Bizarre-B-Que: Bobby Mitchum.

trump-ivanka
"Tell them I can't come in today, Ivanka, not today or ever!"

America, and the People Without Memory.

Ahem, we recently cleared through the inventory at the back of Warehouse 1, the nuclear popcorn blowers, you know the stack I’m talking about, over where Len Carpenter cut his leg with the box cutter last summer. It was that three-skid order that came in, christ, was it in 2004? Anyhow, we pulled out the last blue-liner and all the shrink wrap—that crap really piles up! And way in the back was Foff Ingwimwe, dried out like a strip of camelid charky. And all this time, I thought he’d fallen into the Erie Canal after last year’s staff Christmas party!
He looked like the end had gone pretty rough on him. It appeared to me that the blue-liner had crushed his esophagus, poor guy. And the rack above was all Juicy Fruit, the stuff with the aspartame. He must have tried to survive on the gum until the sickly sweet jazz from the Muzak speakers closed over what remained of his air canal.
 I say all this in the wholesomest spirit of the impending season, what with many holidays approaching that fall on or near the winter solstice here in the northern hemisphere. Hell’s bells, they’re probably gonna celebrate in the south, too, like a Fourth of July, Wizard’s Wyzywig, whiskey tasting festival, solar flare at Padre Island, and mental bouncy castle all rolled intro one: the. Last. Christmas. Ever.
And we mention this only because of the lateness of the hour, because our belt is pushing into the bladder bloated, as it is, with a few too many Crannog’s kilt softeners. And they talk about it merely for the pleasure of the late afternoon island air, because talk is cheap, nearly free, unless it is about you helping us with our barn door, or us coming over next Thursday to see about tuning your piano.
But I see you’ve understood my plan all too well… we DID wish to tune the piano! That old upright spurs memories of days past, when me Mam would poke a Winchester into my scapula and urge me to “Run through them arpeggios one more time, son.” And the old dog, by the wood stove, howling to beat the band. That’s around the time Johnny Depp was in that movie with the morbidly obese woman.
But don’t let’s start in with the movie talk! I can’t get but a single copy of Kinky Boots sent up to the island these days. The shelf is already groaning with multiple copies of Bay’s Transformers (1,2, and the box-set interview disc). And Ja-loo-lah broke the VCR, so Batman & Robin (1997) is stuck in there, the scene where Jim Carrey falls into a Don Mercer album cover and becomes the Fiddler. Over and over and over, and! But me with dyspepsia…
The cure for which is right under his nose, a macaroonian burlesque, as the kids are saying in the better parts of the rurality. By which, they infer Eve Babitz has returned from the dead. So says Holly Brubach, and what that haute faux-Chicana wants, well, you get the picture.
If bohemianism had only met its match with well-medicated hipsteriste stove-pipe pants, a decent black vest, white dress shirt (sleeves rolled, Mennonite style), and the comeuppance of all banjo hollers, the italian hiking boot. But that’s just it, Jersey Toll Booth, the bohemians DIDN’T CARE about how they looked! They swarmed the taffy piles in search of Kennedy’s brain, sure, but only because Kerouac hinted that it might have existed after all.
I think the small Robertson, honestly, for fine cabinetry, but just out of the sight-lines, non? And all the rum bottles Pap had stored in the pile of wood chips smelled just like King Cole’s retriever, the lesser Ponginese. But why quibble? We walk around the cafeteria in a loose oval, an ellipse of shuffling, until Warren suggests we get to packing for the big film festival in the sky.
A $5 photograph doesn’t buy much.
That a dog on the stairs? No, it’s my third kidney, and Doc Wallaby says its got to go! I don’t blame him, we need plenty of hot water and butter if this baby perogee is going to see another birthday! Hand me that astrolabe, fellah. To those of us who grew up near Winlaw, and I use the term lightly. J111-1101. Repeat.
And the Lord gave unto Galbraith a theory, and he called it Predatory Capitalism. “But we were stifling! The transom wouldn’t open! And Papa nearly gouged one of his eyes out, thinking it was the King Cobb!” on like that until Piketty showed up and scrambled the aghs, as it were. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in a cemetery, and you can…ack! (a slight wince in the left eye) Ack-ACK-K-K-K-K–!!!!!” And all this time I thought the third “i” was an “a”.
Just look at the time. Near on happy hour, and me with my toe in the meat grinder! Pardon me whilst I splash a bit of Old Sam on my inner neck…ahh-h-h-h… thas’ better. NOw wHo waS  I?
Yes. But, no.
By now we’ve probably ‘splained everything. But I call your attentions to the Clyde Darrow-Sykes Monkey Trial. Note the exquisite leather inlay. The crick in my lower back. The air horses. The scene with the spider and the mosquito, you know the one, Jack the Rippah played by the spider, warm, fresh banana loaf as the mosquito. Squat, that loaf. But throaty. Like Tanya Tagaq (or whoever spells it). And range! Why, the folks out at Standing Rock can hear it, coming over the horizon:
A NEW DAY, AMERICA! A BOLD, RAPEY SORT OF DAY! LIKE FRESH SOCKS, BURSTING OUT OF THE SHIPPING CONTAINER! LIKE MITT ROMNEY, HOT THROUGH THE DOOR FROM A SCOTCH BINGE, READY TO DELIVER HITLER’S DECLARATION OF WAR TO THE POLISH PRESIDENT (a “defensive” war, they called it)! LIKE A STEAMROLLER, IF STEAMROLLERS WERE THE SIZE OF AIRCRAFT CARRIERS! LIKE PAVING AMERICA SO YOU CAN DRIVE EVERYWHERE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
LIKE DRIVING EVERYWHERE, like, AND EVEN THOUGH IT FEELS LIKE THE FIRST TIME, WE ACCIDENTALLY DECAPITATE OURSELVES ON A LOW-HANGING PIPELINE!
May winter’s bar-fridge lose a compressor hose, and we’re out on that sweet esplanade, looking up the skirts of Storyville , before Trump sticks us in a camp for our own protection!!! Until then, sir: Jing Chen!!!!!!
– Chuck Suave, for Gramercy Face Sauce & Microcephaly Gel: “Guaranteed Adult-onset microcephaly or your money back!”

Thunder Road

East of Sweden                                                                                                                                                        

(from ACME: An International E-Journal for Critical Geographies, 2015, 14 (issue), xx-xx)

the Other speaks: “I think people tend to put researchers up into the political categories—or any form of academics up into that category. Here’s someone who’s got maybe the power or the intellect to do something but they’re not doing anything about it. All you want to do is research us.” (from Cameron & Gibson’s “Participatory action research in a poststructuralist vein” 2005. Geoforum 36: 315-331)
1. Custodians, Chancellor, Waste Management, President & Vice-Chancellor, Catering, Rector, Principal, Pizza and Alcohol Delivery Drivers, Provost, TAs, Vice-provost,

House-cleaning, Housing, Faculty, esteemed Drifters & Servers, Students, Sessional Instructors, Tutors, TA’s, Presidents and Vice-presidents Academic,

Security, Parking, leaders of the sundry academies, Research Services, Receptionists, IT, Deans, Assistant Deans, Tim Horton’s, Starbucks, Department Heads, Counsellors, Friends: it is an honour to speak with you today.
2. I would sing the academy, bills attendant, laid green eternal, cross-cut lawns stretching the fence-line, a place of mind.

Let us be mindful of place. A place, for example, which has no agreement with the First Nations upon whose land this global-thinking place does its thinking, its globalizing.

Let us be mindful, then, of where we step.

I would sing so the private might be made public, so industries of knowledge might find a modern home–for in the postmodern, where nothing is fixed, but the game seems rigged, we have seen the decentring of ethics, of morality, the privatization of the academy, of thought itself, so even Nancy Olivieri* would think twice about another university gig.
3. I speak of imaginings. do not imagine that we are not distracted, that what is spoken here, advocated here, thought here, is spoken almost only here and not loudly here, not enough is spoken of this place.

Do not imagine that here is not connected so greatly to out there, that there could even be a here without all the world which makes this place shapes it, pays for it in taxes, pried tributes from the oppressed whom we have sworn to guide, to lead out of the morass;

Do not imagine we are not purposefully distracted, our endless running for awards and honours our ceaseless scribblings and debates are not, in part, designed to contain us, to fix the gaze in such a manner that misery, fraud and war, real chaos,                                (check usage here) lies                                                                                                                                    cloaked in periphery;

Do not imagine all we do is good, or the millions of academics have yet to stem the tide of starving, frantic billions; do not imagine the halls themselves are above scrutiny, rather, under it, with their cafeterias, exercise yards and cells—we penal colonists;

so, too, the suburbs, the condos more so;

Do not imagine the pay, the office, gowns, the silly hats, will in any way compensate for the growing mass of troubled and confused, nor will such honours ease conscience vainglorious, as, on that fateful day, even we are stopped at the check-point, taken from coteries, epaulettes removed, very like a Beria**;

Do not imagine the state—the very one we help to build—do not imagine it will love you,for in any great upheaval the learned, too, are washed away down Gulag drains,

Treblinka trains, anonymous, vanished, forgot; Do not imagine the state will mourn you; and, please, do not imagine any passing over a great honour, for if in its spiteful threshing the state (or whatever it has become) does not erase our papers, our lecture notes, our very faces from the faculty photos,

why, then, our tenure is guaranteed—we will have long since failed to matter as bearers of the light of knowledge and complicit be in torture, the snuffing of the light.
4. I speak as I was taught. we gather in such places for this very purpose—we are the risk power takes each September:

Will we be swayed by position, money, office? or lacking these, swayed by desperation? Or are we the moment when the wager falters, when lettered women and men begin to piecemeal construct a different sort of machine?

Imagine your art, your gifts, this very heart set to tasks fulfilling a bloodless reversal, speaking truth to power, advocating evidence-based policy, accountable government, the nurturing of community,

phlogistic with hope’s sweet light; imagine such as the strength of metaphor, what must be if we are not to prove ourselves lesser re-runs of the falling empire;

Imagine, please, not our tenure-track, our corner office with the indoor flourishing tree; imagine not emeritus, for in such stripped and impoverished soils such imaginings seem fruitless;

Imagine the brutish, ignorant wheel borne down upon the child—your hand, staying such murder, imagine the terror in the single mother, the agéd, the infirm, and the torch you bear to light their way;

Imagine our own academy, flayed of pseudo-science, rid of untruth and horseshit; imagine, if you can, beyond the fear of deadlines, rules, a place so mindful you are not breathless with anxiety

but with joy.
5.                 I was overjoyed when my better angels (Ruth Behar, Dan Rose, Zora Neale Hurston, Eric R. Wolf) said,

“Go… and join work parties, record worker songs, poetry, seek and find the heart of Saturday night—that mythic dream of lust, Death, creation, performance, collapse, bliss, worry, sorrow, plenty, scarcity, amity and enmity—wherein much is revealed; attend festivals, funerals, help build sculpture out of trash, erect communities with yon epistemic partners,live with them, as they live, brew Kombucha, bake bread, baby-sit the kids, hike into the high alpine, cultivate roomsfull of nervous college kids, grow your data sets, eyeless in Gaza,

repeat a million hubric flaws, read your poems rigor mortis, submit a thesis (empty pages) plug (likewise) parking meters,

form a student strike, plant trees to ‘make light’ get the everlasting ink stains under your nails, these are your salad days,

drive the mountain pass with the grand-kids of rum-runners, wreck a marriage, break your arm, swallow ayahuasca, lies, and half-truths, get arrested, fall in love (again), fall in love.”

In this voice were many voices: among them the academy, the lay, the forgone, foresworn, and forgot.

I was ecstatic, apotheotic, for the voice was ours.

It is a pleasure to speak with you today.

 

____________________________________________________________________________________                  * Dr. Nancy Olivieri: The case of University of Toronto clinician, Dr. Nancy Olivieri, gained attention when her research at the Hospital for Sick Children led her to believe that a new drug treatment posed dangers to some patients. It is alleged that the hospital and the university failed to come to her defence when Apotex, co-sponsor of the research, objected to her publishing her findings. It is further alleged that hospital and university officials and representatives of Apotex variously subjected her to workplace and other harassment.

The case was reviewed by CAUT’s Committee on Academic Freedom and Tenure which concluded that the issues raised are serious and that many questions remain unanswered by reviews conducted by other bodies. In addition to matters affecting Dr. Olivieri, broad institutional policy issues exist. Accordingly, the AF&T committee has appointed an independent committee of inquiry. ( HYPERLINK “http://www.caut.ca/pages.asp?page=199” http://www.caut.ca/pages.asp?page=199).

** Lavrentiy Pavlovich Beria (29 March 1899 – 23 December 1953) was a Georgian Soviet politician and state security administrator, chief of the Soviet security and secret police apparatus (NKVD) under Joseph Stalin during World War II, and Deputy Premier in the postwar years (1946–1953). During the coup d’etat led by Nikita Khrushchev and assisted by the military forces of the Marshal Georgy Zhukov, they formed an alliance to remove and kill Beria. In that same year, he was arrested on trumped-up charges of treason by Zhukov’s soldiers during a meeting in which the full Politburo condemned him. The compliance of the NKVD was ensured by Zhukov’s troops, and after interrogation Beria was taken to the basement of the Lubyanka and shot by General Pavel Batitsky along with his most trusted associates.[2] ( HYPERLINK “http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lavrentiy_Beria” http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lavrentiy_Beria).

** For further information on the arrest of Beria, see p.198 in Amy Knight’s Beria: Stalin’s First Lieutenant (1993, Princeton University Press), pp. 216-17 in Peter S. Deriabin & Joseph Culver Evans’ Inside Stalin’s Kremlin: an eyewitness account of brutality, duplicity, and intrigue (1998, Brassey’s Defence Publishers), and the declassified CIA document, Purge of L.P. Beria (1954, US Gov’t, author unknown), available online: http://www.foia.cia.gov/sites/default/files/document_conversions/14/caesar-10.pdf).

 

HYPERLINK “http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.5/ca/”      Copyright to this article is held by the author under the Creative Commons Licence: Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works.  This work can be shared and published freely as long as it is attributed to the author and original publication in ACME, and as long as it is not changed to form a derivative work.

 

Screen Shot 2014-11-06 at 12.26.25 PM

 

th’ HuLk PoeMs

 Coolia:  do you feel sups fit, like you don’t even need the hulk hands?
 me:  HULKHANDS!!!!!!!!!!!! OMFHULKHANDS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
 Coolia:  RAWRRRRR
 me:  GRARRRHULKHANDSOHULK!!!!!
                                                         – from “The Incredible Coolia G-chat” Nov. 6, 2014
.
.
.
Hulk Hokku #1
.
hulk eat chocolate
hulk go to mall and smash puny humans in santa line-up
 .
 .
 .
Hulk Hokku #2
 .
 hulk phone parents but
hulk get mad at Dad’s “when hulk get job? when?”
hulk smash third phone this month
.
.
——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————-
I’m sitting in my winter boots,
down in the living room,
worrying about the
internet connection.
And I recall
the loud baby
on a bus
once
when I slow-rolled
up the Paulson,
the snow coming so hard
it hobbled the old horse
and lofted the windows
in a coat of mashed potatoes.
But: Lady from Trail in the seat back-but-one with Loud Baby.
And even though Loud Baby
only wept
and screamed a lot
something in the
inarticulate
infant
static
spoke to me.
It was a shabby
number,
a rendition
of
“Hang out the Stars in Indiana”
and went like this:
‘I remember my birth,
the sudden chill,
the dry, irritating blankets–
the incredible explosion
and bursting intensity
of LIGHT
and the bizarre creatures
swimming in this luminosity,
a strange moment,
SLEEP,
swept over me
and I recognized it
for what it was–
the same dark
peacefulness
which formed me,
silent THOUGHT,
rich in the power
of life and LOVE.’
‘I recall a time
before my SELF,
before THOUGHT;
I was not “I”
but part of THE ONE
[ much like a leaf
on a tree
until something happens
–a windstorm–
and the leaf drops…
toward
it-knows-not-where ].’
‘I remember
even before all this…
a distant room,
indistinct voices,
love,
pain,
sorrow…
a death,
“my” death,
my body
–the body of an old woman–
beneath me on the bed,
motionless,
my own eyes
staring up at me.’
‘And then
FALLING AWAY,
a dissolve,
wherein a
sweet forgetfulness
took hold.’‘i forgot “I”.’
‘i forgot my true love’s name,
his/her face,
i forgot Earth
and all its beauty,
forgot my children’s eyes,
forgot DEATH
and that i had died,
LIFE
and that i had lived it.’‘i was made pure in this,
this stripping away,
i forgot
SHAME
and GUILT,
i forgot
ENMITY,
JEALOUSY,
LUST.’‘At last
i was
NO MORE.’‘Fit to begin.’And with that
Loud Baby
drifted off to sleep,
finally,
for a bus is too small
for screaming infants
even if they are
PHILOSOPHERS.But just before
total silence
and the storm’s rebuttal,
except for the droning
as the bus neared
Nancy GreeneI am certain
Loud Baby
gurgled
and in this
song
I heard:‘All these things
come back to me,
are clear as daylight now.
But with each passing night
the memory fades.
By the time
I can walk,
and speak,
am trained to think,
it will all be gone.It, too, will pass away.’
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Rock the Cash-bar
i saw the falling century?
alzheimer
broken culture
(the vandals took the handles)
i know this late hour
from black and white movies
about the distant future
when not just Earth
but greed stood still
as the garbage can gods
staggered awkward
from their saucers
in the silence you can hear the dance-hall
–not even a fucken a-bomb
can stop the kids (a’ight?)–and somewhere
Jello Biafra is born
without a trace of irony
we invoke wrestlers, witch-doctors:
anything to get
Ronald Reagan
to stop pointing his gun at us
tomorrow night
i go to Maple Leaf Gardens
to watch the Clash
i only know
that for a few more days
i will live forever


_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The Bachelor Suite Spectre

by suggesting we “avoid binaries”
and embrace “personal sacrifice”
by understanding “the basement apartment”
or, at least “victims in the VHS-to-DVD
transfer wars”
problematizing “identity as ceremony”
or “breaking every mirror in the apartment”
or “is it art or is it me,
full-onthecarpetbreakdown?”
b/c “one tradition is tradition”
and another is “fuck-weight”
or “concrete swim team”
like “intentional zero productivity”
totem.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This side of Thunderdome

Remember him… when you look at the night sky.
………………………………- Toe-cutter

You are the Night Rider,
a fuel-injected suicide machine,
a rocker, a roller,
no controller,
yer a cop killer,
the mighty weird hand of vengeance
come to smite the un-roadworthy.
You, Night Rider,
clearly unaffected
by the state’s urgings
to “yield” and, perhaps,
“soft shoulder”.
You are the Night Rider,
sleeping in on a Tuesday,
performing your masculinity
in unshowered, unshaved machissmo.
Night Rider,
won’t you come to your senses?
Nobody enjoys maniacal laughter
anymore.
It makes us think of meth,
scabies,
whiskey shit,
or Janis,
and the last moments of an American Saigon.
Ahh… Night Rider,
we share your machine lust,
your fetish,
your hard-on for the muscle-bitch,
the suped-up hot rod,
the last of the V-8 Interceptors.
(1973 Australian Ford XB Falcon GT)
We, too, like a nitrous kit,
a roof and tail spoiler,
we likes our flat black:
………our murderous speed
………has driven daddy to drinkin’.
We ride!
Night Rider, we understand.
We get the infatuation
but, shit, yer a hick-weed,
all these roads lead to jail
–how have you not grasped this simple truth?
The highway is not freedom,
but a circular slave song.
Oh, Rider of Night,
why all the re-runs of Seinfeld?
And cheese bread?
You’ve grown a belly, N.R.,
and while it might be glam
to be young, dumb
and full of cum,
or all muscle
in butt-less chaps at 21,
you’re 45, and Night Rider,
no-one cares anymore
about your straight-line revolution,
about your road to freedom,
about it,
about what kind of future
you and Floozie would’a made.
The kids are alright
but
they ain’t never heard
of you
nor your last,
wild-eyed flight.
As Lord Humungous has indicated,
no one
gets out alive.

 

BEAT-salad-182x300
Invocation of Being: A Beat Salad Dressing

Since our roads lead out into nature and not inward to the wearisome, odious anatomy of ourselves; Since there’s nothing at the back of infinity; Since the only war that matters is the war For the imagination, and since you can’t really TRUST your robot hand, or since even the WILDEST of fables are threatened by the development of otiose condo soul;
Since poetry should surprise and seem an astonishing remembrance; and since it is instrumentality that counts, that TRUTH is determined by the success of ideas or forms in solving actual problems;
Since the Flitcraft parable has kept many a soul
from his or her own ruck-sack rebellion;
and seeing how our consequent tragedies
exude the coffee-rank odour of the office;
Since the corporate-capitalist project may have gotten out of hand,
rendering us all eco-vagabonds of the ruined and ruining world;
Ever since the bright sediment was fracked,
and in retaliation we broke the iamb’s back
and were charged in our court of conscience
with raising to consciousness:
the outcast, the sub-altern, the queer, the worker, the animal and vegetative,
the unconscious and unknown,
the criminal and the failure,
into the creation of what we consider we are;
And since hand in vibrant hand we were made to sing,
to behold the dance of the intellect among the 10,000 things,
We humbly ask that you join us as we hunt the spirit of these words
at the speed of the voice,
that ephemeral fire whose flames leave no ash.
(This poem borrows heavily from great poets’ work. Can you guess which?)
– Bobby Mitchum

Beat Women: Alive in a Slippery Grave

annewaldman

 

For all of its iconoclasm, the Dada spirit was not without repression, and the Dada movement was not without misogynist tendencies. Indeed, the word Dada evokes the idea of the male—both as father and as domineering authority. Thus female colleagues were to be seen not heard, nurturers not usurpers, pleasant not disruptive. – Naomi Sawalsen-Gorse

 

Friends, I know Claude McKay is in there and Langston Hughes oughta be in there but what about the German émigré Baroness Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven or Hannah Höch or Juliette Roche and Suzanne Duchamp and Sophie Taeuber and Emmy Hennings and expatriate poet and artist Mina Loy or “the Queen of Greenwich Village,” Clara Tice or Margaret Anderson and Jane Heap, the lesbian couple who ran The Little Review and Beatrice Wood who died in 1998 at the age of 105? What about Philippa Fallon in High School Confidential? Or Elise Cowen? Mary Fabili? Helen Adam? Denise Levertov, Lenore Kandel, Madeleine Gleason, Joyce Johnson, SISTER MARY NORBERT KORTE?!!

THAT’S WHY I weep we should weep at the morbid disambiguation of “Beat” a bronze marlin spike in the forehead of WHAT COULD HAVE BEEN if misogyny had not CREPT IN lurched in FLOMPFED into–what? Beat? Just a word for transgressing a sedated culture like Walt Whitman speaking a new way but why stop at America? WHY STOP AT AMERICA? And why so many men? No twilit idyll, this, this is serious! Q. WHY ARE THERE SO FEW WOMEN BEATS? A. (whispered) all women are beat.

Sadly, then, a man is writing this, a man who stole a woman’s research, and thus Beat came to mean less than it could have, came to infer mere denim goofball Kesey hitch-hike prankster boner rucksack t-shirt acid/amphetamine hammer-flip jackoff Leningrad Cowboy. And why does Brautigan have a nameless woman on the cover of his books? IS this street-cred? Does street-cred = woman? THEN WHY SO FEW WOMEN BEATS?!!

A. They weren’t allowed to leave home. A. They didn’t want the spotlight. A. Men owned the presses. A. There weremany Beat women. A. The WO-manacles were too strong. A. Obelisk.

“But, hey man, you seen my old lady?” “Lover, this is the last time I pull your ass from the East River.”

Not just THE OTHER STORY of peacetime America. Not simply AN ALTERNATIVE TO THE LOST GENERATION’S LITERARY ESTABLISHMENT. Not some SIT-IN, GROPE-IN, 1968 DEMOCRATIC NATIONAL CONVENTION. I’m starting to think “BEAT” = “WOMAN, STAY IN and watch the children.”

Kerouac: The truth of the matter is we don’t understand our women; we blame them and it’s all our fault.                                     Hilda Doolittle: Gertrude, mix me another cup of brimstone.

So we don’t know their names, not all of ‘em, so I weep over mono-mind, over caudillo cadillac sleaze, tears like testosterone, I WORRY “BEAT” WILL ALWAYS MEAN [boy].  Or worse, “dead-beat dad”. Q. Where in Huck Finn do Huck and Jim encounter a strong woman? A1. Don’t ask. A2. Obelisk.

Brenda Knight: “Jack Kerouac would be the first to tell you that the mainstream and the media were the death of the Beat Generation. Sensationalism and mass success, by its very nature, negates that which is Beat. Beat is underground, raw, unedited, pure, shocking. Beat can’t be refined, sanitized, second-guessed, premeditated; it must be immediate. Beat is an expulsion, a vomiting of vision. To pretty it up for the cameras and papers is to snuff the very essence of Beat. Ironically, because the women in the movement have, to a certain degree, been ignored and marginalized, they represent the precious little of that which remains truly Beat.”

Bobby Mitchum, Research by Lemon Kitten

tumblr_m9qeooKmq11r8q2hao1_500

* some excerpts from Women of the Beat Generation: The Writers, Artists and Muses at the Heart of a Revolutionby Brenda Knight. 1998  Conari Press, 2nd ed.

* “Alive in a slippery grave” from Roethke’s poem, “Weed Puller”.


Etymology of “Beat” – The 6th Sense

 

20110523061307!Beattour$ruth-weiss-at-nb-fair

“Beat” or “Beat Generation” is a term uttered by Jack Kerouac in a 1948 conversation with Jack Clellon Holmes. Their talk had turned to the nature of generations and, as Ginsberg recounts, “recollecting the glamour of the Lost Generation [Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Stein, T.S. Eliot, etc.], Kerouac said, ‘This is nothing but a beat generation’.”

Ginsberg, in the Forward to The Beat Book, traces the etymology of “Beat”, noting the word came from hipster slang of the late 40s, “man, I’m beat,” broke, homeless, it could also denote a holy sufferer on the final wings of a speed or benzedrine crash. So we’ve this sense of exhaustion, again in Ginsberg’s words, “at the bottom of the world, looking up or out, sleepless, wide-eyed, perceptive, rejectef by society, on your own, street wise [like the proverbial Irish drunk in the gutter, looking up at the stars] yet at the same time receptive and open to vision[s]“.

It would be 11 years before the term expanded in meaning to include its Beatific (or Beatitude) trappings, as also progenerated by Kerouac, to serve as cultural antidote to then-popular media representations of the term (and the beat) to mean “loser”.

But “Beat” came to describe the Beat Generation Literary Movement which originally included Kerouac, Neal Cassady,  William Burroughs, Herbert Huncke, John Clellon Holmes, and Allen Ginsberg but later expanded to include Kenneth Rexroth, Carl Solomon, Philip Lamantia, Gregory Corso, Peter Orlovsky, Michael McClure, Gary Snyder, Philip Whalen, Bob Kaufman, Jack Micheline, Ray Bremser, and LeRoi Jones (Amiri Baraka). Artists who were later included under the Beat banner were: Diane di Prima, Frank O’Hara, Kenneth Koch, Joanne Kyger, Robert Creeley, Lew Welch, and others.

“The fifth meaning,” writes Ginsberg, “refers to the broader influence or literary and artistic activities of poets, filmmakers, painters, writers, and novelists who refreshed the long-lived bohemian cultural tradition in America” and included such figures as Charles Bukowski, d.a. levy, Richard Brautigan, Patti Smith, Cid Corman, Robert Frank, Alfred Leslie, David Amram, Larry Rivers, Jonathan Williams, Don Allen, Barney Rosset, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, and many others.

The sixth sense of Beat is here introduced and intended to address the generations who have, in the hoary 67 years since Kerouac first employed the term, taken on the mantle of  vagabond spirit in its manifold formulations: voudou, punk, rap, noir,  revolutionary, a fugitive sensibility attaining nirvana by not seeking it, fleeing the burning cities, stalking the wilds as a latter-day St. Anthony in a bark bikini. Derrida strikes a chord: Beat is an errant spirit, a dust-bowl Okie, Karen Dalton, the vagabond Woody Guthrie, “like a soul who has forsworn her rights or lost her way, an outlaw, pervert, ruffian, a vagrant, a bum… wandering in the streets, she doesn’t even know herself, uprooted, anonymous, unattached to any house or country”. At last, at long last, Beat is Beat again.

Bobby Mitchum

 

* Ginsberg quotes excerpted from The Beat Book; Poems and Fiction of the Beat Generation, Anne Waldeman (ed.).1996  Boston, MA: Shambhala Publications Inc.

* Derrida quotation excerpted from The Trivial Sublime; Theology and American Poetics, by Linda Munk. 1992  NYNY: St. Martin’s Press.


Hart Lemon tours the Kitten Prison

It’s a great time to be rich in America.
There’s no arch support quite like walking on the backs of the poor.
Save gas, have the ghetto kids piggy-back you to the office.
Welfare? JAIL-FAIR!!!

“I’m here at the Tuscon Gun Show where
companies like Big Bush are showcasing
what they’re calling ‘live target action’,
a new product for firing range enthusiasts
which substitutes illegal Mexican and
Guatemalan immigrants for molded plastic
targets…”
great to be rich America
in rich America
it’s a great time to

(oh, I almost forgot: the NSA is reading this)

I LIKE AMERICA.
I LIKE WHAT AMERICA STANDS FOR.
I LIKE FREEDOM.
I LIKE PROTECTED SAFETY.
I LIKE DRONE STRIKES THAT KEEP AMERICA SAFE.
I LIKE THE WAY THE AMERICAN FLAG
I LIKE THE SMELL OF GUNSMOKE WHEN
I LIKE THE REPUBLICAN WHO PRETENDS TO READ
I LIKE THE DEMOCRAT WHO FUCKS HIS NANNY
I LIKE AMERICA WHEN IT
I LIKE THE RETURN OF THE SS
I LIKE THAT HITLER AND STALIN ARE COMING
I LIKE A HISTORY CHANNEL SORT OF HISTORY
I LIKE MITT ROMNEY’S CHANCES
I LIKE THE NSA ‘CAUSE THE NSA LIKES MY POETRY
I LIKE SNOWDON’S CHANCES
I LIKE HOW AFRAID EVERYBODY IS
I LIKE THE CLIMATE OF FEAR AND HOW IT SELLS
BEER AND ANTI-DEPRESSANTS
I LIKE THE SURVEILLANCE STATE
I LIKE HOW SECURITY IS LIKE BIRTH CONTROL
I LIKE HOW, EVEN NOW, THEY ARE DECIDING
IF THEY SHOULD COME AND PUT A BAG OVER MY HEAD
AND FLY ME AWAY IN A SILENT HELICOPTER
AND WATERBOARD MY FACE/NECK
AND TELL ME HOW IT IS
THAT THE DAYS OF FREEDOM
ARE HERE AGAIN
HOW GOOD IT IS
TO BE REALLY FREE
HOW GOOD IT IS TO BE RICH
SO GOOD TO BE SO RICH IN AMERICA
AND I’LL AGREE
WHEN THEY LET ME UP FOR AIR
I’LL AGREE IT’S GOOD
BEING RICH IN AMERICA
IS LIKE HOW I THOUGHT WEED WAS GOING TO FEEL
IS LIKE HOW I THOUGHT A HAND-JOB FROM
SCARLETT JOHANSSEN WAS GOING TO FEEL
HER HANDS SO SOFT LIKE WARM CLOUDS OR KITTENS
BEING RICH IN AMERICA FEELS SO GOOD
YOU’D THINK JESUS WAS BEHIND IT
YOU’D THINK ALIENS INVENTED BEING RICH IN AMERICA
AND MAYBE I’LL DIE BEING TORTURED
AND NEVER KNOW
HOW GOOD IT FEELS, REALLY,
TO BE REALLY REALLY RICH IN AMERICA
BUT I CAN DREAM, CAN’T I?
I CAN DREAM, I CAN DREAM, I CAN.

– love,
Bobby


 

Fenny Josus Puker Short: Hart Lemon Offends Tumblr!

(A version of this Hart Lemon installment was erased by Tumblr. See if you can guess why!)

Angel porn could have saved my soul.
I wanted to be touched by an angel,
to be groped by an inappropriate flying thing in a robe.
But THERE IS NO ANGEL PORN.

Yet.

The Stoned Art Lunting Team searched hard,
and we searched long,
with those balloons that are like penises that you make more penises out of.

We found Funny Jesus Poker Shirt.
We found Vivianne Westwood’s Mother Mary tits-all-out silkscreen.
We found the raggedy ghost of Louis Reed.

But Gayngel Hardcore we did not find. Google it! We DARE you!

Hot gay angels, like the dude in Barbarella, making out, blinded by cum shots,
voices like Nico,
hands like kitten silk,
flying boners poppin’ through feathery kilts,
french-kissing in galleries across the Wisconsin highlands,
playing harps made out of Thai noodle salad
riding neon gummy wolves through the chuffy clouds,
making stoned art
stoned art so stoned
and so, uh, art
that it wipes away the greed in the businessman’s heart
like a dry-erase dental procedure
like a kiss from Momma
like Laurie Anderson is your Mom
and she’s saying stuff so confusing
you just laugh and laugh
from the back of the station wagon

and we just drive through the rainstorm
and the carnival’s in town
and there’s pizza dogs and root-beer
and the school burned down
and the sun just came out
and the gay angels are playing badminton
and the gay angels are kissing
and the angel dykes are in sandals
and one says,
“this is only ONE gay heaven! there’s one for dervishes,
and there’s a gay Hindi heaven, and there’s gay Islamic heaven,
and way out there, on the spirally edge of a supernova,
there’s GAY atheist heaven…
and it’s sorta like Vancouver without all the rain—”

and she says more
but there’s a sound like a waterfall
and your eyes can’t handle the burning light
and just then
SHE-SUS appears!!!
and SHE-SUS has ice cream sandwiches for everybody
(the kind that never melt)
and they’re made out of coconut
and SHE-SUS is speaking,
saying:

“REMEMBER THE TIME
WHEN YOU WERE SO
HIGH
THAT YOU
FORGOT YOUR

 

 

 

IDENTITY?

 

 

AND THEN, LIKE

 

 

 

 

A FEW
SECONDS
WENT BY
AND THEN
YOU
FORGOT

 

 

 

THAT
YOU
FORGOT?

 

 

 

Well, that’s what atheist heaven is like.”
(Kittens, now. Amen.)
Yeah. THOSE gay angels.
THAT angel porn.


‘Lectric Lemonade: Godspeed! You, Black Hasher

It went supernova:
this trending Owl,
the wolf sweatshirt,
the toast restaurant,
the stovepipe pants,
the high-end glasses,
the hipster beard,
the bored mannequin,
the neck tattoo of Woody Woodpecker in a hot-rod.

The rockabilly girlfriend.
The psychotic episode.
The track marks.
The LSD in your beer.

Then it is was so fucking rad to be dead.
So unbearably awesome to die emo.
Guided by voices to the edge of an abyss.
Driven to distraction by one’s own mouth noise.
Godspeed! You, Black Hasher.
BUT:
Our resume makes no mention of, well, US.

Meet: dumpster.
Meet: methadone clinic.
Meet: coffee breath.

CUT TO:
anti-depressants in the water supply.
cut to bears at the dump.
cut to Vicodin & whiskey.
cut to precious, blog-o-sphere, digi-fuck, stalker.
cut to middle age laundromat bald-spot prostate exam.
cut to trouble.

Safe: that stoked, so stoked feeling
and the wooden spaceship. Large.