’s you. To the extent, of course, that there is any you for you to be you of. Skills? Ah. Talents? Ah. Drives? Well yes, a few. Of a sort.

Reginald: You know I’ll do anything you ask.

Commandant (diffidently): I do see that. Well, I suppose we’ll find something. Your role, uh, how about this? Your role is to take initiative.

Reginald (crestfallen): Take initiative? Will you tell me how to do that?

Commandant: What, me? Tell you how to do something? No. Unheard of. Are you insulting me?

Reginald: Sir, of course not, Sir. All I wish to do is be like you.

Commandant: Exactly the problem. You cannot be like anyone. The marketplace demands your uniqueness. You can only be like yourself, and you can only tell yourself what to do. Your must pursue the path of yourself at all costs, even if it leads to the bottom. Can you do that?

Reginald: Are there instructions? I’d be happy to read the booklet. Even if it’s lengthy.

Commandant (sighing). Booklet? For market’s sake, he talks about a booklet. What are we coming to? Look. If you need a booklet, write it yourself. Spend all goddamned day reading it, if you want. Booklet, he says. Be like you, he says. Still (the Commandant brightens) I guess there’s room for us all in the marketplace. Even if it’s at the bottom. (Smiles, turns to Section Leader). Well, looks like I’m done here. Excellent organizational skills, Section Leader.

Section Leader: Thank you Sir, Commandant Sir.

Reginald: But Sir, you haven’t told me...

Commandant: Yes I have. You’ll have to take it from here. (Starts to walk away). Booklet, he says. See you later, Beautiful Object?

Beautiful Object: You can see anything you want.

Reginald (distraught): But wait, wait. You haven’t told me...

The Commandant: There shall be more of this masquerade (walks off stage).

"There's a lot of room at the bottom": Anarcho-Capitalist Commando Mythos Force, Part Two

Anarcho-Capitalist Commando Mythos Force: A Drama In Multiple Voices, Part Two

Part One can be found here

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Commandant (standing before the section):

The Long Arm of Discipline will come down to help you. Don’t think you can escape. But although it may chastise you at times, the Long Arm feels the pain it inflicts upon you. Remember that if I am forced to punish you, it hurts me more than it hurts you. Know that I weep, but only so that you all may become beauteous.

Grammar (leaning over towards rest of huddled section and whispering): Does he mean beautiful?

Revolution: I’ll show him the long arm.

Commandant (looking out at section dubiously): Is this it, Section Leader? The whole Section?

Section Leader: Attrition, Sir. Less resources for recruitment. We have all had to, as it were, tighten the belt. But never fear, Sir. We are, as one might say, doing more with less.

Commandant (coughs). Well yes, that’s all right then. In the future, as you know, my Section Leader, we shall no longer require a military to fight the axis of evil. We shall simply invade our enemies with Benevolence.

Group of Dudes: Party, man. The tacos will be spicy!

Section Leader (sharply): At ease everyone.

Everyone tightens up.

Section Leader: That’s better.

Commandant: Now, Section, as you know, you are training to become a crack group of Anarcho-Capitalist Commandos. If you do exactly as the organization commands, without fail, than it shall be Every Man For Himself. Is that clear?

Grammar: All but the words.

Reginald (raising hand): Oh oh Sir, Sir. I have a question, Sir. If it’s every man for himself, what happens to our benefits package?

Commandant (looking at Section Leader skeptically, then back at the Section): I’ll ask the questions here. If you have questions, I will let you know what they are. Now then, some of you may have questions. Some of you may have things on your mind. Some of you may be, frankly, wondering. You may even be asking yourself if. And these questions, I’m sure, seem to you reasonable. Therefore, let me answer them by saying no. They are not reasonable, and no one will be answering them. I can say this: if you have questions, you are not with the program. The program has answered your questions already. If you have a question, please remember that it has been answered already.

    (He goes on). You are a team of Anarcho-Capitalists. You must recognize that there is no difference between doing what you want and doing what we tell you. If you find that you are doing something you want and it is different from what we have told you, then you are not doing what you want. There is no doubt about it: doing what we tell you is what you want. Now, you may be asking yourself, what is Anarcho Capitalism? But don’t ask yourself. Don’t ask me. You aren’t asking questions.

    Since you have no questions, I can proceed to review what, as our crack Anarcho-Capitalist Commandos, you will doing. Of course, on some level I don’t have to review this. Anarcho-Capitalism is natural. Therefore, by doing what comes naturally, you are already our crack Anarcho-Capitalist commando machine. You have had to learn nothing; you are simply being yourselves. Therefore, in these remarks, when I am pointing out to you what you already are, you will find nothing surprising, and you will have no questions.

    What is Anarcho-Capitalism? Of course, you already know. Some of you, however, may feel uncertain on the details. But let me remind you that you are wrong about that. Again. You have no questions, and you are not uncertain. Nonetheless. I am the Commandant, representing the Long Arm of Discipline, aka the Anarcho-Capitalism you already understand. If it seems like I’m drifting from the subject here, let me assure you that I cannot drift from the subject. That’s because the subject comes naturally to me. I can be only on subject, since there is nothing else I could possibly be on. And I’m going to ride that subject until it hurts you, which, as you know, can only make you feel better.

    As we all already know, and couldn’t possibly forget, Anarcho-Capitalism simply tells us what we already know, which is: There is a marketplace for everything. And God looked down on the marketplace and called it good. And lo: everything resulted from the marketplace. People resulted from the marketplace. Water, food, animals. Without the marketplace, there are none of these things. Got it? Nothing. If you want an animal, buy it. If you want food, get hold of some. If you don’t get hold of food, then there is no food. If you can’t buy anything, then there’s nothing to buy. Am I making myself clear? Of course I am. There’s nothing to make clear except what was clear already. And that was already clear.

    You are, as you clearly know, for sale. There’s nothing else you are. Therefore, get your ass off the can and start selling. Make hay while the sun shines. The early bird catches the worm. Am I getting to the point here? Of course not. I don’t have to get to the point. The point is the only point there is. I don’t have to get to the point because I’m already at the point. There is nowhere else for me, or anyone, to be.

    The goal of the Anarcho-Capitalist commandos: everyone must work together so we can all be in it for ourselves. Do you not see that it is beauteous? Of course you see. Mankind, who is selfish (and womankind too, whoa baby) must work hand in hand so we can rip out each other’s throats. It is only by cooperating fully that each of us can really and truly be out to get each other. The best way to do this? Money. If you’re making it, you’re golden. If not, you’re out of here. And how do you make money? You take it from somebody. This is what it means to work with somebody; you rip them off. If you don’t rip them off, you’re not doing what either of you want. Do I have to ask again whether I’m making myself clear? I do not have to ask, since clear is the only way I could make myself.

    The market is not simply the best way, it’s the only way. It helps us decide who should be in charge of what. If you can buy it, it’s yours. If you can’t it’s somebody else’s. If you have nothing, and somebody else has it all, well, figure out how to get some from them. You can work for them, for instance. In fact you have the right to work for them if they will let you, and you have the right to be paid exactly what they feel like paying you. There are other methods however. You may manipulate the system. Fraud, graft, corruption, these are only some of the good things that will result. Remember, if you can cheat someone out of their hard-earned money or property, you’re only doing the right thing. After all, they were already trying to do it to you. We may therefore define cooperation in the following manner: a deadly struggle between two or more individuals for control of the marketplace. Nothing’s better than the feeling of working together with others in the attempt to dominate them utterly.

    Now that I have established the principles of the marketplace, which you can see that I have, because there was nothing else you could possibly see and nothing else I could do, you understand also that I have established the principles of you. Because, as you know, you are principles of the marketplace. That’s all you are, and since that’s all, it follows that you are nothing else. If you are all something, then there’s nothing left over for any part of you to be anything other than what all of you is. It would make no sense, to say that you are more than all you are. Eh? But you knew that already. What else is there to know? An individual may therefore be defined as a principle of the marketplace. An individual is an example of the proper functioning of the marketplace, which can, as you know, only function properly. Therefore the individual is an example that illustrates that the marketplace is functioning properly and can only function properly. Therefore the individual is an example that is therefore also a principle. It can be nothing else. Right? Of course it’s right. What else was there for it to be?

But ah, you might say, if I am an example of the proper functioning of the marketplace, and therefore, as an example, I am also a principle, well, what is the principle that I, as an individual, illustrate? What is the principle of me? And this would be a valid question, except that there are no questions. And the reason there are no questions is that all this comes naturally to you. You are the principle of what comes naturally to you, which is the proper functioning of the marketplace. Since that functioning is natural, obviously it comes naturally to you. And look, here it comes now. Incoming!

(Everyone falls to the floor but the Commandant)

Commandant: Ha ha ha. Just my little joke. Don’t be so gullible. My goodness. Obviously, the marketplace can’t be incoming. It’s already here. Where else could it be? Ha ha ha. What are you doing on the floor? Are you, on the floor, illustrating a principle of the marketplace? Of course you are. It will be the duty of many individuals, in their role as examples of the marketplace, which is to say principles of it, to end up on the floor. Many individuals will end up as the principle that many will be on the bottom. In the proper functioning of the marketplace, there is room for a lot of principle at the bottom. The principle is: there’s a lot of room at the bottom. Make room down there, because more of you are coming. But as you see, lying there on the floor, there’s no need to make room at the bottom. There’s always room at the bottom for as many people as end up at the bottom. The principle is that the bottom is big. Furthermore, you don’t need to do anything to get there. The principle is: do nothing, and you will end up at the bottom. It’s comforting. To know that the bottom is there, waiting for you, every time you do nothing. To know that a principle of the marketplace is that you are welcome to be at the bottom. Welcome to the bottom, where everyone is welcome. As you see, the marketplace has a role for everyone. That is one of its principles.

But up now, up.

(The Section gets up slowly.)

Very good. You are a crack section of Anarcho-Capitalists. You will not be at the bottom if you do something. That is, if you do the something that you should do to illustrate the principle of the marketplace that each of you as an individual is. Which you cannot help but do, of course. But what you can help is this. You have it in your power to become the principle of the marketplace you will illustrate, which is to say, be. You have the power to become what you will be. What specific principle of the marketplace are you? That is the question you will answer, because you cannot help but answer it. Because the answer to the question is the principle that you are, and that will come to you naturally as a function of who you are. The principle that you will illustrate is the principle of your own individual talent. Your talent for the marketplace, which is who you as an individual are, is the principle of the marketplace that you will illustrate. Understand? Of course you do, because there’s nothing else to understand. Therefore it is now time to define your individual missions, which are already defined for you because of the kind of talent you are. It is defined for you because it comes naturally. But it is up to you to use this natural talent. You do not have to use it. You are always welcome to end up at the bottom. But if you use your talent properly, then you will end up as the illustration of the principle that your talents illustrate. I must now, as Commandant of this Section, define for you your mission, which is a function of you, which is to say, a principle of the marketplace. Therefore I am not defining it. I am simply stating that which is already defined by the natural fact of who you are. Section Leader, do you have the Personality Profile Surveys?

End of Part Two

Anarcho-Capitalist Commando Mythos Force: A Drama in Multiple Voices

Part One

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Reginald: All I ever wanted was to be a deployable resource.

Judas Priest: The engine roars between my thighs.

Grammar: Some things, however, are simply built into how the mind works. Toying with them is madness.

Beautiful Object: Oh, look at the pretty things!

Group of Dudes:
            We don’t care
            We don’t care
            All we wanna see
            Is your underwear

Section Leader: All right, section members. The Commandant is on his way. Prepare for inspection.

Reginald (lining up). I’ve always loved being inspected.

Judas Priest: We are the hell patrol. All guns, all guns blazing.

Grammar (grumbling): Once a subordinate clause, always a subordinate clause.

Beautiful Object: Cleaned and pressed and ready to go, Sir!

Group of Dudes: Fuck. Ouch. Shit.

Section Leader: I know how long you’ve all been waiting. Today’s code word: One for all and all for one.

Reginald (gratefully). I’m a cog. I’m finally a cog.

Judas Priest: The engine roars between my thighs.

Grammar: It’s true that all the parts, when taken together, must form a complete whole.

Beautiful Object (showing off): Don’t forget to admire the centerpiece.

Group of Dudes: Hey, can you repeat what you just said?

Everyone looks at them reproachfully.

Group of Dudes: What? My cell rang. Can I help it if my cell rang?

Grammar: That’s just great. Here I am, stuck with a bunch of run-on sentences.

Group of Dudes: Dude, what makes you think we care? We’re just marking time. Waiting for life to begin. Don’t harsh my buzz, getting all full of purpose and shit.

Reginald: Team Leader, Sir. Permission to report an infraction, Sir?

Section Leader: Granted.

Reginald (walking up to Team Leader). I have the impression, Sir, that some people aren’t getting with the program.

Section Leader (coughs): Well, uh, well. Well. We’ll see about that. The Commandant, as you know, is on his way.

Revolution walks in. Everyone turns in Revolution’s direction.

Revolution: The economies least damaged by globalism are the ones who refused economic restructuring.

Group of Dudes: Who’s the clown? Kick his fucking ass.

Reginald: You’re not the Commandant.

Section Leader (to Revolution): You’re late. Get in line. You’re this close—this close—to being guilty of breaking rank.

Revolution (sarcastically, getting in line): I sure wouldn’t want to do that.

Beautiful Object: You’re cute. Want to form a domestic partnership?

Reginald: You really do try that on everyone, don’t you?

Beautiful Object: It’s not my fault if some people say they can’t afford it. It’s not my fault if some people say, “Not until we have better benefits.”

Reginald (huffy): So I want an institutional framework. Is that so wrong?

Judas Priest. Change, change, all re-arrangin’. Look around, at the sit-u-a-tion.

Group of Dudes: Tequila shot, motherfuckers!

Reginald (still huffy): Better to buy in than be left out.

Revolution: Yet globalism has left more people than ever before without a stake in any system. What are you gonna do, build more prisons?

Reginald: Better to manage the money than to be managed by it.

Grammar: Language is not a prison house. Processing words is a basic biological function and it behaves according to certain laws. All of this is elucidated in Chomsky’s notion of deep grammar. Please don’t say anything more until you have absorbed the truths of that text.

Group of Dudes: Always some asshole trying to get nuanced. I don’t even know what nuanced means.

Beautiful Object: I need attention bad.

Judas Priest: No sign of life. No flicker on his face.

Grammar: Where’s a topic sentence when you need one?

Section Leader (shouting): Enough. Everyone in line.

Reginald: I’ll follow you anywhere, Sir. Even Tampa Bay if necessary. Nashville, Asheville, you name it. I can’t tell you how pleased I am to let the winds of capital blow me about. Think of the salary.

Judas Priest: I’m headed out to the highway. I’ve got nothing to lose at all.

Group of Dudes: Party on both coasts!

Beautiful Object: All she wanted was just to be free, and that’s the way it turned out to be. Flow, river, flow, down to the sea.

Revolution: Wait a second. Isn’t any of this open for discussion? If the goal is freedom, why can’t we even discuss what it means to be free? Oh, I get it. None of you are even you. You’re only the image of you that you wish to project. Meanwhile, people are dying, countries are falling apart. And all you do is sit around and watch TV like you’re on it.

Beautiful Object: Gross. Ewww. Imagine how fat they’ll get. It’s so horrible that all I want is not to think about it.

Group of Dudes: Hey, any girls out there? We got beer. Got cable.

Judas Priest: We are saints in hell.

Reginald: People, please. Can’t we work together on this? Follow the rubric?

Revolution (groaning): Where’s my politics of hope? I’m surrounded by people who just want a piece of the action.

Section Leader: Everybody at attention! The Commandant is here!


End of Part One

Brief Reviews

 

wordlick, the latest book by Joe Ross (pictured above), pushes its astonishing linguistic pyrotechnics as far as it can go, then pushes it several steps farther. The series of five-line stanzas, each of which ends in a period, and spread out three to a page, purposefully never make clear whether we are reading one three-stanza untitled poem per page or an ongoing long poem. Each line is crammed with invented word combinations (“Casinochipped in wonderskated breezeby reserve”) that sometimes end in single words and sometimes in further word combinations.

The language of wordlick immerses readers in a social and political bog from which there’s no easy way out (“Kneeraised buttocklock in doggystyle war” is just one of many impossible to navigate morasses), and the bog just keeps coming, overwhelming and fascinating simultaneously. The poems very consciously range in the layered subjects they take up, glance at, and slide by on into the next tongue-twisted-and-numbed-and-twisted-again word package. If the poems undoubtedly revel in language play that’s meant to impress, they do so always with the purpose of showing that it’s not a game at all, but a serious evocation of what might just be more, and more manipulated, social meaning and control than any of us can stand.

It’s worth hearing Ross read these poems live, his shoes clicking, shoulders and head bobbing in some off-kilter combination of tap dancer and prize fighter. Reading them to yourself, be forewarned: even more than most contemporary avant poetry, it’s difficult to get through more than a few pages of wordlick at a time without suffering linguistic burnout. But return to the poems every so often, and the power of what Ross is doing grows and digs in, leaving readers of wordlick with the kind of elation that only exhaustion can create.

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Kathryn l. Pringle’s Right New Biology knows exactly what the central point of all political and social difficulty is: human (and other) bodies. Pringle’s book shows many and often conflicting large global forces coming to bear on that most intimate physical context. Psychology, theology, war, culture, nation states; these are only some of the pressures that human bodies encounter daily.

Right New Biology also reveals that language itself is a body, and makes readers constantly aware of the physical of language through jarring usage of capitalization, broken words, and shattered syllables wobbling unstable across the bland whiteness of the page. This fracturing of words and syllables and different mishapings of the look of the page (which works both against, and with, the fact that the whole book might be considered a single long poem) reminds me a bit of the physicality of Hannah Weiner’s work, although Pringle’s subject matter is framed much more blatantly by competing discourses of power. “broken muscle AND RIGHT/ where all langering furls from endorphins to WAR/ a FOND ignorance we calls it/ this that is sprung of METTLE/ and lending spaces/ veterans MISPLACED limbs/ that trivial uttering/ encamped unfolding/ surreptitious following.” This is a smart, challenging, and remarkable book, informed not just about poetry but about the many non-poetic tensions in which poetry is enmeshed, and bristling with insight about all of them.

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The sensitive, understated lyric surfaces of Lacey Hunter’s poems in her inaugural chapbook The Unicorn hide more deceptive angles that undermine and break up the angst of sexual and romantic desire that the poems often explore. The Unicorn acknowledges how things right in front of us, or things we seem to care about most, are filled often by what people don’t understand or fail to notice, since we’re all too busy obscuring our observations with our needs.

These are poems about the odd edges of loneliness and failed connection, and the way some moments can’t be captured by images. “She took off her danger—the house/doing the good ordinary thing / the narrow/ quiet thing all fighting to rush out together./ We were just going to take a little/and then bring out the car.” Expect to see more worthwhile future work from Hunter, a young poet currently based in Ashland, Oregon, and contact her if you'd like a copy of the chapbook.

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Robert Mittenthal’s Wax World is a crucial book of poems that, I worry, may not be read as widely as it deserves. Mittenthal, based in Seattle, writes poetry that operates at the nexus of several key approaches to contemporary poetry. Anybody interested in new developments in poetry fully informed by the theoretical, political, and aesthetic histories of language poetry and of Vancouver Kootenay School of Writing work will find Wax World as good an example of extending the power of those histories as there is in newer generations of contemporary writing.

Wax World is a brilliant mix of concreteness and abstraction operating not simply as aestheticized technique (a problem in too much contemporary experimental poetry) but as a political case study, and a fully realized instance of its own theory in action. These poems show, through their precise accrual from line to line, a world in which “the abstract power of society creates its concrete unfreedom,” in Guy Debord’s famous phrase.

Mittenthal’s poems in Wax World always risk collapsing into the oblique, dissociated haze of contemporary confusion as a necessary gesture in portraying how contemporary capitalism bewilders us with terminology and megabucks sleight-of-hand. Then certain lines twist, sharply, into moments of political clarity. Mittenthal doesn’t write the flashiest poems around, and he certainly doesn’t fetishize the new in an attempt to grab center stage in the avant poetry popularity contest of the moment. Instead he writes developed, precisely delayed word bombs designed to pinpoint the center of whatever structure he’s going after and blow it open. “Each letter a snapshot of what remains——previous occupant unknown/The body decamped, leaving its plastic bivouac/ An indistinct wave which yields no magic/ No flakes of dead skin. No DNA samples for the imagination.” Wax World also contains the poem “Value Unmapped,” which appeared in an earlier Mittenthal chapbook that I blogged about here.