Skip to main content


Ever since Scott Pierce visited these parts, my forehead has felt strange. Every time I touch it, it feels like thin paper. Maybe rice paper?

In other news, I am writing some children's passages for a freelance gig (thanks to Todd Sandvik). The audience is lower income African American boys with low reading comprehension. It's really interesting toying around with sentence structures and seeing how it changes the Flesch-Kincaid Grade Level (under readability stats in Word).

Right now I am working on a short fiction piece about freedom fighters. I think it will take place just beyond a forest in a swamp.

Showed my Lit class Robert Frank's Pull My Daisy. They didn't laugh. Why?

Serious playfulness is seriously needed among students!

Also, interesting to see the review of Pull my Daisy in the NY Times.

Gregory Korso?????

NY Times Review

I am really enjoying reading Amy King's blog. I especially liked her statement about liking more personal poetry blogs. I've often felt I am not intellectual enough. Haven't read enough. Everyone is smarter than me etc.

Wearing knowledge lightly.

Intelligence is a constant conflict (parent's dropped out before high school level in Ireland and England). I mean I often feel guilty. I like the innocent stumbling. My head gets too full and I get too anxious.

Beer drinking and poetic discourse.

Also, wondering what Estonia is like this time of year. Damn sick of sweaty palms!

Is my forehead really paper?

I am reading Ann Waldman's Kill or Cure. How could I have missed her? Also, David Meltzer's David's Copy.

The NY School and Beat aesthetics are endlessly fascinating.

Collage is not a fashion. Information and language mutates. Collage is a technique and can produce different results.

High/low was dismantled, but I still have that damn pipe-smoking British chap in my head.

Intelligent people spoke the Queen's English.

I moved to England (Milton Keynes) and spoke with a Northern Irish accent. Sound tied to intelligence.

Maybe I should accept the luxuries I have instead of feeling guilty?

Guilt and religion. Fear and guilt. Knots and guilt.

I feel lonely somewhere in the pit of my stomach.

I will not commit myself to death just yet.

Melodramatic is too mellow. That's the problem.

Human touch is NOT overrated.

Paper IS underrated.


Erin B. said…
Quirky post. I like it.

And I agree, more personal poetry blogs are the way to go. As long as still poetically slanted.
Anonymous said…
i think i know something about your forehead. the sensation will fade soon, but you should stay away from open flames for a few days


Popular posts from this blog

poets reading poets

There are on A now: Andrews, Antin, Apollinaire, Ashbery

A project from the Atlanta Poetry Group. Check it:

The Poetry of Tao Lin

Another Ireland by Robert Archambeau

This review really hit it for me. I recently read Maurice Scully's _Livelihood_ and Geofrey Squires _Untitled and Other Poems_ is on deck (I love that baseball term. It is baseball, right?)

I think this is from The Nortre Dame review, but I found it via goofle (I mean google).

Another Ireland: Part Two
Maurice Scully, The Basic Colours. Durham, UK: Pig Press, 1994.
Geoffrey Squires, Landscapes and Silences. Dublin: New Writers' Press, 1996.
Catherine Walsh, Idir Eatortha and Making Tents. London: Invisible Books, 1996.

By Robert Archambeau

I began the first half of this article (Notre Dame Review #4) by mentioning some of the limits to the legendary hospitality Ireland has shown to its poets. If you arrive in Ireland from any point of departure outside of Eastern Europe, you will indeed find a public far more willing than the one you left behind to grant poets the recognition all but the most ascetic secretly crave. However, this hospitality has never extended to Irish poets w…