Tuesday, July 15, 2003

Goodbye. See you at the new Blogger Free Monkey!
I wonder if I'm Aimee's perfect match. Hmm...Jim Nezhukumatathil.

If hassling President* Bush is your thing 

It is crucial that you tell others to keep the ball rolling.
Remember when $1 billion wasn't a good enough reason for ABBA to tour?
I'm thinking of killing can we have our ball back?. In the conservatory. With the rope. And this isn't so I'll get a bunch of e-mails saying, "No, no, Joy Division, don't break up!" They should have broken up. All good things must destroy themselves. Eventually. All cookies get hard.

Jim Goes 9 for 9 

If you were SUDDENLY the opposite sex, what name would you choose? How are your poems changed?

I would chose a name that would make me even hotter, like "Champ" or "Hero." It's hard to have one of those names and not think of yourself as a babe. Or a geographical place. Perhaps Prague Behrle.

My poems would be the same, but written in much sloppier handwriting.

Play the following scene out:
(A blue car pulls up beside you, they crack the tinted window)

My reply: "Well, you could start by getting out of that slick blue car, Slappy."

Explain how you see the internet's impact on poetry.

What? Sorry? I was just downloading pornography.

There's a new poetry library in Philadelphia and you are in charge of choosing the sculpture for the entrance. What is it?

Well, that Rocky statue. I was bummed to hear that that wasn't whereever it was supposed to be in the movie. I felt very cheated. If that movie happened in Boston, you could beat your ass it would be whereever it was in the fucking movie, depend on that (see also: Cheers). But in the library you could put a book in his hand. Reading = triumph. Or a statue of Allen Iverson reading. To inspire kids. Because they *know* that's the way to get ahead in life, right?

Give us a solid 90 seconds of automatic writing on the topic of canned peas.

Our urine smells like cans. Breathless cans of green. P's never fed my baby. They definitely landed into the open mouth of alligators not indeginous to these areas. Trailer parks, they love them. Breakfasts filled with tight fists. And the way rubber smells makes it OK, we're flexible again. They are the big letters they want. Big round Rs and Hs, floating through the cosmos to the kid. You know?

You knock on my door just as we're ready to begin a seance to contact dead poets. Who do you want to contact? What do you ask?

Poets none of us have ever heard of. The poor, forgotten ones. With names like "Brad Hunt" or "Denise Roberts." And ask them to whisper me a good one. Or where their hidden treasures lie, which book on the bookshelf to pull out to discover their dusty, neglected collected works.

I would also contact dead poets with hot ancestors. Who could hook me up. With those ancestors. In a pinch.

How do you see literary criticism affecting the direction of poetry?

Like an anvil or an albatross. As the bitter sportswriters to the beseiged ballplayers. Like kill to buzz.

Since the American war against Iraq began some poets have been saying that this is not a time for writing poems, and that our energy should only be focused on fighting against the war. How do you feel about this?

Which poets have said this? It's a bunch of bullshit, naturally. I remember me and my brother watching "The 3 Stooges" the day my grandmother died. And my mother came in and gave us hell. And Andy said something like, "What are we supposed to do, weep all day?" Anyone telling anyone that it's inappropriate to do anything is pretty weak anyway. They must be seriously shitty poets.

APTV is the new All Poetry Television Network. You've been asked to create a poetry game show. What is it?

Like the old "20,000 dollar pyramid" With Dick Clark. A parter would say "Penguin" and you would say "Dust." And that would be worth a point. Then at the end you would sit beneath the pyramid, and you would have to guess "what a sonnet might say" and such.

Jim's Therapy Couch Quote of the Day  

"It's nice to know that the sprinklers go off in Harvard Yard at 1 AM. And to remember that."
When you think about it, there is no free cleavage.
Blogger moved my margin in. I feel cornered. Don't fence me in, you fuckers. I'll scratch you like a cornered rat.
At some point I hope to have a tall totem pole list full of my old dead blogs. Like abandoned craps I took in the woods. Follow them! And find me!
I've been thinking a lot about Eileen's cleavage now. And that ain't right. That cleavage is taken.
You'd think the Bush Administration could have planted some nuclear weapons on Iraq by now.
But that's just the persona talking.
I've received e-mails from all of the deposed princes of Zulu by now, who have carefully considered me to help them with a giant bank transaction. Me!

Lemonheads' Lyrics of the Day 

"Is nothing okay with you?
Is nothing okay with me?
Is anything happening to have to go to sea?"

from "Great Big No"

Possible Karaoke Playlist 

"Dirty Water" by The Standells
"More than a Feeling" by Boston
"Rock n Roll Fantasy" by Bad Company

from the files of Lizzie T. 

Octodog. Ow, I'm getting sympathy pangs.
I got my father sunflowers for his birthday. And a steak sub.
Powered by audblogaudblog audio post

"The Wandering Poem" by Nick Piombino.

Monday, July 14, 2003

Surf Poetry? Tieger's getting all X-Games on us. This is Boston not Long Beach.
Soon I will be "Jim from Medford." Representing the 781.
I have plenty of info on Arsenal now, thanks. Brandon Downing says I should cheer for Chelsea. I don't want to go to Chelsea.
World's Biggest Condom. I have no need of this. On many levels.
Ted said I was "a real good caller."
On hold, waiting to talk to Ted Nation. Prepared to bitch about Zito getting jobbed off the All-Star Team.
That Aimee N. knows who Tony Dungy is. Dreamy sigh.

Things that are as *thrilling* as a home run derby broadcast on the radio 

* Wet Fraggles.
* Fret Waggles.
* Jessie Tuggle.

LANGUAGE Poetry Projected Wiffleball Line-up 

1. Leslie "Leave 'Em Sorry" Scalapino 2b
2. "What about" Bob Perelman 3b
3. Barrett "Detroit Dinger" Watten 1b
4. Ron "The American Tree" Silliman CF
5. Charles "Buffalo Wings" Bernstein LF
6. "Wild" Lyn Hejinian ss
7. "Thinly Veiled" Rae Armantrout RF
8. Clark "Coolio" Coolidge C
9. Bruce "The Boss!" Andrews P

Boston Wiffle Sox Starting Line-Up Reconsidered 

1. Mark "Big Red" Lamoureux CF
2. "Gloucester" James Cook 3b
3. "Big Daddy" Mike County ss
4. "Navy" Jim Dunn 1b
5. "Pokerfaced" Dan Bouchard LF
6. Michael "Dude, Where's My" Carr C
7. Aaron "the Divine Hammer" Tieger RF
8. "Saint" Christopher Rizzo 2b
9. Jim Behrle "The Jim Reaper" P
Record highs today at The MONKEY. While Ron's away, kids rule!

Note to self 

Learn to pitch left-handed by next Sunday. Also, if possible, get laid by then.
Soreness in my pitching arm. Will I miss my next start?

Note to self  

Get Tim Yu to give his stylist's number to Nick Piombino.

Which current crush list member is Jim's perfect match? 

Take the quiz. Because you can.
Er du en sexet dansk digter?
You know, the guy who makes my pizza has problems, too.

Silliman/Burger 21 Grand Reading Report 

Astral projection is an inexact science. In forgetting to carry the 1, I missed Mary Burger's reading (which sounds fantastic elsewhere. I blame myself. I originally ended up in a Ground Round in Topeka before I did some reconfiguring and checked out mapquest). Ron's reading was worth the 5-6 months traveling in the shadow realm will cost me. Those come off of the shit-end of my life anyway. And to get to see Stephanie's new hair-doo and Eileen's silk blouse (it didn't look silk or like a blouse) was worth the trip. I could not say hello to anyone for fear that I would draw them into the shadows I inhabited unguarded. I liked when Ron started reading some of his new sonnets, which were obviously inspired by me and mine. It felt good to give the old boy such a solid kick in the right direction! Finally, I thought to myself, I've gotten through to him. Especially liked the lines: "Green, green / a broccoli city / we all can boogie / forever in / catch a cab / to Red Lobster / Booyeah, Daddy." Or these from his new poem "Esophagous Handjob:" "Used yogurt / to clean the sink / you delicious / Easter Bunnies!" Don't believe the hype, he's a loveable guy. There was a lot more but I was distracted by the aforementioned hair and blouse (blouse?). I also thought that Tim Yu should move to the hot corner, and maybe bat clean-up. In a blink I was back on the blue couch here, buzzing with excitement for our art, and the after effects of astral travel: a ridiculous hard-on and painful star pattern of hemorroids. Not a good combo. God Bless You, Ron Silliman. Let all cities embrace you until you pat them on the back and they reluctantly and awkwardly cease.
And they will refer to me as a gorgeous (*gorgeous*) blogger.
I'd move to Alaska but:

1) No baseball.
2) No chicks.
3) Cold.
4) Frightened of glaciers and polar bears.
5) Igloo-living ain't for me.
6) No subway.
Put a little Mountain Dew in him, and he can go *all night long*
Hi, Alaska!
I'll be a lot more fun tomorrow.

What's Up with Jim? 

What's Up With Jim

He's a narcissitic shoe gazer who hates what he loves what he sees.
He's shelving that was never put up.
He's a lost dime in a pocket of pissed off pennies
He's a deranged blow hole on a beached whale
He's a kettle whistling at the pot because it's ass is covered in flame.
He's a crossing guard who forgot his badge
He's a rising balloon bleeding air
He's a bull pen coach on the phone.
He's a foul pole.
He's a spotlight caught in a deer
He's Frank's black cherry wishniak soda
He's a blanket of thoughts.
He's a blistering fast ball
He's the chocolate milk of human kindness
He's a shark with bad teeth
He's a card carrying member of the null set
He's a cloud that has landed.

--Jimmy Dunn

What's up with Jim? 

"Too much I' the sun (as a result of a plethora of bleacher seats)"--Nick Piombino
Look for my name in the papers! Probably spelled Berhle.
I just hit 20 home runs in a row on the Orbitz hit a homer ad. 10 to right and 10 to left. But I'm still pretty wound up.
And I didn't even meet her.
Listening to "Headache" by Frank Black, I remember Migraine Boy and miss him, he was one of the damned funniest things I've ever seen.

a constellation resembling one reader's present 

On Bear's Head by Philip Whalen
Miracle Fruit by Aimee Nezhukumatathil
Selected Writings by Cedar Sigo
New X-Men #142 & #143
Boston Sunday Globe Sports and Comics Sections
Miscellaneous Internet Pornography

from Philip Whalen's "Death of Boston" 

America born and dead in one town
Lived momentarily in the woods
Now all is fear and culture (which is Harvard)
Civilization (which is museums)
Observation of the proprieties (properties)

Thoreau said it was possible without money or slavery
They imagine he's safely buried in money and fear,
Vaults of Widener Library guarded by corps of bought professors
Note I do not mention Sac & Van

Hola, Mexico. Send me a poem.

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