On

On yardbird corners of embryonic hopes, drowned in a heroin tear.
On yardbird corners of parkerflights to sound filled pockets in space.
On neuro-corners of striped brains & desperate electro-surgeons.
On alcohol corners of pointless discussion & historical hangovers.
On television corners of cornflakes & rockwells impotent America.
On university corners of tailored intellect & greek letter openers.
On military corners of megathon deaths & universal anesthesia.
On religious corners of theological limericks and
On radio corners of century-long records & static events.
On advertising corners of filter-tipped ice-cream & instant instants
On teen-age corners of comic book seduction and corrupted guitars,
On political corners of wamted candidates & ritual lies.
On motion picture corners of lassie & other symbols.
On intellectual corners of conversational therapy & analyzed fear.
On newspaper corners of sexy headlines & scholarly comics.
On love divided corners of die now pay later mortuaries.
On philosophical corners of semantic desperadoes & idea-mongers.
On middle class corners of private school puberty & anatomical revolts
On ultra-real corners of love on abandoned roller-coasters
On lonely poet corners of low lying leaves & moist prophet eyes.

NOVELS FROM A FRAGMENT IN PROGRESS

RETURN TRIP SEATED ERECT ON THE SINGING TRAIN IN DELIBERATE ATTEMPT NOT TO FALL ASLEEP, USE OF IMAGINATION TO AVOID SWAYING PEOPLE, UNREAL VISIONS OF MURALS ON RED RESTROOM FLOORS, SLEEP URGE GETTING STRONGER, SCREWING UP THE EYES TO A PERFECT BREAST, ROUGH STOP, STRONG WISH FOR EROTICISM DEPARTING NATIONS CARRYING BIG PAPER BAGS, WONDERING ABOUT THE DENTS IN BOXER S FACES, REJECTION OF THE SEXUAL ASPECT OF SWEAT, PICTURE OF THE MOTORMAN AS THE MYSTIC FERRY-MAN, HIS FACE WOULD EVER BE DESCRIBED IN NOVELS, AWARENESS OF MUSIC OUT BY THE WHEELS, SERIOUS ATTEMPT TO WRITE SONGS, SURPRISED AT MY OWN NAIVETÉ, AMUSED BY SOUNDS LIKE ONE I CAN’T WRITE, APPROACHING STATION, EYES OF SLIDING DOOR, WAITING FOR IT TO OPEN, MORE PEOPLE, ANOTHER STOP. IT ALWAYS HAPPENS, BRING THIS OFF WITHOUT ANNOYING. ALWAYS WATCH THEM GET OFF BEFORE THE BIG EVENT, I ALMOST GIVE UP AT TIMES LIKE THESE. HOW TO SAVE IT. REPETITIOUS FRUSTRATION, NOW, MYSTIC HOURS WITHOUT LOSING A GRIP ON MY SANITY & FREQUENTLY, WOMEN REALIZE MY CONCENTRATION TO MASTER THIS TRICK, WILLING TO RIDE PAST THEIR DESTINATION.

bobKaufman

Bob Kaufman—POET, Part 1 with David Henderson

David Henderson pays serious homage to the pioneering beat and American surrealist poet Bob Kaufman, with readings of Kaufman’s poems, music by Charlie Parker and Horace Silver, and testimony from friends and fellow poets including Allen Ginsberg, Amiri Baraka, Ted Joans, and Bob’s brother George Kaufman.

The John Sinclair Foundation Presents
VINTAGE RADIO VAULTS 76
Bob Kaufman—POET with David Henderson
KPFA-FM, Berkeley CA, 1991 [VV-DHVV-0076]

Poet and biographer David Henderson pays serious homage to the great Bob Kaufman, pioneering beat and surrealist poet from New Orleans, in
Bob Kaufman—POET: The Life & Poetry of an African American Man. Kaufman is remembered and explicated by friends and fellow poets including Allen Ginsberg, Amiri Baraka, Ted Joans, Bob’s brother George, his widow Eileen, and many others, with their testimony set against music by Charlie Parker and Horace Silver and recitations of Kaufman’s poems by Roscoe Lee Browne, Ossie Davis, Ruby Dee, Tony Seymour, and Bob Kaufman himself. Part One investigates Kaufman’s youth, his early manhood as a merchant seaman and political organizer, and his impact on San Francisco in the 1950s.

Cast: David Henderson, writer & producer; hosted by Ed Markman; narrated by Al Young; family & friends George Kaufman, Eileen Kaufman, Raymond Foye, Jerry Kamstra, photographer Jerry Stoll, and Simon Alexander; scholars Nathaniel Mackie, Charles Nyland, and Maria Damon; fellow poets Allen Ginsberg, Ted Joans, Amiri Baraka abd Lawrence Ferlinghetti; recitations from Solitudes Crowded With Loneliness by Bob Kaufman, Roscoe Lee Browne, Ruby Dee, Ossie Davis, Tony Seymour, Suzanne Cockrel; recorded music by Charlie Parker and Horace Silver

http://www.radiofreeamsterdam.com/bob-kaufman-poet-part-1-with-david-henderson/#podPressPlayerSpace_1

Bob Kaufman—POET, Part 2 with David Henderson

Part Two of David Henderson’s radio homage to the great American surrealist poet Bob Kaufman, with more of Kaufman’s poems, music by Charlie Parker and Horace Silver, and testimony from friends and fellow poets including Allen Ginsberg, Lawrence Felringhetti, and Bob’s brother and widow.

The John Sinclair Foundation Presents
VINTAGE RADIO VAULTS 77
Bob Kaufman—POET with David Henderson
KPFA-FM, Berkeley CA, 1991 [DHVV-0077]

http://www.radiofreeamsterdam.com/bob-kaufman-poet-part-2-with-david-henderson/

bob-kaufman-1959

Today is defeated by the cell phone.

Today is defeated by the cell phone taking calls from the traffic jam that began before you awoke, jammed in freeways of the night city.

Today is defeated by Griffith Park wilted in insufficient shade of microwave towers, California burning to ashes of corny rock & roll. Somebody else’s tune, somebody’s number, you were overheard saying.

Today is defeated by woman on cell phone running a stop sign, gabbing her way into 999,999.99 brightly colored sprinkles of slavery, genocide and a Ford 150 overloaded with yard waste.

Today is defeated by a cell phone in the form of a traffic jam, jammed up in a dream.

Get off the line. Make the gesture that sweeps numbers off your name.

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Corpse-Watching

Born in 1962, Sarith Peou is a survivor of the Khmer Rouge genocide (1975-1979) in which more than one quarter of the Cambodian population was killed. In 1982, Sarith fled to a refugee camp in Thailand. In 1987, he resettled in southern California, and in 1993, he moved to Minnesota. He is now serving prison time in Minnesota. While incarcerated, he converted to Christianity, and earned a GED and an Associate of Arts degree. He has dedicated his life to education, and moral and spiritual transformation within the prison. He is completing his autobiography, tentatively titled Prison Without Walls.

Ed Bok Lee is the author of Real Karaoke People, winner of the PEN/Beyond Margins Award and Asian American Literary Award (Members’ Choice Award).

To download the PDF:

http://50.28.26.174/~tinfi306/PDF-download/Corpse_watching.pdf

Corpse Watching
by Sarith Peou • 2007 • [out of print]
Forward by Ed Bok Lee
Designed by Lian Lederman

In Corpse Watching, Sarith Peou offers witness to the Cambodian holocaust of the late 1970s, which he survived, in language at once dispassionate and evocative. Upwards of a quarter of all Cambodians died between 1975 and 1979: “The river is swollen / The current is strong / Corpses float by all day long.” As poet Ed Bok Lee writes in his forward to the book, “Beyond telling, in total, a personal story of devastation under Angkar, these poems serve as steadfast interpreters for a multiplicity of voices and intensely human emotions still seeping out of that nation’s deepest wounds.”

from “My Sister Ranchana”:

Mee was the name of the cadre who mistreated Rachany.
I named my new dog Mee.
I abused that dog.
I killed and ate it.
A few months later
Mee died from delivery complications.
I thought my curse had worked.
Now I feel guilty for misplacing my anger on my
poor dog.

===

Corpse Watching has been used as required reading at California College of the Arts.

Review by Laura Moriarty

Review by Barbara Jane Reyes

Review by Philip Metres

Translations into Vietnamese by Linh Dinh 1, 2

see also: http://jacket2.org/commentary/trauma-tenderness-and-archive

from Susan Schultz’s Tinfish Press: http://tinfishpress.com/?projects=corpse-watching

Luis Rodriguez reading Whitman’s “Poets to Come” at San Gabriel Mission Playhouse 320 S. Mission Drive San Gabriel CA poet laureate of the City of Los Angeles speaking about the role of poets and poetry in U.S. mentions Tia Chucha Press, explains why he’s a publisher of poets, tells of his cultural center, Tia Chucha, “we’re going to make expression part of the mix,” —“I’d like to mention a metaphor—it is the train”—“we’re going to pick 3 stops—it’s the train of our life—let us know what you dropped off and what you picked up—” then reads a T. Roethke poem, “In a Dark Time”—ah, okay, 3 stops:

1 stop, Lower State Street, drop off Greek Deli, drop off the YMCA where dad roomed across from the Greyhound station, drop off neon lights from the bus station fuzzy in the fog, now it’s a parking lot (pick up the scent of bruised rosemary)

Stop 2, the light falling through the morning window, filling the curtains; drop off dreams, the floating body in the space of time—pick up the new day

Stop 3, Zenobia Peak, western Colorado, Dinosaur National Monument, drop off the one that exists in the actual world, pick up the one that exists in memory, where the green river smell of the Green River pours through the Gates of Lodore

luis rodriguez

She and I were back at it in bitter argument, going back and forth again in one of those fights about my writing, another spat about writing, I was practically spitting anger, having to argue (yet again!) for the time to write, for the right to write, free time to write. I know to everyone else it appears that I’m doing nothing, sitting around, doing what? Getting what done? She’d be questioning the worth of this so-called writing, what was the purpose of it, etc. I’d be practically shaking and spitting anger, having to defend the writing practice, such as it was, whatever its limited successes, whatever its apparent lack of pragmatic worth, again. I insisted on it, its value somehow, on doing it—as I saw fit. Then when I awoke, I realized it’s been years since we had those arguments. But still, as we started the day, I didn’t mention to her that she was in the dream and we had been arguing. Just go, starting the day.

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fish scales, each particle licensed by the city, flying about like those seagull cries escaping from a torn and rent denim outlook, molecular personalities waiting on suburbs with apocalyptic eyelashes, fingernail eyebrows almost roaring down the straightaway except for colored enumeration in petroleum, except for happy smiles, car doors slamming twice when I cough Calif., stir Calif. into coffee that’s almost like coffee, the bed, a pause, somebody wears my clothes all vertical and almost good, fearfully congealed on surfaces, laminated by mucous and horizons, I exit or attempt to exit between a shrub and its leaves, between a sunrise and its eyelid, locate an elbow in the neck, recover memory in fingertips and dog, it’s all there in the photograph I was dreaming I’d deliver to you, photograph of black money, white corn syrup, thanks to you, wherever you may be (I see you eating pancakes on top of a skyscraper made of pancakes, nothing they shall ever do to me can erase that chilly wind)

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control-car-diagram-profile1

Un hombre pasa con un pan al hombro… por Cesar Vallejo

navigation-room1

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HOFtmb2ds9Q


Un hombre pasa con un pan al hombro.
¿Voy a escribir, después, sobre mi doble?

Otro se sienta, ráscase, extrae un piojo de su axila, mátalo.
¿Con qué valor hablar del psicoanálisis?

Otro ha entrado a mi pecho con un palo en la mano.
¿Hablar luego de Sócrates al médico?

Un cojo pasa dando el brazo a un niño.
¿Voy, después, a leer a André Bretón?

Otro tiembla de frío, tose, escupe sangre.
¿Cabrá aludir jamás al Yo profundo?

Otro busca en el fango huesos, cáscaras,
¿Cómo escribir, después, del infinito?

Un albañil cae de un techo, muere y ya no almuerza.
¿Innovar, luego, el tropo, la metáfora?

Un comerciante roba un gramo en el peso a un cliente,
¿Hablar, después, de cuarta dimensión?

Un banquero falsea su balance.
¿Con qué cara llorar en el teatro?

Un paria duerme con el pie a la espalda.
¿Hablar, después, a nadie de Picasso?

Alguien va en un entierro sollozando.
¿Cómo luego ingresar a la Academia?

Alguien limpia un fusil en su cocina.
¿Con qué valor hablar del más allá?

Alguien pasa contando con sus dedos.
¿Cómo hablar del no-yo sin dar un grito

elevator-wheel-ballast-board-1

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lOZiK22SQaE

A man passes with a load of bread on his shoulder

After that, am I going to write about my double?

Another sits and scratches, finds a louse and kills it.

What’s the point of discussing psychoanalysis then?

Another has entered my chest, club in hand.

Shall I talk Socrates to the doctor?

The cripple goes by, a kid on his arm.

I’ll read read Andre Breton after that?

Another shivers from cold, coughs, spits blood.

Never to fit again, those most profound allusions?

Another gropes the pile for bones, rinds?

How to write, after that, about the infinite?

A bricklayer falls off the roof and dies, no longer eats lunch.

Innovate then the trope, the metaphor?

The retailer cheats his client out of a gram by weight.

Afterward, we’ll be talking about the 4th dimension?

A banker falsifies his balance.

Like this, this face, weeping in the theater?

The homeless person sleeps feet folded underneath.

Later, can anybody be talking about Picasso?

Someone weeps on the way to the burial.

After that, how to work your way into academia?

Someone cleans arms in their kitchen.

How will we speak of what exists in the world beyond?

Someone passes counting on their fingers.

How to speak of some Other without howling?

Second International Conference of Anti-fascist writers, Madrid 1937

Second International Conference of Anti-fascist writers, Madrid 1937

in another sense, when we don’t feel so ill, when we’re better

as an afterthought, in the litter behind the giant yucca hedge

in between one concept and the next, framing all colorization

in the flats, telling ourselves stuff we decided to believe

in one untold story, whoever it was who said they’d get back to you

they did get back to you… in the shade of the ficus against the wall

in another version, you didn’t resent the person you always acted like

in dreams where you were always busy, hurrying to get things done

in a lapse, when the sound system cuts out, pausing for a moment

in a variant, where supposedly he not only followed through, he

actually did something no one else was able to do, without fear

or expectation, even that anyone would ever might know,

in that spot, somewhat implausibly, just did what he could do

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Happy Saturday morning Dad.

family chickens

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