As/Is







9.23.2020


Abby Heller-Burnham: West Philadelphia, 2006










9.16.2020


Vlad Pogorelov: P.F.S. Post: "No. 105"


This: an illustration used in the first edition of Vlad's Derelict. Now: "No. 105" from Derelict on P.F.S. Post.








9.15.2020


Jacket Magazine: Ten Years Gone


It's precisely ten years since Jacket Magazine ended. Does it seem like a long time? Rather. Yet, as a linchpin holding together the Aughts in poetry, Jacket was nonpareil. Binding together entire continents, North America, Europe, Australia, making avant-garde (and sometimes mainstream) poetry an international community, and serving as a center for the entire enterprise of poetry, Jacket was not just "big," it was a phenomenon. The phenomenon started from editors John Tranter & Pam Brown, and made it so that no one could accuse Internet Age poetry of provincialism, or of being regressive.

For someone on my way up in the Aughts, Jacket meant a new start, something fresh, away from old hat Amer-Lit publications like Poetry, APR, and Prairie Schooner, all of which did manifest sure signs of provincialism, regressive clannishness, and fetid insipidity. Among other things, I had two sets of poems in Jacket, one in issue 31 and one in 40 (the final issue), and both allowed me to feel my oats as a poet and writer wanting to lay down several ambitious gauntlets at once.

It's my hope that no one will forget the phenomenal popularity of Jacket in the Aughts. What will be done with Jacket, forty issues and maybe ten thousand pages worth of material, who knows. It's all already in Trove, the National Library of Australia site. For me, it's about wondering what's in there, what the secret gems were which may emerge over a long period of time. The task of weeding through the Jacket morass is a historical one, and involves "world" history, not merely American or European. Ten years later, we could use another Jacket now; a shot in the arm to enliven sleepy times. Will we get it?  








9.05.2020


Rodrigo Toscano on P.F.S. Post


"The Promise," by Rodrigo Toscano, now up on P.F.S. Post.








8.19.2020


Speck: A Clangorous Din (spoken word samples from Opera Bufa by Adam Fieled)











8.15.2020


Adam Fieled and Mary Harju: Botanical Gardens: Montreal, Quebec: 2003







MalreDeszik: Driving Home (spoken word sample from "Whiskey" by Adam Fieled)











8.14.2020


Mary Harju: Philly Free School poster image










8.11.2020


New Hampshire Mini-Trilogy


I.
I could've used you in New 
Hampshire that summer, rope-
swinging into Contoocook River,
dope-huffing out in the fields
with Jon Anderson, his gang,
your future rival (unbeknownst
to all) tapping her feet in anticipation
of new reasons to mope, make
metaphor. I could've understood
why it might be that your rival
could never be your friend
too tense about counting her fingers,
toes, too loose on the juice, or
(cruelly, for all) maybe just right, simpatico?

II.
As the world between her legs tightened around
her, what she saw in bed with me was stark: okra,
stamens, roots, all that in nature coalesces in erect
growth; and a shadow father bent, then erect, then
bent again, perverse from amassing wealth in a world
whose submissiveness poisons him. Beneath the sultry,
wooded surface, what I saw was a semi-frightened
animal, along for an all-night ride (gruesomeness of
4 a.m. New Hampshire sun), knife thusly thrusting
into the backs of everyone around her, managing
to have stamina enough against constraint to take
what she was taking. The mattress thumped: above,
an angel was unable to conceal laughter, understanding
it was all in the script, including the garish sun's leer. 

III.
Grape soda bottle on the desk; wind, out of
Eleusis, shut the door. Our clothes came
off; your limbs spun like spokes. I peered
outside; it was light. New Hampshire summer
sun, four a.m. Poets to face at breakfast.
Workshops to sit through, lectures, but I
knew I'd never have you the right way
again, or any way. We'd done the thing
once we'd been meaning to do, so as I
stepped from the window, gazed at you
dozing, naked, I thought to myself, maybe
that's what amounts to a state of grace
you're given something once, fully, so
that you may be satiated with it, & that's it


*Part 1 appeared in The Argotist Online as New Hampshire; Part 2 appeared in Otoliths 50 as Hit or Miss;  all three parts are taken from the manuscript-in-progress Something Solid.*








8.08.2020


Mary Harju: Saint Catherine Street: Montreal, Quebec: 2003









7.21.2020


Jeremy Eric Tenenbaum on P.F.S. Post


Well, folks, Jesus W. Christ (!): Jeremy Eric Tenenbaum finally arrives on P.F.S. Post.








7.20.2020


A Philly Free School Anthology


Beyond just P.F.S. Post, an anthology of material covering all aspects of what the Philly Free School has been, is, and will be, from 2004 to the present day, on out. 








7.09.2020


Through the party in a dark, dreary mansion

Through the party in a dark, dreary mansion,
    I chased her up the slick wooden stairs—
goblins resenting our pouting & passion,
    ghouls in a hurry to stifle our dares—
blue, spare bedroom in a spasm of anguish,
    her clothes came off like rain-fattened mud—
both in a hurry, before we both languish,
    Cheltenham sucking the life from our blood—

how can I say this is where I've settled,
    trying to capture the pain of my youth—
fever & fear & despair in a kettle,
    diamonds on parasites, burying truth—
poetry lives past the sky's limpid ceiling,
    frequencies caught for a moment, & hung—
Cheltenham lived in a dungeon of feeling,
    which I've made eternal, as Stacy's quick tongue—










6.25.2020


Cheltenham Elegy #429


#429

It's Friday night, and she's going nowhere
near those ass-fucking sons of bitches.
She forces herself to vomit up an ice-cream
cone. If she walks past Burholme Park, of
course he'll be there, right there among
them. It's not just that she expected more—
she banked her whole life on him having
a little class. Over at Burholme, they've got
splendor going in the grass. Nothing can
bring back the casual hours. Though it's
past dark, kids are still driving putts. The
guys wonder whether they'll get hit.








6.09.2020


In the studio off of North Broad



You don't connect it:
our lovemaking with
identity questions, any
more than my fingers
pointing at the moon
are, in fact, a kind of
moon, that can enter
your physical entity &
give you a new (albeit
brief) identity. I weave
in & out of you, in &
out of me, you don't
get time to say I'm this
or that, because how
can I be, being entity?








6.01.2020


Vince El Mejor: Viaje Entre Las Luces (feat. Adam Fieled, spoken word)