Moria Poetry was an Aughts web-journal based in Chicago, edited by William Allegrezza. It has now been substantially archived by Internet Archive's Wayback Machine. My major pages include Apparition Poems, Equations, Returns, and Opera Bufa. I encourage others to explore the Wayback Machine (other than moria) and see what they can dig up. It's a wonderful resource.
My statement involves integrating narrative, emotion, and sexuality into experimental poetry. I feel that I arrived at a moment in which things had reached a peak of extreme dryness— I was taught that open affectivity and eroticism were crimes. It’s been my pleasure to rebel against these conventions (though I respect the work my predecessors have done) in my own little way. I also have very avidly sought to include a biographical element in my work. Chimes, that Blazevox put out this year, is an autobiography, beginning with my birth and continuing into my teenage years. I was inspired, of course, by Lyn Hejinian, but I wanted even more direct sense and perceptible narrative then she included in My Life. With my blog Stoning the Devil, the idea has been to demonstrate the ways in which poetry might be integrated into a larger art community or context. Poets (the ones I know, at least), have fallen out of touch with what painters, sculptors, film-makers, and musicians are doing, and it has negatively affected poetry as an art-form, both in terms of the quality of works of art being produced by poets and the limited amount of circulation available to these works. I would like to reach a wide audience of artists working in a broad range of mediums, and I feel that I may succeed yet.
List up to five bullet points any major historical events which changed or moved your writing experience.
• Working with Anne Waldman in the Spring of 2005
• Having my first piece published in Jacket, also Spring 2005
• Making the “Hejinian decision” to write about my own life in 2008
• The four times I visited/read in Chicago from 2006 to 2008
• Consciously withdrawing from the Philly scene in 2006
Please tell our readers what projects you are currently working on.
I am currently working on a book-length manuscript of the Apparition Poems that have appeared in Jacket, Dusie, and in the &Now Anthology from Lake Forest College Press; keeping Stoning the Devil as interesting and fresh as possible, looking for ways to refurbish PFS Post, while writing my dissertation and finishing my PhD. What was your biggest triumph in the last 10 years? Learning how to write, not merely poems but books, how to sustain a narrative tone over the course of an entire project. I really never knew I could pull it off until I finished Chimes.
Do you have any regrets and if so what would you have done different?
I’ve regretted that I’ve had such a difficult relationship with certain poets in Philly. There’s no use playing the blame game, but if I had it to do over again there are situations in which I could’ve been more forbearing.
Which publication had the biggest impact on your work and why?
Without a doubt, my inclusion in several issues of Jacket, on a bunch of different fronts (as critic, poet, subject of review, and essay writer) has given me the sense that my work has made a difference and does count. John Tranter is an incredible poet and Jacket is likely to be one of the literary monuments of this age.
Provide advice for someone that is just starting to write poetry and submitting their work.
Work your ass off all the time.
Please share one poem of yours which you feel best represents your work in the past 10 years.
Merely brilliant is no match
for being intimate. When you catch
a wave that breaks, you can only
half-determine its’ course. Lonely
is the determined man, whether
it’s he who decides his fate or fetters
the world lays on him. This
I learned from a young man’s kiss.
Thus, I’ve learned, said nothing.
To be silent is something
for the wise to practice. Words
go too far. How much have we heard
worth holding onto? How much said
that can placate what we dread?
(first published in Kevin Killian and Dodie Bellamy’s Mirage)
Every day I'd stop
at a corner-joint,
buy water ice, take
it with me down St.
Marks Place, guitar
slung over shoulder,
ripped shirt, jeans. Washington Square
would be the place
to kill time before
the studio— jams,
joints in dim alleys.
Yet when I'd scan
the horizon, I saw two
buildings a lot less
securely affixed then
they seemed. In my
stoned haze, I was
convinced of a kind
of permanence in them.
On bus-rides in, they
told me a story that
I wanted to believe. New York,
When Bruce Nauman was working under the direction of Leo Castelli in the late 1960s, Castelli bequeathed to him some video equipment. Nauman used the equipment to make short, pointed films like Art Make-Up. As minimal and potentially arid as the film is (it consists of Nauman smearing white and black paint over his naked body), the ideas it presents raise questions that seem to be products of a fecund mind. Who can say what art is? Is creating art as artificial (and potentially perverse) as smearing paint all over one's body? Who is capable of "making up" art? Perhaps most importantly, the video makes clear with great lucidity the artist's dilemma: having to wake up every day and "make up art" all over again. This is relevant to those of us who work (one way or another) on a daily basis. The Sisyphean nature of the project (call it Project Art Make-Up) is a major theme (often implicitly, sometimes explicitly) in Beckett, as in Nauman, and I tie it in (on a routine level) to how it feels to wake up in the morning, and not know exactly what you want to do. Of course, often I wake up and know exactly what I have to do, but even then I have a hard time coping if I can't create something on a daily basis. If Art is the paint I smear myself with, then I am an obsessive-compulsive smear-fiend. Yet there is always a sense of emptiness, of the incomplete, of loose ends and un-mined territories. It is exciting and torturous in equal measure. And Nauman's short film exteriorizes the whole dilemma.
The Philadelphia Museum of Art has another interesting Nauman piece. Nauman, early in his career, often worked with neon lights (as did Dan Flavin.) Nauman's neon, that hangs in the Modern Art wing of the PMA, is a circular neon sculpture that reads the true artist helps the world by revealing mystic truths. I first encountered this piece in my early 20s (largely through Matthew Collings book It Hurts, and then I realized by accident that it was actually situated in Philly), and I saw in it a "marijuana consciousness of absurdity." There's a good chance that this was a projection; I was smoking a lot of pot at the time and the neon seemed to evince a kind of stoner wisdom (most easily appreciated when one happens to be stoned.) As I've grown older, the neon hits me with a mystery on several levels. The first level to clear up: how much of irony is there in the piece? Nauman is not a naive man and not a naive artist; he works with questions of absurdity, alienation, and anger. Given the piece's place in the context of Nauman's oeuvre, it seems fair to wonder if the piece is meant to be taken straight or not (which leads us, unfortunately, straight into the very Beckett-ian abyss of whether or not "artist intentionality" is relevant or not, but whether it is or not, one can't help but wonder, and that "can't help" says something about our humanity.) Let's say we do take it straight: then we have to decide whether we agree with Nauman or not. Does the true artist help the world by revealing mystic truths? First, we need to know what a "true artist" is or is not. Of course, we don't. It's an individual decision that each of us has to make. Then, we need to decide whether true artists reveal mystic truths. Not all of us even believe in mysticism (I do, but that's beside the point.) In one phrase, we get "true" and "truths," but the context makes the artist's sincerity doubtful. So you see, this piece, as glowingly serene as it is, actually presents a quandary that is fathomless, dark, and troubling. Yet, to get on the Warhol level: it's a really nice-looking piece, and fun to look at. You could pass it without thinking twice, or say "Hey, cool," or (as I once did) look forward to more inebriation and feeling the "vibe."
Now, I am willing to admit that Nauman's paint is my paint and (not to be kinky) Nauman's naked body is my naked body. I am consumed by my art while knowing that art is, possibly, artificial. Yet if you want to do it right (assuming there is a "right"), you have to be in it all the way (cover your whole body with the paint.) Nauman loves puns: we see the pun between make up (as in create) and make-up (women's cosmetics), and more than a pun, this is a metaphor/ implied comparison. Works of art enhance appearances, just like cosmetics; put a gloss or shiny finish on reality, just like cosmetics; hide the real nature of things, mislead, distort, and potentially disorient, just like cosmetics. Yet Nauman uses cosmetics to get beyond cosmetics; in a "meta" way, his "make-up" is a demystification of the "making up" process. He shows us the illusion being made, so that there is no illusion. Or, the process of the illusion being made demonstrates to us that everything, on some level, is an illusion. What is the poetry which does the same thing? One of the first things I published was an ekphrastic rendering of Nauman's whole ethos. It was in a UK journal called Great Works, which in and of itself could be a Nauman-ic pun. Anyway, for me the foundation of Nauman's relevance is just this: truth. Human truth, human realities, human attempts to make sense of a meaningless/confounding world. Good art is just this, and Nauman knew it and expressed it just as Beckett did. One man, one vision, one room. A snake, perhaps, eating its own tail; or just the feeling of having to make life up all the time.
#1301 This Dada shaman ready-made: to give ambulance drivers a good mind-fucking, my 911 call, which was just a prank, & my eyes were so black I could kill anyone in any unit I might enter, so that’s what I did, sashayed right past, then made a bloke walk into a car, you should’ve seen his mug, and took the longest route possible to buy Pall Malls, which I smoked with great savior faire, spirits in cahoots.
#1477 Terribly open spaces I can only take with eyes closed, “wedding of animal brides,” depth in pits of guts, fists that are phalluses, bliss callous to repercussions— it’s just that you goaded me to be here, pushed buttons I didn’t know I had, now ships have sailed to ports manned by ghosts, prows point down, tackle aborts—
Pandora : National Library of Australia : Jacket Magazine
This NLA Apparition Poems archive page from Jacket Magazine 40, is held under the aegis of Pandora, as part of the Australian National Library's online archiving program. Thanks again to NLA and to Jacket.
British Library : Wayback Machine : Argotist Online
The British Library's Wayback Machine has archived the entirety of The Argotist Online, which is important, now that the original AO is offline. Many thanks to them, and, of course, to the original AO. Cheers.